Last Chance Reunion
Автор
Sophia Singh Sasson
Прочтений
15,9K
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18
One
“Nisha, I’m not going to let you go without eating breakfast.”
Nisha took a breath. She had to get out of her mother’s house. Thirty more seconds and her mother, Reeta, would come barging through the bathroom door. She smoothed the foundation she had just dabbed on her face with a sponge and ran her fingers over her forehead. The big scar that used to cross from her right temple to above her left eyebrow was barely visible. Yet she could still feel the ugly red-and-brown mark that her mother had paid so much to remove.
She brushed some powder on her face, then a touch of blush and eyeliner. Lip gloss would have to wait. She was already late.
As she opened the bathroom door, she came face-to-face with her mother, holding a bagel in one hand and her to-go cup of chai in the other. “Ma!” Her mother was half a foot shorter than her, which was saying a lot since she was only five foot seven, and thin as a reed with the same light brown complexion as Nisha. But that’s where their similarity ended. Where Nisha had a generous wide mouth, her mother’s was thin. Nisha had wide brown eyes while her mother’s were rounder and a blacker brown.
“How are you going to have the energy to give your presentation without food in your stomach?”
Nisha sighed and took the cup and bagel. It was best not to argue.
“And is this what you’re wearing?”
Nisha looked down at her standard black skirt suit with a Nehru-collared jacket. It was the same outfit she wore to every investor pitch meeting.
“What’s wrong with this?”
“Aaare, you look too stiff. You should wear a dress, something sexy. And put on lipstick.”
“Ma, I’m not going on a date, I’m trying to convince a very serious businessman to invest in my label.”
“You never know when one of these meetings turns out to be a handsome, eligible desi bachelor.”
Nisha had lost count of the number of times she’d told her mother that she had no interest in marriage, or dating. There was only one man she’d ever wanted to marry and she could still see the scars he’d given her. The only thing she was focused on right now was the successful launch of her label. For that she desperately needed this meeting to go well. Her business partner and best friend, Jessica, had told her that this was the last investor who had agreed to take a meeting with them. She had no more leads or contacts, and without a cash infusion, they wouldn’t be able to put on a show for Fashion Week. Which pretty much meant a dead start. But trying to convince an Indian mother with a thirty-year-old daughter that she shouldn’t worry about getting her married was like telling a small child on Christmas Day that Santa didn’t exist.
“Ma, I’m getting late.”
“But, Nisha.”
“Love you, Ma.” She gave her mother a peck on the cheek, then raced out of the two-bedroom Manhattan condo they shared. By New York standards, they lived in the lap of luxury with an eight-hundred-square-foot apartment in East Village. She was the envy of her staff and friends but only she knew what it had really cost her mother. The familiar pang of guilt sliced through her. While her mother irritated her on a daily basis, she had given up a lot to support Nisha. Too much. Which was all the more reason she had to launch her label successfully. She never wanted to be in a situation where she had to depend on a man for her future.
She looked at her smart watch as she rode the elevator down, clutching a large leather portfolio bag. It had been a gift from her mother when she’d first announced what she was going to do with her life. It was engraved with two simple words in the Devanagari script used for Hindi. Khush raho. Stay happy. Not be happy. Stay happy.
They lived on the nineteenth floor and she crossed her fingers that the elevator wouldn’t stop on every floor. Like the rest of the building, the elevator was far from New York chic. More Downton Abbey stuffy. There were gold crown moldings, a threadbare Oriental rug and faded wallpaper. The required elevator certificate stuck out like charcoal stains on a white dress.
As she exited the building, she waved toward the doorman, who immediately understood her signal and waved down a pedicab. The iconic yellow cabs were getting fewer and fewer as Uber and Lyft took over the city but she loved the pedicabs. The bicyclists could weave through traffic the way no car could, and it was the fastest way to cover the two miles to her studio. She climbed onto the seat and gave the tall golden-haired bicyclist directions.
He dropped her off at Tenth Avenue and West Thirteenth Street, and she expertly avoided stepping in the pothole that had nearly claimed her ankle several months ago.
As soon as she entered, Jessica accosted her. “Just in time. We have exactly an hour before the investor arrives. The models will be here in half an hour.”
Nisha gave Jessica a grateful smile, knowing her partner had been here for at least a couple of hours, crunching numbers and making dynamic data charts to wow the investor. Nisha was the creative part of their fashion line while Jessica did everything else. She knew Jessica had spent countless hours planning the investor pitch session and finding ways to save them every penny she could. Paying for the models, makeup artist and the styling staff cost a lot, and most of their meetings got them nothing. This was their last chance to raise the money they needed in time for Fashion Week.
“I looked at the outfits you picked. If I can make a suggestion, I think you should include more of your Indian-inspired designs, like maybe that yellow-and-royal-blue one. The colors are so unusual and striking.”
“That’s a little risky.”
“Not for this investor. He’s Indian and he said he liked your bold style when I sent him the prospectus.”
“What company is he from?” Nisha didn’t know why her pulse quickened every time she heard of a rich Indian family. There were tons of wealthy South Asian investors. She’d moved on with her life. Settled into a new country. Why couldn’t she just delete Sameer Singh from her mind? Why did he keep popping up like a pimple on picture day?
Jessica nodded. “From the Mahal hotels investment group. Their only condition is that if they agree to invest, we hold our Fashion Week show at their newly acquired New York hotel.”
Nisha relaxed just a smidge. The last she knew of Sameer’s family, they didn’t own any hotels in the United States. All their properties were in India.
“Is that condition worth it?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers. It’s not an ideal location but that’s what makes this a desirable deal for them. I don’t have any more leads. They’re even willing to include the event expenses as part of their investment and if the first event goes well, they have a property in Vegas where they’ll host another show. Honestly, that alone is huge. With the savings in show expenses, we can hire a few more seamstresses and embroiderers for those designs that I told you were too expensive to do.”
Nisha bit her lip, trying not to let the bubble of panic forming in her stomach rise to her throat. They needed this investment. No matter what. The designs Jessica had nixed were unique and fabulous and if the coming investor could make that happen, then she would do whatever it took to convince him.
They spent the next hour getting ready for the mini fashion show they’d put on for the investor. When the time approached, they were ready and Nisha took a deep breath to cleanse her mind of the preceding chaos to get the models ready and styled. It was a technique that her mother had taught her from years of doing yoga. Not the new age crap that studios around the city peddled in a gross display of cultural appropriation but the real kind where she could focus her mind and direct positive energy into her body to prepare for the coming stress.
They stood at the doorway, waiting for their guest. “Who is representing the Mahal Group?”
“A Mr. Singh,” Jessica answered.
Nisha froze as a chauffeur-driven town car pulled up before the front door. Singh was a very common name among Indians from Northeast India. It couldn’t possibly be Sameer. But how many billionaire hoteliers named Singh are there in the world?
When she saw the man who exited the car, her stomach untwisted. It was not Sameer Singh. He was way too short, and a little too stocky. Sameer towered over her, his body lean and athletic. His chest muscular, and worthy of nighttime fantasies. It had been eight years since she’d seen him, but she would recognize him anywhere. At the main entrance to the door, she stepped forward with a smile on her face.
“Mr. Singh, I’m Nisha Chawla. Thank you so much for your time today.”
The man smiled and shook her hand. He spoke with a thick Indian accent, much like her mother. “Most pleased to meet you, ma’am, but I’m not Mr. Singh. My name is Vinod Sharma. I’m Mr. Arjun Singh’s personal assistant.”
Nisha’s heart dropped to her toes. Now that was too much of a coincidence. Sameer had an older brother named Arjun. His family owned hotels in India. Had they expanded to the United States? She stood mutely trying to process what she’d just heard. Jessica handled all the business dealings and they had so many of these meetings, Nisha couldn’t keep track of all of the investors. Now she wished she’d asked more questions earlier.
Jessica stepped forward. “I’m Jessica. We’ve been corresponding over email and phone.”
He pumped her hand. “Mr. Singh will be coming soon.”
If it was Arjun, Nisha could handle it. She’d met him several times; he was cold and shrewd but he wasn’t Sameer. Still, her stomach wouldn’t stop churning. This is why Ma always insists I have breakfast.
A motorcycle roared to a stop behind the town car. Nisha’s heart stopped. The figure on the motorcycle had a full-face helmet and a black business suit but even before he turned off the engine and engaged the kickstand, she knew it was Sameer. She knew by the way he moved, the way his fingers combed through his hair when he took off his helmet and the way her chest tightened so much that she couldn’t breathe.
“Ah, there’s Mr. Singh, very good.”
Nisha’s feet were glued to the ground. Jessica elbowed her, then went to the door. “I’ll give the driver parking instructions. Nisha can start showing you around.”
Nisha didn’t register anything she said. She stared disbelievingly as her first lover, the man who still haunted her dreams, the one she remembered every time she looked in the mirror and saw the scar on her face, strode toward her with a brilliant smile on his face.
His expression didn’t register the surprise that she was feeling. He stopped in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Nisha, it’s so good to see you after all this time.”
He leaned in to give her a hug and she stepped back, pushing his arms away roughly. “How dare you show up here.”
