From Twinkle, With Love(23)
Sahil cleared his throat, like he was going to say something, and I just thought, Please, Sahil, there cannot be anything between us, so can we just ignore that ripple of electricity between us? when someone behind us said, “Hello? Can I help you?”
I recognized the voice from the phone call yesterday. We both spun around. Sahil straightened his shoulders, and I could see him morphing into Agent Sahil again. “Hello,” he said, all snooty. “I’d rung yesterday. This is the talented Twinkle Mehra, come all the way from Sweden just for a few days.”
Sweden? Did he think I could speak Swedish? At least I was wearing these cool skinny-fit black trousers and a mustard-yellow polka-dot top that Maddie had gotten me once for a gallery showing we went to together for one of Mr. Tanaka’s girlfriends, so I looked the part of worldly European filmmaker. Even if, inside, I was a trembling mound of teenage insecurity.
“Oh, yes,” the woman said, eyeing both of us up and down like we were trolls who’d come tearing out of the forest—a little disgustedly, but also warily, in case we were a big deal. “I am Violet Hayes.”
That could not be her real name. Violet Hayes? Like Purple Haze? Anyway, focus. It was time to play the part. I squared my shoulders, held out my hand, and said, “Enchanté.” Crap. That was French, wasn’t it? “Um, bienvenue.” Nope, still French. And also not making sense anymore. “Uh … thanks for having us.”
Violet, who was tiny and thin and had a lavender-colored pixie cut, smiled haughtily. “It is my pleasure.”
Why do you look like you ate a rotten lemon, then? I wanted to ask but didn’t. I don’t have a problem communicating with women. Just cute boys.
“Miss Mehra’s working on her first movie, which will explore gender relationships in old cinema,” Sahil said, stroking an imaginary beard.
I bit the inside of my cheek and tried not to laugh. Ms. Haughty Smile turned her icy blue eyes on him. “Indeed,” she said. “Well, I could escort you around or …”
“No, we can find our way,” I said, a little too quickly. Then I added more coolly, “Gender relationships are a very … private matter for me.”
She nodded, bowed—bowed!—and then left us.
Sahil and I grinned at each other and then whispered, “Yaaaay!” and then we began to explore.
We quickly found that everything we wanted would be on the second floor. Instead of white floors, this level had a black stone floor with threads of red glinting in it. Very Dracula-y. All the props were dark and mystical too. Sahil was immediately drawn to a cyclorama—a curved backdrop—of a landscape that had a moon painted on it that looked like it was screaming.
“Oh my God, I need this,” he said, his eyes lighting up. Then, when I looked at him, he said, “Um, I mean we need this?”
I laughed. “Are you joking? I think something like that is the one that fits our vision.” I pointed at a flat scene, this one with just a regular moon. “It even has lights from a distant village against those hills.”
“Oh, well, we can talk about it,” Sahil said, because he obviously disagreed with my artistic vision, which is a huge mistake, but whatever.
I left him to drool while I went off to the far-right side, where tons of racks of costumes were hanging, all of the clothes in shades of deep purple or inky black or blood red. I’d riffled through about fifteen different dresses and was just about to give up when … You know how TV shows have brides shopping for these overpriced white dresses and they always say some variant of, I knew the moment I saw it that it was the One? And it sounds like they’re talking about their fiancés, but they’re talking about a frothy mixture of tulle and lace? And it feels sort of ridiculous? Well, I apologize to all the brides I ever judged before because I so felt that.
My heart beat faster. My palms got sweaty. And I knew. It was the One.
“Sahil?” I called, my voice quavery. He came over, and I held the dress against me. It was tight to the ankles and then flared out in a swath of purple-black silk, and it came with a little faux-fur capelet. It was perfect.
“That’s it,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “That. Is. It. You found it.”
“And look,” I said, pulling the capelet off the hanger to show him. Unfortunately, because I’m a total klutz, I dropped it on the floor.
Sahil and I both went to get it, and as I reached over, his legs got tangled in the long dress I was holding. He began to fall, his eyes wide and panicked, and he reached out and grabbed my arm.
I yelled out some expletive or other, trying to find my center of gravity, but it felt like I was on an ice rink without skates on. Stupid, slippery dress.
And then we were lying on the floor, and somehow I was on top of him. My hair made a curtain around his face. In the hazy corners of my mind, I knew I should be completely and utterly humiliated. I mean, my boobs were pressed into his chest. I could feel his thigh muscles under mine.
His face was flushed, his eyes wide, like a cornered bunny. “I—I am so sorry,” he said. “That was just, um … I’m so sorry.”
“No, it’s—it’s fine,” I said, my own face getting hotter and hotter as I tried to get off of him. Only the dress had somehow trapped both our legs inside it and all I was doing was gyrating uselessly on top of him. Oh my God, Twinkle, my brain yelled. Could you make this any more awkward? “Sorry,” I said now. “I’m really … I’m trying …”