Fitting the Role (From Page To Screen #2)

“When I first meet somebody, it’s usually panic, anxiety, and a great deal of sweating.”

—Chandler Bing, “The One With Joey’s Award”

Dev

“Would y’all recommend the…lentil del or the chicken…bro-yani?”

Ugh. Tourists. I’ve never heard such abysmal pronunciation. But my first lesson, when I started here, was that the customer is always right. Even if they’re not. And even if they butcher the names of foods and dishes I grew up with.

“The bir-yani is pretty good,” I say, subtly correcting him.

“Oh, yeah?” The guy, on the older side, sporting a big bushy beard, and with an accent I’ve been told is from Texas, looks from me to the menu, and then to his wife – an older blonde lady wearing matte pink lipstick that doesn’t suit her at all and massive fake pearls. “What do ya think, darlin’? You know them Indian dishes better than me.”

I bristle at his use of them Indian dishes, but I have to hold my tongue. I’ve had to put up with plenty of this already, growing up as one of the only brown kids I knew.

“Y’all got anything ve-gan?” the woman asks, saying it slowly like she thinks I’ve never heard the word before.

“Uh, yeah. Sambar on the appetiser menu…that’s a lentil stew. Comes with rice cakes.”

“Can’t stand lentils.” She shudders. “Anythin’ else?”

“We got Malai Kofta,” I say, pointing to it on the menu. I try not to notice how she leans away from me. “Fried potatoes in a spicy curry sauce.”

“No spice. Got this fragile digestive system.”

Patience, I hear Mum say in the back of my mind. Mostly because I’ve been with these customers for almost fifteen minutes trying to take their order, and they’ve hemmed and hawed for most of that time.

“Chana masala is good,” I suggest. That’s actually what Mum would make on cold nights, and Dad would always bring home fresh-baked naan bread for us to eat it with. “Chickpeas, tomatoes, onions…comes on rice or with bread, your choice.”

“Think I’m gonna try the bro-yani,” says the bearded guy, snapping his menu shut. “Unlike her I ain’t picky ’bout my meats.”

“Great choice,” I say, taking his menu when he drops it on the table. Then I turn to his wife. “How about you, ma’am? Made a decision yet?”

“This aloo gobi,” she says, holding up the menu towards my face. “That good?”

“Yeah. We put our own twist on it too. It’s a big hit.”

“’Kay.” She shuts her menu, then hands it over. “I’m gonna go with that.”

“Great. Those’ll be right out.”

I take both menus and scuttle away, relieved to have that over with. Going off to uni has definitely made me a little more worldly, and Mum’s said it’s been good for me. Which I agree with. I’ve met some of my best friends there, and one of them happens to be American. But now that I’m off uni for the holidays and back home in Reading, I’ve been waiting tables in my parents’ restaurant and meeting all the Americans I don’t like.

I’ve rushed back and forth to a couple other tables before I see some familiar faces: my friend Zoe Martin, who I’d met in the film class we’d been in together at UCL; her boyfriend Malik Ladipo, who – if I do say so myself, looks delicious as always – recently brought his family back from Nigeria to live here in Britain; and his sister Ogechi.

“Dev!” Zoe’s up from the table first, pulling me into a tight hug. “How are you?”

“Faking it ’til I make it.” I grin and dig my knuckles into her spine. “You?”

“Still faking it,” Zoe says, pulling away and winking at me.

I greet Malik and Ogechi too, and then I take their orders. They’ve been in here a couple times before – once it was Malik and Zoe on a date, which I’d tried very hard not to third-wheel, and then it was some of the girls: Zoe, Elena, and Ogechi.

“I see your friends are here again, Devamsh,” says Dad when I push through the swinging doors to the back. He’s standing over some simmering sauce that smells like peppers and curry, sniffing at a spoonful of it.

“Yeah.” I shrug, tearing off the top page of the notepad I’d used to take their orders and lay it on one of the waiting trays nearby. “Blame Zoe. I think she’s addicted to Mum’s curry.”

“That is just fine,” Mum says, emerging from the cold room with a tub full of raw carrots. “I do like having a celebrity in here sometimes.”

“Mum.” I roll my eyes. “She’s not—”

“Fine.” Mum waves away whatever I was going to say. “Celebrity-adjacent, then.”

That’s the thing about my parents. They love the fact that I’m friends with her, because Dad’s favorite author happens to be her dad: Ryan Martin, the author of The Traitor’s Crown and a new novel in nearly seven years, Ink and Blood. He’s read it twice since it came out, and even gave me his copy on the first day of term to see if I could track down the man himself to get it signed. I still have it, though. And I’m not about to tell him that I haven’t managed that yet.

I don’t get to talk to them again until Malik waves me over for the bill. That’s when Zoe catches my wrist and waves me down to her level. I have to check and see that my parents aren’t watching before I do it.

“What’s up?” I say.

“Nika’s starting on an indie film,” she says. Nika Tetteh is her informal boss, a writer-director-producer who offered her a PA position this past summer on another project. “I mentioned you to her once, and she told me that if you give her a call, maybe she could find a spot for you on the crew.”

“Yeah?” I raise my eyebrows. Being celebrity-adjacent, as Mum says, has its benefits. “Brilliant. Thanks, Zoe.”

“If you decide to, she promised she’d introduce you around,” Zoe says, gnawing on her lip for a second. “Hope you don’t mind that.”

“Mind? I thought you said it’s who you know in this business.”

“I mean…it is, but—”

“Waiter!”

I roll my eyes so only Zoe sees, groaning. It’s the Texans again.

“Y’all go get a gander of that,” Zoe says, with a naughty grin and a wink.

“It’s scary how good your accent is,” I say. I get a punch in the arm for that.

The next day, though, I take Zoe’s advice and give Nika Tetteh a call. When she answers, she sounds a little confused and impatient, but as soon as I mention Zoe, that dissipates.

“Oh, yes, Dev,” she says. I imagine a palm-smack to the forehead. “Zoe said you might be hunting around for a bit of industry experience.”

“Yeah…er…she thought maybe if we touched base, then…” I shrug and trail off.

“Actually, you’ve caught us at a good time,” says Nika. “I’ve been looking for someone to help me vet cast members. If something like that strikes your fancy…”

“Sure.” Call me superficial, but I know a good leading man when I see one. I’ve told Zoe that a couple times too, that her boyfriend is sex on legs, and without fail, I’ve gotten the punch in the arm she’s so fond of. I want to tell her every time, though, that it’s not my fault she picked such a hot man to date.

“Are you going to be in the city at all in the next couple days? I’ve got a meeting with two actors I’m considering for the male lead on Thursday, ’round one.”

“Yeah. I can be there.” I’ll have to see who can cover my shift, though. There’s a couple people who I think owe me.

“Brilliant,” she says. “I’ll text you the address.”

“Great,” I say. I’m wonderfully articulate when I talk to people on the phone if I do say so myself. “Thanks, Ms Tetteh.”

“Oh, please, call me Nika. Everyone does.”

“Okay. Nika.”

“Dev!” Mum calls from downstairs the second I get off the phone. “Could you help me a moment?”

“Yeah, Mum, coming!” I send a quick text to Zoe – It’s a go, she said yes! – then toss my phone on my pillow and thunder downstairs. I find her in the kitchen, as usual, her head in the fridge as she searches for something. “What’s up?”

“Your father said he put the extra tandoori chicken in here,” she says, peeking around the fridge door. “But for the life of me, I can’t find it.”

“I think I know what he might’ve done with it.” Dad and Mum were total opposites when it came to putting things in the fridge: she always took the oldest stuff out, then put the new stuff behind it. Dad, because of his hyperfixation with “correct storage temperature”, always put the most recent in the front, on the top shelf. I see the chicken, in a round opaque container, right where I thought it’d be: in the front, on top. “Here it is.”

“I don’t know how I can retrain him,” she says, shaking her head. Her long black braid swings as she does. “He’s so set in his ways.”

“How did I end up with two of the biggest micro-managers for parents?” I kiss Mum’s forehead, right above the bindi.

“Maybe you could do with a little micro-managing yourself, Dev,” she says, swatting my arm. It’s definitely been getting a lot of abuse lately.

“Says who?” I wink at her. “Would it be okay if I went to London on Thursday? Just for a few hours?”

“Your friends?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Yeah,” my lying mouth says. “I’m just gonna need someone to cover my shift in the afternoon.”

“Ask Himish,” says Mum, without batting an eye. He’s my cousin, and more than a few times he’s asked me for the same thing when he was, quote-unquote, sick. I know that’s Himish Mahajan code for high-as-a-kite-on-weed.

“Okay. He owes me, anyway.”

When I ring him that afternoon, though, and tell him I need him to cover for me, all he says is, “What’s the reason, bruv? Got a hot date?”

“No,” I snap. I haven’t come out to anyone except my parents, Zoe, and a couple teachers at school when the bullying had gotten so bad I’d gotten myself in trouble for fighting back. Neither Baba or Dadi, Dad’s parents, or Nana or Nani, Mum’s parents, know, and neither does Himish’s dad, Uncle Nishanth. They’re all far too traditional for my taste.

“Okay, okay, keep your hair on.” I can just imagine him rolling his eyes. “Oh hey, speaking of dates, though, you remember Jiya Sharma from primary school? Little bitty chubby girl with huge specs?”

“I’m surprised you remember that much,” I say.

“Shut up,” Himesh says, but he doesn’t have much bite. “Anyway…she’s hot now, Dev. Long wavy hair, legs for days, arse that looks good in tight jeans—”

“You sound like Baba,” I say, cutting him off. “And anyway, I’m not interested in dating anyone.”

Not anyone female, anyway, but Himish doesn’t have to know that.

“Got to sometime,” says Himish in a sing-song voice. “Before the grandparents get us all tied up in traditional marriages.”

“I’m hanging up now,” I say, and without letting him get another word in edgewise, I do. He’s right about one thing, though: our grandparents have been on our backs since we were old enough to give girls second looks about finding a suitable Indian girl to marry. And by suitable, they mean one who they approve. I’ve heard the name Sulari Iyengar batted about a lot recently, and I know my grandparents have been trying to talk my parents into an arrangement with her. I have nothing against her. She’s a nice girl. Pretty too. Soft-spoken. Also going to uni, like me. If it wasn’t arranged, I could see her as a friend. But I don’t like her like that. And I won’t ever, either. Just another way to disappoint my grandparents, apparently.

I get the text from Nika on the way to the train station: Boots & Barkley Cafe, St John Str. I know that place, actually. Zoe and I went a couple times, while she was still trying to figure things out with Malik. Their scones are good, which is probably half the reason I agree to it so quickly.

Luckily, I can take the Elizabeth line all the way into Paddington, and then I catch a bus the rest of the way. It actually puts me right at the top of St John Street, so I don’t have to walk too far to get to Boots & Barkley, whose logo I instantly recognise: two dogs, one a black Scottie, the other a white Westie.

“Dev, there you are,” says Nika, when I find her in the queue. She gives me a warm handshake and a one-armed hug. “Good to see you. Trip wasn’t too difficult, I hope?”

“It’s the Elizabeth line,” I say in explanation.

She nods. “Say no more. I understand.”

Once we’ve both ordered, paid, and are armed with our pastries, she directs me to a table by the window. Whoever’s joining us isn’t here yet, but she tells me it’s normal for him. He’s always late to everything, according to her.

“How does he get anything done?” I take a small bite of my scone. It’s got dried cranberries in it, and I have to hold back a moan of pleasure.

“I try not to ask,” she says. “Comes with good reviews, at any rate.”

I say nothing. When did we start talking about actors like they’re restaurants?

We wait at least five more minutes, and then the door blows open with a bang, startling both of us. Standing there is a young guy, probably around my age – yet something about him screams man. His muscles fill out the shoulders and arms of his coat, his dark curly hair is tousled just enough to make it look accidental, his strong, angular jawline is covered with a light stubble, and his eyes are the most electric blue I’ve ever seen.

“Conall, thank you for coming so quickly,” Nika says, standing up and showing the new arrival to our table. “I’d like you to meet my assistant for the day, Dev Mahajan. Dev, this is Conall Rooney, our top choice for the lead role.”

“Hi.” I stand up and put out my hand. “Nice to meet you.”

He doesn’t take it, just looks at it. I can smell him at this distance: something spicy and sweet, like he’s literally bathed in cologne. And my body’s doing something funny, inching closer to him so subtly he doesn’t even notice. But he’s so bloody attractive I can’t help myself.

Until he has to go and open his mouth.

“What happened to you, then?” he asks, in a lilting Irish accent. “Dragged through a hedge backward, were you?”

My jaw drops. And so does my self-esteem. It feels like he’s shoved a ton of bricks at me. My theory’s been completely confirmed, and we’ve known each other for less than thirty seconds: all attractive guys are arseholes. Full stop.