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,