still didn’t feel smooth.
What DJ really meant—what he’d been trying to tell her for months—was that she didn’t have a choice. The public wasn’t interested in twenty-eight-year-old heroines dancing wedding numbers with smitten heroes. They had plenty of twenty-year-olds peddling the real thing. “Okay. Send me StarGangster. I’ll look at it.”
“Fantastic.” As usual he didn’t bother to mask his triumph. “It’s on its way.”
“Can’t wait,” she mumbled, and pulled the comforter and sheets off. She needed to make the bed all over again.
As soon as she got back from Jen’s tonight, she was diving into that script. It was time to focus all her energies on work once more and to block everything else out.
8
J en lived in a converted warehouse building in the city. The building felt like a fancy hotel, doorman and lobby and all. The apartment overlooked Lake Michigan, which felt like a bluer version of the Mumbai ocean, waves and beach and all. The apartment itself felt nothing like the hypermodern white space Ria lived in. This place breathed. Warmth engulfed Ria the moment she walked in.
“You like?” Jen asked as Ria stared, mesmerized, at the high ceiling, the exposed concrete walls, and the most stunning artwork she had ever seen.
“I love.” Ria walked to one of the huge unframed mounted canvases hanging from one high wall and touched the textured surface. The vibrant exuberance of the strokes traveled up her fingers and touched her heart. Unlike her own art, the artist seemed to have danced on the canvas in joy, and it set off a ripple of something deep inside Ria that she was too afraid to name.
The paintings offset the earthy simplicity of the fabric sofa, the stone-topped tables, and the wide-planked wood floors, and gave the space such serenity Ria wanted to curl up with a book and listen to soft music. She exhaled. This was exactly what she needed, time away from the house.
She hadn’t seen Vikram after her run and Nikhil hadn’t mentioned him on the drive here. They had talked about everything but Vikram, carefully skirting his name the way they had done for the past ten years. She ran her fingers over the canvas one more time. This was perfect. An afternoon with just Nikhil and Jen.
When she turned around she found herself alone in the living room. They were both gone. The bedroom door was open, so she went looking for them. Nikhil had Jen plastered against a wall and was devouring her mouth as if he hadn’t seen her in years.
“God, guys, at least lock the door or something,” she said, spinning around.
They pulled her back into the room, identical goofy expressions on their faces. Jen slapped Nikhil’s shoulder, but then ruined it by letting her hand linger too long. “Nikhil, behave,” she said.
Ria laughed. “Yes, saying it like that is going to make him behave.”
Nikhil planted another noisy kiss on Jen and she pushed him away and pointed toward the low Asian-style bed. “There they are.”
The saris Ria has brought with her from Mumbai sat unwrapped and arranged across the bed. “You like?” Ria asked.
“I love!” Jen’s eyes sparkled as she sifted through the yards of silk and chiffon, and it made the hours Ria had spent with her designer worth every moment. He had insisted on talking to Jen over a webcam and “getting to know her.” He had made Jen walk, sit, stand. I’m doing this long-distance thing only for you, darling. I’m Manish Jain and Manish Jain does couture, not off-the-rack.
He had done great. The colors were perfect. A deep midnight blue chiffon with aara work for the henna ceremony, a more traditional kanjivaram jade silk for the wedding, and the most vivid crimson crepe edged with Swarovski crystals for the reception that was the perfect blend of red and copper and brown merging into one magnificent wine-colored gem.
“These are just beautiful, Ria. I don’t know how to thank you.” Jen ran tentative fingers over the
What DJ really meant—what he’d been trying to tell her for months—was that she didn’t have a choice. The public wasn’t interested in twenty-eight-year-old heroines dancing wedding numbers with smitten heroes. They had plenty of twenty-year-olds peddling the real thing. “Okay. Send me StarGangster. I’ll look at it.”
“Fantastic.” As usual he didn’t bother to mask his triumph. “It’s on its way.”
“Can’t wait,” she mumbled, and pulled the comforter and sheets off. She needed to make the bed all over again.
As soon as she got back from Jen’s tonight, she was diving into that script. It was time to focus all her energies on work once more and to block everything else out.
8
J en lived in a converted warehouse building in the city. The building felt like a fancy hotel, doorman and lobby and all. The apartment overlooked Lake Michigan, which felt like a bluer version of the Mumbai ocean, waves and beach and all. The apartment itself felt nothing like the hypermodern white space Ria lived in. This place breathed. Warmth engulfed Ria the moment she walked in.
“You like?” Jen asked as Ria stared, mesmerized, at the high ceiling, the exposed concrete walls, and the most stunning artwork she had ever seen.
“I love.” Ria walked to one of the huge unframed mounted canvases hanging from one high wall and touched the textured surface. The vibrant exuberance of the strokes traveled up her fingers and touched her heart. Unlike her own art, the artist seemed to have danced on the canvas in joy, and it set off a ripple of something deep inside Ria that she was too afraid to name.
The paintings offset the earthy simplicity of the fabric sofa, the stone-topped tables, and the wide-planked wood floors, and gave the space such serenity Ria wanted to curl up with a book and listen to soft music. She exhaled. This was exactly what she needed, time away from the house.
She hadn’t seen Vikram after her run and Nikhil hadn’t mentioned him on the drive here. They had talked about everything but Vikram, carefully skirting his name the way they had done for the past ten years. She ran her fingers over the canvas one more time. This was perfect. An afternoon with just Nikhil and Jen.
When she turned around she found herself alone in the living room. They were both gone. The bedroom door was open, so she went looking for them. Nikhil had Jen plastered against a wall and was devouring her mouth as if he hadn’t seen her in years.
“God, guys, at least lock the door or something,” she said, spinning around.
They pulled her back into the room, identical goofy expressions on their faces. Jen slapped Nikhil’s shoulder, but then ruined it by letting her hand linger too long. “Nikhil, behave,” she said.
Ria laughed. “Yes, saying it like that is going to make him behave.”
Nikhil planted another noisy kiss on Jen and she pushed him away and pointed toward the low Asian-style bed. “There they are.”
The saris Ria has brought with her from Mumbai sat unwrapped and arranged across the bed. “You like?” Ria asked.
“I love!” Jen’s eyes sparkled as she sifted through the yards of silk and chiffon, and it made the hours Ria had spent with her designer worth every moment. He had insisted on talking to Jen over a webcam and “getting to know her.” He had made Jen walk, sit, stand. I’m doing this long-distance thing only for you, darling. I’m Manish Jain and Manish Jain does couture, not off-the-rack.
He had done great. The colors were perfect. A deep midnight blue chiffon with aara work for the henna ceremony, a more traditional kanjivaram jade silk for the wedding, and the most vivid crimson crepe edged with Swarovski crystals for the reception that was the perfect blend of red and copper and brown merging into one magnificent wine-colored gem.
“These are just beautiful, Ria. I don’t know how to thank you.” Jen ran tentative fingers over the
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