In my absence from New York, Stavros had received the call that all modeling agents wait for. It was from a film producer in London who was working on an as-yet-untitled movie project, and who seemed to think that I had the right “look” for it.

“But I’m not a trained actress,” I said to Dimitri when he told me.

“Who is?” he countered, his smile returning. “How many of the really great movie stars today are really properly trained? Many of them worked hard or were discovered. Now that’s happening to you.”

It was being pitched as a romantic comedy about a young, white, preppy, uptight banker who falls in love with a gypsy girl from Morocco with rumored terrorist ties-to be played by me. In the mix was also a dunce of an ex-boyfriend who was trying to extricate himself from the mujahideen.

“It plays into every single silly stereotype,” I told Dimitri after he had finished recounting the plot.

“I agree, which is why it will get made,” he said, smiling. “It is being packaged for the masses, and therefore is a wonderful opportunity for you. Anyway, the reason it is a matter of some urgency is because the financing is coming from Germany, and the producers are doing their final casting in the next few days. They are flying in from Frankfurt tonight and want to see you tomorrow. In principle, the role is yours. It’s just a formality, and to see if they can develop some acting chops in you. I’ve checked the calendar, and you have nothing on after Chanel, so I’ve scheduled a meeting. And please, leave your boyfriend at the hotel.”

Chapter Twenty-five

The drive to Neuilly was shorter than I expected, with less traffic than usual heading out to the Parisian suburb on an otherwise fashion-frenzied afternoon. My hair felt gummy, my eyelashes still clumped together, as I rushed out of the show without bothering to remove any of my makeup, assuming that the casting people would want to see me in my full fashion-model glory anyway. I stepped out of the long gray car and went up a flight of steps that led to a wide podium that flanked the building on all sides. Through the glass double doors and up an elevator were the offices of the law firm that was handling the deal, where the producers were having a meeting that preceded mine, and from where we would be headed to a café down the street to talk. As I rode up in the elevator, I hoped that Dimitri, who was supposed to be meeting me here, had already arrived.

The elevator doors opened onto the foyer of the company, and a pretty receptionist told me to take a seat and wait. After a few minutes, two men-one broad-shouldered and with a full head of dense, wavy hair and the other slight and balding-emerged from one of the office suites, smiling as they approached me, their hands outstretched. The larger one introduced himself as Werner, the executive producer of the movie, which was being unofficially christened Honey in the Hamptons, Honey being the name of the girl in question, and a title that sounded like that of a porn film. Werner’s associate was Max, whom Werner introduced as “the brains behind the film.”

“Shall we go and find a quiet place to talk?” Werner suggested as Max led the way.

As we made our way the few feet toward the elevator, a voice sounded out from behind.

“Wait, you left these behind!”

We all turned around, and I stopped breathing. Walking toward us, holding a sheaf of papers, a tiny pair of gold loops pinched through his ears, was Tariq.

My breath finally returned, but my body felt like it had been shoved into a microwave on high. He stared at me, the smile disappearing from his face.

“Oh, thank you,” said Werner, taking the papers out of Tariq’s hand. “We can’t afford to lose these!” he said, sliding them into an attaché case he was carrying. Then, almost as an afterthought, he introduced us. “Tariq Khan, I am pleased to present Miss Tanaya Shah. I am certain you know of her. She is a famous model, and will most likely be starring in the movie we were here discussing with you.” Although Werner was standing right next to me, his words were faint. My eyes were still on Tariq’s face.

“Yes, of course; I am familiar with Miss Shah,” Tariq said tightly. I had seen that look before, the last time right before I left India, on my grandfather’s face at the airport. It was one of disapproval and disappointment, and it always made me sad. There, standing in front of the man I had first come to Paris for a year before, the man I should have married, I suddenly felt naked. Despite the expensive clothes on my body and the brilliant colors on my face and the showy flamboyance with which my hair was coiffed, I felt like nothing but a silly, small girl, simply playing dress-up.

“We’re taking quite a risk by putting you in this movie. As far as films are concerned, you’re not exactly a name,” Werner said, once we were settled within a cozy leather banquette at a nearby bistro. Dimitri had finally shown up, just as we were leaving the office, and nodded agreeably whenever Werner or Max spoke.

I found it hard to pay attention. Since my shocking run-in with Tariq just moments earlier, I was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything.

“So what do you think of that?” Max asked, looking at me, a question relating to a conversation that I had mentally pulled myself out of.

“Yes, of course,” I said, clueless about what I was agreeing to, and hoping that it wasn’t a nude scene.

“We’re in preproduction now and would like to start principal photography in about a month,” Werner said, peering at me over his large glasses. “That should give you enough time to get some acting classes in. I don’t expect you to win any awards for this, but it should be a little believable, huh? You should be able to engage the audience with more than just your looks. We’ll be shooting mostly in New York, so at least you won’t be too far from your beau. Perhaps we can talk to him about doing the soundtrack, yes?” Werner continued, looking over at Max again and scribbling a reminder into his notebook.

As I half-listened to the conversation, I could consider only what Tariq must have thought of me.

Chapter Twenty-six

There are some people who believe they are born to act. I am not one of them. I found the lessons excruciatingly humiliating, baffled as to how someone could stand up on a low platform in a darkened room, a dozen strangers watching, and make themselves cry. I was amazed at their ability to do so, but when my turn came, I simply stood there and stared out at them, their faces growing more expectant by the minute.

“You need to emote,” instructed the coach, Genevieve, who had been an actress herself long ago. “You need to be able to access those old hurts, those painful feelings you think are dormant but are festering in your body. Breathe deep; bring them out.”

I squeezed my eyes shut and pursed my lips together, looking for all the world as though I were about to have a bowel movement. I thought of the nana who no longer loved me and the mother who perhaps never had and how truly, truly sad I was. I could feel the sadness in my blood, the slight ache that had hovered around my heart for the better part of the past year, covered by layers upon layers of little luxuries and pleasant distractions.

But no tears came, no emoting other than a little sigh indicating that I had chosen to sleep under the pain and to let it cover me like a heavy blanket.

I looked up at Genevieve, her face expectant, like those of the other students in my class.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “This is not for me. Forgive me for wasting your time.”