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Truth rings from his words, so plain and honest, that even the mother looks moved. Eventually, they start to leave, but not before the mother’s gaze falls to me. I fidget awkwardly under the questioning look she directs my way. Zayan slides back on to the bench beside me, waving at the little girl, who keeps looking at him over her shoulder.
‘That was nice of you,’ I say, once we’re alone again.
‘Were you expecting me to be a jerk to my fans?’
I laugh, and his offended expression intensifies. ‘I’m not sure what to expect of you. You’re a constant surprise.’
I don’t say it pleasantly, and he knows it. But if he feels guilty about how we ended things at the meeting, it doesn’t show on his face.
‘In all honesty, I thought you might find it annoying to be accosted by fans all the time,’ I continue.
Zayan shakes his head, evidently displeased with my thought process. ‘Hari fans are usually little kids, and they rarely want to sell my autograph unless they’ve got overbearing parents. Children aren’t malicious like that.’
‘Tell that to my seven-year-old cousins,’ I quip back. ‘They’re mini-demons trapped in human bodies.’
‘They’re children,’ he replies stubbornly. ‘And children love Hari. I’ll always be Hari to them.’
My ears perk up, and I almost feel like I’m mishearing that note of bitterness in his voice. That twinge of resignation. Maybe a combination of both.
But before I can form any sort of question about it, Zayan’s expression turns neutral again.
‘I think it’s important to be kind to my fans. They got me to where I am today. They hold my future in their hands.’
‘So do I,’ I say, because it’s true, and I want him to remember it.
His mouth – unwillingly, I imagine – lifts halfway to a smile.
Anushka, David, Ben and Nur squish together on the other side of the picnic table, staring at Zayan and me like we’ve come from another planet.
‘Thank you for agreeing to meet me,’ Zayan begins, the perfect image of politeness once more. ‘I know there was some confusion around our first meeting, but I’m Zayan Amin, and you’ve spoken to my agent about me starring in your play.’ He leans closer to me, our elbows brushing. ‘But before we get into all of that, I thought it’d be best to let you guys know that Farah and I are getting to know one another on a more personal level.’
Anushka’s jaw drops, Nur’s eyes go as wide as saucers, Ben’s mouth twists, but David stares at us, unblinking.
‘You’re lying,’ he says. ‘You two aren’t in a relationship.’
Zayan falters, clearly unprepared for such a plain, simple dismissal. ‘Well, we aren’t in a relationship yet. But we are getting to know one another in that capacity.’
‘No,’ David replies slowly. ‘You aren’t.’
‘And why not?’ Zayan finally asks, a note of exasperation rising in his voice.
David, with more flourish than necessary, pulls his phone out of his pocket. I can tell what’s coming, and a full-blown grin threatens to explode the restraint I’m using to keep my face straight.
When Zayan and I were making our way to the table before The Tragedies showed up, he spent at least five minutes explaining how he wanted to take the lead on this first meeting. Maybe I was still feeling slightly petty about the meeting with Pierre, because I didn’t let Zayan know that there was no way he could convince my friends about our alleged relationship. Instead, I agreed to let him try, simply because I knew it would be entertaining.
And I was right.
‘Because Farah doesn’t even like you,’ David replies, eyeing Zayan in a way that says he doesn’t like him either. He holds up a hand when Zayan begins to ready himself for an argument, and the pure, affronted look that paints itself on Zayan’s face is hilarious. ‘I know she doesn’t,’ David continues. ‘I’m not paraphrasing here. Two days ago, after the whole cafe debacle, Farah’s exact message on our group chat reads, “Zayan Amin’s ego is so large I’m surprised he was able to fit into the cafe in the first place.”’
Zayan turns to look at me, while David carries on.
‘She goes on to say, “He thinks he’s so hot, all because he did The Fairbanks and a couple of good movies. He’s not that great. He’s no Leonardo DiCaprio, but I bet he thinks he is. That conceited jerk.”’
I bite on both sides of my cheek to stop myself from laughing as Zayan’s eyebrow lifts.
‘And, finally, an all-time favourite. “Let me tell you guys now, if I ever see Zayan Amin again, I will choke him with my dupatta and laugh.”’
A giggle finally escapes my lips when Zayan silently mouths, Choke me?
