Salaam, Paris (15 page)

“I’ll break it down like this, honey. Being born Muslim was probably the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Chapter Nineteen

Every budding fashion model, to ensure her success, needed to have some sort of social life. There were parties galore in New York, parties every night of the week, some in other glamorous cities. I was even being invited to one of the overseas ones, on a boat in St. Tropez the following month.

But in New York, Felicia handpicked the events I would go to, and would often escort me herself. There, she would deposit me with a Park Avenue socialite or a foreign aristocrat before surrendering her position as a shield between me and the paparazzi who attended these things. She told me delightedly that her job was made so much easier by the fact that I would never be seen with a cigarette or snorting cocaine or gulping from a bottle of beer, my panties exposed, a high-class hellion on heroin. She was relieved that no caption beneath a picture of me would ever say: HOT NEW MODEL TANAYA SHAH CAUGHT LAP-DANCING BAD-BOY ROCKER.

She dressed me in black halter tops and laced a shawl through my bent elbows. She taught me how to smile for the cameras, poised and pretty like the blue-blooded heiresses who graced the society pages. Whereas the small student-run newspaper in Paris that ran a grainy picture of me after my first little stint on the catwalk there had misspelled my name, now it was not only spelled correctly but typed in bold letters, as if suddenly, with four dress changes on a lit-up catwalk, I was no longer small and faded and gray, but dark, dramatic, and destined to be known.

 

Peering through the peephole, I could see that it was Stavros standing outside my door, a suit bag slung over his shoulder. Tightening my bathrobe, I opened the door and allowed him to step in. He took a look around at the immaculate room.

“Oh, the maid service has been here already?” he asked. “Didn’t think they could be this efficient in St. Tropez during the height of the social season. My room is a mess.”

“I did it,” I said, glancing proudly at the perfectly made bed and the shiny coffee table.

Stavros stared at me, puzzled.

“You cleaned your own room? That’s why people stay in hotels—so they
don’t
have to do housework. They have maids here for that.”

“Oh, I know
that,
” I said, now embarrassed. I felt close to Stavros, but still, there’s no way I could have told him that, until today, I had never stayed in a hotel before, and that I thought that utilizing the services of the maid I had seen in the corridor earlier would cost extra. I had even brought my own towel, carried my own bag up to my room, and had had absolutely no idea what to do with the little card with the magnetic strip they had given me downstairs, having to wait until an employee passed by to open my door.

Later that evening, I waited nervously in the lobby for Stavros. A woman sitting across from me looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her until she walked up to me, threw her arms around me, and gave me a hug.

“Tanaya, we met last year in Paris, at the Hôtel Costes. Remember? Claire?”

It suddenly came back to me. The Asian girl who wanted to befriend me and who Dimitri had later told me was a high-priced call girl.

“I’ve been in New York a lot recently, for business you know. I’ve seen you in the papers a few times. You sure have done well for yourself, although I’m not convinced about your goody-two-shoes thing.” She sneered. “So, what brings you to St. Tropez?”

“The AIDS fundraiser,” I said, adjusting the straps of my lemon-yellow chiffon gown, the one Pasha had made for me.

“Are you alone?” she asked, suddenly sweet. “I’ve been wanting to get into that event. Maybe I could come with? As you can see, I’m dressed for it.” She lifted up her hands and twirled around to show me her chocolate-colored gown covered with turquoise beads. For someone who had apparently no plans that evening, she certainly looked very nice.

“I was waiting around, you know, to see what turned up,” she said, an enigmatic smile on her face. “There are lots of bigwigs in town for this event, and a few of them will be needing some company. I can come with you, and maybe we can hook up with someone afterwards?”

“My agent is taking me,” I said, moving away. “I’m just waiting for him. So thank you, but no.”

The gold doors of the elevator opened that minute, and Stavros appeared through them, looking more handsome than ever in a tuxedo. Claire’s face lit up when she saw him.

“So
that’s
your handler,” she said, looking at him rather longingly. “Anyway, have a nice night, and maybe I’ll run into you again sometime.” She placed an icy kiss on my cheek.

 

A speedboat took us to a huge white yacht that sat serenely in the middle of the sea. It was a perfect night, cool and clear, like Mumbai right before monsoon season. Stavros held my hand and helped me off the boat and onto the floating palace, from where I could hear the sound of glasses clinking and piano keys tinkling and young women giggling. The yacht was owned by a software billionaire who had loaned it out to the charity for use that evening, and where guests had paid $5,000 each to dine on caviar and lobster medallions. Pasha, who had suddenly become my new best friend and had stopped talking about how pudgy I was, was hosting a table and had invited me, even paying for my airfare and hotel stay. Stavros insisted on coming along to chaperone me, for which I was immensely relieved.

“Ah, you made it. Welcome,” Pasha said, kissing me on both cheeks. “The dress looks divine on you, darling. You do me so very proud. Now, quick smile for the boys,” he said, twirling me around to face fourteen men with cameras. He placed me to his right at the table, a famous pop star he often dressed sat on his other side. Across from me was a rap artist who went by the name Baby Slut, and who was famous for the tiny, stublike dreadlocks pinched into his cropped hair and the sparkling sapphire embedded in one of his front teeth. He smiled at me as I sat down, the blue shine between his lips looking almost sinister. He put down his glass of champagne, heaved himself and all his gold accoutrements up from his seat, and came over, crouching down next to me.

“Hey, you the new model girl, yeah?” he asked, rubbing his pinky finger against mine, which I had read somewhere was known to be his particular mating call. “You look mighty fine. You wanna be my boo?”

Stavros, who was sitting next to me, diplomatically ushered Baby Slut back to his seat, turning my attention back to Pasha, who continued to pose congenially with me as the photographers circled the room. But as soon as the first course was being served and they were asked to leave, he stopped talking to me entirely.

“Sure I can’t tempt you with a glass of wine?” Stavros joked, his shoulder rubbing against mine, the smell of vetiver coming off his freshly shaved skin. “Are you at least having a nice time?”

“Yes, but only because you’re here.” I smiled back at him, suddenly feeling warm and grateful.

An endless silent auction and three speeches later, everyone got back onto the speedboats to be taken across to dry land. As we disembarked, clouds began gathering overhead, and we heard the rumble of thunder in the distance. It was past midnight, and there wasn’t a taxi in sight. The rain started coming down—a light sprinkling at first and then heavier drops. Stavros looked at me, helpless, trying to shield my head with his two hands as we raced back to the hotel on foot.

“Here,” he said, spotting something lying on the street. He bent over and picked up a large black, empty trash bag and hoisted it above us, his two arms like tent poles. We ran back to the hotel, giggling. As soon as we arrived at the revolving-door entrance, we stopped, resting against the cool brick wall for an instant and dispensing with our makeshift cover.

“You OK?” Stavros asked gently, mopping my wet arms with his handkerchief.

“Fine,” I said, staring at him, focusing on the droplets coming off his long eyelashes.

“That was quite an adventure,” he said, laughing. He stared back at me, the smile slowly disappearing from his face. The night suddenly felt heavy with wetness, the rustling of leaves from nearby trees the only sound we could hear apart from our own breathing. Stavros leaned in, put one arm around my waist, and drew me to him, first lightly kissing my moist cheek and then smoothly moving his lips on top of mine. This time, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t fight. I simply let my lips relax under his and enjoyed the closeness.

After a few seconds, while my eyes were still closed, he stopped.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I was overcome. It’s been quite a night. Forgive me.”

I nodded and said nothing. We silently went in through the revolving doors, me thinking about what I would say to him over croissants and coffee the next morning. Claire was sitting in the lobby, in the same place she had been hours earlier, but this time with a paunchy, well-dressed man, both of them swirling cognac in bulbous glasses. I knew she had seen me through the door because she smirked when we came in.

I was miss prissy-pants no more.

 

“You
kissed
him?! You frigging
kissed
him?!” Felicia screamed.

She was already waiting for me in the small lobby of my New York apartment building when I trudged in with my suitcase, looking as if she were about to explode. But she at least had the decency to wait until we were within the four walls of my apartment.

“What the crap were you thinking?!” she screamed again.

Felicia had received a call that morning from a tabloid editor with whom she was especially friendly. The editor had in turn received a call from one Claudine Chung, who had described herself as a Singaporean entrepreneur on business in the South of France who was willing to impart some scandalous information about me for a few hundred dollars.

“I thought I’d
never
have to worry about damage control with you!” Felicia shrieked. “But goddammit, of all the men to mess around with, you have to choose a married one!”

I dropped my suitcase.

“What? He didn’t tell you?” Felicia asked, seeing the stunned look on my face. “OK, he’s separated. But he’s still married, for heaven’s sake. To a hotel heiress at that. Do you know how that looks? A supposedly chaste celebrity smooching her married boss on a dark street in St. Tropez? What were you guys thinking? We’re building your whole career on how fabulously elusive and traditional you are, and then you pull something like this!”

Felicia had talked the editor friend out of running anything, promising a much bigger scoop later on.

“Look, you’re lonely. I get it,” she said. “But that agent of yours is going to hear from me, I promise you that. In the meantime, let’s figure something else out.”

Stavros called soon after Felicia left. He apologized—first for kissing me, then for doing it while married. I had not seen him after that night, as he had chosen to stay on for an extra day, I assumed because he didn’t want the awkwardness of being on a long flight with me.

“But why didn’t you tell me you had a wife?” I asked him, feeling ashamed, reminding myself that infidelity was a severely punishable offense in Allah’s eyes.

“Sometimes
I
forget that I’m married,” he said sheepishly. “We’ve not been together in years and just haven’t gotten around to getting divorced yet. But Felicia is right. That’s no excuse. It was stupid and irresponsible of me, and could have easily destroyed everything we’ve worked for. Please forgive me. Can we forget it happened—put it down to a being-overcome-by-the-moment thing?”

I was prepared to do just that.

Felicia, in the meantime, had decided it was time to go on the offensive.

Chapter Twenty

“Here’s the thing,” Felicia said, her face turning serious, a cigarette dangling between two fingers. “I don’t know how it is in your neck of the woods, but in these parts there’s no such thing as a naïve, socially inept supermodel. It’s an oxymoron. Understand?”