Page 60 of Red Flags and Rishtas
‘Laaaaaaame,’ she sang into the phone.
I chuckled as I made my way to the washroom. ‘It’s kind of sweet, okay? Besides, I’m just glad we’ve finally kissed.’
It was true that we’d only hung out twice, but we’d spent so much time talking over the phone that it felt weird there was no physical evidence to show what was going on between us.
‘And how was it?’
‘It was really nice. He’s a great kisser,’ I said, inspecting my skin in the shaving mirror.
After the customary follow-up questions, she blew me a kiss and hung up. I tapped my phone screen to check the time. There were ten short hours to go before the reception, and I had many precarious tasks on my list, the first of which was a meeting with my colleague Ryan and the hotel’s head chef. The groom’s family was dissatisfied with the food arrangement from the previous night’s wedding and wanted us to make sure the dishes looked as good as they tasted tonight. At 12:00 p.m., I had to sit with the social media team to sort through all the content we’d gathered so far and ensure we hadn’t missed any client deliverables. And just before lunch was the final leg of Harsh and Deepti’s editorial interview. The writer wanted to get some insight into their post-nuptial bliss of half a day.
I sped through my day in zombie mode, formulating monosyllabic responses during interactions to conserve my energy for the evening. After three days of outdoor festivities, the heat was beginning to get to me. Tonight’s function, however, was to take place in the ballroom, which meant I wouldn’t have to overdose on my antiperspirant’s fumes.
I wasn’t sure if I’d gotten better at managing people or if the Universe at last was being kind to me, but the first half of the day went by smoothly. The chef graciously accepted our suggestions, and Jinal and her social media team had everything ready for me to go through. And when neither Deepti nor Harsh found something to be pissed about thirty minutes into the editorial interview, I let myself relax.
Zoning out of the conversation about the happy couple’s excitement for their honeymoon, I gazed at the stillness of the pool water. I leaned back in my garden chair and let my forehead peek out from the shade provided by the beach umbrella at our table. The rays of the sun, though harsh, mirrored the faint brightness brewing in my mind. Over the course of the last week, I’d increasingly felt like I didn’t belong. As captain of the ship, I often found myself bent over the deck, wondering if the hype was worth the seasickness. But now that we were nearing the shore, I could sense the anxiety retreating. I’d made it through in one piece, without any signs of severe physical or mental trauma, save the bags under my eyes and a few thousand fried brain cells.
This isn’t so bad. You can do more of this,I thought to myself, less as a token of reassurance than as a form of persuasion.It’s going to be all right.
My brief moment of peace began fading away when the voices around me started rising.
‘… every right to screen what you’re going to be writing about us,’ Harsh was saying, with his anxious bride fluttering behind him.
The writer from our team, Hina, was looking at the groom with exasperation. She had shut the lid on her laptop, which I gauged meant that the interview was over.
‘It’s an editorial piece, Harsh, not a branded one. You have to trust me. I’m not going to write anything other than what you’vetold me or what I have observed,’ she said, pushing her chair back to stand up.
‘I don’t care! You’re writing about me and my wife, not some bloody movie review.’ The aggression in his voice took us all by surprise.
I got up from my chair, stepping between Hina and Harsh with my arm extended towards the groom.
‘Okay, let’s all take a breath here,’ I said, looking them both in the eye.
‘You know how it works, Ananya, so maybe you can explain it to him,’ Hina said in a tone that suggested this was below her pay grade.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Deepti tugging on her brand-new husband’s arm, who shrugged her off as though she was a housefly or some such annoyance.
‘Harsh, it’s not standard practice to let the subjects read their editorial pieces,’ I said, my voice firm but empathetic. ‘But I understand that this is deeply personal for you and Deepti, and so we’ll try and arrange for you to read the piece before it’s published.’
‘So when can I read it?’ he asked.
I glanced at Hina, who threw up her arms in the air, scoffing loudly. When I continued to look at her meaningfully, she sighed.
‘A week, I suppose.’
‘But we’ll be in Greece by then,’ Deepti spoke up for the first time, her voice tentative and unassertive.
In all my dealings with the couple, I’d never encountered a problem working with Deepti. She was hugely accommodating, the polar opposite of her overbearing husband. But I could tell Harsh didn’t appreciate it when she tried to create some room for compromise.
‘Exactly!’ Harsh said, grateful to his wife for the added ammunition. ‘You expect us to sit and proofread on our honeymoon?’
The more I tried to reason with them, the further the conversation got away from me. By the end of it, the groom stormed off, threatening to write to my boss, and his wife trailed behind him, offering me an unsaid apology with her eyes. Hina, on the other hand, was largely unsympathetic.
‘You’re on your own,’ she said, before walking away in the direction of the lobby.
I watched her disappear into the distance, my frustration growing with every step she took. What I wouldn’t give to be able to walk away from all this as easily as she had. It’s not that I thought this particular issue was extra complex. I’d dealt with bigger disasters since the inception of the Best Man, but somehow, this one was throwing me off a bit more than the others.
I sat down at the pool table previously occupied by the four of us and rested my head against the cold metal surface of the counter.
