Jas’ face fell. For a moment, she was too distraught to speak.
“Not that girl from the audition?”
“Anjali. She’s a nice girl.”
“She’s not nice!”
Krishnan laughed. “You seemed friendly enough.”
Jas said nothing but stomped back into the kitchen, slopping the lassi into glasses and banging Krish’s down on the counter so it spilled.
“Is there a problem here, Jasmine?”
“No. No problem at all. Everything’s A-okay.” She took a net bag of onions and emptied them into a tray, letting them fall from a height so that most of them rolled all over the floor.
“Listen, Jas.”
Krishnan came out from behind the counter and put his hands on her shoulders, squeezing them gently, holding her still.
“I don’t know what’s going on here. But as your TV brother, I’m telling you that if any man does anything to hurt you, I’ll find him and I’ll kill him. Okay?”
Jas inhaled deeply. I love you, you fool.
“Okay,” she said.
* * * *
The atmosphere between Jas and Krishnan was chillier than usual in the run-up to the second round of the contest. The daft jokes and inconsequential conversations to which they were accustomed gave way to stilted civility and occasional outbursts of temper.
Several times a day, Ajay texted promises to lay the world at Jasmine’s feet, while Krish disappeared on mysterious evening trips to Nottingham every so often.
When the camera crew turned up to film a short biographical piece about Jas and her life, Krishnan was positively hostile, refusing to appear in shot and threatening not to allow them into the building at all until Jas’ tears forced a reluctant about-face. The short film was problematic enough anyway—she had no real family to display, though her friend Sunya represented her social life. The dingy flat didn’t really convey the sparkling superstar-in-waiting vibe she wanted, and neither did the shop. In the end, they decamped to a local park and filmed her there, dancing around a duck pond and talking about her home town and its terrific mix of cultures. It wasn’t really what the director was after but it would have to do.
When the day of the second round came, Jas woke up feeling as if her stomach had been ripped out by an iron claw.
Ajay had phoned the night before with good luck wishes and promises to take her to bed after the recording. She had lain with the mobile phone on her pillow, listening to his golden tones murmuring sweet and saucy nothings, pretending he was there with her, caressing her, preparing her for a night of abandoned passion.
The phone was still there, lodged beside her ear, when she awoke.
She put it away and got out of bed, shaking out her body and warming up, readying for an early morning practice of her routine. She had been to the Bollywood dance club every evening, rehearsing intensively with her coach until she felt ready for the cameras again. It had taken her mind off Ajay’s absence and Krishnan’s distance. All the spinning and hip swaying and finger snapping had expanded until it was her whole life, blotting out the faces of those troublesome men.
Today she was wearing an eye-catching outfit of green, purple and silver. The vivid colours would look awful on paler, Western skin but they suited Jas’ dark colouring. The gaudiness brought the eyes to Jas, while her beauty kept them looking.
Tricked out in her finery, she entered the shop, where Krishnan was lounging on the counter reading the local paper.
“Ready?” Krish drawled, looking her up and down.
He failed to do the stunned double-take for which Jas had been hoping.
“You’re driving me again? I didn’t ask for that. I was going to get a taxi.”
Ajay will pay for it.
“I’m happy to drive you. Don’t you want your brother on your side, supporting you?”
“Supporting me? Or supporting Anjali?”
“Don’t start this nonsense. Come on. Let’s go.”