The drive to Neuilly was shorter than I expected, with less traffic than usual heading out to the Parisian suburb on an otherwise fashion-frenzied afternoon. My hair felt gummy, my eyelashes still clumped together, as I rushed out of the show without bothering to remove any of my makeup, assuming that the casting people would want to see me in my full fashion-model glory anyway. I stepped out of the long gray car and went up a flight of steps that led to a wide podium that flanked the building on all sides. Through the glass double doors and up an elevator were the offices of the law firm that was handling the deal, where the producers were having a meeting that preceded mine, and from where we would be headed to a café down the street to talk. As I rode up in the elevator, I hoped that Dimitri, who was supposed to be meeting me here, had already arrived.
The elevator doors opened onto the foyer of the company, and a pretty receptionist told me to take a seat and wait. After a few minutes, two men-one broad-shouldered and with a full head of dense, wavy hair and the other slight and balding-emerged from one of the office suites, smiling as they approached me, their hands outstretched. The larger one introduced himself as Werner, the executive producer of the movie, which was being unofficially christened Honey in the Hamptons, Honey being the name of the girl in question, and a title that sounded like that of a porn film. Werner’s associate was Max, whom Werner introduced as “the brains behind the film.”
“Shall we go and find a quiet place to talk?” Werner suggested as Max led the way.
As we made our way the few feet toward the elevator, a voice sounded out from behind.
“Wait, you left these behind!”
We all turned around, and I stopped breathing. Walking toward us, holding a sheaf of papers, a tiny pair of gold loops pinched through his ears, was Tariq.
My breath finally returned, but my body felt like it had been shoved into a microwave on high. He stared at me, the smile disappearing from his face.
“Oh, thank you,” said Werner, taking the papers out of Tariq’s hand. “We can’t afford to lose these!” he said, sliding them into an attaché case he was carrying. Then, almost as an afterthought, he introduced us. “Tariq Khan, I am pleased to present Miss Tanaya Shah. I am certain you know of her. She is a famous model, and will most likely be starring in the movie we were here discussing with you.” Although Werner was standing right next to me, his words were faint. My eyes were still on Tariq’s face.
“Yes, of course; I am familiar with Miss Shah,” Tariq said tightly. I had seen that look before, the last time right before I left India, on my grandfather’s face at the airport. It was one of disapproval and disappointment, and it always made me sad. There, standing in front of the man I had first come to Paris for a year before, the man I should have married, I suddenly felt naked. Despite the expensive clothes on my body and the brilliant colors on my face and the showy flamboyance with which my hair was coiffed, I felt like nothing but a silly, small girl, simply playing dress-up.
“We’re taking quite a risk by putting you in this movie. As far as films are concerned, you’re not exactly a name,” Werner said, once we were settled within a cozy leather banquette at a nearby bistro. Dimitri had finally shown up, just as we were leaving the office, and nodded agreeably whenever Werner or Max spoke.
I found it hard to pay attention. Since my shocking run-in with Tariq just moments earlier, I was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything.
“So what do you think of that?” Max asked, looking at me, a question relating to a conversation that I had mentally pulled myself out of.
“Yes, of course,” I said, clueless about what I was agreeing to, and hoping that it wasn’t a nude scene.
“We’re in preproduction now and would like to start principal photography in about a month,” Werner said, peering at me over his large glasses. “That should give you enough time to get some acting classes in. I don’t expect you to win any awards for this, but it should be a little believable, huh? You should be able to engage the audience with more than just your looks. We’ll be shooting mostly in New York, so at least you won’t be too far from your beau. Perhaps we can talk to him about doing the soundtrack, yes?” Werner continued, looking over at Max again and scribbling a reminder into his notebook.
As I half-listened to the conversation, I could consider only what Tariq must have thought of me.