‘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!’
OMAR WAS SITTING alone in his bedroom. After the previous day’s filming George had driven him to the country house in Hertfordshire that was his home in England. It was a large sprawling place and cost a fortune to maintain. But he didn’t need to worry about the money. Since his career had taken off Omar never bothered to check his bank account. He just bought what he fancied and let his accountant take care of the bills. He had more money than he’d ever dreamed about while living in that dingy two-roomed flat with his father. Even now, after all the years that had gone by, he gritted his teeth when he thought back to those days. The anger had never left him.
Now he was surrounded by works of art by people he’d never heard of, objects of luxury he certainly never needed, but he’d bought because he could. They showed the outside world that he had made it to the big time and he liked that. It was just part of showing off, of playing the role of the superstar. It was his way of sticking a finger up to all the people who’d ever done him wrong or who looked down their noses at him because they felt they were better than him. So what if they were? He had the money to rub in their faces and, coming from a poor background, he knew one thing for certain—money could buy you power.
But was he truly happy? He hadn’t really given it much thought. He’d got on with playing the role of the celebrity film star, attending the parties, being photographed with gorgeous women. He couldn’t help but think that, for all he was surrounded by the outward signs of wealth, his bed was often cold when he got in it at night.
‘George, George,’ Omar called out. ‘Any word from that reporter?’ George made his way up the stairs from the ground floor. He was puffing.
‘Not a thing.’
‘Huh!’ Omar said. ‘Ah, well, some you win, some you lose, eh!’ He tried to shrug off the disappointment he felt by making a joke of it. ‘Shame; she could have really helped me out—she’s just what I need at the moment—but I’m sure we can find someone else. We better had—the publishers are nagging me about the book. Pity, it would have saved a lot of time and effort and she is very, very pretty.’ He looked at George. George didn’t respond.
‘Unlike you to hold back on giving me your opinion, especially if I don’t want it,’ Omar commented dryly. George remained tight-lipped. ‘Oh, come on, George! What did you think of her? She liked you, didn’t she?’ He threw the paper towards the silent George. ‘Here, read what she put about you again. “Courteous and charming, George the driver is always there to lend a hand. “‘ George began to blush.
‘She’s certainly different to all the others, sir.’
Omar was just about to question what George meant, but his manservant continued, ‘We should be going soon. The opening is at eight and you know what the traffic will be like.’
‘Oh, don’t mother me, George! Fashionably late, you know it’s my way. Anyway, it’s my club. I’ll turn up when I like!’
The noise of the club hit them head-on as they ran from the cover of the limousine and through the crowd waiting in the rain to get in. The burly, stone-faced doormen nodded as the three women zoomed past laughing and giggling. The lobby was brightly lit with huge palms on either side of a magnificent marble staircase. The guests were being ushered up it by smiling hostesses bearing trays of champagne. Rani and her friends ignored them and made straight for the top of the stairs. Their high heels chinked with each step. Sunita stopped and took a glass of champagne from a waiter at the top of the staircase, turned to Rani and began to sing ‘Happy Birthday’.