The Bollywood Breakup Agency Page 2

  Of course, Neela was affected by her father’s generosity. She didn’t need a part-time job to fund her way through university. She stayed at home instead of moving out. Not just to minimise debt: she also couldn’t bare the idea of living on instant noodles for three years. She worked hard, got good marks and graduated with a 2:1 Economics degree, and had a plan to get a job; a flat and a life outside of Harrow. Sadly none of it had gone as planned. There were a few temp jobs, but each one dried up after a while. With Daadi-ji’s help, Neela finally managed to get a job in one of those dingy travel agencies in the middle of Wembley, because her grandmother knew the owner; he was the son of one of her friends.

  At first Neela was enthusiastic – Daadi-ji’s friend was extremely wealthy, so it was reasonable to assume the son was just as successful. Imagining a slick, modern office offering five-star luxury holidays, Neela eagerly turned up on her first day to be confronted by the horrible truth: the agency focused on coach trips around Europe for elderly Asians who wanted to see the world ‘for cheap’. She wanted to leave immediately, but Rishi said firmly there was no way his daughter would quit a job because it wasn’t luxurious enough for her. After a lecture about how he worked as a cleaner when he arrived in the country from India, Rishi changed his routine to drive Neela to Wembley himself each day, watching carefully as she walked through the 70s glass door of a shop that had never seen better days. It didn’t help that Daadi-ji was emotionally blackmailing her too, telling Neela that if she quit the job, Daadi-ji would become a social outcast at her weekly old ladies’ gossip group. (Obviously, her grandmother didn’t call it that, but that’s what it was.)

  But Neela had always been lucky, and true to form, fate showed up six months after she’d started at the horrible shop in Wembley, when the company became bankrupt. Daadi-ji was ecstatic, as she now had the upper hand amongst her judgemental friends: How could they do that to my poor Neela? And without warning? God help me, how will the child find a job in this economic climate?

  So Neela was out of a job and hadn’t found another one since. Two years later and her parents were clearly tired of waiting around for her to do something with her life, and had decided to do something with it on her behalf.

  Hitch her to some loser guy.

  But she was determined not to let her parents win. You can’t send a girl to private schools and higher education in England and then expect her to become an Indian housewife for a man who couldn’t even be bothered to fold and put away his own underwear.

  Stomping upstairs to her brightly decorated room to think things through, Neela pondered the ultimatum: get married or get out. And in the meantime, no money and no car.

  Looking at her overstuffed wardrobes, Neela sighed. That was the worst of it. She liked, no, correction, loved shopping. She and her best friend Vidya had almost made a career of it. What the hell was she going to do with herself all week if she couldn’t shop?

  Well, she wasn’t going to give in.

  Lying down on the huge king-sized bed, staring at the gentle cornicing on the Victorian ceiling of her bedroom, she thought about marriage, and then about Kiran.

  Kiran would marry her, she was sure of it. It wasn’t a bad idea, at least he was good looking and easy to get on with. The problem, other than her parents finding out about the brawling, was that Kiran wasn’t the one. Although she realised that fact months ago, Neela held the view that he would be the one for now. She did love him, but wasn’t in love with him. And that’s why she wasn’t prepared to fight for him with her parents, or even introduce him to them. What was the point? Once Rishi found out that Kiran had a dodgy past, it would all be over anyway.

  Besides, Neela wanted romance. Like all the rubbish romance novels said, she wanted to be swept off her feet; to fall completely and utterly in love with someone. A person who arranged a surprising and extravagant proposal, a grand gesture that would show just how much he loved her and how much she meant to him. Of course, she would say yes, then squeal. Tears would build up in her eyes, because of the marvellous surprise and unexpectedly gigantic ring.

  As the fantasy played out, Neela imagined being excited and giddy on her wedding day, eager to spend the rest of her life with her soul mate, the man she had fallen in love with. The man she had chosen herself.

  Instead of putting up with someone that her parents had set up for her.

  Old people like Daadi-ji were constantly reassuring her that love grows between a couple, and if not, at least a match would result in a friendly companionship. But Neela knew that the love and companionship came after having to sleep with him straight away on the wedding night, being swept into a new household and forced into making a truckload of chapattis as soon as she got through the front door.

  No way was that happening to her.

  Walking over to her dressing table, Neela took a book of medieval poetry she’d won at school years ago and opened it to reveal a hollowed out interior. Hidden from the prying eyes of her family were loads of photographs and mementos from her time with Kiran. Before she began hiding things in it, she’d taken the book downstairs and asked her family if any of them wanted to borrow it. Her mum and dad, as intelligent as they were, looked horrified at the thought. Fairly certain no one would bother flipping through it; Neela had squirreled bits and pieces of her time with Kiran inside.

  Taking up a tiny Chinese lantern they’d picked up in Soho one night, Neela turned it tenderly in her palm, remembering.

  Even if Kiran wasn’t the one, Neela did feel guilty about how she’d treated him, and about not loving him enough.

  They’d met through a mutual friend at a party, who had laughingly seen them as the male and female version of each other. Neela always made the effort to look good, perfectly attired in short, sensational outfits that were ideal for showing off her petite frame. Makeup was immaculate without being over-done and her long dark hair was never out of place. Kiran was a modest enough guy for someone who was studying at one of London’s top universities, even if it was only part time, and managed to get himself a high-paying intern position in an accountancy firm that wasn’t his father’s. His job meant that he could afford a clean city look, wearing slick suits and quality, stripy ties. Kiran didn’t have piercings, didn’t shave patterns into his hair or eyebrows and it was this lack of conformity to the ridiculous culture of their age that made him attractive to Neela.

  If there was anything wrong with him, it was his ability to get into unnecessary arguments with people, just like Neela did. He would never argue with a woman though; having grown up with a sister and many female cousins he was completely used to dealing with girls and their issues.

  There was a buzz from the DKNY purse hanging over her bedstead. Neela grabbed the phone. It was Kiran. It was usually him. Or her best friend Vidya. Neela’s uncompromising position on most things made her an uneasy candidate for friendship. Especially amongst the fun-loving Thindians, or glossy, model-like, well-to-do Asian girls of her generation.

  ‘Hello?’

  Kiran didn’t do pleasantries. ‘I can’t believe that you have been lying to me all this time.’

  Neela grimaced. ‘I wasn’t lying.’

  ‘Well you weren’t exactly telling the truth either.’

  A deep sigh. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘No it’s not, you’ve had all this time to tell them and you didn’t even try. Either you tell them about us or I will.’

  Oh great she thought. Another ultimatum. They were just coming left, right and direct from India. Why couldn’t life just stay the way it was? There was nothing wrong with her good-time relationship with Kiran. Except that slight glitch: she didn’t love him.

  Why couldn’t he be The One? He was from a good family, never wanted to go Dutch on their dates, was cute and in touch with his Asian side, which pleased Neela because she couldn’t stand Indians who tried to pretend they were English deep down.

  ‘Look, Kiran, I can’t talk about this right now.’

&nb
sp; ‘Well, when Neela? When? This has been going on long enough.’ His voice still held the threat and hearing it, Neela reached breaking point.

  ‘If you’re going to be so ridiculous, let’s just forget the whole thing, okay?’ She hung up and stared at the phone in her hand. It was tempting to throw it across the room but it was a new BlackBerry and Rishi would kill her.

  The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. If he was going to be so obstinate about the whole thing, then let him tell the parents. It wasn’t like it was going to achieve anything. Rishi would go mad at the thought of a boy with police cautions as a son-in-law. Daadi-ji would go mad at the thought they might have slept together, and probably have a heart attack when she discovered they had. Hopefully, ignoring Kiran and the whole situation for long enough would mean he would eventually give up on her. Either way, Neela decided it wasn’t worth worrying about.

  Not when she had more important things to concern herself with, such as how to get her car and allowance back, without marrying some sort of genetic abomination.

  First things first. Get her life back. Rishi always capitulated – she was his only child. This time would be no different, would it?

  Slinking back downstairs in an attempt to appease the elders, but with a stomach in knots and thoughts of murdering Kiran jumping around her brain, Neela hardly felt her normal, confident self.

  The signs for reconciliation were not good. In the living room, Daadi-ji had lit the incense and diva candle and was praying – most likely for God to forgive her granddaughter for her sin of refusing to marry any old loser her family threw at her. Rishi was nowhere to be seen but her mum was in the kitchen, watching the latest episode of PAL. Soorbhi preferred PAL to gossiping with her friends. To Neela, the two weren’t mutually exclusive. PAL, and shows like it, was similar to British soaps, but with even more unbelievable storylines, less sleeping around, nobody would talk to each other face to face, and a cast of thousands always dressed as if they were going to a wedding.

  Sitting down next to her mum, who didn’t acknowledge her, Neela sighed at the nonsense on the screen. Never mind what was happening in your life, you could always count on the fact that something even more stupid was happening to the people on PAL.

  Five episodes since it began, the wedding was still going on. Real Payal, holding a slither of sari to cover her mouth, walked slowly towards the wedding fire, where the love of her life was sitting with her lookalike. She passed friends she had known for years, aunts and uncles who had brought her up and about 700 extras never before been seen in the series. Not a single person noticed a face matching that of the bride moving slowly among them.

  As the real Payal walked closer to the man that she, and not the impostor, was supposed to marry, her own younger sister Sapna, carrying a large steel plate filled with items needed for the ceremony, tripped over her own sari and dropped the huge oval with a clutter by Payal’s feet. The plate spun and settled, showing Real Payal’s startled face in a very reflective surface.

  The camera switched and zoomed between the sisters for several minutes – Payal: standing frozen, sari dropped from her face but still covering her head; Sapna: bending down to pick up the plate, in which the perfect mirrored image of the real Payal could be seen.

  The background music became louder and more dramatic. The camera switched violently between the two women. Just as Sapna was about to pick up the plate, and witness the reflection of the real Payal, she was called away by her mother to deal with a catering emergency. Sapna walked off, not realising she had been at the feet of her true sibling.

  ‘Crazy, isn’t it?’ Neela said to Soorbhi, who pretended not to hear. Oh well. Neela gave up. The story was making her brain hurt, and her mother was resolutely ignoring her; the continued punishment for scaring away the latest in the long line of uglies.

  ‘Good night, then,’ said Neela to herself because her mum had turned away to fiddle with the remote.

  Still no answer.

  Not to worry, Neela thought. It will all blow over by the morning. It always did. By tomorrow evening she would be back on Oxford Street, with her credit card, shopping with Vidya like the argument had never happened.

  Marching into her glass and brass ensuite to begin her lengthy night-time cleansing ritual, Neela forced herself once again to forget about Kiran, too. A beauty needed her sleep, especially if her family and Kiran were determined on ruining it by completely stressing her out.

  Chapter Three

  BUT THINGS DIDN’T BLOW OVER, and at breakfast the next morning Rishi only spoke to remind her to hand back all credit and store cards and not to use the car unless she had her own money for petrol.

  ‘Can I just have my breakfast first?’

  Her father grumbled an answer that Neela took to be yes. Like a teenager who didn’t take her parents seriously, Neela wasn’t about to give up her precious lifestyle without a fight.

  Nor was she prepared to wed a complete saddo to earn it back.

  Soorbhi and Daadi-ji weren’t saying much either; well not to Neela. Daadi-ji had a lot to say about their neighbour’s daughter Hasina, who had run off with her boyfriend at age eighteen.

  ‘At least she was actually in love,’ Neela murmured a little too loudly. At the words, Daadi-ji hobbled off to the good room for the incense, and her mother made a tut-tutting noise with her tongue – the one that sounded like a dying cricket.

  It seemed, for once, that the Solanki women in the family were on Rishi’s side. There wasn’t really any doubt when her mother stood over Neela until she handed over the credit cards and warned her not to use her mobile either, unless she could afford to pay the monthly bill.

  In a panic, she called best friend Vidya, or V as she liked to be called, from the home phone. But V couldn’t talk and Neela had to wait until she had finished work at around 5:30 p.m. and then she arrived in her little Ford Ka to whisk Neela away to discuss the predicament.

  *

  They went to one of their favourite shisha houses – The Bazaar Lounge, in Kingbury. Around forty people were gathered in the outside extension of the restaurant. Dim lights were lined up across the ceiling and a little more illumination came from the small candles on the blue and green stained-glass table, and the light was shining off of the silver of the hookah pipe. Shisha was a not-so-guilty pleasure of many young Asians. Smokey aromas wafted through the air: pineapple, mint, grape, mixed fruit, and watermelon were carried around the room by the cross breeze from two open windows.

  Neela and V sat down at their usual table, under the flickering light bulb that was never changed, right by sparkly velvet art depicting a happy and disproportioned lion. Her friend was dressed in her usual prim work gear; navy Marks & Spencer suit, white shirt and sensible heels, shoulder length hair tied in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. V had clear skin, and nice teeth and eyes, but she made no effort. Neela was sporting skin-tight black jeans, a sparkly lime green Zara top and two inch heels, her long hair a glistening sheet that swung as she walked and all eyes were on her as they made themselves comfortable. When they were together, poor V was almost invisible.

  ‘I had just had another fight with him,’ said Neela, with no need to explain who he was. ‘And then my parents ambushed me by sending me into the room to meet the father of another potential husband.’

  ‘My parents are trying to get me married too,’ said V.

  ‘But you don’t understand how gross and disgusting this guy was! Hair so oily he could keep the machinery at a chapatti factory going for years. And like “father like son,” isn’t that what they say? I can’t believe that my parents would even consider such a loser. Remember the last guy? The one who had that thing growing in his nose? Well this one was, like, ten times worse.’

  ‘You should see who my parents have been looking at.’

  ‘I cannot believe my parents are threatening to take my money away, just because I said no to him. Him, of all people. I’m not being forced, exactly, but this
level of blackmail is almost the same, especially with Daadi-ji praying for my sins eighteen times a day.’

  ‘Well at least you’re getting another chance!’ Vidya said louder, tired of being ignored when she needed to talk. ‘I gave up and let my parents decide for me. He’s a bit gross, but what can I do? I told them to set it up.’

  That got Neela’s attention. ‘What do you mean, let them decide?’

  ‘Well, I think I may be getting engaged to this really horrible guy who I used to know when I was a kid. He now works in India, is not particularly good looking, but ticks all of my parents’ boxes: educated, well-paid job, good family, blah blah blah. I said I wasn’t sure but they told me that I will learn to love him.’

  Neela was shocked. ‘That’s what they all say. The mantra of the set-up. But you can’t just settle . . . you are such an amazing person.’

  ‘Well it’s not like anyone is knocking down my door to get to me.’ V indicated her plump body with a brief wave of a hand. ‘I was about to take another look on the lagna.net marriage website to find someone better, but then I remembered: everyone on there looks just like the guy my mum and dad picked out.’ V suddenly focused on something across the room. ‘Look Neela,’ she said sadly, subtly pointing to a group of young guys in the corner. ‘They’re all staring at you. You could have your pick. It’s not like that for me.’