A Date With A Bollywood Star

‘So you’re the missing reporter who should have been here forty-five minutes ago, are you?’

Rani gave him an embarrassed, shy smile. She felt weak, vulnerable, and very stupid for smiling like a silly schoolgirl.

‘You’d better get in, then,’ he said, and opened his door. ‘Come on. If you want that interview you’d better hurry—we’re running late!’

Rani lowered her head and slipped cautiously into the back seat.

‘I’m very sorry I’m so late. I got delayed watching one of your movies!’ It was half true, she thought, and it sounded better than admitting to oversleeping on the sofa.

‘Interesting. Which one?’

‘Sacred Heart. It’s my favourite.’

‘Mine too,’ replied Omar, looking straight at her.

Rani could sense his gaze upon her. She’d waited ten years to be this close to him, and if the feelings growing in her body were anything to go by it was worth the wait …

RIYA LAKHANI is the pen-name of a husband-and-wife writing team who both work in television—which was the backdrop for their own romance. They work in TV news—one as a presenter, the other as a producer. In the best courtship tradition, on their first date they were accompanied by a chaperone! They live in the heart of the UK with their two children, and draw upon their own background of mixed cultures for their inspiration. They say writing romance is the perfect antidote to the doom and gloom of TV news because there’s always a happy-ever-after.

A Date with a Bollywood Star

Riya Lakhani

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Thank you to everyone who made it possible. You know who you are, and we know where you live!

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About Riya Lakhani

Title Page

Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

RANI LET HERSELF into her apartment, switched on the lights and then closed all the blinds in the open-plan living room. Being on the eighth floor gave some privacy but you never knew who might be looking. It was a neat and tidy flat that she was happy to call home. Everything was just where she wanted it: knickers in the knickers drawer, shoes on their racks, suits pressed and bagged hanging in colour order in the wardrobe. It was exactly the way she liked it. Although perhaps it might be nice to find a little disarray with the bedclothes now and again, she thought naughtily to herself. She fitted the flat and it fitted in with her busy life in the centre of London. Yes, she had everything she wanted: the career in journalism, a best friend she could call on at any time of the day or night and a mother who phoned religiously every Sunday morning at eleven on the dot.

The red light on the answer phone was flashing. Rani walked towards it, sat down on the sofa, took off her overly high heels, which made her smile just to hold them, and hit the play button. It was her office.

‘Rani, it’s Tony, we’ve an urgent job for you. Omar Khan is back in town and we didn’t know. He’s making a movie and we’ve got just ten minutes with him tomorrow morning at eight-thirty. He’s staying at Claridge’s. Don’t be late. If I don’t hear from you then I’ll assume you’ll be there. Bye.’

Rani replayed the message. She had definitely heard correctly. Omar Khan—she had to interview the Omar Khan. He didn’t normally give interviews. She thought about the rumpled bedclothes again. Omar Khan had been her idol when she was growing up. He had been the leading man in Indian films for years. She remembered the first movie of his she’d seen, Sacred Heart. It was still her favourite of all time and now she was actually going to meet him. She dived off the sofa towards the DVD shelf. She realised her hands were shaking as she traced along the titles looking for the film. Got it! She turned on the plasma, put the DVD in and hit the play button. As the soundtrack started she walked to the bathroom and began taking off her make-up and washing her face.

What an evening she’d had! Press passes to the hottest club in London where she’d danced herself silly and now she was going to meet the heart-throb from her teens. The haunting music wafted around her head and she closed her eyes imagining the images playing on the screen. The leaves falling, two horses being ridden through the wood; on one was Keshina Chandrapour, the leading female Bollywood star at that time. On the other, Omar Khan. She could see his chestnut horse in her mind, the slow-motion shots of hooves hitting the ground, throwing up leaves, and the bright sunlight dancing through the trees. The overflowing sink brought her back to the bathroom.

‘Oh, stupid!’ she said to herself and threw a towel onto the floor to mop up the water. Rani put her dressing gown on and walked back into the living room with a blanket from her bed and curled up on the sofa. Research, she told herself as she settled down to watch the rest of the movie.

The phone rang and Rani ignored it. She rolled over and back into the dream she had been enjoying. Riding through the wood on the back of a horse, her arms clasped around the waist of the man in front of her. As the horse thundered along she was holding him tight for fear of falling off, and just because she could! She tried to regain the sensation she’d had of her head against his hot muscular back but the phone kept ringing and breaking the concentration of her sleepy mind.

‘Oh, what now?’ She sighed as she finally opened her eyes. Rani suddenly realised that she’d fallen asleep on the sofa. Her thoughts flashed from one thing to another: the fun of her night out, the late-night answer-phone message, the aches in her body from sleeping crunched up, the very vivid dream, the message on the answer phone! In an instant she was sitting bolt upright and cursing.

‘Oh, no, the interview!’ she exclaimed as she lunged for the phone. But it stopped ringing before she could reach it. Her eyes immediately searched out the clock in the middle of the bookcase. It was eight-thirty a.m. and she was late.

‘No, no, no, this can’t be happening,’ she moaned, clutching her head. A one-to-one interview with the man whose face she had plastered all around her bedroom wall as a girl and she was late. Not just late but massively, inexcusably late. The phone clicked into answer-phone mode and began recording.

‘Rani, I do hope you’re not listening to this on loud speaker.’ It was her boss, Tony, and she knew why he was calling. ‘You should be at the interview NOW!’ Tony knew her too well. ‘Khan’s PA has phoned and says they have a car waiting to take them to the set and it’s leaving in twenty minutes. Don’t blow the interview. Oh, and one last thing—make sure you ask him about his dad. We’ve just heard the old goat is publishing a kiss-and-tell book. That should put the cat among the pigeons!’ And the message ended.

She was wide awake now and could feel the tension and stress building inside her body. Breakfast was out of the question, so was having a shower, and, worse still so was changing her clothes. Rani looked down and realised that beneath her dressing gown she was still wearing the red dress from the night before. There really was no time to change. But she could at least brush her teeth and put on fresh knickers!

Three minutes later and slamming the door closed on her flat, Rani ran to the lift and waited. She drummed her fingernails against the doors with impatience. ‘Come on, come on,’ she said out loud to the lift. There was one stroke of good luck—as she ran out of the apartment block and into the street there were plenty of black cabs and she quickly hailed one.

‘Claridge’s and please hurry,’ she urged the driver.

As the cab did a U-turn and headed off towards the Marylebone Road Rani began applying her make-up. There was an art to putting it on in a moving car and she had perfected it after years of practice.

‘Running late?’ the driver asked over his shoulder.

‘Just a little,’ Rani replied, trying not to open her mouth too wide as she put on her lipstick.

‘A bloke, is it?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that sort of thing.’

‘Don’t worry, love, he’ll still be there. You’re worth waiting for.’

Rani blushed a little and smiled. I may not have prepared any questions for the interview, Rani thought to herself, but at least my makeup is OK. She looked at her watch and began tapping her fingers on the window. It was five to nine. As the cab moved slowly through the morning traffic Rani’s heart raced. She could feel the butterflies in her stomach and the pulse of blood in her temples. She tried to breathe slowly to steady herself.

‘Here you go, love, Claridge’s. That’ll be fifteen quid.’

Rani thrust a twenty-pound note into the driver’s hand and opened the door. She was already halfway out of the cab as he called after her.

‘What about your change?’

‘Keep it,’ she replied breathlessly and carried on out of the taxi and up towards the hotel.

Head down like a charging beast, Rani whizzed past the top-hatted doorman and pushed on the hotel’s revolving door just as a group of people began pushing the other way. She was spun back out and onto the pavement landing in a very unglamorous heap as her ankle gave way. The contents of her handbag spilled out and she watched in horror as her favourite lipstick rolled off the pavement, into the road, and down a drain. Tears filled her eyes. What else could possibly go wrong?

A hand came down towards her and she instinctively took it and looked up at the same time. She felt a surge of adrenalin course through her body as the powerful arm lifted her to her feet and she looked into the eyes of the handsome man helping her. They were a brilliant green. Still as rich and mesmerising as they had ever seemed on the screen of her local cinema.

‘Are you OK?’ he asked, with genuine concern in his voice.

‘I think so,’ Rani replied as she hobbled to her feet and clutched onto the stranger’s arm for support. But he was no stranger to her.

‘Here, let me help you,’ he said, and began to gather the spilt belongings together. He collected her keys and purse and mascara and pieces of her mobile phone.

‘I don’t think this will be making any calls for a while!’ he said, holding up the broken bits in the palm of his hand.

‘Thank you. You’re very kind, Mr Khan,’ Rani said, having regained her composure.

One of his entourage tugged at his sleeve.

‘We really must be going. We’ll be late,’ the flunky said, pulling at the sleeve again.

Omar Khan didn’t move. It wasn’t unusual for women to recognise him and sometimes fall at his feet. But never in such a dramatic fashion.

‘You really know how to make an entrance, don’t you, Miss …?’ he asked, his sentence rising to a question at the end.

‘Rani, Rani de Silver,’ she said. Omar felt another tug on his coat as he was being dragged towards his waiting car.

‘It was a pleasure meeting you,’ he said as he was almost manhandled into the back seat by his PA. ‘Peas,’ he added as the door closed.

Rani stood outside the hotel. Peas? What did he mean? The tinted electric window slowly lowered to reveal Omar Khan’s beaming smile.

‘For your ankle. A bag of frozen peas—that should help reduce the swelling.’ And with that advice the window started to close. Rani suddenly realised what on earth she was meant to be doing at the hotel. She hobbled towards the car as quickly as she could, wincing at the pain in her ankle, and shouting at it to stop.

‘Wait, please stop, I’m here to interview you,’ she called, realising as the words left her mouth just how pathetic they must have sounded. The window began to lower again.

‘Thank you for the medical advice, Mr Khan,’ Rani began, her voice more controlled this time, ‘but I’m actually here to interview you. Rani de Silver of the London Review.’

‘Hold on a moment, George,’ he said, tapping the headrest of the seat in front of him. The car had hardly moved any distance but reversed the few yards back to where Rani was standing. Omar Khan lowered the window completely.

‘So you’re the missing reporter who should have been here forty-five minutes ago, are you?’

Rani gave him an embarrassed, shy smile. She felt weak, vulnerable and very stupid for smiling like a silly schoolgirl.

‘You’d better get in, then,’ he said and opened his door. ‘Come on. If you want that interview, you’d better hurry—we’re running late! ‘

Rani lowered her head and slipped cautiously into the back seat. As Omar introduced the other occupants Rani found herself staring into his eyes.

‘My manager,’ he said, indicating the woman sitting next to him. ‘My PA,’ he said, pointing to the woman sitting in the front seat, ‘and George, my driver and minder when I’m in London.’ The two women looked at Rani but said nothing. They didn’t need to. Their blank disapproving faces said it all. Obviously they were not impressed by the latecomer joining them for the ride, dismissing her as another flirt after his attention. Rani knew what they were thinking and felt she needed to apologise.

‘I’m very sorry I’m so late. I got delayed watching one of your movies!’ It was half true, she thought, and it sounded better than admitting to oversleeping on the sofa.

‘Interesting. Which one?’

‘Sacred Heart. It’s my favourite.’

‘Mine too,’ replied Omar, looking straight at her.

Rani could sense his gaze upon her. She’d waited ten years to be this close to him and if the feelings growing in her body were anything to go by it was worth the wait.

‘Why?’

‘Because it was my big break. My chance to escape. Now what else do you want to know?’ he said, changing the subject. ‘How do I feel when I have to film my bedroom scenes? What’s it like being voted Steer with the Rear of the Year three times in a row? Did I really do my own stunts in Bombay Sweethearts? Who do I think is the better actor—me or Amitabh Bachchan?’ He stopped just long enough to take a breath and then proceeded to answer all the questions. ‘Nervous, embarrassing, yes and me!’ he said. ‘Is that the sort of thing you’re after?’

‘Actually I was wondering why you’ve never spoken publicly about your life here in England, you know, before you moved to Pakistan and India to became a big Bollywood star?’ There was silence. Eyes flitted around the confined space of the car but Rani held her ground. ‘Is there something you’re hiding?’

‘You’re good, Miss de Silver, and straight to the point. I like that,’ Omar said in a Lancashire accent, dropping any pretence of his subcontinent drawl. It was easy to slip back into his Mancunian dialect. Twenty-four hours in England and he was rolling his shoulders and dropping the façade that the world looked upon. There was a certain relief in being able to be himself with no pretentions. But he wasn’t going to let it all go just like that, not in front of a journalist. He’d come from the streets where you had to have a head on your shoulders. He could charm the birds from the trees and he wasn’t about to let a posh talking reporter under his skin, no matter how attractive she was. He stopped staring at her. Realising he’d been eyeing her up.

‘Thank you,’ she said politely in her crispest voice. The money her father had spent on her education wasn’t wasted. He was typically Asian like that.

‘Get a good education and then you can go anywhere,’ he was always telling her when she was growing up.

Chivingham School did exactly as it said in the prospectus: ‘We turn girls into young ladies.’

‘Perhaps we should start again. We seem to have got off on the wrong foot,’ she said, trying not to show the effect he was having on her.

‘Sadly for you, Miss de Silver, you’ve only the one foot to do anything with at the moment,’ he said, pointing at her uninjured leg. He couldn’t resist; that was the clown in him, always wanting to be the centre of attention. Always wanting to make people laugh. That was how he’d survived school, when he’d bothered to attend. It certainly wasn’t his academic achievements that had got him through.

The others laughed along with him. But as he saw Rani’s mortified reaction to his joke he stopped.

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. You’re quite right—let’s start over,’ he said apologetically, slipping unconsciously back into his Bollywood accent. ‘As you can see we are both captives in the car until we reach the film set, so please ask what you like.’

Rani hoped he would be true to his word and, when he was answering the more general questions she knew she had to ask, he was. Gently she edged towards more personal ones trying to uncover something of his private life.

‘Tell me about your mother,’ she asked. He visibly baulked and gave a dismissive answer.

‘People don’t want to read about that,’ he said, smiling an unconvincing sort of smile. Rani tried again.

‘What about your father. He was from Lahore, wasn’t he?’ His eyes instantly contracted at the mention of his father.

‘Yes, he was,’ Omar answered coldly without offering anything more.

‘I understand he’s publishing a book about you.’

The car almost crashed off the road as George heard the words that had been forbidden to be spoken by anyone. The shocked reaction from all of the other people in the car was plain to see but it didn’t stop Rani from soldiering on.

‘Have I said something I shouldn’t have?’ she asked innocently, knowing full well she had.

Omar said nothing. George said nothing. The PA said nothing. In the end the manager squeezed a few words from between her thin pursed lips.

‘It’s not a subject Mr Khan is willing to discuss.’

Clearly he’s got issues, Rani said to herself. This is like pulling teeth, and I thought it would be fun! Who was I kidding? He’s just a working class wide boy with the manners to match! She began to despair that she would ever get beneath the guard he was putting up. He kept deflecting each of her advances with stock answers as if he were swatting at flies. More in desperation than in hope, she had one last go.

‘Have you ever said I love you and not meant it?’

There was silence. Not just the sort of silence you got when there were no sounds, but the sort of silence only possible in a vacuum. Rani felt as if all the air in the car had been sucked out and they were living the very last second of life. She scrunched up her eyes waiting for the response, whatever it would be. And then it came.

‘I’m an actor, of course I have.’ Rani felt the air rush back into the car and breathed again. Good answer, she thought. Perhaps we’re getting somewhere after all.

‘What about you, Miss de Silver?’ Omar asked with a tight smile.

Rani was a little taken aback as she wasn’t used to having the tables turned on her like this.

‘Call me Rani, please,’ she said, trying to buy a bit of thinking time. She could feel her face glowing with embarrassment.

‘Well, Rani, yes or no?’ Omar rephrased the question and pressed his advantage.

Rani squirmed.

‘No, but I’ve heard it,’ she replied rather coyly. She felt the blood pumping through her body.

Omar was intrigued but said nothing.

Rani was relieved when the car finally arrived at the film set and she could escape from the claustrophobia she felt. She needed to put some distance between herself and Omar Khan, demigod, movie star and, by all accounts, show-off. Her thoughts and feelings were confused and tangled with her need for professionalism and she required space to unravel the mess. After all, she’d waited years for this moment and now it was here she was unsure of how to proceed. As soon as the car door opened there was a swarm of assistants all queuing up to take orders and do his bidding. Rani couldn’t help but see many of them were young, pretty women. It felt quite alarming as she was caught up in the middle of them and washed away like a boat from the shore. As she disappeared from view she did manage to say goodbye.

‘Thank you for your time, Mr Khan. Good luck with the filming,’ she cried out. After all, whatever she felt about him she’d been brought up to be polite.

‘You’d best come this way, miss.’ It was George, the driver. He ushered her away, supporting her limping form with an arm the size of a large tree around her waist and leading her towards a long trailer.

‘I’ve never been on a movie set before; I’ve only ever seen these mobile home things, well, in the movies!’ Rani said with surprise. George laughed.

‘You get used to it, miss. They’re nothing special, not if you end up living in them week after week. Here, let me help you.’ And he gently lowered her into a chair and found a stool to prop her swollen leg on.

‘Thank you, George, really, I’m fine.’

She looked around her at the trailer. There were photographs of Omar Khan in frames dotted about the place and Rani realised she must have been shown into his trailer. There were pictures of him with various famous people and glamorous women, the heads of state of India, Pakistan, the British prime minister and even one with him playing golf with two former American presidents. But the one that caught her eye was of a little Indian girl standing in front of an old brick building. The picture looked very old and the girl looked as if she was no more than eight. Rani squinted her eyes as she strained to read some lettering carved into the building behind the little girl and could just make out a few of the letters. It looked like poor. Rani gently picked up the tatty wooden frame to take a closer look. As she did the door to the trailer opened quickly, which shocked her so much she let go of the picture. She grabbed for it as it fell towards the floor but she couldn’t catch it. Rani winced as the glass shattered and the frame broke in two.

‘Sorry!’ she exclaimed, looking towards the door. It was Omar Khan’s manager.

She was a woman in her late forties, smartly dressed but very offhand. She huffed and looked disapprovingly at Rani and the picture.

‘Don’t be. I don’t know why he keeps the scrappy little thing, anyway,’ she said. Rani hobbled around trying to find something to collect the broken pieces of glass in. George entered the room from the bedroom at the back of the trailer.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked. The manager looked at Rani and pointed.

‘This clumsy girl’s smashed Sahib’s treasured picture, poking her nose into his things. That’s reporters for you,’ she said in a gleeful tone.

Rani looked at George for support.

‘It really wasn’t like that. It caught my eye, that’s true, and I was wondering who the photograph was of. Then I was startled and it slipped from my hand. I’ll repair it or replace it, of course,’ she insisted.

‘Come on, I’ll give you a hand tidying up and then we’d better get you out of here before you do any more damage,’ George said, smiling kindly at Rani. She was pleased to be believed and her relief showed across her face.