Chapter Seven
Chapter
Seven
“The show must go…all over the place, or something.”
—Finn Hudson, Glee
Veer sat on his couch on his day off from Sunstag, his laptop open as he read articles and interviews about Madhusudan Godbole’s past and future projects so he could figure out exactly what the director might want in a lead actor—and how Veer could become that man.
Harsha’s talk about her photography had sparked a small fire in Veer’s heart after what felt like months. Though he hoped this fake relationship would turn into a Bollywood career, he needed to explore other options, as difficult as that may be. Sure, being Harsha’s “boyfriend” would get him into Madhusudan Godbole’s inner circle, but that didn’t mean a role was guaranteed, especially given Veer’s bare-bones acting résumé.
He sighed, closing most of the Google tabs, and focused instead on the other thing he’d been obsessing over the past week since their first date: the walk-in casting call for a deodorant advertisement happening in Bangalore in about an hour. There was no need to sign up or contact them. He just had to show up, and if he was a good fit, he would be on TV promoting the best deodorant spray in the country. It would be a start to beefing up his résumé for Madhusudan Godbole.
As he put away his laptop and got ready, he considered gelling his hair, but remembered Harsha didn’t like it. And Harsha had good taste, so maybe gel didn’t suit him at all. He wore one of the V-neck shirts she’d bought him, plus blue jeans and a semi-casual blazer. He looked nothing like himself, and hopefully that would land him this role.
He raced out of the apartment, and as he locked his front door, Mom called. “Isn’t it your day off? Join us for lunch!” she said eagerly over the phone. “I’m making Arjun’s favorite, tomato rice.”
He paused at the door, pacing restlessly. “I have plans, but thanks, Mom. I’ll order a pizza later.”
“All right, love you,” she said before hanging up.
Veer was so restless he ran down the stairs instead of taking the lift. He stopped at a photocopy place on the way to the audition to print out his acting headshot and résumé that he hadn’t updated in well over a year, since there had been nothing new to add. Better to have something to give them than go empty-handed, he told himself.
He parked in a neighboring lane and jogged to the audition venue, where a line of aspiring actors already stood waiting for their turn. An organizer took his details as he joined them and stuck a numbered piece of paper on his back.
Veer tapped his shoe anxiously against the ground and surveyed the crowd of hopefuls: well-dressed, tall, beefy men who were everything he wasn’t. Harsha could have had her pick of the litter if she’d gate-crashed an audition like this in her search for a fake boyfriend.
Should he just give up and leave right away? You have to be sexy to make it in the entertainment industry, one of his professors at acting school had told him as she reviewed Veer’s headshots. And you may be cute, Veer, but you’re not sexy. He didn’t have a chance.
He took off the blazer as a bead of sweat rolled down his neck, thanks to the harsh sunlight, but then he remembered the numbered paper was on the back. So he put it on again and shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. This was going to be a long afternoon.
After about twenty minutes of waiting, during which all Veer did was try to get a look at the other actors’ headshots and compare them to his own, the line moved forward. A woman who seemed to be an assistant or intern handed him the one-page audition brief with a basic script. “We’ll call you inside in ten minutes,” she said before moving on to the person behind Veer.
Veer looked through the brief. Like most ads geared toward men, this one depicted the womanizing powers of the deodorant in the most outrageous of ways. He went through the script, closing his eyes and visualizing himself in the scene. Shit, he’d missed the adrenaline that was now coursing through his veins. He hadn’t prepped for a role in months.
As the line got shorter and shorter, Veer forced himself to inhale and exhale five times, calming his racing heart, until his number was called into the studio.
“Hi, I’m Veer,” he said, handing his headshot to the two casting directors sitting at the table. “Thank you for this opportunity.”
The female director peered at his headshot through her large glasses, then turned it around to look at his barely-there résumé: one moderately successful play at Prithvi Theatre in Mumbai from two years ago, two plays in Bangalore that had flopped colossally, and one voice-over for a Kannada advertisement that only played on the local radio channels. He hadn’t included the failed sitcom, since he had nothing to show for it. She bit her lip. Veer tried not to sigh.
“All right,” she finally called out, handing the headshot to her co-director. “The props are on the floor. Let’s see it.”
At least Veer hadn’t been rejected on sight. Nodding, he stepped into the center of the room, falling to his knees and pounding on the invisible wall of rocks he was supposed to be buried under. “Help! Help!” he yelled, scrunching his face up in fear. “Get me out of here!”
He banged his fist against the rocks, fake-wincing as though it hurt him, then looked around the room, thinking. “Wait a minute…” He grabbed the stick of deodorant from beside him on the floor and pretend-sprayed a generous amount over himself. The stick was probably empty anyway, but he didn’t want to risk smelling too strongly of it. In all honesty, he hated this brand of deodorant.
Veer pressed his ear to the invisible wall, then sprang back in alarm as the rocks gave way to the crowd of imaginary women pulling him to safety, desperate to get their hands on a man who smelled that good.
The intern played the raunchy jingle of the deodorant brand on the speakers, giving him his next cue. Veer dusted off his hands and knees and stood, holding the deodorant up for everyone to see. “Who needs a rescue team when you have Manhamm’s new Macho Musk deodorant?” He wrapped his arms around thin air. “Ladies, am I right?”
“All right, great,” the other casting director said. He studied Veer’s headshot again, frowning, then looked up at him. “How tall are you?”
“Uh, five foot eight. And a half,” Veer said.
The two directors exchanged hushed whispers while Veer held back his groan. This had happened at nearly every audition. The average height of Indian men was probably five foot seven, but apparently anyone below six feet was just not the right “look” for any project. Ever.
“Veer, thank you so much,” the male director said, putting the headshot face down on the table. “We’ll be in touch if we need you.”
Of course, they wouldn’t. Their body language said as much. It was likely the height thing, as always. Veer smiled tightly as the intern held the door open for him. “Thank you.” He waited until he was out of sight to rip the numbered paper from his blazer and throw it into the nearest trash bin. So much for that. A deodorant commercial wouldn’t have impressed Madhusudan Godbole, anyway. He got into his car and slammed his hand against the steering wheel as his stomach grumbled. He leaned his head back and sighed, deciding he would numb his pain with a pepperoni pizza and a chilled glass of cola in the comfort of his home. While he drove, his phone buzzed with another Instagram notification. They’d been steadily pinging his phone over the past few days since Harsha tagged him in her—their—date night photos.
Veer had had less than a hundred followers on the social media app until the photos went live. Now that number was up by fifty, all thanks to Harsha’s friends and family.
He stopped at a traffic signal and checked his notifications. He’d gotten three more follows from distant Godbole aunties and a few comments on the dinner carousel post he was tagged in. There were still fifty seconds to go until the light turned green, so he swiped through the photos again.
In the first, Veer was pretend-hiding his face, as instructed, although there was a visibly wide grin on his lips. The second photo featured them toasting with their drinks in hand. And the final one was a smiling picture of them taken by their server at the end of the night, with Veer’s arm around Harsha’s shoulder and her soft, small hand grazing his thigh. The smile on his face had never been more fake, because all he’d wanted to do in that moment was take a big, indecent sniff of that strawberry scent and hold on to that breath for as long as possible. Harsha’s perfume should be outlawed, he decided furiously, along with whatever moisturizer she used, as well as the designers of that tight, sexy black dress—
Incessant honking from the cars behind Veer jerked him back to reality. He stuck an apologetic hand through the window and drove home, almost on autopilot. If touching her so casually had thrown him off track like this, how would he deal with the real thing? She was coming over next week for…intimacy practice: something he was supposed to be totally and completely fine with, because real actors touched and kissed each other all the time without making things awkward with their co-stars. Besides, Harsha—with all her world travels and family money—needed a man like Shashank who could fit into that lifestyle. She was only with Veer because she didn’t have a choice in the matter.
So that settled it: Veer would be a professional about it, no matter how enticing that strawberry perfume was, and he’d make sure his attraction to Harsha remained a performance he was being paid for—nothing else.