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My ripped yellow dupatta flashes in my mind.
‘He’s, uh … well … Our first meeting was – eventful.’
Maha’s brow rises in question, and another lie slips past my lips. ‘I spilled coffee on him, and he sort of freaked out. He’s also overconfident. Well, I suppose you could say he’s self-assured. And blunt. He’s also a little judgemental. He seems kind of untouchable. Maybe that’s because he’s a celebrity. I’m not really sure.’
My best friends look at me in confusion, and I rush to say something positive about Zayan. I think of that teasing tone of his, and that determination he showed when he sat at our kitchen table – that unwillingness to let his dreams die.
‘But he knows what he wants, and he’s willing to fight for it,’ I finish.
Owais’ handsome face splits with an exaggerated, gooey grin. ‘And he wants you.’
I laugh weakly. ‘It’s really early stages.’
Maha snorts loudly. ‘It doesn’t look like early stages. I can see it in his eyes in the photo, Farah. He’s half in love with you already.’
Then he really is a brilliant actor.
‘I’m not sure about that,’ I say uncertainly.
‘I want every detail about how you guys met. From start to finish,’ Maha says, and my heart thrums with an anxious beat.
By the time I’m done weaving my romantic tale, my throat is warm, and I’ve almost made myself believe it happened.
‘We’ve got to meet him, Farah,’ Maha says in the end, reaching over to squeeze my hand.
‘Sure,’ I reply. ‘Once we define what we are. Right now, it’s all very new.’
Owais grins, looking at Amal with warm eyes. ‘The honeymoon phase is the best.’
She shoots a smile his way, before looking at me again – analytical as always.
‘Yeah,’ I laugh, knowing Zayan and I are nowhere near a honeymoon. ‘Anyway. Now that you’re all done giving me the third degree, can we eat? I’m starving.’
That triggers everyone to move. Maha goes to her room to change, Owais makes a beeline to the bathroom and I find my way to the kitchen, ready to see what takeaway Amal has brought home. After all that acting, I’ve worked up an appetite. I’m delighted to see the familiar paper bags of our local Chinese restaurant, and it’s while I’m rummaging through them to find my order that Amal taps my shoulder.
I turn, a warm box of kung pao chicken held between my hands. Amal’s arms are crossed over her chest; a contemplative look colours her pretty face. My hands clench round the box.
Don’t ask me a question. Don’t ask me a question. I’ll tell you everything if you do.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Farah,’ Amal says, her voice soft. ‘Giving your heart to a boy is never easy. You have to learn to share things that you never imagined giving to anyone else. Just … promise me you’ll protect yourself.’
My initial response is to laugh out loud. If Amal knew the truth, there’s no way she’d be giving me this piece of advice; it’s so entirely unnecessary. Still, her concern warms me, and I grip her hand in my own before agreeing with her.
‘I promise.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The conference room at Parker’s Artists’ Agency looks like something from a movie or TV show – with windows that showcase The Shard, interior design all minimalistic and grey, and a man standing at the end of a particularly long oval table.
He looks up from his papers. ‘Pierre Lyon, Zayan’s publicist. Your temporary publicist.’ He introduces himself, his French accent heavy. His hair is streaked with silver, he wears one ring on his pinkie and his black suit is cut sharply over his lean frame. As he steps towards me, looking me up and down, I resist the urge to clutch my satchel – that has my notebook, lip balm and a chocolate bar inside – to my chest like a defensive shield.
‘I’m Fa—’
‘I know who you are,’ he says, cutting me off, his critical eye trained on my face. ‘You’re pretty. That helps.’
‘I think that’s subjective –’ I begin, but he continues.
‘Good height – there’s a small difference between you and Zayan. That will photograph well. But we need to work on your facial expressions; you betray too many emotions. Then again, most of you actors have little control over your feelings.’
