Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors (The Rajes #1)(61)

He had come home upset from school one day because his classmates had been relentless with their teasing. Ammaji had patted his head as he chopped onions with far too much force. “My brother’s name was Daljeet but when he came to England he became DJ. Just like an Englishman. You can also become DJ, no, Darcy James?” It had been that simple. Pretty much like Ammaji’s approach to all of life’s problems.

Mum, naturally, had not been pleased with his decision to be called DJ. The only reason she’d let it go was that she had no idea that Ammaji had suggested it. He had learned early to mention Ammaji as little as possible to Mum. It had been the only way to keep her struggle between not being there for him and not being needed from flashing in her eyes. Or to keep her from going off on one of her rants. You’re smelling of onions again. When are you supposed to do your homework? You’re supposed to watch over her not work for her. DJ had never figured out if Mum’s dislike of Ammaji had to do purely with the fact that she spent so much time mothering her children, or if it had been because she had inculcated the love for cooking in DJ and derailed the dreams his mum had for him.

He finally took the hand Julia was holding out. “It’s a pleasure to see you again. And I prefer DJ if you don’t mind.”

She grinned again as though she wasn’t used to his brand of formality. Shockingly, he wasn’t embarrassed by her amusement; there was something wonderfully friendly about it.

“I imagine having a name like Darcy wasn’t fun growing up,” she said, as though reading his mind. “But it is kind of hot.”

DJ felt his face warm. “So did Emma and you have a chance to talk about anything other than my name?” He looked at the tripod and camera she had set down next to her.

“Barely. I was telling her how you and I met and she told me a little bit about what the past few months have been like. Then she had to work with a patient and I asked if I could take some test footage of her working, just to show her how unobtrusive the camera can be.”

“Hey there, bruh’.” Emma strode out of the room pushing Betsy in a wheelchair, bringing with her the loamy smell of pigments and turpentine.

He gave her a quick hug. “All well?” He threw a look at Betsy in the wheelchair, with her head leaning back and her eyes closed.

“She just needs some rest. Nothing to worry about.” Emma smiled fondly at her mentor.

Betsy wasn’t the only one DJ was worried about. Emma’s eyes had sunk deep into her face, to say nothing of how sunken her cheeks were. She turned to Julia. “Hullo again.”

“So, what did you think?” Julia asked.

“Felt a bit like being a reality star!” Emma said, smiling her irreverent smile. “We could totally have some fun with it. Have any of your shows been about someone who had fun with dying?”

Julia didn’t react except to give Emma an expression that mingled just the right amount of understanding with amusement. DJ wished he could mirror that expression. His own face probably looked like someone had slashed him with a meat cleaver. Julia reached out and gave his arm a gentle pat. So pathetic was he that the comfort of the contact made him want to take her hand and cling to it.

“Each subject I work with is a little different. But it’s your story and you can make it anything you want.”

A laugh spurted out of Emma. Her rude and angry laugh.

“You want me to make the story about how I can no longer make my life anything I want, whatever I want to make it! That’s pretty bloody ironic.” More of that ugly laugh. “My brother here loves some good irony, innit, Darcy?”

She seemed to have decided against going through with the interview. Which was a relief, he decided, since he really wasn’t a fan of this public-airing-of-laundry thing.

Julia’s demeanor remained entirely empathetic. She looked at Betsy and threw a glance at the studio door. “You’ve done some pretty good work here, Emma. How many people have you had go through the art residency program in the past five years? More than a hundred, based on my research. That’s important work. Your art is also so unique. You have a lot to share and talk about. When I said you could make what you want of it, I meant you can use it to call attention to all the good you’ve done.”

“So I have to be dying for people to be interested in my work? Where were you until now?”

“That’s hardly fair, Emma. I’m sure Ms. Wickham will understand that you’re not interested in doing the interview, but—”

“Why would I not want to do the interview?”

Because I can’t bear to let the world see you like this.

“It’s perfect. It might be shitty for people to be interested in me and my work only because it’s such a delicious fecking tragedy. But I’m not a total knobhead. I’ll tell my story for them to weep their sodding arses off at. So long as they pay me for it. What’s the most you’ve received from the online fund-raising?”

Julia looked as embarrassed as he felt, but she stayed determinedly nonjudgmental. “My highest was close to half a million.”

“See, I’ve got no life insurance and shit, but I can leave you a rich man, Darcy James!”

He was about to respond, but Julia met his eyes and shook her head. “We can’t predict what we’ll raise. But telling your story can be empowering,” she said with impressive calm, while his own heart was a restless mess.