Bollywood Wives Read online

  Bollywood Wives

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue: Bollywood

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue: Bollywood

  Glossary

  A Letter From Alex

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Bollywood Wives

  Alex Khan

  To the Bollywood Wives in my life, Alison and Keshini, this wouldn’t have been possible without you both.

  And to all the stars, film makers and designers that have made Bollywood so amazing, always.

  Prologue: Bollywood

  Zara Das was nineteen when she saw Mumbai for the first time. The bus that brought her was dusty, cheap, packed. Mumbai was the same. And within seconds, she knew this was home. This was where she belonged. Among the dirt, the desperation and the dreams. Oh yes, the dreams. And Zara Das had the biggest dreams of them all. Desires that took her from her small provincial town, and led her to where she was now, standing on her twenty-seventh-floor balcony, watching the waters of the Arabian sea as they washed up against the bright golden sand. Palm trees added to the exoticism as they swayed on the horizon.

  She could easily pretend, as she let the heat of the sun warm her body, that it was her own bit of ocean. Her apartment building was prime location in Mumbai, with a view that guaranteed privacy from the millions of people that were thronging the streets just the other side of the residential complex.

  It was a decade since that wide-eyed innocent girl had stepped foot into the heaving mass of the city of stars. And now, aged twenty-nine, she was the brightest star in Bollywood. When the Indian heat abated that night, and the glitterati came out to play, it was to the premiere of Zara’s new movie that they would go. A beeline to the hottest ticket in town. Ironically, the threat to her life had only made her stock rise. They all wanted to be there tonight, just in case. Sycophants. They had watched her claw her way to the top, resenting every success she had had, this two-bit nobody who had come from the backwaters of India, to rule over them. They were probably licking their MAC-coated lips in anticipation, waiting for her to fall and implode. But they hadn’t counted on Zara. She had fought hard for this view. And as the breeze danced with the palm trees, hypnotically, and the ocean waters cast a haze where they met the sands, Zara knew she would do everything to hold onto this view. Or die trying.

  * * *

  Zara looked at her reflection in the mirror, making sure she had checked every last detail. She had dressed herself for the premiere, with only her maid, Shanti, a woman in her early fifties who had spent the last decade serving Zara faithfully, assisting her. The bitchy make-up and hair artists – mostly men – often hired to polish Zara always looked down on Shanti. The woman had never let her village modesty slip, always wearing plain sarees with her hair in a knot on her head, no make-up of her own. Just the morning vermillion dot on her forehead from her puja and the aroma of agarbatti incense sticks. Yet it was Shanti who Zara trusted most, more than any of the vacuous glamour pusses who were attracted by the sheer brightness of Zara’s star. Shanti had been through hell in life: born a mute, she had lived permanently in silence. A silence that hid the evil truths of her past.

  After giving herself a facial, she had sat down to paint her face using Zara X, her own make-up brand that made her more money than even her movies did. Zara had become famous as being the only actress that regularly did her own hair and make-up, and even designed her own clothes. They all lauded her creativity, but in reality, she was always thinking of her future, of her brand, ready to advertise the products and outfits she wore. Plus, the bitchy make-up artists liked to rub her face in the fact that she wasn’t from a rich or filmi background and always cast aspersions on her sophistication. Well, Zara was having the last laugh now, raking in the money from her trademark looks.

  She issued instructions to Shanti, telling her what she needed. Zara had gone against the subtle naked look she normally wore when out in public, ramping up the glamour quotient for the premiere. Her lips were clotted-blood red, her eyes rimmed with thick black kohl, touches of rose-gold along her cheekbones and shoulders. Her eyelids were magenta, with diamanté encrusted eyelashes and matching stones sparkling in her hair, which she had pulled back into a thick plait. Diamond earrings from Mouawad were the only jewellery she was wearing. It was her outfit that would get everyone talking though, and would fill the column inches tomorrow, her image splashed across the Internet within seconds of her arriving at the venue as every smartphone in the crowd took a shot of her. When Zara was finished, Shanti put a small dot of black kajal on her cheek, to ward off the evil eye. And she was definitely at risk of that.

  Those rich bitches of Malabar Hill who had looked down on her for years, the snobbish fashionista journalists who always said they could tell her breeding from her bad dress sense, and every armchair Internet troll who tore her to pieces online, while burning with envy at the price tags on her clothes, would all be left speechless tonight. In a coup fitting her superstar status, and bypassing her favourite Indian designer, Sabyasachi, for the night, Zara had been convinced by Laura Kim and Fernando Garcia, the heirs to Oscar de la Renta, to wear their first custom made saree. It was layers of white chiffon and silk, embroidered with real gold thread and finished with the same diamantés that were in her hair and eyelashes. It was her defence, keeping the eyes of the world on the outer shell, blinded by her battledress, so they didn’t see the real Zara Das, the chinks in her emotional armour. She had turned to her favourite Indian shoe designer, Anita Dongre, for her exclusive white and gold sandals, covered with more of the diamantés. Zara had known Dongre long before the Duchess of Cambridge made her internationally famous.

  Shanti handed Zara her iPhone X, in its exclusive Buccellati gold and diamond starburst cover, the left corner light flashing an alert. Social media messages. She should have switched them off today; cut herself off from the hatred. She couldn’t though; like some slow-motion accident, she was drawn into the drama and felt unable to stop herself. As she read the messages of hate, the threats to torture and kill her, she was rendered powerless, unable to move. She felt the very air sucked out of her lungs, her world suddenly small and brittle.

  Zara realised she was holding her breath, her fists clenched against her stomach, the image of herself in the mirror as false as a broken idol. The beautiful woman reflected back at her – this wasn’t her true self. The real Zara was lurking somewhere close, always lurking, waiting to drown and suffocate her. Ten years of dragging herself to the top, and now, they were trying to drag her down again.

  Zara opened the sliding doors in her bedroom and rushed to her balcony. She looked out at the water, suddenly menacing, purple-grey in the dark and fake lighting from the metropolis around her, the shadowy palm trees swaying like spectres. She closed her eyes, gripping the sides of the
balcony and counting backwards from a hundred, trying to control her breathing. Focus on the number, the breathing, just being. Let the anxiety go, let the darkness evaporate. Only the darkness wasn’t inside her, it was outside, and it was threatening to destroy her.

  * * *

  VJ was slouched in the living room, his dirty feet on the sofa that had been especially imported from Paris, like the rest of her lounge furniture. Zara had spent so long having to make do, that when she made it, she only wanted the best. Even if she couldn’t afford it. Luckily for her, Mumbai was full of men who would give a beautiful woman like her anything she wanted. Stupid pricks. And here was the dumbest prick of them all, she thought, looking at VJ cracking monkey nuts, bits of shell falling over her baroque-inspired couch and handmade rugs from Istanbul.

  ‘Get me some liquor,’ he shouted at Shanti. The maid bristled, she loathed VJ, but she tolerated him for Zara’s sake. Shanti shook her head, indicating there was no liquor. ‘What are you saying? I don’t understand you, you dumb cunt.’

  ‘Don’t speak to her like that. Shanti, get VJ some juice. There is no alcohol in the flat, I’m on a detox.’

  VJ looked Zara over, smirking. VJ was from a small village outside Hyderabad and had come to Mumbai to make his own fortune. Zara had met him in her early days, and they had together made their steady climb to the top. The only difference, he had replaced his burner phone and clipboard with an iPhone X and a tablet computer. He was still the slimy bastard he had been back then.

  ‘White again. Isn’t that fraud?’ he said bitterly, his eyes trailing her designer saree. ‘The virginal Queen of Bollywood. Fake. Like the diamonds in your hair.’

  She ignored him, thinking again that she desperately needed to get rid of him. He was becoming impossible, had been for years now. The more famous and rich she had become, the less she needed him. VJ knew this and clung to her like a leech. In his head lingered the secrets of Zara’s past and how she had gone from a girl who had run away from home with nothing to being the highest paid actress in Bollywood. And she knew he wasn’t afraid to use them against her.

  Zara had already put plans into place to deal with him. She had been in talks with Kavita Ruia, the hottest talent manager in India, to take over her management. Zara had received a contract, and she just needed to work out the legal details in such a way that VJ would be left unable to stop her in any way. What he did after that, Zara didn’t know.

  ‘You need to have a word with that bitch on security. She wouldn’t let me in. Said Zara Ma’am had forbidden anybody from coming up today. Zara Ma’am. “Madame” is more appropriate isn’t it? Stupid whore.’

  He looked directly at her as he threw out the Hindi word randi. Zara held his stare, her green eyes boring into his black ones full of hatred. He had lost his control, which made him angry and dangerous.

  ‘And yet here you are,’ Zara said bitterly.

  ‘I called her manager, had him tell the bitch to let me up. I still have my passkey to the flat anyway.’

  VJ clapped his hands, the debris from them falling onto her rug. He walked over to her. Zara froze as he approached, her heart hammering inside her head. She could smell nuts and cheap beer on his breath as he spoke into her face.

  ‘Pull a trick like that again, and you watch what tricks I can pull. You understand?’

  Zara stared at him, but didn’t respond. She didn’t trust herself to speak; fear would be laced into every word that came out, and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Not just him, but every man out there who thought they owned her. They were all the same: they saw her films, downloaded her pictures, read the gossip rags, and staked a claim. In moments like these she realised she had no one to turn to, no one to help her.

  They were interrupted by the clink of glass as Shanti came back with the juice. Her eyes bored into VJ, reading the situation, then turned to Zara, who nodded her head subtly to indicate she was ok. VJ laughed and kissed Zara on the cheek, his hands squeezing her waist as he did so. Zara wanted to scream, to pick up one of the heavy metal awards in her cabinet and crush his skull. Only she couldn’t. Not yet.

  ‘Your car is here, waiting to take you to the premiere.’

  ‘Are you coming with me?’ she managed, her voice a whisper.

  He looked at her with his empty eyes, snake’s eyes, unblinking, dead.

  ‘Not tonight,’ he said.

  She felt relief, then fear. VJ never passed up an opportunity to be at the centre of her success. Tonight was the premiere of her new movie, a biopic of the young queen who had helped lead the mutiny against the British. It was meant to be her big crossover breakthrough, the role that would get her movie an Oscar nomination which would lead to the Hollywood roles that only big names like Aishwarya Rai and Priyanka Chopra had managed so far. Only things hadn’t panned out that way, and instead it was the movie that was threatening to destroy her completely.

  VJ put on shades and escorted her to her front door.

  ‘Have a blast tonight,’ he said, smirking at her again.

  She felt herself go cold and wished there was more than just the see-through Oscar de la Renta saree covering her.

  * * *

  Zara trembled as she read the message, seated in the back of the white Mercedes taking her through the busy streets of Bandra. The premiere was happening at the Juhu PVR theatre, famous for its Bollywood openings. She felt her stomach tighten, and felt so small in this city of twenty-two million people.

  Zara looked at her phone screen, tracing the words with her fingers. Gone were the days of dead letter drops, paint daubed on walls, a physical intimidation needing a physical presence. Now, someone could be invisible and send their hatred and threats through the cloud, direct to the device that she kept close to her all day.

  She zoomed into the screen:

  I wonder what I would do if I only had moments to live. You don’t have to wonder, Zara.

  The threat was nothing new. Since the trailer of the song had been revealed, Zara had gone from being the nation’s sweetheart to being the most demonised woman in the country. And then an insider leaked the entire song online. All it had taken to undo the hard work of ten painful years was five minutes and thirty-six seconds.

  She pressed the intercom and told her chauffeur to take a longer route. She needed time to compose herself. Zara had slowly removed VJ’s henchmen from her life over the years, one by one. VJ had created hell, threatened to expose her, but she had called his bluff. She knew he was saving his ammunition for some other day. She instead hired her own staff, all of them women, including her driver tonight, a single mother with five kids and an elderly mother to feed.

  Zara didn’t know why this new message stood out. She had been trolled on Twitter and Facebook, had been parodied mercilessly on YouTube; there were Instagram accounts dedicated to slating her. One particular website had videos showing images of Zara with cello tape across her mouth which ended with her being burned alive. This had been a misfire though. It had led to feminists across the country taking up for her, angered by the idea that she was being told to keep quiet.

  Despite the feminist protests and backlash against the video of mutilation, the campaign of hatred had continued on social media. Only Zara wasn’t going to give in to the threats and hide away. She had worked too hard and gone through too much hardship to lose it all now. And she would do anything to stop that happening. Anything.

  * * *

  The flashes were bright, the voices deafening as her Mercedes stopped at the red carpet. The cinema security had told her not to risk doing her usual long walk up into the theatre, but to park her car right at the entrance so she would only be exposed for a few seconds at most. She was told not to stop for photographs and autographs, not to be her normal self.

  Zara looked out at the throng of faces and felt relief. Her fans hadn’t deserted her; she wasn’t over, not for them. The young girls screaming her name, wanting selfies with her, the ones who bought her make-up, p
erfume, and clothes. The ones who followed her Instagram and watched her YouTube tutorials on how to recreate her looks. They were all still there, what did they care about the misogynistic campaign against her?

  Still, they weren’t enough to sustain her career. She knew that too. Once she had enough fame and power, Zara made sure that the women she played were tough, independent, not like the mother she had grown up with, happy to stay under her husband’s thumb. No, she was speaking for the women of India today. Educated, hard-working, successful. They could be housewives or CEOs, but the bottom line was that not a single one of them would be abused, physically or mentally. And that was always the message.

  That’s why Zara was the reigning queen. She made sure her films were for women and about women, but put in enough sex appeal to get the men horny and into the cinema, and then she punched them in the face with her social messages mid-jerk.

  And it was for the men that she had done the item song. The irony wasn’t lost on her, as they were the ones who had reacted most against it. Hypocritical bastards. An onslaught had followed in the press and across the Internet, protestors on the streets burning effigies of her. Men with placards, saying she had tarnished the reputation of the nation’s heroine, demanding her death, while still probably jerking off to her pictures on a regular basis. She had seen the images on the web, her face digitally remastered onto porn actresses’ bodies. Zara had been disgusted at first, and then let it go. The men came in more ways than one, and as long as that meant her films were cashing in at the box office, she chose to ignore the obviously faked snuff.

  The girls screaming her name weren’t enough though. Women, men, young, old. She needed them all. To make it you had to appeal to everyone, producers needed to bank on you to bring in the masses. Hundreds of movies were released every year, only a few made money, and less still made the big bucks. Zara’s films had done just that. Now though, producers were all terrified, scared of being tarnished with the same infamy that was following her around.