rolling, it was another story. Then…then they were simply her husband and Michael Gill again, and she knew it wasn’t hate, but unfulfilled desire, that coursed between them.
It was a feeling she knew all too well. Something she could not shake. Every time her character gazed at Harsh’s it was like being run through with a saber. Harsh looked unbearably good in his white kurta and dhoti ; she didn’t have to fake Alok and Nishta’s forbidden longing.
What she did have to fake was Nishta’s innocence. Because her own emotions were so tangled and ugly. Because she couldn’t look at Harsh and not want , not be consumed with need that left her trembling and cursing the bed that her husband left empty. Every moment on camera was torture, and every second moment was more.
Then Joshi or his AD would yell “Cut!” and “Print!” and they would wrap for the day…each going back to their separate rooms instead of bullshitting with the crew at a local tea stall or going to the hotel lounge with Joshi and whatever producers were visiting. Only, instead of taking dinner with her and going to bed, Avi vanished for hours at a time, returning smelling of smoke and liquor and looking like he’d been trampled by a parade of donkey carts.
The sound of the TV blared across their suite, filling the silence so that Trish didn’t have to concentrate on where he might be at three in the morning. He had a seven AM call time most days, but she wasn’t his keeper. “I am not his keeper,” she repeated aloud, as though that would make it true.
But they had kept each other for seven years, na ? Kept each other’s secrets, kept each other sane. Kept each other standing when they otherwise might have stumbled.
A knock at the door shook Trish out of her thoughts. Probably Avi had forgotten his key again. Or he couldn’t fit it in the lock, thanks to all the Johnnie Walker Black in his veins. She shrugged on her thin silk robe, perversely hoping he’d fall face-first over the threshold. But it wasn’t a drunken Avinash looking back at her when she yanked open the door. She wasn’t quite that lucky.
“Trishna.” In the dim light of the hallway, Harsh’s green eyes seemed to shine like a cat’s. “May I come in?”
Nahin, she thought. “ Haan, ” she said, turning away to switch off the television and ignoring the click of the door behind him. “By all means, make yourself at home.” She gestured carelessly towards the sofa before crossing to the bar and busying herself pouring him a gin and tonic. The rattle of the ice was the only indication that she was trembling; she was certain of it.
“ Tehr, chhoro, ” Harsh chided. Stop. Let it go. “I’m not here to drink.”
“Then why are you here?” Since he wasn’t going to partake, she helped herself to the cocktail…and choked, eyes watering from the strength of the gin. She hadn’t used enough tonic. Harsh would probably say that the mistake stemmed from years of having other people serve her. That she was spoiled, willful, used to getting her way.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Damn his honesty. Haram zaada. Bastard.
Her glass almost slipped from her fingers. She held tight as she moved imperiously towards a chair and sat down. She was cool; she reminded herself of the role she must play. She was the ice queen he could not touch.
“You and millions of men all over the world.” She shrugged, crossing her legs. The motion made her robe and nightshirt slide up, revealing entirely too much bare thigh. Harsh’s gaze was drawn there, and his throat convulsed as he swallowed hard. She smiled, watching him marshal his control…his oh-so important control.
“Millions of men don’t know you like I do.” Harsh looked away from her, but it clearly took some effort. “They don’t remember you in specs and horsetails, writing our names in the margins of scripts, with drawings of hearts.”
“Those millions of men have also not treated me like a
It was a feeling she knew all too well. Something she could not shake. Every time her character gazed at Harsh’s it was like being run through with a saber. Harsh looked unbearably good in his white kurta and dhoti ; she didn’t have to fake Alok and Nishta’s forbidden longing.
What she did have to fake was Nishta’s innocence. Because her own emotions were so tangled and ugly. Because she couldn’t look at Harsh and not want , not be consumed with need that left her trembling and cursing the bed that her husband left empty. Every moment on camera was torture, and every second moment was more.
Then Joshi or his AD would yell “Cut!” and “Print!” and they would wrap for the day…each going back to their separate rooms instead of bullshitting with the crew at a local tea stall or going to the hotel lounge with Joshi and whatever producers were visiting. Only, instead of taking dinner with her and going to bed, Avi vanished for hours at a time, returning smelling of smoke and liquor and looking like he’d been trampled by a parade of donkey carts.
The sound of the TV blared across their suite, filling the silence so that Trish didn’t have to concentrate on where he might be at three in the morning. He had a seven AM call time most days, but she wasn’t his keeper. “I am not his keeper,” she repeated aloud, as though that would make it true.
But they had kept each other for seven years, na ? Kept each other’s secrets, kept each other sane. Kept each other standing when they otherwise might have stumbled.
A knock at the door shook Trish out of her thoughts. Probably Avi had forgotten his key again. Or he couldn’t fit it in the lock, thanks to all the Johnnie Walker Black in his veins. She shrugged on her thin silk robe, perversely hoping he’d fall face-first over the threshold. But it wasn’t a drunken Avinash looking back at her when she yanked open the door. She wasn’t quite that lucky.
“Trishna.” In the dim light of the hallway, Harsh’s green eyes seemed to shine like a cat’s. “May I come in?”
Nahin, she thought. “ Haan, ” she said, turning away to switch off the television and ignoring the click of the door behind him. “By all means, make yourself at home.” She gestured carelessly towards the sofa before crossing to the bar and busying herself pouring him a gin and tonic. The rattle of the ice was the only indication that she was trembling; she was certain of it.
“ Tehr, chhoro, ” Harsh chided. Stop. Let it go. “I’m not here to drink.”
“Then why are you here?” Since he wasn’t going to partake, she helped herself to the cocktail…and choked, eyes watering from the strength of the gin. She hadn’t used enough tonic. Harsh would probably say that the mistake stemmed from years of having other people serve her. That she was spoiled, willful, used to getting her way.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Damn his honesty. Haram zaada. Bastard.
Her glass almost slipped from her fingers. She held tight as she moved imperiously towards a chair and sat down. She was cool; she reminded herself of the role she must play. She was the ice queen he could not touch.
“You and millions of men all over the world.” She shrugged, crossing her legs. The motion made her robe and nightshirt slide up, revealing entirely too much bare thigh. Harsh’s gaze was drawn there, and his throat convulsed as he swallowed hard. She smiled, watching him marshal his control…his oh-so important control.
“Millions of men don’t know you like I do.” Harsh looked away from her, but it clearly took some effort. “They don’t remember you in specs and horsetails, writing our names in the margins of scripts, with drawings of hearts.”
“Those millions of men have also not treated me like a
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