I laugh at that.
“Well, I’m staying in the room with you tonight. I’ll try to even things out.” She gives me a look. “Not like that, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“All I’m thinking about is getting you into a dress,” I say.
“Really?” she asks. “Getting me into a dress?”
I laugh again. Jules has got her arm wrapped around mine, which is a pleasant distraction from the hangover I’ve had since yesterday’s fight with Yael. Girls have always been the best distractions.
Until a girl became the thing I needed distraction from.
Twenty-seven
It’s after five when we finally get around to shooting. Our scene is a song, the moment when Billy Devali’s character first meets Amisha Rai’s and is so besotted he breaks out singing and playing the piano. We are all supposed to watch, mesmerized by this authentic display of love at first sight. At the end, we clap.
We spend the rest of the day shooting. When we break for the day, the assistant director tells us to plan on staying at least two more days. Prateek takes me aside to say it’ll probably be more than that and would I mind staying? I don’t mind. I’m quite happy to stay until I fly back to Holland.
We’re lining up for the bus again, when the assistant director snaps yet another picture of me. “Man, they’re building a serious case against you,” Nash says.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “I’m not even wearing the suit right now.”
That night in the hotel, there are five of us. Nash, Tasha, Argin, me and Jules. Jules and I share a mattress on the floor. Nothing happens. Not with us, anyhow. Her presence does little to stop Nash and Tasha from their late-night calisthenics, but when it happens, I can see Jules quaking with laughter, and then I am, too.
She rolls over on her side to face me. “Misery loves company,” she whispers.
The next day, I’m in the lunch queue for some dal and rice when the assistant director taps me on the back. I even pose this time for the anticipated photo, but there’s no camera. Instead he instructs me to come with him.
“Did you stain the suit?” Jules calls after me.
Arun trots up behind us, followed by Prateek, who looks stricken. How much can this suit be worth?
“What’s going on?” I ask Prateek as we walk past the set and toward the row of trailers.
“Faruk! Khan!” He sputters the name like a cough.
“What about Faruk Khan?” But before Prateek can answer, I’m pulled up the stairs and pushed into one of the trailers. Inside, Faruk Khan, Amisha Rai, and Billy Devali are sitting in a huddle. They all stare at me for what seems like an eternity, until Billy finally booms, “There! Did I not tell you?”
Amisha lights another cigarette and kicks up her bare feet, which are covered with vinelike henna tattoos. “You are absolutely right,” she says in a lilting accent. “He looks like an American movie star.”
“Like that one,” Billy snaps his fingers. “Heath Ledger.”
“Only not dead,” Faruk says.
They cluck in agreement.
“I think Heath Ledger was from Australia,” I say.
“Never mind that,” Faruk says. “Where are you from? America? UK?”
“Holland.”
Billy wrinkles his nose. “You don’t have an accent.”
“You almost sound British,” Amisha says. “Close enough to South African.”
“This is closer to South African,” I say in a clipped Afrikaans accent.
Amisha claps her hands. “He can do accents.”