India's Summer (25 page)

“Annie. I still have no clue what you’re talking about,” India said, her knuckles getting white clutching the receiver.

“Oh! Well … it was a picture of Adam with someone … I don’t really know.”

“What kind of a picture? Who?”

“Well… I suppose…”

“Annie, just spit it out!” India snapped.

“Well, it was pretty explicit.”

“Okay,” India said, attempting to keep her voice steady. “Look Annie, I’ll track it down and call you back. My imagination’s gone wild here. Bye.”

India leapt off the couch and threw the phone onto the cushions. She grabbed her laptop and opened it with trembling hands. Thirty seconds later she found the picture on TMZ. Yes, it was definitely Adam. But who was the hot blonde straddling him, the one with her arms around his neck? And yes … those were Adam’s hands … underneath her sheer blouse, on her back. She was certain, because in case she might have missed it (which she hadn’t) the tabloid had taken the trouble to enlarge that part of the image and circle it in red.

India felt as if she had been caught around the throat. A wave of nausea flooded over her. She sat rooted to the chair, immobilized with shock.

≈≈≈≈≈≈≈≈

India dashed up the steps of the underground station at Green Park and out into the crowded street and lashing rain, where she made several attempts to put up her umbrella. Deciding it was useless against the biting wind, she shook it down and raced the block to Langan’s Restaurant.

“I’m sorry. It’s teeming out there,” she said, handing her dripping Burberry to the young cloakroom attendant.

“No worries. Do you want me to take those, too?” she asked, looking at India’s drenched Scala leather workbag and umbrella.

“Yes, please.” India smiled gratefully.

I look like a drowned rat, she thought, catching sight of herself in a large wall mirror. She ran her hands through her hair and followed the manager to a corner table where a dark-haired man in his early forties was waiting. India took in the pinstripe suit, the Thomas Pink shirt, the white contrast collar, and the tightly knotted silk tie.

“I’m Philip,” he said, standing up and shaking her hand.

India also noticed his monogrammed gold-plated cufflinks.

God, I hate those cuffs, she thought.

“Sorry I’m late…,” she said, smiling. “I had to sit in on detention longer than I was expecting. Honestly, keeping the kids back punishes the teachers and the parents more than the kids – I waited ages for the tube.”

“I have been sitting here for almost twelve minutes,” Philip said stiffly, gesturing to his fake Rolex watch.

“But I texted you,” India said. “I left a message.”

“I’ve never had to wait for an appointment like this before. I’m never late,” he said, folding his napkin into sharp creases.

Omygod he’s serious, India thought.

“Well, there was nothing I could do about it and I’m terribly sorry. Did you not think to order yourself a drink?” she said. Or maybe some wine for the table?

“I don’t drink,” he said.

“Yes. Well, anyway, I’m here now,” she said cheerily. “Lovely to meet you.”

“I think being late is very rude.”

“I think you’ve made your point,” India said. “Can we move on now?”

There was an awkward silence. It went on for some time. Philip made no effort to rescue the conversation, and after a few minutes India pushed back her chair.

“You know, Philip,” she said, “I’m new at this dating agency game and I’m sure there’s a protocol for what I’m about to do. But I’m very sorry you had to wait and that you don’t think that I was worth waiting for. Again, I’m sorry. Goodbye.”

With that India stood up, collected her things, and walked out onto the street, where she pulled her cell phone out of her purse.

“Sarah, I’ve just had the blind date from hell. Can you meet me for a drink? Yes… Taj Mahal… Okay, no, that’ll be fine. I need the walk. See you in twenty minutes.”

“Thank you. I’ll have the chicken tikka masala, saffron rice, and a vegetable samosa,” India said, handing back the menu and pouring a Kingfisher beer. “Okay that’s it, Sarah. I’m not doing that again ever. It was awkward and embarrassing and he was a prick.”

“Well, I just thought you needed to get out more. Sorry. That does sound bad,” Sarah said, snapping off a corner of pappadam and dipping it into the onion chutney.

“And he wasn’t worth ruining my Prada boots for either,” she said, looking down at her soaking feet. “I’m just not ready, Sarah. It’s only been a few weeks, and anyway, the school is exhausting and it’s miles away and frankly I’m still in shock.”

“I know. You’re right. Give it a bit longer,” Sarah agreed.

“I think I was almost braced for Angel to move in pretty quickly after I left, but I had no clue he was seeing that woman. I was so wrapped up in my workshops it never occurred to me to ask who he was training with for the film. If I’d taken the trouble to ask … if I’d known it was her, then I’d have had my antennae out.”

“Well, maybe, I suppose, but you said you did spend a lot of time with him and there weren’t any signs.”

“No, but he was on the lot at Universal most days. When did this start? I keep trying to work that bit out. I mean, he invited me to Russia. Do you think she was getting her fur coat out of cold storage around the same time?”

“Well, they’re all shits. I’ve reached that conclusion,” Sarah said, helping herself to another full glass of Cabernet from her carafe. “I wish we were gay. Life would be so much easier if I fancied you, India.

”The minute India was home, she threw off her clothes and ran an extremely hot, deep Jo Malone bath. She put in a Norah Jones CD and turned her stereo on high before sinking into the sudsy water and idly flicking the bubbles with her toes. She began to sob silently…
“There was a time when I believed that you belonged to me / And now I know your heart is shackled to a memory / Why can’t I free your doubtful mind and melt your cold cold heart.”

When the phone rang, she ignored it the first few times, until the calls became too persistent and she eventually grabbed a towel, climbed out and ran into the kitchen.

“Hello, I have a call from Larry Hertz for Miss Butler; please hold.”

India hung on, dripping her way into the bedroom, struggling into a pink fleecy dressing gown, and turning off the music.

“Hey, India, is that you? How ya doin’? Good. Good. So here’s the thing.”

Larry sounded supercharged, as if he were on speed, which he probably is, India thought. What could he possibly want?

“So here’s the thing. I’ve sold your book. Right now I have two publishers waiting to hear back from me by the end of the day, latest. I need to run this by you. We have to make a decision. Warner’s offering one seventy-five. I think they’re the right ones for this, but…”

India could not take in any more information. He was going far too fast for her. He’s sold my book? He’s sold my book? He’s sold it?

“I want to get this tied down. I need you to tell me if we should go with that figure or if we should hang out and see if we can get them up a bit.”

“Larry,” India said, “Larry, slow down. I’m not getting this. I just assumed … I didn’t know you were … I’m sorry, could you please say all that again?”

India was trembling now. How could he have sold my book? How? Who could possibly want to read it after all that’s happened?

“I sold your book and I’ve sold it for a six figure number. Is that making it clear enough now?” he said, very slowly picking out each word as if India had a learning disorder. He seemed to be enjoying this.

“Yes. Oh my God … this is for real? But how?”

“India, I think I told you. Nothing sells like a profile and you have one hell of a fucking profile.”

“But I blew it. I seriously blew it.”

“India, the proposal is funny. You’re funny. You’re up front. You’re bitchy and funny – that sells. Look, I’ll call you back, just tell me do you want me to keep pitching?”

“How much is the offer, did you say?”

“A hundred and seventy-five. I take ten percent of that. We get a third on manuscript delivery, a third on publication, and a third when we go to paperback.”

“This is wonderful. Larry. Thank you. This is incredible. What do you think we should do? I’ll leave it with you, whatever you think.”

“Okay. I’ll make a few calls and get back to you. Don’t go away.”

The line went dead and India stood frozen to the spot.

“I’ve sold my book. I’m writing a book,” she announced to the Countess, who looked up from her curled position before promptly going back to sleep. “I’ve actually sold my book!” she shouted. “I’ve sold my book. I’ve sold my book…” she repeated, dancing around the room, leaping on and off her sofa, twirling around. “A little shake here and a little shake there! One hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars!” she said several more times. Then she speed-dialed Sarah.

“Sarah, you’re not going to believe the news I have,” she said.

“India? Are you okay?” Sarah was at a loss to know what could possibly be happening now.

“Sarah, you are speaking to India Butler, AUTHOR. I’ve sold my book!”

Sarah let out a scream. “Oh my God! Congratulations! Can I be in it?”

As India relayed the conversation with Larry, she began to realize how badly she had wanted to publish her book. How she had pushed it to the back of her mind. She’d been in her element writing the proposal, devising her own programs, and running her classes. Now her ideas would be in print, her very own ideas. She had written the proposal. She had earned this. She was “India Butler, author and teacher.”

India put down the phone. This calls for a celebration, she decided, pulling a bottle of Sancerre out of a wooden wine rack and putting it into the tiny freezer compartment of her Frigidaire.

Omygod … I should call Annie, I should quit my job, I should… I should just take a minute to let this sink in. She lifted a crystal wineglass from her French dresser and rooted around in a drawer for a corkscrew.

The phone rang as she was opening the freezer again. She closed it. That might be Larry’s assistant…, she thought. I’ll be my own assistant…

“Miss Butler’s residence,” she said haughtily.

But it wasn’t a Brooklyn accent this time.

“Hi, India. Is this a good time to talk?”

“Adam…” she started, her knees buckling slightly.

“I didn’t know you were going to leave town so quickly,” he said, his voice huskier than she remembered it. “I didn’t know what to say, how to explain … and then you were gone.”

“I left you a couple of messages,” she said quietly, “but that was to explain why I was leaving and what had happened to me … and I only saw the picture of you and … well, it was after I got back to London.”

India went into her sitting room. She sank down in an old armchair and pulled a chenille throw around herself. “So why the phone call now?” she said stiffly.

“India. I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” she said coldly.

“India, we were going so fast, you and I…”

Were? she thought.

“Honestly, there was a moment, and yes, I should have seen it coming. It’s not an excuse, but I get scared at a certain point, ever since Chloe left. I’ve just been … well, scared. I didn’t see that coming and I’ve never worked out how to trust again, I suppose.”

“Yes. Well, you didn’t look too scared in that picture.”

“Look India, I’m doing my best here. I miss you. It’s lame to say I’m sorry, but I am. I’m sorry. It’s such a cliché – you’re on set, there’s chemistry, things happen, but you can believe this or not believe it, I wish it hadn’t happened. I could lie and say nothing happened, when it did, but it was like an old reflex. I can’t explain.”

“So are you two playing happy families?” India asked curtly.

“No. India, if the press hadn’t got hold of that picture, I probably would have told you at some point … well,” he said wryly, “I can’t say I would for sure, but I can say it still would have been a one-off. I suppose I didn’t realize how much you meant to me until you’d gone. What happened, India?” he asked, confused. “I thought you were franchising your workshops here.”

India was conscious that he was using her full name. She had always loved how he had called her “Indie.”

“Well…” she said, getting up, going into the kitchen and pulling the wine from the freezer. “Turns out I wasn’t the real deal either.”

“How do you mean?”

India wrestled off the cork, poured a large glass of wine, and took several swift mouthfuls.

“Well…” she said, “do you want the part where I pretended to have a glamorous job or the part where I bitched about everybody, or the part where I said you were stupid?”

“Max sent me the YouTube link, and I have to say, I saw another side of you, but what do you mean?”

India took a deep breath as she walked back to her armchair, carrying the bottle and her glass. “Okay Adam… I teach twelfth graders, or at least I DID, when I met you. I don’t have a glamorous life, I don’t have teams of coaches, and, until about five minutes ago, I didn’t have my own Stanislavsky-based ‘method.’ I have no money, no amazing career, and when I was with you I pretended to be something I wasn’t.”

India could hear the rage in her voice, she could hear the hurt as she was speaking. I have nothing left to lose and I just sold my book. She drained her glass and poured another. So you, your leading lady, and your fabulous lifestyle can all go to hell.

“Adam, I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m five thousand miles away. You’re a movie star. We live in different worlds. You cheated, and I lied. So we’re probably even on some level, and I’d like to talk to you some other time when I’m more prepared for the conversation, if that’s okay.”

India was stifling tears. And you are not, I mean NOT going to get me crying. Not India Butler – Teacher and Author … not after all these weeks when I was just starting to pull myself together again. And not tonight when I’m feeling I really have achieved something. Tonight is about ME. Nobody is going to spoil this moment for me … NOBODY, not even YOU.

She poured a third glass of wine.

“Okay. Yes it’s unfair of me I suppose,” said Adam. “I’ve been building up to this conversation. Can I call you in a couple of days?” he asked gently.