Krishnan’s roar could have been heard in the next county. The reporter stiffened for a second, like an animal caught in the middle of a busy road, then scurried off, gabbling into his Dictaphone en route.
“I’m getting used to saying those words.” Krishnan reached for Jasmine’s hand and gave it a rueful squeeze. “Are you okay? You’re not okay, are you?”
She shook her head, tears spilling from her eyes now that the first effects of shock had worn off.
“Hey, hey, hey,” said Krishnan softly, pulling her towards him, holding her close. “Look, I’m going to shut the shop for an hour. Go upstairs to the flat and sit down. I’ll come up and make you some tea, yeah?”
She nodded dumbly, leaving him to shoo out the remaining customers and lock up while she headed upstairs to her little, two-roomed sanctuary.
On the armchair was spread her outfit from the night before, and she picked it up, tears dripping onto the vivid fabrics, then threw it hard into the laundry basket.
The posters of Bollywood stars seemed to mock her from the walls.
“Forget your dream,” they said. “You’ll never join us.”
She sank down on the rug in front of the cheap gas fire, sobbing like a bereft child. The phone rang, on and on.
“I’ll get that,” said Krishnan, stepping over her foetal form to where the seldom-used landline instrument stood on a shelf.
“Hello, yes. Yes. Her brother. Krishnan. I know. So I’ve heard. Okay, I understand that. I think she was expecting it. I’ll let her know, okay? Thanks. What, seriously? No, I didn’t know about that.”
Jas opened one eye. Krishnan was taking deep breaths, the receiver shaking in his hand. He looked as if he were trying to control a fury beyond anything she’d seen up until that moment.
He mastered himself enough to say, “Right, bye,” and put the phone down without smashing it to plastic smithereens.
He stood for a while, palms pressed to his cheeks, chest moving rapidly until he overcame the shudders and exhaled slowly.
“Krish?” Jas wondered if attracting his attention was wise. He looked fit to commit murder.
“I’ll kill him,” he said simply. “So help me, Jas. What were you thinking?”
“Who was it? What did they say?”
“Take a chair, Jas. I’ll put the kettle on.”
Jas laughed miserably through the sniffles.
“They didn’t say that, I’m sure.”
“No. But you need to sit down and…yeah? Just do it.”
He went behind the partition to the tiny kitchenette and began banging cups and spoons.
Jas dragged herself up and flopped down on the uncomfortable sofa with its cheap, brown upholstery. She found a box of tissues on the coffee table and systematically began to work through its contents.
Two mugs of very hot, very sweet, very milky tea appeared in front of her. Krish sat down beside her, taking one of her hands and holding it tightly in his lap as if this would protect her against what was to come.
“It was the producer of the show,” he said quietly. “They have to disqualify you.”
Jas had half-expected this, but a choking gulp escaped her all the same.
“They don’t have any proof…just because Ajay’s stalking me…”
“They had a call from a journalist on one of the Sunday tabloids. Claimed to have a sex tape of you and Ajay taken on the night of the first round.”
“What?”
“Are you saying it doesn’t exist?”