Imaginary Men (11 page)

I have nothing to wear. Prince Raja Prasad is taking me to dinner. Does he expect me to wear a sari? What will I tell him? I've decided to take the job, but only if Dev meets Kali, who's foolishly infatuated with your brother?

I can't do it.

I think of Raja Prasad's long eyelashes, his confident manner. His edgy looks. He's a traditional Indian man who wants a traditional Indian wife.

It's only business.

I imagine him showing up in full prince regalia, a couple of humble servants unrolling a red carpet as he escorts me into a plush restaurant where his entire extended family waits, his mother pursing her lips in disgust.

Or maybe he'll take me to some hole-in-the-wall South of Market, just to live as the natives do. I hate this. I can usually control my situation. I can control my fake fiancé, make him appear and disappear. I know what most men want when they step into my office. I assess the way they dress, their mannerisms and mode of speech.

Raja Prasad confounds me. His presence fills the room, making me clumsy and distracted. I drop pens. I trip, spill my tea. On my knees, I use a paper towel to clean up, but the tea is already seeping into the carpet.

Donna comes in, drops a pile of folders on my desk, and kneels to help. “Guess what? You'll be proud of me. I gave you a little help with Mr. Prince.”

“What do you mean, ‘help'?”

She sits back on her heels. “He called yesterday, after you left. Told me what he wanted, and I spent the whole day doing research.”

“What do you mean? What did you do?” I'm suddenly queasy.

“Look at you. You're a mess.”

“
What did you do?
”

“I accepted his offer, of course. For both of us. We're a team, aren't we? It's good money. Twice the fee. I e-mailed him some prospects today.”

“You gave him profiles? Of women?”

“I'm so proud of myself. I worked like a maniac. Raja Prasad will do that to a girl, won't he?” She winks.

Hair falls in my eyes. “You have no idea what you've done!”

“He's only here for a short time. We have to find a wife for his brother right away.”

“Donna, you should've spoken to me first.”

She gives me a knowing look. “I'm handing it over to you now. You have a good time tonight, okay? And keep your cool. Mr. Prince has you flustered.”

“I'm not flustered. I'm never flustered. I'm always perfectly composed.” Splotches of tea stain my white shirt. “It's my sister, Kali. She met Dev in India. She's infatuated with him. I promised to set them up on a date, but now—ah, well. It's not your fault.”

Donna's mouth forms an O. “I screwed up. I'm sorry …”

I push the hair back from my face. “It's okay. You didn't know. I can still set up the meeting.” When I tell him about Kali, he'll flip. But I have to do this for her.

Donna gets up. “Get going. I'll take care of things here.”

I try to remember her words as a mantra.
Have a good time tonight
. What is a good time, exactly, with a man like Raja Prasad?

At home, I purge my closet of its usual suspects. The maroon dress has to go. It makes me resemble a bruised apple. The eighties lime green dress with the linebacker shoulder pads? The miniskirt with white go-go boots? A frilly peasant blouse from my seventies kick? My wardrobe needs a serious makeover. Once again, clothes are strewn on the bed in a pile for the Salvation Army. What if I show up in ripped jeans and a “Bite Me” T-shirt, just to piss off Mr. Chauvinist?

I stare at the red lace teddy. Maybe I should wear nothing but that and high heels. We'll end up naked in his hotel room. He'll dim the lights, bring two glasses of champagne to the bedside table, then—

What am I thinking?

I'd better choose a fancy outfit. We must be going to an expensive restaurant. Do I own anything elegant? Perhaps the black cocktail dress that fits with a certain tightness in the hips and rear. Too boring and predictable? If I wear a nice jacket over it and don't sit down too fast, I should survive the evening without any rips. Screw the stockings.

Good for you. Taking a stand.

“Oh, no, not you again.” I groan, not wanting to imagine my phantom fiancé standing behind me, but his breath caresses my neck.

Are you two-timing me? This seems serious.

“Business dinner.”

Then why don't you wear a suit?

I'm already struggling to squeeze into the dress. I perform amazing feats of yoga to stretch the fabric over my waist, and then I stop.

“You're right. A suit. It's business. Just business!” I yell at myself in the mirror. What if I wear the red lace teddy under the suit? I'll feel sexy, and Raja will never know.

Are you sure you don't want him to know?

I squirm out of the dress, put on the teddy beneath a black suit jacket and pants. Snazzy, with a low-cut blouse. My most daring combo, but I still don't have much cleavage. So what? Do I want Mr. Chauvinist to look at my boobs? I slap my forehead. I don't care what he looks at. I want his hulking shape, those broad shoulders, perfectly formed biceps, those penetrating eyes, to find me completely unappealing.

But he pursued me across continents. What does that mean, exactly? He's here for his brother, not me. And I'm here for Kali.

I yank a brush through my frizzy hair. Did he really choose me, or was I merely convenient? I shouldn't read too much into his decision to look me up. I gave him the name of my company, after all—

The phone rings, and adrenaline rushes through me. I press my hand to my chest. I'm having a heart attack. I pick up the receiver, hold it in midair. What if it's him, canceling the dinner? I can't decide whether to be relieved or disappointed when my mother's demanding voice cuts through the line.

“Lina? Where are you? Are you there?”

I picture her standing in the marble foyer, the domed ceiling overhead, sunrays from the skylight falling on her black hair. She's probably wearing jeans, and she has a cup of tea in her other hand. I don't know why she doesn't sit in the kitchen. She always uses the cordless telephone in the hall.

I put the phone to my ear. “Yes, Ma. I can't talk long. I'm going out.”

“Going out? So Raja has returned from traveling?”

I wince at the sound of Raja's name. “No, he's still away. This is a business dinner.”

“What kind of business?”

“What kinds are there, Ma?”

“Why is Raja not back yet? Are you sure you've made the right decision?”

“You'll meet him.” I try to push aside the image of Auntie Kiki pursing her lips. “Please, Ma, I'm in no mood to be interrogated tonight. What do you want?”

“You are so rude to your mother. She calls you to chat, and all you can say is, ‘What does she want?'”

I hate it when she refers to herself in the third person.

“I'm sorry, Ma.” I sit on the bed.

“I'm calling about Baba.” She lowers her voice, which still echoes. My parents live in a sprawling mansion, and still she can't find privacy. “He's ill again.”

“Ill with what?”

“You know how his stomach is. We went out for dinner last night, and he came home with the pains.”

“Indigestion, Ma. He always has indigestion.”

“Stomach pains could mean a lot of things, Pupu.”

Oh, no—not that name again. I wish I could stuff the word into a capsule and launch it into space. “If you think it's something worse, he should see a doctor.”

“Shhh,” she says, as if he can hear me from the second floor. “He
is
a doctor. He makes the worst patient. He took antacid, and now he's resting. Perhaps, I'm thinking, he was having another type of pain.”

“What are you talking about? You mean like another ulcer?”

“Psychological pains. He's all the time worrying about you and Kali. Mainly about you.”

“
I'm
giving Baba indigestion? I'm not even there, Ma.” I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. I want to yank out my hair. How does she always manage to twist the situation to make it my fault?

“He worries about your wedding. He must meet Raja. You talk to Baba, nah? He'll feel much better if he hears your voice.” I hear the tap-tap echo of footsteps. She's walking upstairs with the phone. “You tell Baba he'll meet Raja when Auntie Kiki is here. He'll be so happy you're both coming.”

I grit my teeth during the pause, then a raspy voice comes on the line. “Lina, baby? Where are you?”

“I'm home, Baba. In my apartment. How're you feeling?”

“Oh, I'm all right.” His voice is slow and tired.

“You don't sound all right. You rest, okay? Have you got a doctor's appointment?”

“When are you coming?” He ignores my question.

“Soon, Baba. For your birthday.”

“You'll bring Raja, nah?”

“I'll see.”

“All the time you're giving your Baba a hard time.” His voice is fading. “What am I to do with you?”

“Baba, just rest. You'll get worse if you don't take care.”

“How do you like your job?”

I shift the phone to the other ear. “It's peachy.”

“You're not considering studying for your Ph.D.?”

“I don't need a doctorate to be a matchmaker.” My throat tightens.

“You've done your B.A. Why not keep going?”

“I probably wouldn't study psychology. Baba, I can't talk about this now—”

“You pick one profession, you stick with it. Follow through to the end. That's what my generation did, Pupu.”

“My generation has more options.” I feel as though I'm ten years old again, stumbling in classical Indian dance class, the heavy silver
ghungroos
clanking like prison chains around my ankles. I could never dance well enough to please Baba.

“No point in choosing another career if you can't do it properly, nah?” he says.

I'm little Pupu again, stomping my feet.
I'm a good matchmaker
. “You're wise, Baba,” I say instead. His disapproval bleeds through the phone, drips in a puddle on my floor.

“I always said, if you couldn't study medicine, psychology is a perfectly acceptable alternative. You could do applied re—search.”

“Look, Baba, I'd love to keep talking, but I'm going out—”

“With this Raja? Is he a good man? Will he set you straight?”

“He'll keep me on track.”

“Ah—what a relief. We must meet Raja before Kiki arrives. If she thinks you're without a husband, now,
that
would kill her dead.”

I count to three and blink back tears. Then I speak in a measured tone. “Baba, I have to go. I'll call you tomorrow, okay? Give Ma my love.” I hang up before he has a chance to berate me. My hands are shaking.

I pace and practice my breathing exercises. I haven't been to yoga class in weeks, and tension tugs at my chest. Auntie Kiki raised Baba after his mother passed away. In his eyes, Auntie's a goddess whose breath bestows life.

I dab my face with a damp cloth, put on eyeliner and lipstick. That will have to do. I'm already late. I grab my purse and rush out into the cool night air.

A
silver Lexus waits at the curb. Raja Prasad emerges from the driver's side and opens the passenger door for me. How can he look so good in everything he wears? Black suit, black shirt, black tie, casual yet elegant and sexy, like a wardrobe from the Alan Truong collection. I instantly imagine him as the bridegroom—what am I thinking?

He says nothing. No
you're beautiful, you look nice
. But I feel as though he's already whispered all kinds of forbidden things in my ear when I slip in beside him, the smell of Lexus mixed with his mysterious spicy cologne.

“Thank you for coming.” He starts the engine and steers into traffic.

I pull the seatbelt across my lap. “Where are we going?”

“Have you heard of Herbert Winton?”

My mouth drops open. “The chef? We're going to Joie de Vivre?”

“You know of it.” His voice slides over and settles across my shoulders.

“I've never been there.”

“Neither have I, but I hear it's the best restaurant in the city.”

“I'm underdressed.”

“You're fine.”

Fine
, not beautiful. Sweat breaks out on my forehead. “If you say so.”

“I trust you had a productive day?” His right eyebrow rises.

“Quite. Thank you.” I think of the spilled tea.

I should tell him I have a fiancé who shares his first name. No, I shouldn't. After he parks the car, I do my most businesslike walk into Joie de Vivre and consider my options. Come clean or say nothing.

I work myself up into a tizzy, barely noticing the lavishly decorated restaurant as we enter the main dining area. The room is draped in Chantal fabric in shades of gold and green.

The host seats us at a table near the back. I glance at the
other guests, all clad in designer dresses and suits and laden with understated, overpriced jewelry. Only a few silvery threads float between lovers. The scents of expensive floral colognes and sharp aftershave lotions mingle in the air. It's enough to send my nose into a coma.

Raja resembles a dashing adventurer, even in the suit. “Would you like wine?”

I nod, open the menu, glance at the walls, at the luxurious oil paintings, up at the crystal chandelier. Everything glitters. I need sunglasses.

When the waiter arrives, Raja orders a bottle of chardonnay from the Clos MiMi winery, then fixes his gaze on me.

I open the menu and start babbling. “The French eat a lot of meat, don't they? Duck, quail, veal. Did you know veal calves are kept in small crates? They can't turn around. They're fed nothing but gruel. They're denied water, so they keep trying to drink the gruel and get fatter and fatter, and then … oh.” I clap a hand over my mouth. “I'm so sorry. I'm sure you didn't want to hear all that.”