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I soften my tone but keep a firmness there too. I can concede to keeping our relationship a secret, I’ll go through the media training, but I refuse to let this play be seen as a copy of the LSDCATS. ‘Choosing a play that showcases marginalized voices is a good reflection on you – fighting against racism, when you did a TV series that perpetrated it. You need to convince your fans you’re not still selling out your culture. Won’t participating in a play that celebrates it be a perfect way to do that?’
The fight loosens in Zayan. ‘Fine. What do you have in mind?’
‘Well, what do you guys think this play needs?’ I ask The Tragedies directly, my tone shining with an apology for not involving them before. I want their opinions, their thoughts. This is for all of us.
‘We need something that matches Romeo and Juliet,’ Anushka says.
‘Something tragic,’ Nur adds.
‘Something romantic,’ Ben says.
‘Something that’s going to make people laugh,’ David offers.
Zayan nods. ‘And we need something that’s going to resonate with the people watching it. You need a story that’s simple enough to do in two months, but with enough depth to leave people moved.’
I nod, moderately cushioned by his well-meaning suggestion. I reach for my Kindle; I’ve got loads of plays on it, original texts that I like to flick through and practise lines from. There’s a whole collection of stories I’ve kept from different parts of Pakistan – tales I began to study when I wanted to read more literature from my own country, rather than just the stories the school curriculum forced me to learn. My eyes land on a love story, fraught with forbidden intentions, tangled with jealousy and poisoned hearts.
‘I’ve got it,’ I announce, while turning my Kindle screen to face the group. ‘How about the story of Heer Ranjha?’
@TheTragedies: We are so excited to share that we are beginning auditions for our play. All you need to do is submit a tape of yourself performing whatever piece of dialogue you like – this is open internationally too. In the meantime, guess in the comments which play we’re putting on!
CHAPTER TEN
ONE WEEK LATER
‘You like it?’ Zayan asks, voice dripping with smugness.
‘Like’ is such an inconsequential word for what I’m feeling right now.
The stage I’m standing on is massive; I feel small and large all at the same time. I look up at the ceiling to see it’s painted with stars and moons – they’re illuminated by the glorious hanging chandelier that makes golden light shine over the theatre. The smooth dark-brown wooden floor is sturdy but worn, like it’s been walked upon by a thousand different stories.
I inhale deeply, and the faint scent of dust coupled with cleaning polish invades my senses. I stare at the empty forest-green velvet seats, a feeling of pure excitement coursing through my veins. In two months, these seats will be full of eager people, here to watch our play. And among them will be casting agents, directors, talent scouts – people who could take my dream of being an actress and make it a reality.
‘It’s amazing,’ I whisper, dropping my gaze back to Zayan, both of us facing one another now.
‘It’s more than amazing, child; this theatre is magic.’
I startle violently at the unexpected voice behind me, crashing right into Zayan – my face smacks into his chest. He steadies me with his hands on my forearms, a rumble of laughter vibrating from his chest against the skin of my cheek. I immediately step out of his hold to give myself some space to breathe, my cheeks burning. I turn on my heel to face the person behind me.
The voice turns out to belong to a man; he’s short, his back slightly curved with age, his hair a brilliant shock of white, his skin weathered and tanned. He wears lime-green overalls, with a gold pin on his breast pocket that reads MARVIN.
‘Uh, hello,’ I say, my cheeks still feeling warm and my heart running a mile a minute in my chest.
‘Who are you?’ Marvin demands, and I realize now that he has an Irish accent. ‘Who are both of you?’ His shrewd gaze narrows on Zayan.
‘Zayan Amin.’ Zayan introduces himself with practised formality, sticking his hand out for the man to shake. Marvin looks at it with all the suspicion of a true-crime detective until Zayan lets his hand fall. ‘We’re going to be hosting her play here.’
Zayan jerks his thumb towards me, and I try not to flounder under Marvin’s intense stare.
‘Today?’ Marvin demands. ‘The theatre is not ready for a play for today.’
‘No, no,’ I hurry to correct him. ‘In two months. But we will be using the Limelight Theatre for rehearsals – and today we’re using it for a photo shoot.’
‘Photo shoot?’ Marvin throws another question my way. ‘What for?’
Zayan’s about to step in, but my mouth is running at full speed.
‘Well, The Tragedies – that’s what our group is called – need promo material. We haven’t announced what play we’re doing or that Zayan is a part of it yet. He’s this big actor, in case that wasn’t clear before. But that leaves a window of two days for us to get things like posters, leaflets and programmes ready. So Zayan’s agent suggested a photo shoot, and she’s got us a photographer, who signed an agreement to be discreet about the job until we announce Zayan’s involvement tomorrow, and here we are.’ I finish, sucking in a sharp breath.
