Page 46 of Red Flags and Rishtas
‘I mean, it istheirwedding …’
Pooja’s eyes had shot up towards me when I said that.
‘And we’re not their parents. We don’t have to give in to their every demand. This is a business deal, you need to make them understand that.’ There had been a slight annoyance in her voice, like she was losing patience with me.
I understood where she was coming from, of course. A line should have been drawn. But it had become clear to me in the last few weeks that people did not take no for an answer when it came to their weddings.
Amidst the whirlwind of preparations and negotiations, I found myself not just overseeing but diving headfirst into the intricate details of the event. Even though we had hired a reputed team of wedding planners to help pull off the event, I’d somehow managed to assume the role of one myself. It was impossible not to – none of the others carried the kind of pressure I did to make this work. This wasmyidea, and if it turned out to be a complete failure, it would bemyneck on the line. So if that meant I had to be present in every vendor meeting and editorial interview, so be it. I could handle it.
But with the boutique work happening in parallel, things became harder than they otherwise would’ve been. Even that would’ve been a pretty straightforward assignment, had it not been for Kavita Aunty, who had made it her personal duty to make my life difficult. And although V was doing most of thesourcing while I was at work, I felt myself getting more and more frustrated as the project dragged on.
I spent all week (and part of my Saturday) slogging in the office, and the rest of the weekend at the boutique. By Sunday afternoon, I’d reached my breaking point.
‘It’s not working, beta,’ V’s mom was saying, ‘I liked the lamps in the store but they don’t go well with the wallpaper we have in mind.’
I had given up on selling my ideas to her, so the last few days had been all about testing out hers. Between V and me, we’d brought her innumerable fabric options, lighting decor, furnishings and statement pieces – all of which had been heartlessly rejected. She liked everything … up until it entered her boutique.
‘Okay,’ I said, taking a deep breath, ‘why don’t you tell me what your vision is, again? How do you visualise the boutique once the work is finished?’
There was a pause. She exchanged looks with V, her face blank. I could see my friend wringing her hands under the table. The boutique was bigger than my living room, but with all the furniture options strewn about, it felt cramped. Or maybe it had something to do with the stifling of my creativity. Whatever the reason, I felt suffocated.
‘I really don’t know about all that. I just want it to look beautiful,’ she finally said, shrugging.
I sighed, looking away. I had two options: I could either keep at it until I had a meltdown, jeopardising my relationship with V’s family, or I could back out of the project now and well … jeopardise my relationship with V’s family.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said after a minute.
Both women were peering at my face, confused.
‘I can’t do this. It’s taking too much out of me, and this is just not a good time right now,’ I said, my voice apologetic but firm.
I was spared some awkwardness when Kavita Aunty’s phone rang. She picked it up on the first ring and turned around, welcoming the interruption.
I picked up my backpack and headed for the door, with V hot on my heels.
‘Annie, we’ll figure something out. Just give it some time, no?’ Her eyes were pleading with mine.
She didn’t want to be left alone in this.
‘I’m sorry, babe. I just can’t,’ I said and walked out.
One thing you should know about me is that I’m a very punctual person. Not being on time gives me anxiety. I’m a firm believer in the mantra: If you’re not five minutes early, you’re late. Another thing to know about me? I hate latecomers. Apart from that one time when I got stuck in traffic (and forgot my date’s name), I’d never been late for a date.
Having said that, I’d been on enough dates to devise a range of what was acceptable for late arrivals. Category A comprised men who’d reach up to five minutes after the agreed-upon time. No problem. The men in the next category would show up to twenty minutes late and would still be forgiven, provided they had a good enough excuse – and a great sense of humour. Category C was reserved for the men who’d show up even later and were prime candidates for being stood up. Kartik, my date for this Sunday evening, had two minutes to go before he found himself in the lonely waters of Category C.
I’d come straight from V’s boutique to this resto-bar in the narrow lanes of Hauz Khas Village, so I was already in an unpleasant mood. It had felt like the right thing to do at the time, but walking out on her and Kavita Aunty had left a sour aftertaste in my mouth. I sat by the bar, sipping the chilled beer I’d ordered, trying to analyse my emotions. I felt bad forabandoning V when she was clearly counting on me. But more than that, I was disappointed in myself for not being able to pull this off. I prided myself on being able to deal with clients – even tough ones like my friend’s mother. I hated failure, and this one was no one’s but my own.
I checked my phone again. It was 6:20 p.m. Kartik had officially entered the red zone.
If he shows up before I finish my beer, I’ll hear him out,I negotiated with myself.
The bar stool next to me moved, and I looked up. Two men in suits were placing an order for their drinks: G&Ts. Neither of them looked like my date. The one closer to me smiled in my general direction, and I turned around to see if someone was standing behind me. Embarrassed, he took his drink and left to sit at a table with his friend.
Usually, I would consider it blasphemous to swipe while I was out on a date. But this was turning out to be a really shitty one, and it hadn’t even begun. I opened Tinder and let myself window shop, hoping I’d find a sweet bargain. Just as I was finishing my beer, my phone buzzed with a message.
I stared at the screen in disbelief. Had I just been … stood up? The thought made me want to gasp in horror. In the last three years, I’d been on more dates than most people would go on in their entire lives, and I’d never been stood up. Not once. I’d been cancelled on, sure. But thirty-five minutes after the date was supposed to have begun? That was sacrilegious.
‘You’vegotto be kidding me,’ I said louder than I’d intended.
