Chapter Two
Two
Laughter and squeals drift over from a nearby playground as I pull my Audi into the reserved parking spot kitty-corner to our agency. Our office is a stand-alone one-story brick building in the chic walkable neighborhood of Inman Park, dotted with bookstores, cafés, and brunch destinations. My sunglasses fog up as soon as I get out of the car. It’s not yet noon, not yet officially summer, but already the heat is rising. Checking my hair in my phone, it’s confirmed: The faint frizzy halo is back. You can pay to have your slacks and blouses steamed and pressed, but desi hair—despite an army of professional products—is no match for Atlanta’s sticky humidity. At least most of my clientele are also desi—they understand.
Swinging open the front door, the two-thousand-square-foot space welcomes me with its recessed lighting and creamy curtains fluttering in the air-conditioning. Darcy, my assistant, picked out nearly everything here not long after I leased the space, from the velvet-cushioned seating in the foyer to the handmade rug, custom cut, draping most of the marble floor, to the potted fern resting by the windowsill atop an old filing cabinet discreetly covered in satin damask. The team’s been on me to get rid of that filing cabinet, but it’s nostalgic—the only remnant of the old days when the business was just Khala and me working out of her basement. My office is in the back, next to the sleek, glass-walled conference room. Borzu, my tech guy, and Genevieve, my private investigator, have matching desks set up in the open space, as does Darcy. Hers is the biggest—double-wide and up front—to greet clients when they arrive and block those who have no business being here.
Darcy’s not sitting at her desk right now. Instead, she’s pacing back and forth, her hands clasped behind her back. Her slate-blue eyes flash with indignation. Based on the amused expressions Borzu and Genevieve just exchanged, she’s been pacing for a minute.
“What do you mean, we can’t shut it down?” Darcy exclaims to Borzu. He’s sporting dyed red hair today, closely cropped. Darcy’s in her usual buttoned-up professional attire—a cream blouse and gray skirt. Her white-blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail. “If anyone can do it, you can.”
“Darcy,” Borzu says with a sigh.
“Give it a rest,” Genevieve says. “It’s not like anyone’s going to be tuning in to this.”
“That doesn’t make it any less problematic. We need to nip this podcast in the bud before it snowballs out of control.”
“It’s a podcast?” I ask. “How bad is it?”
All eyes turn to me.
“You mean you haven’t listened to it?” Darcy stares at me.
“The wedding went late last night. Then I had that ridiculously early client intake this morning, remember?”
“Yoga Lady,” says Genevieve. “Did she really make you join her on the mat?”
“Technically, she invited me to join her. But yes, I can confirm it’s awkward to be in cobra pose while asking a client about their ideal dinner date.”
“One sec. I’ve got it pulled up.” Borzu squints at his computer screen. Presses play. A staticky masculine voice blasts through the speakers. The words clip in and out, but the final ones ring out crystal clear:
People call Nura Khan an expert. A magician. Are you kidding me? Here’s the deal: Anyone can call themselves an expert. But I’m here to give you the straight facts. The Piyar matchmaking agency doesn’t help people. It hurts them. You can post all you want about how magical the agency is, but at the end of the day, she’s a fraudster. I know it. Soon the world will too.
The recording abruptly ends. My team watches me, waiting for my response. I look at Borzu’s computer screen; the podcast, such as it is, is called Piyar Confidential, and this two-minute “episode” is the sole recording. Darcy has a mama bear attitude when it comes to me, but—
“Okay, that was a little creepy,” I say. “But at the end of the day, it’s an angry man, what else is new? I don’t think it’s such a big deal.”
“You can’t be serious!” Darcy’s eyes widen.
“I’m with Nura,” says Borzu. “This sounded more like a voice memo rant than anything else.”
“He sounds as unhinged as Andrei,” Darcy counters.
“This is a rando rejected client, not your obsessive ex-boyfriend,” Genevieve interjects. “Nura’s right. Would-be clients who don’t make the cut get pissed. Looks like one of them just found a new way to express themselves.”
“I’ll take that over a one-star App Store review,” Borzu adds.
“Shouldn’t we at least try to figure out who we’re dealing with?” asks Darcy. “It must be someone recent. We need to get to the bottom of this.”
“Based on what information? I’m a PI, not a magician,” says Genevieve wryly.
“I’ll do what I can on the tech side,” Borzu says. “But this was so low-budget, he probably got five clicks, if we’re being generous. I only found it because of the alerts I set up.”
“Even if it gets a hundred listens,” I say, “we’re talking about a teeny, tiny tide pool. With the way he was raging, he didn’t exactly sound credible.”
“What is it with guys like this?” Darcy shakes her head. “Do they throw temper tantrums anytime someone says no?”
“Probably,” I say. “Remember Kaden Sineway?”
“I want to burn his name from my memory,” Genevieve groans. “As if setting off fireworks outside the agency for two days straight because we dared to decline his application was going to change our minds.”
“If we sued even one of these assholes, we could scare the others off. That’d tell them we have bark and bite,” Darcy says.
I fight back a smile. Darcy dropped out of Duke Law School after her first year. She has just enough legal knowledge to be dangerous. We met five years ago when she was still figuring out her next steps and making ends meet as a barista at the coffee shop next door. We hit it off so well, I made the best decision of my life and asked her to join the agency.
“If we were to go after him—or any of these unhinged people—we’d draw attention to them,” I remind her. “We’d amplify their message.”
“It’s the number-one rule online,” says Borzu. “Don’t feed the trolls.”
“I don’t want to feed them,” grumbles Darcy. “I want to punch them in the balls.”
But her anger’s deflating—I can see it leaking from her like air from a punctured balloon.
“Fine. Maybe you’re right,” she finally concedes. “I guess I feel bad it’s gotten this chaotic right as I’m getting ready to take my leave.”
“That’s still a few months away. Don’t worry, these trolls will still be here when you get back,” I tease. Hoping to change the subject, I ask, “How’s wedding prep going? Picked out your invitations?”
“We did.” Her eyes brighten. “I went for gold with a cream background. Can you believe these were on markdown? It’s got a henna-inspired watermark beneath it.” She pulls out her phone to show me. “Don’t they look gorgeous?”
“Beautiful.” As expected, given Darcy’s impeccable taste.
“Darcy Jacobs, our very own Piyar success story,” Borzu says.
“The perks of the job, I guess.” Darcy grins.
Numerous articles speculate about the proprietary details behind the algorithm that Borzu developed for our app (which doubles as a pool of possible matches for our personalized clients). This time last year, though, there was no algorithm. It was just the four of us eating takeout and sifting through applications late into the night. It was before any of us had any idea how big our agency profile would soon become. One evening, I noticed Darcy lingering on one particular photo. Dark, inscrutable eyes. A well-chiseled jaw. Samir Bakshi.
“Can I make a profile?” She nodded to the picture. “He’s cute. And I read his form. Seems like maybe we’d be a good fit.”
I’d hesitated at first. Khala has strict rules about the matchmaking we do. Top among them is we never match people we’re close to because it’s hard to be objective. Except we weren’t matching Darcy here, were we? She’d plucked his photo out herself. She was still smarting over her recent breakup with Andrei, a verified jerk who didn’t seem to get that their relationship was over until she’d slapped him with a restraining order. Why couldn’t she benefit from the services we provided? It turned out Darcy’s instincts were right about Samir. They were a good fit. They dated for only a handful of weeks before he got down on one knee on the bridge overlooking the lake in Piedmont Park.
“I love that about desi men,” she’d gushed when she flashed her rock to me. “They know how to commit.”
I’d laughed at the generalization. Darcy knew very well that commitment-phobes come in all genders, sexualities, stripes, and colors. Darcy and Samir happened to fit, and luckily they’d figured it out quickly. She’d seen her share of hardships; she deserved this happily ever after.
“We should look into setting up a match profile for you, Genevieve,” Borzu teases her.
“No thanks. Not interested in getting high on our own supply,” Genevieve retorts. “It’s like my dad always said: Boundaries are your friend.”
“Well, Nura should definitely give it a go,” says Darcy.
“Not this again.”
“I don’t understand how you have the best resources at your fingertips—that you invented —and you don’t use them.”
Darcy shoots me a look and I shoot one right back at her. Why does everyone see my single status as something to fix? I’m in the business of relationships. I don’t have the time nor the inclination to go deeper down that rabbit hole myself. It’s not like I’ve never been on a date. I gave it a go in my twenties, but dating is exhausting. Not to mention the time suck it involves. And for what? Even if I did give it an honest go, none of them would match up to Azar. Which is just as well. The more people you love, the more you risk breaking your heart.
Darcy follows me into my office. It’s got all the outer appearances of cool contemporary with my glass desk, oversized iMac, and Herman Miller office chair. Customized floating shelves line the back wall with framed portraits of some of our successful matches through the years, but I have my personal comforts tucked away here too, like the stash of chocolate in the drawer to my left and my well-worn flip-flops from Target hidden out of sight beneath my desk to slip on between client meetings. I settle into my chair and switch out of my Louboutin heels as Darcy ticks off the day’s agenda on her iPad.
“Water guy’s coming in ten. We have Beenish this morning—the pastry order should be here any second now. I got the pistachio scones she likes. Her plane got in from Raleigh about ten minutes ago.”
“Beenish Adeel…there she is.” I pull out her dedicated notebook from my filing cabinet. I’d waffled on whether to take her on. She’d seemed stuck on her on-again, off-again ex for nearly a decade, but Khala had helped her parents find love many moons ago, and she was so sweet I decided to take a chance.
“The traffic looks clear, so I’m guessing she’ll be arriving in about thirty minutes for her intake. Last I checked, she hasn’t spoken to that abusive jerk of an ex in weeks, but she seemed a bit emotional when I scheduled her appointment. You might want to follow up on that, to see where she’s at.”
“Got it.” I jot down a quick note in my spiral notebook.
“I know what you’re going to say to the next item, but we got another interview request from The New York Times . They want to do a puff piece for their Lifestyle section.”
“And that’s a hard no, again.”
“It’s a profile with The New York Times, Nura! I’m sure your aunt wouldn’t mind?”
I can’t pretend it isn’t tempting. Khala’s always had a strict rule about not talking to the press, but a lot has changed at the agency since she stepped down. I’ve hired my team. Launched the Piyar app—a way to pay it forward and match those who may not be able to afford the far more selective and pricey personalized services we offer. Khala’s never complained. She even gave me the financial infusions I needed to get the app off the ground. But a profile feels like rubbing her face in how much things have changed.
“I think the mystery keeps people hooked,” I tell Darcy. “Besides, it’s not like the agency is wanting for attention lately.”
“So it’s a no to the Bravo reality show inquiry too, then?” she teases. “I bet they’d pay a pretty penny to follow us around.”
“A regretful pass.”
“Next up.” She checks her tablet. “I need to update you on Kaur.”
“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good.”
“She’s left four messages as of this morning. Wants to know when her intake interview will be.”
“We only took her off the wait list three days ago!” Not that incessant calls or texts are unusual. People who possess the kind of bank accounts we deal with aren’t used to waiting.
“I called her back this morning and asked her to be patient,” Darcy says. “But, well, while we were chatting, she mentioned income brackets.”
I fold my arms. “Let me guess. She thinks someone from ‘lesser means’ won’t understand her lifestyle. It’s a matter of compatibility. She’s not snooty or anything.”
“It’s like they all passed around the same bad script, isn’t it?”
“Send her the standard rejection template.”
“You sure?” Darcy hesitates. “It was a crass thing to say, but we could go over the rules again? She seemed nice.”
“She should have read the paperwork more carefully. My aunt spelled it all out in there for a reason.”
The requirements for our personalized services are simple: trust the process (we don’t just help you find the one, we help you become the one by getting your life on track so you’re in a healthy place to take on a healthy relationship); be transparent during the vetting phase, warts and all; and understand that while we help the elite, we are not elitist. Any violation ends our agreement. I know Darcy thinks I could ease up a little, but Khala’s standards have never steered us wrong.
“Got it. I’ll shoot over the decline letter.” Darcy jots down a note. “And last but not least.” She hands me a manila folder. “My temporary replacements.”
“Take that as far away from me as possible.”
“Nura…”
“I’m telling you, we can manage on our own for a couple of months.”
“You need the help.”
I know I’m acting like the proverbial ostrich sticking her head in the sand, but I can’t help but pout about the idea of several months without Darcy’s help and company. After all these years working together, she’s more than just my assistant—she’s my friend.
“It’s not a long list. November will be here before you know it.” She sets it on my desk. “It would be ideal if you found someone while I’m still here so I can show them the ropes. That inbox won’t tame itself when I’m gone. It’s been bonkers lately.”
There’s a chime from the front door.
“That’s the water guy,” she says. “Be right back.”
I turn on my computer. My phone buzzes. It’s Azar.
Azar: What time is your birthday dinner?
Me: 6:00pm. Not Desi Standard Time.
Azar: Shift ends at 6:00 :-/. Will try to slip out early.
Me: Don’t leave me hanging! I need you there!
Azar: (…)
Me: And yes, I ended up getting myself the Moccamaster coffee maker, so you’ll have to think of something else for my birthday gift, which you should have started planning earlier considering it’s in four days.
The phone buzzes again. An incoming call this time. Did I really guess his birthday gift for the third year in a row? But when I look at who’s calling, my smile fades. It’s not Azar.
It’s Basit Latif.
He’s facetiming me. Because of course he is. I consider sending it to voicemail, but he’ll only call again. And again. State senators who also happen to own a billion-dollar car part manufacturing business aren’t used to taking no for an answer.
I straighten my collar and accept the call. Today I’ll get through to him. He’ll have to accept that some things don’t work out the way wealthy men want them to.
“Hello, Mr. Latif.”
A man with graying hair parted to the side and a thin goatee wrapped around his lips gazes back at me. He’s in his office. A concrete parking lot stretches into the distance through the window behind him.
“At last she answers.”
His voice is smooth like silk—but I see the contempt lingering behind his eyes. I meet his gaze coolly. Men like him will never see me sweat. Discreetly, I slide my finger over my mouse, wake up my computer, and hit record. You never know.
“How can I help you, Mr. Latif?” I ask.
“You know exactly how you can help me. I came to you for help. Filled out your inane paperwork and signed all the releases. What did I get instead?”
“As I explained during our last call,” I tell him, “our protocol is to work with the person seeking a match directly—”
“Fuck the protocol!”
His mouth presses into a thin line. He’s half a continent away in Detroit, and I’m accustomed to toxic masculinity by now, but a shiver runs through me all the same. He looks as though he wishes he could strike a hand through the screen.
“Since when did helping your own child find a partner become taboo? I was matched with my own wife thanks to the help of my parents. They were the sound voices of reason guiding me toward the proper path. Sounds like someone has forgotten their ancestral roots.”
My cheeks warm. “I understand how things were done, Mr. Latif, but that’s not how I run my business. And not wanting to go behind a child’s back to broker their marriage is not betraying my heritage. If you and your son wanted to reach out together to discuss options, that would be one thing. Most people do and—”
“Do you not hear me?” His fist slams on the table. “Farhan isn’t ready.”
“If he’s not ready to discuss his own marriage, then he isn’t ready for our services.”
“Is this about money?” He pauses. “I’ll double your asking rate.”
I grip the edge of my seat. He’s insulting me. And it’s working.
“We are not the right agency for you, Mr. Latif. As a courtesy, our admin will reverse your application fees. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”
“You’re sorry?” An ugly smile spreads across his face.
My stomach twists. Here we go.
“Do you have any idea who I am?” He leans forward. “I could ruin you with a couple of phone calls. A few well-placed anonymously sourced stories about misconduct, and you’re done.”
“Any such story would be false.”
“It won’t matter. Ruined reputations don’t repair as easily as you might think. Another nugget of cultural wisdom you probably haven’t learned. Not yet, at least.”
He leans back now, arms crossed. Like a self-satisfied fox from a Brothers Grimm tale. I take a deep breath. People imagine my job is all about attending lavish weddings, wearing saris and bangles, and partaking in private yoga sessions with a client while we hash out their ideal match. They don’t see the moments like these, where you smile and stay calm instead of telling the other person what you really think about them. Luckily, I have a long-established protocol to keep me grounded.
“Mr. Latif, slandering me and my business will only end up hurting you.”
“Sounds like you need some lessons on what slander is,” he replies. “It’s—”
“Spreading false information?” I tilt my head. “Knowingly? Maliciously? I have this entire conversation recorded. One click and I could post this to social media—”
“You’re recording me?” he bellows.
“You consented to it in the paperwork you signed. Honestly, I think your constituents would be interested to hear about our chat. If you call again, I’ll make sure they do.”
The vein throbbing at his temple is the only indication my screen hasn’t frozen. He’s there. Quietly seething. But he gets it now.
“Glad we could talk this all out, Mr. Latif. I have another appointment to run to.” Then, with more steel in my voice: “You’d be well advised not to reach out again.”
I end the call. He won’t call back. They never do once they realize what they’ll lose.
“Knock knock.” Darcy enters. She sets a steaming mug of coffee on my desk. Taking in my expression, she frowns. “What happened?”
“Was Basit Latif one of the people we declined this morning?”
“I think so.” She checks her tablet. “Yep. There he is. I emailed him along with five others. Why? Did he take it poorly?”
“He called me just now and tried to convince me to change my mind. Offered to double my rate, and when that didn’t work, he tried to threaten me.” I cradle my palms around the warm mug. “Some people think money can buy them anything, and anyone.”
“Gross.”
The front bell buzzes.
“That’s gotta be Beenish.” Darcy eyes me. “Do you need a minute?”
I shake my head. “Nah. Men like him are just the cost of doing business. Besides, distraction will do me good. Why don’t you get her settled in the conference room? I’ll be there in a second.”
She rests a hand against the doorframe. “Want a real distraction? You and I are overdue for a girls’ night. How about some good old-fashioned axe-throwing sometime soon?”
Axe-throwing? I make a face, and Darcy laughs.
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it! There’s a place near me having a two-for-one special. You know I’ll keep pestering you until you eventually say yes. It’s my favorite way to get the feels out.”
“Let’s do it.” I smile at her. “Thanks, Darcy.”
“And hey, don’t sweat that jackass,” she says. “Helicopter parents gonna helicopter, right?”
Darcy’s right. People like Basit arrange their children’s entire lives from the moment they schedule their C-sectioned arrival into this world. The right nanny. The right preschool. Sidestepping other applicants with a healthy donation to a private school of their choice all the way to Harvard. This is what the wealthy do. They pay their way to the life they want. My help finding their child the perfect partner is one more thing they think they can buy. Rising, my silver bracelets clink against my arm as I switch back into my heels, gather my notebook and coffee mug, and head toward the conference room. The Basit Latifs of the world don’t get to linger in my head. I won’t give them the satisfaction.