Spice and Secrets (4 page)

It was
fear
.

After leaving Shaw’s office, Sunny had to stop a dozen different times to find her breath, as if she’d spilled it to the floor in a graceless scatter. She clung to the tape room door, nearly imprinting the knob on her palm as she rested her forehead against the painted surface and inhaled.

Rani Sahiba.
Darling. Mr. Shaw couldn’t know that such sweet words fell on the bitterest of ears. Sunita couldn’t bear kindness, and flirtation was far worse. Both were lies parceled in pretty wrapping…designed to lull one into a false security. She couldn’t put her trust in a man who spoke in endearments, not in the workplace or anywhere else. How many times had Sam whispered loving things against the curve of her throat, voice addled by liquor and smoke, only to creep off in the night and say the very same words to some
chokra
in the back of a gay dance club? He’d held her and Jai hostage in a fragile bid to be a real family, until she finally broke free.

She refused to be a prisoner again. Not even for a jailer who looked like Davin Shaw, with his sun-burnished hair and sky-blue eyes.
Rani Sahiba
, he could call her.
Darling
, he could purr. Sweetheart, baby,
jaanam
,
piya
. He could write the lyrics for a classic Hindi love song and sing it beneath her window every day for a week. She would not believe in it. She couldn’t.

He was right: She
was
a queen. And she ruled her heart without mercy.

Chapter Five

The restaurant was bustling. The clink of glasses and plates kept time with the hum of conversation. But it was nothing but noise to Rahul as he went through e-mails on his BlackBerry. At least ten were from his father about the upcoming slate for the production house.
Yeh
picture,
woh
picture…and would he want to go on location to the Seychelles to check up on that Harsh Mathur-Sonia Thakral project?
Nahin
, he wouldn’t. Because he had no reason, no incentive. The movie’s item girl wasn’t Priya. Priya, who ruled his every thought.

The mere mention of her name pierced the veil of his concentration. “
Woh jo hain na
Priya?” someone said two tables away—You know that Priya?—and his ears pricked like antennae picking up a signal. It was a common name—it could be any Priya—but Rahul’s obsession was thoroughly
uncommon
. Nursed and cultivated over the course of six years. He knew when the mere thought of
his
Priya was in the air.

He set down his mobile, reaching for his coffee in its stead. He let the voices come into sharp focus as he sipped. “Wow, yeah,
yaar
!” one man marveled. “She is beautiful.”

“I am calling her in,” said the other. “I have an item role that’s
bilkul
perfect. Casting couch,
yaar
, casting couch!” he crowed.

In reality, the words were a gleeful whisper, but to Rahul they were the loud braying of a jackass. His coffee turned to ice on his tongue, and the cup clattered into his saucer as it slipped from his grasp. A red haze of anger floated in front of his eyes as he rose from his seat. By the time he’d reached their table, it was a full curtain of fury.

He only vaguely recognized the offenders: a minor director of cheap comedies that played to the lowest common denominator and a producer of equally tasteless music videos. But who they were was of no consequence. It was their laughter that mattered. Their assumptions. Their vulgar intent.

The casting couch was an ugly side of their business. So many girls were exploited, coming to Mumbai with big
filmi
dreams only to be abused by the worst sort of men…forced to prostitute themselves for a role or, worse, just f
orced
. Rahul’s hands curled into fists as the bile rose in his throat. Priya would not be molested.
No one
would suffer such a fate if he could put a stop to it.

“Hey. Who in the hell do you think you are?” Before the words were even half out of his mouth, the men were struck silent. Not so much with shame, but with shock. “How dare you speak so loosely about a good Hindustani girl?
Sharam nahin aata?
You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Immediately the kowtowing began. “Anand
-ji
,
aap
? So sorry!” and “Man, we didn’t know you were listening. No offense, please!”

As if such talk was perfectly okay as long as he wasn’t in earshot? Rahul stepped forward, fists rising up. “
Mardho ka shakal ka niche janwar jaise
mentality. You’re animals.”

“Rahul,
yaar
…
chhoro
.” Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder. Firm. Steadying. “They’re not worth it. Let them be.” Sam Khanna, currently one of the closest things he had to a best mate, tugged him back toward the booth where his things still lay spread out on the table. “Think of your reputation, your bloody
izzat
. Don’t make a scene.”

It was absurd, really, considering that just a few months ago the shoe had been firmly on the other foot: him trying to keep Sam cool lest he fly off the handle and ruin his career.

“Priya will not be on anyone’s couch. She’s got a full slate. Tension
maat karna
.” Sam was still making soothing gestures as they each took their seats. “Soon she’ll be dueting with Ashraf and ten other heroes. No second-rate little shit will dare try pulling any
haraami
.”

Rahul stared at Sam, unblinking. “What do you mean
dueting
?” Did his voice sound calm? Or was it coiled like a whip, ready to be unleashed? Suddenly foreign to his own ears, he couldn’t tell.

Sam didn’t seem to care either way. He leaned back against the booth, taking a measured sip of the club soda that a ninja-like waiter had materialized with. “I meant exactly what it sounds like,
yaar
. I just got on the new Kuku Kapoor picture, and Priya’s essaying the role of Ashraf’s girlfriend. The bad girl. The
khalnaika
.” Sam wiggled his eyebrows lewdly. “It’s one of those dark, sexy dramas.
Very
sexy.”

“Ashraf Khan?” He didn’t know why he was looking for confirmation. There was only one Ashraf amongst the roster of new young heroes. One Ashraf, who was guaranteed to have a romantic bed scene in every film. It was his particular talent: doing what few other heroes would. And, in this instance, he would be reveling in that talent with Priya.

“Rahul, man, is the vein in your forehead supposed to bulge like that?”

“Sod off.” It was a useless insult to someone who
did
sod off on a regular basis, so he followed that up with something more choice, more anatomically impossible.

Sam only laughed, toasting him with his glass. “If you hate the idea so much, maybe
you
should take the role.
Phir
hero
banja
. See if your acting muscles have rusted. Not to mention your zipper.”

On one level, Rahul registered the joke. On every other, it was a sudden stroke of genius. A brilliant idea.
Maybe you should take the role.
Work with Priya again. Take on the role of her boyfriend. Hadn’t he, above anyone else, already practiced for that part? He picked up his BlackBerry from where it had lain silent on the tabletop and thumbed through his address book.
Kapoor, Kuku.
It was a Delhi number, and it began ringing almost instantly.

“Hello, KK? Rahul Anand here.” Sam’s jaw dropped, and choice words began to fall from
his
lips. But Rahul tuned them out. “How would you like to host my return to the big screen?” After Kuku’s ecstatic whoop and a promise of details to come, he disconnected the call and leveled Sam with an arch look. “Done.”

“You’re totally mad, you know? This is completely insane for your career
and
your personal life. And Priya’s not going to like this one bit.” Sam was so amused it made him look almost beautiful. No doubt he was
always
beautiful to Vikram. Because that was love. That was devotion. And it was obsession also.

“I don’t give a damn what she likes. This is what
I
want.” Rahul had played by her rules for too long. Six years ago, he’d let Priya run from him. Now…now he was
finally
giving chase.

Priya set her land phone back in its cradle, frowning at it as though it, and not the caller, had done her an offense. She’d had a meeting with a comedy director scheduled for next week, but her assistant had called saying she was no longer needed for the role. Strange. Not unheard of, but
definitely
strange. There was no such thing as an audition process at most Mumbai production houses. A director or producer called you in because they wanted you, you either said
yes
or
no
, and the talking of
crores
and
lakhs
was left to secretaries and assistants. Kabir, who’d come with her from Kolkata, was particularly efficient at the money talk…and so discerning about the roles she took that he seldom brought word to her of anything he hadn’t already approved. When she’d asked after the cause of the abrupt cancellation, all he’d said was, “
Director ta shubidar chilo na
, Miss Priya,” in crisp, almost fond Bengali.
The director was not of good character.
As if that explained everything. In reality, it explained nothing.
Most
people in the industry did not have much in the way of strong moral fiber. After all, hadn’t
she
left Mumbai in less-than-pristine condition?

Every day for six years, Priya had counted her tiny store of blessings. If her parents had not been
filmi
folk, with money and connections and liberal ideals, she wouldn’t have seen her daughter grow up. Just a touch more conservative, a dash more religious, and they could have sent her away to her great uncle’s village in Bangladesh to marry someone twice her age. They could have disowned her. Beaten her. Forced an abortion. Forced a miscarriage.

She knew of students from her girls’ high school whose lives and hopes had been so cruelly wrenched from them, all to maintain propriety and a family’s good name. Seeing Shona laugh, watching the rise and fall of her chest as she slept…it was a gift. How could Priya ever complain that the package came tied with strings?

She hugged herself, as if to ward off a sudden chill, as she crossed her flat’s front room and came to stand in front of the windows. The wide expanse of the sea was spread out like a carpet of darkness, with the bright lights of buildings dotting the shore. Her palms pressed flat against her belly, that tiny cradle where Shona had spent nine months growing into being, and suddenly, it wasn’t the night-clad city that floated before her eyes. It was day…one perfect day.

Sunlight streamed in through the glass. Above her, he looked like a young god…all golden skin and unruly hair and the gleam of a diamond stud in his ear. He was so beautiful it hurt to look at him. It hurt elsewhere, too. A strange newness that didn’t make any sense…and yet made all the sense in the world.

“Rahul, are you sure?
Yeh tik to hain
?”

“
Haan
, Priya. Just there. Touch me.”

He was so confident. Confident of her fingers curling around him. Confident of his lips claiming hers. Confident they were going to last.

Priya couldn’t bear to tell him that she didn’t have the same confidence. In fact, all she had was doubt. But she took him into her anyway, arching her hips and winding one arm round his neck as she continued to stroke him where they were joined.

“Don’t stop,” he gasped, mouth hot and sharp on her earlobe. “Don’t stop.”

One day she would have to stop. She couldn’t bear that either.

Beyond those precious, stolen moments, there was one role she’d never gotten to play: Rahul’s girlfriend. And no one person had canceled it. Just Fate.

Chapter Six

Sunita, Sunita, Sunita.
Her name reverberated through his skull even as his ears were being otherwise assaulted. “Why’ve you gone so far away, Davey? It’s not fair.” As he threaded through the brief maze of café tables, the pout came across loud and clear over the line. Petulant, spoiled…and ever so dear. “You know I’d love you closer at a time like this. At my beck and call. Catering to my every whim.”

God, George certainly knew how to push his buttons. Davey rolled his eyes heavenward for an instant, wondering how it was that he always found himself in these sorts of predicaments. Tied up with drama queens. Forever worrying about them, no matter how near—six tables away was a veritable gulf at the moment—or far. “Georgie, be serious.” He sighed. “Tell me you’re all right, darling. Don’t make me worry about you.”

“I like it when you worry about me. It makes me feel special.” This was offered up with just the right amount of tartness, so ridiculously familiar it was like he was standing in George’s living room in Surrey.

“I live to serve,” he murmured dryly before registering the sensation of being watched. No, of being
pinned
by a gaze far more calculating than his own. It was a thin trickle of ice water down the back of his shirt, an itch that spread across his shoulders. With a dawning horror, Davey turned and met the eyes of Nina Manjrekar…someone who, up until this point, he’d only known from Bollywood news sound bytes, grainy photographs in the trades and the flattering low lights of industry parties where he deliberately stayed across the room. The kind of gorgeous-at-forty that came purely from a surgeon’s scalpel and a few Botox injections, she was nonetheless rather stunning. In a terrifying sort of way. All artfully applied makeup and form-fitting suit…and undisguised interest.