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I’ve seen my mother go through this process many times, so I know we can negotiate what gets asked. But it’s so differentwhen we’re both in front of the camera being interviewed. My palms are sweating. I have to rub them against my pants. Can I do it? Can I purposefully put myself in front of a camera and speak?
“This could be great,” Mohinder Uncle says, “since we’ve been planning your entryway into Hollywood for a while, Shreya madam. This might be the right opportunity to do that. I have this feeling that both of you will enter the Western market together.”
My mother answers for us.
“We have time to figure out a career trajectory, Mohinder. Let’s not put pressure on her debut. Komal.” She’s addressing me now. “We don’t need to do this interview if you don’t want to. There are so many avenues for us to take. Like I didn’t tell you this, but you got congratulatory flowers about your casting from this Broadway producer. When you get back, we’ll plan a trip to New York to meet her for lunch.”
“Oh,” Mohinder Uncle says. “There’s also an image architect in New York looking for clients. I’ve got a feeling you’ll love him, Komal. I mean, wearing couture is what any young woman in India dreams of!”
“I… Yeah…” What else can I say?
“Mohinder, you are being pushy again. But you’re also the reason my career has gotten to where it is.” Mom laughs. “Then again, it will be two against one now. You better watch out!”
“Madam, please. I am honoured to be trusted with both of you.”
Hearing them talk is familiar because they always strategize with affection, but I can’t stay in one spot, since I'm scratching up and down my elbow.
“The stylist is a good idea,” says Mom. “Keep in touch with him because I think we can get Komal to be seen as the star of our movie if she’s always looking fantastic.”
“You’re the star, too,” Mohinder Uncle interjects.
“You don’t get it,” she says. “I will be the proudest mother when everyone sees how great she is.Thatis what I want.”
My mom is my loudest supporter, covering me in love. Being adopted means being her daughter. Period. She wants the best for me. And all this is overwhelming, but it’s about reaching my potential, considering everything I have. Since I’m gifted with privilege, and it’s backed by people I care about, I shouldn’t refuse any opportunities. Besides, maybe I’ll fall in love with acting. I’ve never given it a shot, and there’s something about missing all the shots you don’t take—I think.
It takes some effort, but I’ve almost convinced myself not to freak out.
The door to our private room opens. Huan is dressed and his neutral face is on. Composed is the man who blocked my blowjob.
Did Mohinder Uncle’s call remind him of his duty? Is he regretting everything that happened?
He hasn’t fled the room, the assignment, or the country.
No signs of imminent departure.
But he isn't eager for us to continue considering how he steps out into the hallway, as if needing to put as much distance between him and the bed as possible. Nor is he looking at me. This prickly pain spreads through me. Is he hating me for how far it got? Does he think I pushed the situation?
I want to ask him all these things, but I’m suddenly afraid of the answers. Can I bear to hear the truth?
“When is the afternoon tea?” I ask on the phone.
TWENTY-ONE
I decide we’re taking the London Underground. As Huan and I ride down the escalators, I try to convince myself that I’m still staying true to myself on this trip. Sure, I got a personal invitation to Prêt-à-Portea at The Berkeley Hotel, but I’m travelling by train to get there. Tapping my Oyster card, getting jostled by crowds, and smelling this dusty metallic air along the way.I’m pursuing experiences beyond what I’ll be able to do later.
When we board, no one looks at anyone. A clown in formalwear could step on and no one will care, as long as they don’t take up extra space. Not to say I see clowns, but we run into clownish teenagers leaking music through their speakerphones. Immediately people break their solitude, and I hear a few “oh for God’s sake” and some “too right, mate” mutterings. An older gentleman rolls his eyes and thrusts his face back into the newspaper he’s reading, placing it on the arm of another passenger who is gritting their teeth, but too mannered or perhaps exhausted to complain about ink rubbing off on their shirt.
The whole thing… I don’t know. It makes me feel invisible and happy and like I’m part of a collective experience in sucha good way. Until, at the next stop, a class of uniformed kids board, and I’m pushed off the pole I was holding onto. With the train rumbling again, I search for some strap or wall to cling to. Nothing obvious presents itself, so I brace my legs.
Of course, that doesn’t work.
I fall over to the side, and Huan catches me at my waist.
He’s there. No surprise.
We haven’t spoken a word since the hostel, but I can count on him watching over me. He’s always there, and somehow balanced with hands free to hold me in place. I reluctantly tuck against one side of his chest, even though him holding me like I’m his personal responsibility is bad. Now I can’t keep ignoring him and everything that has happened, because really, that’s what I’ve been doing. Pretending the London Underground is too loud and too busy, and that it deserves all my attention.Pretending my bodyguard (who is really Huan with a capital H in my head) hadn't spent the morning finger-fucking me to ecstasy.
As I grip the side of his shirt—out of sheer necessity—I realize I can’t nail down what is going to happen between us. I was in a towel. He made me fall apart, and I almost gave him a blowjob. That is, until he said if I touched him, we wouldn’t leave the room for sex reasons. Like you’ll be walking funny afterwards becauseMy Cock Will Brand You Foreverkind of way.
