Читать книгу A Date With A Bollywood Star - Riya Lakhani - Страница 8

RANI LET HERSELF into her apartment, switched on the lights and then closed all the blinds in the open-plan living room. Being on the eighth floor gave some privacy but you never knew who might be looking. It was a neat and tidy flat that she was happy to call home. Everything was just where she wanted it: knickers in the knickers drawer, shoes on their racks, suits pressed and bagged hanging in colour order in the wardrobe. It was exactly the way she liked it. Although perhaps it might be nice to find a little disarray with the bedclothes now and again, she thought naughtily to herself. She fitted the flat and it fitted in with her busy life in the centre of London. Yes, she had everything she wanted: the career in journalism, a best friend she could call on at any time of the day or night and a mother who phoned religiously every Sunday morning at eleven on the dot.

The red light on the answer phone was flashing. Rani walked towards it, sat down on the sofa, took off her overly high heels, which made her smile just to hold them, and hit the play button. It was her office.

‘Rani, it’s Tony, we’ve an urgent job for you. Omar Khan is back in town and we didn’t know. He’s making a movie and we’ve got just ten minutes with him tomorrow morning at eight-thirty. He’s staying at Claridge’s. Don’t be late. If I don’t hear from you then I’ll assume you’ll be there. Bye.’

Rani replayed the message. She had definitely heard correctly. Omar Khan—she had to interview the Omar Khan. He didn’t normally give interviews. She thought about the rumpled bedclothes again. Omar Khan had been her idol when she was growing up. He had been the leading man in Indian films for years. She remembered the first movie of his she’d seen, Sacred Heart. It was still her favourite of all time and now she was actually going to meet him. She dived off the sofa towards the DVD shelf. She realised her hands were shaking as she traced along the titles looking for the film. Got it! She turned on the plasma, put the DVD in and hit the play button. As the soundtrack started she walked to the bathroom and began taking off her make-up and washing her face.

What an evening she’d had! Press passes to the hottest club in London where she’d danced herself silly and now she was going to meet the heart-throb from her teens. The haunting music wafted around her head and she closed her eyes imagining the images playing on the screen. The leaves falling, two horses being ridden through the wood; on one was Keshina Chandrapour, the leading female Bollywood star at that time. On the other, Omar Khan. She could see his chestnut horse in her mind, the slow-motion shots of hooves hitting the ground, throwing up leaves, and the bright sunlight dancing through the trees. The overflowing sink brought her back to the bathroom.

‘Oh, stupid!’ she said to herself and threw a towel onto the floor to mop up the water. Rani put her dressing gown on and walked back into the living room with a blanket from her bed and curled up on the sofa. Research, she told herself as she settled down to watch the rest of the movie.

The phone rang and Rani ignored it. She rolled over and back into the dream she had been enjoying. Riding through the wood on the back of a horse, her arms clasped around the waist of the man in front of her. As the horse thundered along she was holding him tight for fear of falling off, and just because she could! She tried to regain the sensation she’d had of her head against his hot muscular back but the phone kept ringing and breaking the concentration of her sleepy mind.

‘Oh, what now?’ She sighed as she finally opened her eyes. Rani suddenly realised that she’d fallen asleep on the sofa. Her thoughts flashed from one thing to another: the fun of her night out, the late-night answer-phone message, the aches in her body from sleeping crunched up, the very vivid dream, the message on the answer phone! In an instant she was sitting bolt upright and cursing.

‘Oh, no, the interview!’ she exclaimed as she lunged for the phone. But it stopped ringing before she could reach it. Her eyes immediately searched out the clock in the middle of the bookcase. It was eight-thirty a.m. and she was late.

‘No, no, no, this can’t be happening,’ she moaned, clutching her head. A one-to-one interview with the man whose face she had plastered all around her bedroom wall as a girl and she was late. Not just late but massively, inexcusably late. The phone clicked into answer-phone mode and began recording.

‘Rani, I do hope you’re not listening to this on loud speaker.’ It was her boss, Tony, and she knew why he was calling. ‘You should be at the interview NOW!’ Tony knew her too well. ‘Khan’s PA has phoned and says they have a car waiting to take them to the set and it’s leaving in twenty minutes. Don’t blow the interview. Oh, and one last thing—make sure you ask him about his dad. We’ve just heard the old goat is publishing a kiss-and-tell book. That should put the cat among the pigeons!’ And the message ended.

She was wide awake now and could feel the tension and stress building inside her body. Breakfast was out of the question, so was having a shower, and, worse still so was changing her clothes. Rani looked down and realised that beneath her dressing gown she was still wearing the red dress from the night before. There really was no time to change. But she could at least brush her teeth and put on fresh knickers!

Three minutes later and slamming the door closed on her flat, Rani ran to the lift and waited. She drummed her fingernails against the doors with impatience. ‘Come on, come on,’ she said out loud to the lift. There was one stroke of good luck—as she ran out of the apartment block and into the street there were plenty of black cabs and she quickly hailed one.

‘Claridge’s and please hurry,’ she urged the driver.

As the cab did a U-turn and headed off towards the Marylebone Road Rani began applying her make-up. There was an art to putting it on in a moving car and she had perfected it after years of practice.

‘Running late?’ the driver asked over his shoulder.

‘Just a little,’ Rani replied, trying not to open her mouth too wide as she put on her lipstick.

‘A bloke, is it?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that sort of thing.’

‘Don’t worry, love, he’ll still be there. You’re worth waiting for.’

Rani blushed a little and smiled. I may not have prepared any questions for the interview, Rani thought to herself, but at least my makeup is OK. She looked at her watch and began tapping her fingers on the window. It was five to nine. As the cab moved slowly through the morning traffic Rani’s heart raced. She could feel the butterflies in her stomach and the pulse of blood in her temples. She tried to breathe slowly to steady herself.

‘Here you go, love, Claridge’s. That’ll be fifteen quid.’

Rani thrust a twenty-pound note into the driver’s hand and opened the door. She was already halfway out of the cab as he called after her.

‘What about your change?’

‘Keep it,’ she replied breathlessly and carried on out of the taxi and up towards the hotel.

Head down like a charging beast, Rani whizzed past the top-hatted doorman and pushed on the hotel’s revolving door just as a group of people began pushing the other way. She was spun back out and onto the pavement landing in a very unglamorous heap as her ankle gave way. The contents of her handbag spilled out and she watched in horror as her favourite lipstick rolled off the pavement, into the road, and down a drain. Tears filled her eyes. What else could possibly go wrong?

A hand came down towards her and she instinctively took it and looked up at the same time. She felt a surge of adrenalin course through her body as the powerful arm lifted her to her feet and she looked into the eyes of the handsome man helping her. They were a brilliant green. Still as rich and mesmerising as they had ever seemed on the screen of her local cinema.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, with genuine concern in his voice.

‘I think so,’ Rani replied as she hobbled to her feet and clutched onto the stranger’s arm for support. But he was no stranger to her.

‘Here, let me help you,’ he said, and began to gather the spilt belongings together. He collected her keys and purse and mascara and pieces of her mobile phone.

‘I don’t think this will be making any calls for a while!’ he said, holding up the broken bits in the palm of his hand.

‘Thank you. You’re very kind, Mr Khan,’ Rani said, having regained her composure.

One of his entourage tugged at his sleeve.

‘We really must be going. We’ll be late,’ the flunky said, pulling at the sleeve again.

Omar Khan didn’t move. It wasn’t unusual for women to recognise him and sometimes fall at his feet. But never in such a dramatic fashion.

‘You really know how to make an entrance, don’t you, Miss …?’ he asked, his sentence rising to a question at the end.

‘Rani, Rani de Silver,’ she said. Omar felt another tug on his coat as he was being dragged towards his waiting car.

‘It was a pleasure meeting you,’ he said as he was almost manhandled into the back seat by his PA. ‘Peas,’ he added as the door closed.

Rani stood outside the hotel. Peas? What did he mean? The tinted electric window slowly lowered to reveal Omar Khan’s beaming smile.

‘For your ankle. A bag of frozen peas—that should help reduce the swelling.’ And with that advice the window started to close. Rani suddenly realised what on earth she was meant to be doing at the hotel. She hobbled towards the car as quickly as she could, wincing at the pain in her ankle, and shouting at it to stop.

‘Wait, please stop, I’m here to interview you,’ she called, realising as the words left her mouth just how pathetic they must have sounded. The window began to lower again.

‘Thank you for the medical advice, Mr Khan,’ Rani began, her voice more controlled this time, ‘but I’m actually here to interview you. Rani de Silver of the London Review.’

‘Hold on a moment, George,’ he said, tapping the headrest of the seat in front of him. The car had hardly moved any distance but reversed the few yards back to where Rani was standing. Omar Khan lowered the window completely.

‘So you’re the missing reporter who should have been here forty-five minutes ago, are you?’

Rani gave him an embarrassed, shy smile. She felt weak, vulnerable and very stupid for smiling like a silly schoolgirl.

‘You’d better get in, then,’ he said and opened his door. ‘Come on. If you want that interview, you’d better hurry—we’re running late! ‘

Rani lowered her head and slipped cautiously into the back seat. As Omar introduced the other occupants Rani found herself staring into his eyes.

‘My manager,’ he said, indicating the woman sitting next to him. ‘My PA,’ he said, pointing to the woman sitting in the front seat, ‘and George, my driver and minder when I’m in London.’ The two women looked at Rani but said nothing. They didn’t need to. Their blank disapproving faces said it all. Obviously they were not impressed by the latecomer joining them for the ride, dismissing her as another flirt after his attention. Rani knew what they were thinking and felt she needed to apologise.

‘I’m very sorry I’m so late. I got delayed watching one of your movies!’ It was half true, she thought, and it sounded better than admitting to oversleeping on the sofa.

‘Interesting. Which one?’

‘Sacred Heart. It’s my favourite.’

‘Mine too,’ replied Omar, looking straight at her.

Rani could sense his gaze upon her. She’d waited ten years to be this close to him and if the feelings growing in her body were anything to go by it was worth the wait.

‘Why?’

‘Because it was my big break. My chance to escape. Now what else do you want to know?’ he said, changing the subject. ‘How do I feel when I have to film my bedroom scenes? What’s it like being voted Steer with the Rear of the Year three times in a row? Did I really do my own stunts in Bombay Sweethearts? Who do I think is the better actor—me or Amitabh Bachchan?’ He stopped just long enough to take a breath and then proceeded to answer all the questions. ‘Nervous, embarrassing, yes and me!’ he said. ‘Is that the sort of thing you’re after?’

‘Actually I was wondering why you’ve never spoken publicly about your life here in England, you know, before you moved to Pakistan and India to became a big Bollywood star?’ There was silence. Eyes flitted around the confined space of the car but Rani held her ground. ‘Is there something you’re hiding?’

‘You’re good, Miss de Silver, and straight to the point. I like that,’ Omar said in a Lancashire accent, dropping any pretence of his subcontinent drawl. It was easy to slip back into his Mancunian dialect. Twenty-four hours in England and he was rolling his shoulders and dropping the façade that the world looked upon. There was a certain relief in being able to be himself with no pretentions. But he wasn’t going to let it all go just like that, not in front of a journalist. He’d come from the streets where you had to have a head on your shoulders. He could charm the birds from the trees and he wasn’t about to let a posh talking reporter under his skin, no matter how attractive she was. He stopped staring at her. Realising he’d been eyeing her up.

‘Thank you,’ she said politely in her crispest voice. The money her father had spent on her education wasn’t wasted. He was typically Asian like that.

‘Get a good education and then you can go anywhere,’ he was always telling her when she was growing up.

Chivingham School did exactly as it said in the prospectus: ‘We turn girls into young ladies.’

‘Perhaps we should start again. We seem to have got off on the wrong foot,’ she said, trying not to show the effect he was having on her.

‘Sadly for you, Miss de Silver, you’ve only the one foot to do anything with at the moment,’ he said, pointing at her uninjured leg. He couldn’t resist; that was the clown in him, always wanting to be the centre of attention. Always wanting to make people laugh. That was how he’d survived school, when he’d bothered to attend. It certainly wasn’t his academic achievements that had got him through.

The others laughed along with him. But as he saw Rani’s mortified reaction to his joke he stopped.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. You’re quite right—let’s start over,’ he said apologetically, slipping unconsciously back into his Bollywood accent. ‘As you can see we are both captives in the car until we reach the film set, so please ask what you like.’

Rani hoped he would be true to his word and, when he was answering the more general questions she knew she had to ask, he was. Gently she edged towards more personal ones trying to uncover something of his private life.

‘Tell me about your mother,’ she asked. He visibly baulked and gave a dismissive answer.

‘People don’t want to read about that,’ he said, smiling an unconvincing sort of smile. Rani tried again.

‘What about your father. He was from Lahore, wasn’t he?’ His eyes instantly contracted at the mention of his father.

‘Yes, he was,’ Omar answered coldly without offering anything more.

‘I understand he’s publishing a book about you.’

The car almost crashed off the road as George heard the words that had been forbidden to be spoken by anyone. The shocked reaction from all of the other people in the car was plain to see but it didn’t stop Rani from soldiering on.

‘Have I said something I shouldn’t have?’ she asked innocently, knowing full well she had.

Omar said nothing. George said nothing. The PA said nothing. In the end the manager squeezed a few words from between her thin pursed lips.

‘It’s not a subject Mr Khan is willing to discuss.’

Clearly he’s got issues, Rani said to herself. This is like pulling teeth, and I thought it would be fun! Who was I kidding? He’s just a working class wide boy with the manners to match! She began to despair that she would ever get beneath the guard he was putting up. He kept deflecting each of her advances with stock answers as if he were swatting at flies. More in desperation than in hope, she had one last go.

‘Have you ever said I love you and not meant it?’

There was silence. Not just the sort of silence you got when there were no sounds, but the sort of silence only possible in a vacuum. Rani felt as if all the air in the car had been sucked out and they were living the very last second of life. She scrunched up her eyes waiting for the response, whatever it would be. And then it came.

‘I’m an actor, of course I have.’ Rani felt the air rush back into the car and breathed again. Good answer, she thought. Perhaps we’re getting somewhere after all.

‘What about you, Miss de Silver?’ Omar asked with a tight smile.

Rani was a little taken aback as she wasn’t used to having the tables turned on her like this.

‘Call me Rani, please,’ she said, trying to buy a bit of thinking time. She could feel her face glowing with embarrassment.

‘Well, Rani, yes or no?’ Omar rephrased the question and pressed his advantage.

Rani squirmed.

‘No, but I’ve heard it,’ she replied rather coyly. She felt the blood pumping through her body.

Omar was intrigued but said nothing.

Rani was relieved when the car finally arrived at the film set and she could escape from the claustrophobia she felt. She needed to put some distance between herself and Omar Khan, demigod, movie star and, by all accounts, show-off. Her thoughts and feelings were confused and tangled with her need for professionalism and she required space to unravel the mess. After all, she’d waited years for this moment and now it was here she was unsure of how to proceed. As soon as the car door opened there was a swarm of assistants all queuing up to take orders and do his bidding. Rani couldn’t help but see many of them were young, pretty women. It felt quite alarming as she was caught up in the middle of them and washed away like a boat from the shore. As she disappeared from view she did manage to say goodbye.

‘Thank you for your time, Mr Khan. Good luck with the filming,’ she cried out. After all, whatever she felt about him she’d been brought up to be polite.

‘You’d best come this way, miss.’ It was George, the driver. He ushered her away, supporting her limping form with an arm the size of a large tree around her waist and leading her towards a long trailer.

‘I’ve never been on a movie set before; I’ve only ever seen these mobile home things, well, in the movies!’ Rani said with surprise. George laughed.

‘You get used to it, miss. They’re nothing special, not if you end up living in them week after week. Here, let me help you.’ And he gently lowered her into a chair and found a stool to prop her swollen leg on.

‘Thank you, George, really, I’m fine.’

She looked around her at the trailer. There were photographs of Omar Khan in frames dotted about the place and Rani realised she must have been shown into his trailer. There were pictures of him with various famous people and glamorous women, the heads of state of India, Pakistan, the British prime minister and even one with him playing golf with two former American presidents. But the one that caught her eye was of a little Indian girl standing in front of an old brick building. The picture looked very old and the girl looked as if she was no more than eight. Rani squinted her eyes as she strained to read some lettering carved into the building behind the little girl and could just make out a few of the letters. It looked like poor. Rani gently picked up the tatty wooden frame to take a closer look. As she did the door to the trailer opened quickly, which shocked her so much she let go of the picture. She grabbed for it as it fell towards the floor but she couldn’t catch it. Rani winced as the glass shattered and the frame broke in two.

‘Sorry!’ she exclaimed, looking towards the door. It was Omar Khan’s manager.

She was a woman in her late forties, smartly dressed but very offhand. She huffed and looked disapprovingly at Rani and the picture.

‘Don’t be. I don’t know why he keeps the scrappy little thing, anyway,’ she said. Rani hobbled around trying to find something to collect the broken pieces of glass in. George entered the room from the bedroom at the back of the trailer.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked. The manager looked at Rani and pointed.

‘This clumsy girl’s smashed Sahib’s treasured picture, poking her nose into his things. That’s reporters for you,’ she said in a gleeful tone.

Rani looked at George for support.

‘It really wasn’t like that. It caught my eye, that’s true, and I was wondering who the photograph was of. Then I was startled and it slipped from my hand. I’ll repair it or replace it, of course,’ she insisted.

‘Come on, I’ll give you a hand tidying up and then we’d better get you out of here before you do any more damage,’ George said, smiling kindly at Rani. She was pleased to be believed and her relief showed across her face.

‘They’re about to start the day’s filming, miss, so I’ll find you somewhere you can sit without getting in the way,’ George said.

The manager made a very loud sulky sound so she was sure they had heard her and stormed out of the trailer.

‘Watch her, miss, she’s a right one. I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her, and I don’t think that’s very far, judging by the size of her! ‘

Rani began to laugh but felt unsure if she should.

‘Oh, don’t you worry, she knows how I feel about her, but you’d do well not to let on too much. She’s a dragon. Thinks it’s her job to stop attractive women like you getting too close to Mr Khan, if you don’t mind me saying how attractive you are,’ George added. He began to blush.

Rani smiled.

‘Not at all, George. That’s very kind of you. It’s nice to be appreciated and thank you for the warning about her,’ Rani said, standing up with the pieces of the frame and the old photograph in her hand. ‘Who is it?’ she asked.

‘It’s his mother,’ George said. ‘Come on, I’ll show you to your seat.’ And with that he opened the door to the trailer and helped Rani down the few steps.

The set was busy and noisy. From where Rani was sitting it looked like a headless chicken convention. There were people rushing in all directions and saying all sorts of things but not much seemed to be actually happening. Suddenly the noise stopped and the set fell totally silent. Omar walked in, his head bowed, listening to the man walking with him. They both stopped, smiled at each other and then the man walked away, leaving Omar standing alone at the bottom of a wide staircase.

‘Lights, camera, action,’ the other man bellowed. He’s obviously the director, thought Rani as she stared at the scene. A pretty girl wearing a sari ran onto the set and rushed past Omar. She was in floods of tears. He held out a hand to grab her by the arm as she tried to climb the stairs, pulling her back towards him. The girl struggled for a moment and then melted into his arms as he pulled her to his chest. Their lips were just about to meet when the director yelled.

‘Cut!’

Rani felt her heart rise as she saw the girl about to kiss the screen legend and she felt it fall as she realised their lips were not actually going to touch. There was a round of applause from the cast and crew who were watching the filming.

‘We’ll print that,’ shouted the director. ‘Set up for the next scene, make-up, do something about her hair!’ he screamed at no one in particular. George came back to stand behind Rani’s chair.

‘And that’s how it goes, all day long! Mr Khan stands about looking handsome, the girls faint into his arms and then they have a song and a dance.’

Rani began to laugh. ‘You really know your Bollywood movies, don’t you, George?’ she said.

‘Well, they do seem a bit formulaic, if you don’t mind me saying, miss.’

‘That’s the way we like them.’ It was Omar Khan. He’d made his way behind the camera and had crept up on them both without them noticing. Both George and Rani were startled.

‘No offence, sir,’ said George apologetically. ‘I didn’t mean your films,’ he stuttered as he tried to climb out of the hole he’d dug for himself.

‘Mine are the worst offenders, George, you know that!’ Omar laughed and patted the burly minder across the back. George looked relieved.

‘Do you really think that, Mr Khan?’ Rani asked.

‘I thought I told you to call me Omar,’ he said, crouching down so he was level with Rani.

‘Close your eyes,’ he ordered.

Rani was a little nervous and unsure if she should do as he commanded.

‘Go on, close your eyes. It won’t hurt, I promise,’ he urged again with a smile that showed all of his trademark teeth and his penetrating eyes. Rather sheepishly Rani closed her eyes, scrunching them up tight in anticipation of what was going to happen. Perhaps he’s going to kiss me, she thought. She felt the pounding of her heart again. And then the shock of something burning her ankle. She opened her eyes immediately and looked down.

‘For you,’ Omar said. ‘They should help reduce the swelling.’ Rani looked down to where her leg was supported by a small table and saw a bag of frozen peas sitting across her ankle.

‘Peas!’ she exclaimed with disappointment.

‘Just so, peas—I said they’d help,’ Omar said. ‘I have to go now. George will take you back to town.’ He turned to walk back to the set. ‘I look forward to reading your interview, Miss de Silver,’ he continued, and before Rani could think of a suitable reply he was gone.

‘Peas,’ she muttered in disgust. ‘Peas, he gives me a bag of matar.’ Rani turned to George. ‘Can you take me home now, please? I think I’d like to go.’

Without saying anything George helped Rani up and carried her all the way back to the limousine. The journey back to London was a quiet one. Rani was in a contemplative mood. Since she was a teenager she had looked up to the man in the posters, the handsome hero in the films and had imagined herself falling in love with him. Now she’d actually met him and it was true his eyes were a stunning colour and his body was powerfully built and oozed sex appeal. But there was something nagging at her. She’d wanted him to sweep her off her feet and instead he’d joked about her twisted ankle with all the sophistication of the school show-off. He’d made fun of her in front of other people. Peas, for God’s sake—who was he trying to impress? Worse still, Rani felt stupid about her own feelings and told herself that she must stop daydreaming.

‘George, what do you know about his mother?’ She was thinking back to the photograph and the frame she’d broken.

‘Nothing, miss.’ George was happy to talk; he didn’t like the silence.

‘Have you ever met her?’

‘No, miss. I’m not even sure she’s still alive, to tell you the truth. He’s, Mr Khan’s, never mentioned her. I just know he likes ‘aving her picture around the place.’

‘You really know how to cheer a girl up, don’t you?’

‘Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean it like that. Don’t you worry, I’ve got it here,’ he said, tapping a small bag on the passenger seat next to him, ‘and I’ll have her fixed before he even knows she’s missing, so don’t give it another thought.’

But she did. His mother had dark eyes in the photo, so Omar’s beautiful green eyes must come from his father, Rani thought. Probably a Kashmiri. Not the sort of boy her mother would ever have let her play with when she’d been growing up! She was British-born, second generation, and her parents had taken advantage of every opportunity for her that they could. They had made sure she had a good education with ballet lessons and pony club and ski trips in the winter. Above everything else they had brought their only daughter up to know her own value and to know just what they expected from her. Dropping out of medical school was a shock her father was still getting over. He was in private practice himself and had naturally expected his daughter to follow him. After much persuasion by his wife he’d let her switch courses and had continued to fund her education, but it had tested their relationship and Rani knew it. I’m a snob, she thought to herself wryly. No wonder I can’t get a man—they’re just not good enough!

She looked out of the car window at the familiar landmarks; it was late afternoon, no point in going to the office.

‘Would it be too much to ask for you to drop me off at my apartment, George?’

‘No problem at all, miss. You just say where you want to go, George will do the rest.’

And he was true to his word. He drove Rani home and helped her into the flat. He was just leaving when Rani fired a shot straight at him that caught him off balance.

‘George, I’m guessing Omar is a bit of a playboy—isn’t he?’

George almost choked and his face began to fill up with blood as he struggled for an answer.

‘He’s had girlfriends, Miss Rani. A man does, doesn’t he? You know—well, he would, wouldn’t he? I mean—’

‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you, George.’ Rani let him off the hook by interrupting. ‘I’m just curious. After all, he seems to enjoy being the centre of attention, the big star, doesn’t he?’

‘I’m really the wrong person to ask, miss.’

Rani realised she had gone too far and stepped back.

‘I know I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry, George. It puts you in an indelicate position, I suppose.’

‘Not really that, miss. Just that I’ve been married almost thirty years, me and the missus, so I’m not the right sort to judge. Will that be all?’

‘Just one other thing—what was all that nonsense in the car? You know, when I mentioned his dad and the book.’ Rani smiled, hoping that would win her another constructive insight into Omar’s world. ‘It was like I’d just told him his granny was dead!’

George choked and tears began to run down his face. It grew red and hot and for a moment Rani thought she’d killed him.

‘Are you OK? Can I get you some water?’

‘I’ll be fine.’ George struggled to speak. ‘Just a little shocked, that’s all.’

‘Sorry, George. Have I put my foot in it again?’

‘No, no, no, it’s quite all right, honestly.’ His composure returned and George was able to continue. ‘It’s just that he can’t stand his dad, hasn’t seen him for years and now the book thing, well, it promises to be a stitch-up. You know the sort of thing—made-up stories and quotes to make Mr Khan look bad and paint his dad in a good light. You know, “my son the millionaire and I’m living in squalor,” sort of thing.’

‘Only too well. Interesting, George, thanks for that, and thank you for looking after me. You’re a lovely man. Your wife is a very lucky lady.’

Rani gave him a peck on the cheek as he left and George began to get embarrassed again. How do people stay married for so long? she thought to herself with admiration as she watched George close the door.

Rani ran a bath, pouring in almost a bottle of bubble bath, put some bread into the toaster and filled the kettle. She needed to relax and she didn’t know of a better way than having tea and toast sitting in the bath. While she waited for it to fill, she played her phone messages. There was one from her best friend, Sunita, another from her mother and several from the office. The last was from her editor, Tony, saying that she’d obviously fallen off the face of the planet because he’d been trying her mobile all day. Rani looked at the broken pieces of her phone and smiled; it had been rather nice to be out of touch. The message continued that because he hadn’t heard from her, he was assuming everything had gone OK and could she send him the copy as soon as possible. She had an interview to write up but it could wait until she’d had a bath and some tea.

The water felt soothing as she slipped into the deep warm bath; the bubbles multiplied and slid over the side and tickled her nose. What a day! Rani wanted time to put her thoughts in order and this was just the place to do it. She closed her eyes and began to write her interview in her mind.

I have won the lottery, all my Christmases and birthdays are here at once, Vishnu is truly smiling down upon me. I’m finally face to face with the handsome vision of my dreams. And how does this reality manifest itself? With me lying flat on the pavement in a red party dress, a twisted ankle, staring up into his beautiful sparkling green eyes as the contents of my handbag roll into the gutter!

She was pleased with the start and felt so much better for the heat that was caressing her body.

Omar Khan stepped off the screen and out of my dreams; his hand outstretched, helping me to my feet. My hero! True to life but could the heart-throb keep up this kind of performance?

Rani felt the interview was really going to come together rather well, but she’d need her tape recorder and notes for a punchy quote. That would mean leaving the womblike sanctuary of the tub, which didn’t please her. She slipped back beneath the bubbles, trying to put off the inevitable. But the phone rang again and she popped her head back up to listen to the message. It was the office yet again. A story had been pulled by the lawyers and they needed her interview with Omar Khan that evening for the Saturday edition. She had an hour to file the copy. Now she had no choice; she would have to get out of the bath.

There was something very satisfying about writing to a deadline. When it was reached there was nothing more to be done. Rani made another cup of tea and powered up her Mac. She began flipping through her shorthand notebook and rewound the tape recording she’d made. As the tea slipped down her throat she began to type. Her words flowed with the same satisfying warmth as the tea.

For twenty years Omar Khan has dominated our movies and our hearts. Still only thirty-eight, he is already one of the greatest of the Bollywood greats, mobbed by adoring fans wherever he goes, but still humble enough to carry an old battered photograph of his mother around with him.

For the next hour Rani pounded away on the keyboard of her computer, occasionally stopping to turn a page in her notebook or to take a sip of tea.

‘Yuk!’ she exclaimed as she took a cold mouthful from the mug and spat it back in shock. She paused to reread what she had written and her hand went to her mouth as she bit her lip.

‘My God, this looks like I fancy him,’ she said out loud as her eyes darted along the lines of her story. She frantically created a new file and began rewriting it. She was conscious of the time now and knew that at any moment her office would call demanding she file the story. Her fingers furiously darted across the keys, making sure that this time it didn’t sound as if she had fallen in love with him! When she felt happy she wrote a quick email and attached the document; it flew from her fingers and away to the office.

Rani slumped back in her chair and put her hands to her face. She felt hot; her cheeks were burning. What was that? The anxiety of having to meet the deadline? No, she’d been up against those many times before. Perhaps it was meeting a megastar that she’d had a girlish crush on? Perhaps. Or was it what she had originally written about him? She clicked on her documents file and pulled out the first draft and began rereading it. The burning in her cheeks grew as she went over the words again. Rani could feel the heat move to her chest. She pulled her dressing gown apart and saw the tell-tale red flush across her breasts and quickly closed it, embarrassed by her own intense feelings. She got up from the computer and walked around the apartment in an effort to cool down.

‘Thank God I changed it,’ she said to the empty flat. ‘I need more tea,’ and then, ‘Why am I talking to myself?’ she continued as she paced to and fro around the boiling kettle. Clearly the legendary film star had got to her in a way she didn’t think either of them had thought possible. The ringing of the phone stopped Rani contemplating her emotions any further. This time she managed to answer it.

‘Great stuff with Omar Khan, Rani!’ It was Tony. ‘Really good quotes and a very nice turn of phrase. I’ve just finished looking at it and it’s off to lay-up now so we’ll get it in for tomorrow.’

‘Thanks, Tony, it was quite a day,’ Rani replied cautiously.

‘Sounds like it! Really, it’s great work, you’ve obviously thrown yourself into it and I loved the bit about the broken mobile.’ He began to chuckle. ‘But do me a favour, please, Rani—get yourself a back-up phone next time. Getting hold of you was like raising the dead! Any way I’ve gotta go, thanks again, you’ve got us out of a jam. Have a good weekend.’ And he was gone as quickly as he’d begun his call.

Rani was a little taken aback. She’d never had so much praise from her boss before. She went back to her tea making and then headed to bed. She was worn out, physically and emotionally; it really had been quite a day.

It was the singing that finally woke Rani the following morning. She thought she’d been dreaming it but it wouldn’t go away and eventually, begrudgingly, she got out of bed to see who it was.

‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ she said as she trudged towards the door, her ankle still giving her some pain, although it was much better today—probably due to those peas, she thought with a wry smile. She could hear voices on the other side. It was her best friends Sunita and Shilpa and they were singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her.

‘Come on, let us in, birthday girl,’ said Sunita.

‘Yes, hurry up, Rani!’ added Shilpa.

‘What is it? Has Armani launched a range of designer kameez?’ Rani retorted as she opened the door. Her two friends were grinning like Cheshire cats.

‘Happy birthday, Rani. What have you got to say for yourself, young lady?’ Sunita questioned. She was waving a copy of the morning’s London Review. Shilpa was clutching a bag of presents. Rani looked and felt bemused.

‘What are you on about?’ she asked with genuine concern. Shilpa and Sunita looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders and then looked back at Rani.

‘You, you minx! Gushing all over Omar Khan. I’m surprised you didn’t ask him to marry you!’ said Shilpa. The penny dropped and Rani finally understood what they were going on about.

‘My interview, I see, very funny, ha, ha,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t that bad.’ The girls looked at each other again and Sunita began to quote from the paper she held.

‘“I was weak with excitement as he touched my hand, this handsome hunk of a man, this demigod, and here was I breathing the air that he had exhaled.”’

‘Need I go on?’ asked Sunita.

‘Oh, my God, they’ve printed the wrong version!’ Rani exclaimed. She went bright red and her heart raced and her fingers went into her mouth. She turned from her friends and ran back into her flat to her computer. Frantically she began searching through her sent emails and then let out a little gasp in shock. She’d attached the original draft, not her rewritten one!

‘Rani, Rani, what is it, didi?’ Sunita said as she followed her friend into the living room.

Sunita put a comforting arm around her friend’s shoulders.

‘There, there, it will be OK,’ she said, not knowing what else to say.

‘She doesn’t remember what she’s written—that’s an age thing, that is. Don’t worry. We’ve all known you’ve fancied him for years and now you’ve told him—a bold move, I must say!’ exclaimed Shilpa as she stood at the doorway. Sunita waved her hand, shooing her away.

‘You don’t understand,’ Rani cried in a muffled voice.

‘Don’t understand what? That you fancy a Bollywood hunk? What’s not to understand? You go for it!’ Shilpa said, she couldn’t help herself, but, realising she’d overstepped the mark, she backed away. Sunita put her head next to Rani’s.

‘What won’t we understand?’ she said in a caring voice. Rani continued to sob.

‘Shilpa’s right, I’ve fancied him for years and look what happens when I meet him. I twist my ankle and gush like a stupid girl!’ She paused, turning her head to her friend. The crying had made her eyes red and the tears were still flowing down her cheeks.

‘It may sound really stupid,’ she continued in a stuttering voice, ‘it sounds stupid to me as I’m saying it, but I felt a connection between us.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Like, like when I met David.’

That was a name none of them had spoken for several years and it was enough to stop the clocks from ticking.

‘Tea, anyone?’ Shilpa put her head round the door from the kitchen and peered in. Sorry, she mouthed at Rani. Rani nodded her acceptance of the apology and took the tea.

‘That’s a great idea,’ said Sunita, trying to lighten the mood a little more, ‘and then you can tell us all about it. You’ve started now so you have to!’

They sat on the sofas in the living room, each nursing a mug of tea, and Rani began recounting the events of the previous twenty-four hours. Sunita and Shilpa weren’t bystanders and kept interrupting her.

‘When he picked you up from the pavement, how did it feel?’ asked Shilpa, her eyes wide with excitement.

‘Like I’d been plugged into an electric socket! I felt completely weak all over my body, like I was going to pass out or something.’

‘Tell us about his eyes,’ questioned Sunita.

‘Oh, yes, yes, Rani, what were his eyes like? Are they really as deep and green as they seem on the screen?’ Shilpa added her request, anxious to know every little detail. Rani nodded.

‘Greener and more stunning than you can imagine. I thought I would drown in them. They were as crystal clear, as rich as the finest Sri Lankan emeralds.’ Rani began to lay it on for the benefit of her friends. But inside she was reliving the moments as she retold the story and as she spoke she felt warm from the inside of her body to the surface of her skin.

‘He was everything you would want him to be,’ she added, but stopped, unsure of what she was going to say next.

‘But,’ said Sunita. ‘You were going to say something more and there was a “but,” wasn’t there?’

‘Oh, you know me too well,’ Rani said, picking up a cushion and throwing it at Sunita.

‘So go on, then, don’t leave us in suspense—what is it?’ asked Shilpa as she shifted in her seat. Rani sighed before continuing.

‘As I sat watching them film a scene of the movie he came up to me and asked me to close my eyes. He said he had a surprise for me.’

‘I bet he did!’ exclaimed Shilpa and began to giggle. Sunita threw a cushion at her.

‘Well, I didn’t know what to expect and I was nervous. I thought perhaps he was going to kiss me. But instead he put a bag of frozen peas on my ankle!’

‘How disappointing!’ Shilpa said, biting her lip.

‘You see, there was …’ she hesitated ‘… there is something about him, I’m sure there is, and I know I don’t know him but I feel like I do so I wrote it down …’ Rani suddenly groaned out loud and clutched her head with her hands. ‘What if he reads it? Oh, my God, I’ll just die!’ she said as her voice reached a level of panic the others had never witnessed. She grabbed a cushion and buried her face in it.

‘So what if he reads it?’ Sunita said supportively. ‘You’re a journalist—journalists make stuff up all the time to sell papers, don’t they? So, then, where’s the harm? He’s just another interview you’ve done, that’s all.’

‘But what will your mum think?’ asked Shilpa pointedly. ‘I mean, he’s not exactly take-home-and-meet-the-parents material, is he? Well, not your mum and dad anyway! I mean, he’s a flashy actor, not a respectable doctor, isn’t he?’

Rani rolled her eyes but Shilpa continued, ‘He’s not even a lawyer! He’s a song and dance man, and you know your father really wouldn’t approve, especially if he’d read any of the newspaper cuttings. His only daughter mixed up with an international playboy!’

‘Aaahh,’ screamed Rani in sheer frustration. ‘I’ll die of shame! I’ll move house, I’ll move city, I’ll move country!’ she yelled. The phone rang. It was the duty editor from her office. Rani let the answer phone cut in.

‘Rani? It’s Edward Evans here, just thought you’d like to know we’ve had a tremendous response to your interview with Omar Khan. Never seen anything like it: the punters love it; the website has crashed; we’ve had so many people trying to leave messages. They’re calling you an Asian Bridget Jones. Great stuff. And I’m sure Tony will be in touch—he’s as bowled over as the rest of us.’

‘Bridget Jones!’ Sunita said. ‘That chain-smoking, alcoholic, man-obsessed thirty-something?’

‘I don’t smoke, I hardly drink and I’m exactly twenty-five today!’ Rani protested.

‘So you admit to being man-obsessed, then?’ Shilpa chipped in cheekily.

The doorbell rang.

‘What now?’ Rani said almost hysterically. ‘Please can you get it?’ she begged, looking towards her friends. Sunita obliged and headed towards the door. Rani and Shilpa could hear a conversation but couldn’t make any of it out. Sunita returned, smiling across her face and holding a very large display of flowers out in front of her.

‘I think you can afford to relax now,’ said Sunita. ‘These are from him,’ she said, plonking the impressive display down onto the coffee table. ‘Here, take a look at the note that came with them.’ She handed it to Rani. ‘The delivery man said they were ordered first thing this morning.’ Rani opened the little envelope and began to read.

‘I enjoyed your article, Rani. Peas be upon you. Omar.’

‘What does he mean “peas”?’ asked Shilpa, who was frowning at the display.

‘They’re sweet peas, the flowers—he’s sent hundreds of sweet peas,’ said Rani, beginning to laugh. Shilpa still looked confused.

‘The frozen peas?’ said Sunita, hoping it would trigger a connection for Shilpa. ‘Remember? He put a bag of frozen peas on Rani’s ankle—well, this is another pea joke.’

‘Oh,’ said Shilpa. ‘Taking the peas, more like,’ and they all fell about laughing. They were wiping tears from their eyes when there was another knock at the door.

‘I’ll get it,’ said an enthusiastic Shilpa, jumping to her feet. There was a short exchange of words and she returned holding a small silver tray in one hand.

‘For you,’ she said, bending down and offering it to Rani. Sunita crowded in to see what it was.

‘I bet it’s from him again,’ she said.

‘Oh, he’s so smooth,’ Shilpa said as she sighed. Rani was tearing the envelope open as fast as her nervous fingers could manage. There was a small card inside and a short handwritten note. She read it to herself.

‘Come on—what does it say?’ urged an eager Shilpa.

‘He wants to see me again,’ Rani said. There was a slight tremor in her voice. ‘He says he hopes I liked the little joke, which he couldn’t resist, and would I like to be his guest at the opening of his new club tonight.’

‘Tonight!’ exclaimed Shilpa. ‘He’s not wasting any time, is he? And you thought you might put him off by throwing yourself at his feet. Looks like he can’t keep away!’