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“I don’t think you’re bad with words at all, Mr. Raawal. I think you just don’t feel people are usually worth using that skill on.”
“How did she die? Your mother?”
She turned to him and the ache of grief in her eyes almost knocked him flat. “She didn’t. She walked out on my father and me when I was ten. Left a note saying her heart wasn’t in the life we had and disappeared in the middle of the night.”
He felt a burst of such fury on her behalf that he couldn’t speak for a few minutes. “I’m sorry about that.” He racked his mind for more words. The right thing to say. “There were days I wished my mother or father had walked out in the middle of the night,” he finally said.
She laughed and then sobered up, all before he could blink twice. “Oh, that’s such an awful thing to say. Thanks for trying to make me feel better, Mr. Raawal, but you’re absolutely horrific at it.”
“I really wasn’t joking.”
“Of course, you...” Her mouth fell open and she closed it with a click. “I’m sorry about...that.”
He shrugged, pretending to not show how shocked he was by his own admission. He could see it in her eyes too. He never ever spoke to the media about his family. It was none of their business. His parents had provided enough fodder for the gossips with their high-profile separations every time his father was unfaithful and the subsequent reunions every time his mother forgave him, resulting in an endless vicious cycle of hate and love.
In the beginning, fixing the reputation of Raawal House had been an act of survival. With all the company’s assets tied up in sinking films and unwise investments, the only thing he’d had to start with was the respect and prestige his grandfather Vijay Raawal’s name still commanded in some circles. Producers and investors had trusted him, his word, had seen something in him that had reminded them of Daadu.
For fifteen years, he’d forced his family by every means available to him, to behave. Constantly herding them to walk a respectful line so that he could rebuild the reputation of Raawal House.
But somewhere along the line, he’d lost his own way. He’d started believing in his own invincibility. He’d started overcompensating for all the negative attention his parents had brought to the family by keeping Virat and Anya on too tight a leash and then condemning them for any missteps they might take. By stifling them. His need to keep them safe and secure, to protect them from the same kind of chaos that had disrupted his childhood and adolescence had been somehow twisted up and morphed into needing to control every minute detail of their lives.
Of his own life.
But with Naina, it was easy to speak of his family. Easy to share the tales of dysfunction and drama that had made up most of his childhood. Though he had absolutely no idea how they’d ended up trading childhood pain of all things. Crossing swords was more their style, wasn’t it?
And if this woman was his Dream Girl too...she’d unraveled him not once, but twice now. Every rational instinct in him, every voice he’d honed to be in total control of himself warned him to get the hell out of there. To walk away from her and never return.
Instead, he said, “My mother wasn’t the most spectacular actress in Bollywood over the span of two decades for nothing. After a while, I think she saw no distinction between her public persona and the private one. Anyway, I survived. I had Daadi at the worst of times.” Thinking of this fierce woman in front of him as a lost, motherless little girl made his chest tight. “I hope you had someone too.”
“I had Papa.” She scrunched her brow. “Or rather he had me. He was devastated by her leaving. We somehow muddled through. Later, he married my stepmother. She and her daughter Maya...” She smiled, and there was that fleeting happiness in her eyes again. “We became each other’s saving grace. Have you heard of my stepmother Jaya Pandit? She’s also an actress, although she’s not hugely successful.”
He nodded, vaguely remembering a short, pretty woman with intelligent eyes and a colorful personality. “She’s the one developing a reputation for being difficult and abrasive. Didn’t she get into a mad scuffle with some producer and that ridiculous TV channel got it all on camera?”
She winced and Vikram regretted the distaste he was sure had shown on his face. “It’s easy for you to look down on her. But that’s the only way Jaya Ma knows how to survive in your horrid industry. She put on fifteen kilos for a role only to be told by the producer that he’d given it to his wife’s cousin. It’s been...hard for her. If she isn’t being turned down for being too loud, she’s simply forgotten.”
“The other news you got to make it a ‘too much kind of day’...is it about her?”
“No, my stepsister Maya got accepted to a university in the States. She’ll be leaving soon.” She tried to hide the pain in her eyes with an empty smile. But one thing was certain; this woman was no actress.
She wore her emotions on her face with such an artless honesty that Vikram found it hard to look at. It was like looking straight at the sun and you couldn’t do it for too long. You simply closed your eyes and basked in the warmth of it. “I’ll miss her...she’s my sister and best friend rolled into one. I’m thrilled for her though.” A forced chuckle this time. “She’s the brilliant one in the family. And the beauty, too, actually.”
“You had no idea that she’d even applied to study abroad, did you? And yet you value her so much.”
She shrugged. “Maya’s always talked about pursuing a career in academia, getting into one of the prestigious research laboratories. Which segues perfectly into...” She looked up. Shoulders straight, she took a deep breath. Readying for battle? “Daadiji mentioned your secretary is going on maternity leave early because of complications, and that you’re looking for an urgent temporary stand-in until her proper replacement arrives. Give me the chance to work for you.”
“What?”
“I want to come work for you. You’re going on a writing trip to the Maldives for a few weeks, right? With Daadiji going to London for the next two months, I’m available and I’m also kind of cash-strapped.”
“You must be desperate if you’re willing to work for me, Ms. Menon.”
She picked up the notepad that had been sitting on the bed. Vikram saw the numbers she’d been adding up and scratching out, before she hid it behind her back. Even with the quick glimpse he got, it was clear the second column far outweighed the first. “I have a lot of expenses,” she said evasively.
“Why can’t your sister get a job?”
“I told you. She just got admitted into a renowned university. She can’t give up her education.”
“What was it you said about your half-finished PhD?”
