Huh! What has she done to deserve his good wishes? She’s a complete bloody stranger. He’d better not fancy her. I bet he does, though.
She shook her head on the way up the stairs, attempting to dislodge by physical means her annoyance with Krishnan. She should not think about him. Think about Ajay Amir. Visualise his eyes fixed on you, his chest rising and falling as he watches your routine, his mouth watering, his heart pounding.
“I can’t believe we’re going to meet Ajay Amir, can you?” said Anjali at the top of the stairs.
“I’ve loved him since I was thirteen,” agreed Jas.
“And Ranjit Dhaliwal from Filmfare, of course. But I’m a bit scared of him. He’s such a biting critic.”
“I suppose they need their Simon Cowell,” said Jas nervously.
“But I especially want to meet Priti Mehra. What a legend. I’ve seen all her films.”
“She’s brilliant. I wish she hadn’t retired. How old was she? Thirty-five, thirty-six?”
“I know, it was a sad day.”
Jas followed Anjali to a row of plastic chairs in a hallway and used nervy chatter to try to defuse the sudden vice-like clamp in her chest.
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They talked in a brittle kind of way about their routines and their favourite films until Anjali’s number was called and she stood, smoothing down her skirts and taking a deep breath.
“Wish me luck,” she whispered.
Jas felt it would be mean-spirited of her not to, despite the girl’s earlier designs on Krishnan, so she gave her the thumbs-up and watched her swish along the hallway to the star-decorated door at the end.
When she came out, five minutes later, a man with a camera was chasing her along the hallway, accompanied by a famous soap opera actress with a microphone.
“She’s either very good or very bad,” the man next to Jas whispered. “Otherwise they wouldn’t bother.”
“Oh, really?”
Jas watched as Anjali took a seat farther down the corridor on the opposite side. Her words carried on the air to Jas’ ears, sounding confident and unforced.
“I think I did okay. I couldn’t look at Ajay, though, I was just too starstruck. He was very kind, and Priti asked me where I studied dancing. She seemed to like my performance. I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see, though.”
All too soon, Jas’ number was called and she held her head high, tinkling along the corridor and pushing aside the starred door.
“Good luck,” said the cameraman who stood just inside it.
She was only capable of half-muttering thanks, overwhelmed by the sudden reality of sharing room-space with three Bollywood icons.
“Hello,” said Priti Mehra kindly. “Come on in.”
Jas tiptoed forward, facing the long table behind which they all sat. Ajay in the flesh was dazzling, his skin so perfect, his teeth so gleaming, his eyes so dark and stormy…
She swallowed.
“I’m sorry, this is a very great honour…”
“Don’t apologise,” said Ajay with a blinding smile, those rich, smooth tones pouring into her ear directly from his mouth instead of via celluloid.
It was too much. She laughed then put a hand to her mouth before it turned too hysterical. He spoke to me.
An impatient Ranjit Dhaliwal waved his hands.
“Okay, okay. What’s your name?”