Bollywood Superstar Read online

  A Total-E-Bound Publication

  www.total-e-bound.com

  Bollywood Superstar

  ISBN #978-0-85715-694-5

  ©Copyright Justine Elyot 2011

  Cover Art by Posh Gosh ©Copyright September 2011

  Edited by Janice Bennett

  Total-E-Bound Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Total-E-Bound Publishing.

  Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Total-E-Bound Publishing. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.

  The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.

  Published in 2011 by Total-E-Bound Publishing, Think Tank, Ruston Way, Lincoln, LN6 7FL, United Kingdom.

  Warning: This book contains sexually explicit content which is only suitable for mature readers. This story has a heat rating of Total-e-sizzling and a sexometer of 1.

  Bollywood

  BOLLYWOOD SUPERSTAR

  Justine Elyot

  Dedication

  To all the wonderful women at Total-E-Bound.

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Dictaphone: Dictaphone Corporation

  Formica: Formica Corporation

  Jacuzzi: Jacuzzi Hot Tubs, Inc.

  Leicester Mercury: Daily Mail and General Trust

  Like a Virgin: Madonna

  Max Factor: Max Factor and Co.

  Technicolor: Technicolor Motion Picture Corporation

  Chapter One

  Tiny bells jingled around Jas’ waist as she gave a graceful twirl, arms arched over her head, hands cupped to make a lotus shape in the air.

  “So what do you think? Will I knock Ajay Amir’s socks off?”

  Silence greeted her question. She held the pose a moment longer before breaking it and flapping a hand beneath Krishnan’s nose.

  “Krish? Earth to Krish.”

  He looked up from the receipts he had been studying too closely to be genuine, eyebrows hiked, lips firmly set.

  “I don’t get why you’re entering this contest,” he said. “When they find out you aren’t Indian, they’ll disqualify you.”

  “They won’t find out. Look at me. I look like Kareena Kapoor.”

  It was true. Jasmine Wyatt, despite her very white heritage and minuscule drop of Mediterranean blood, resembled her Bollywood icon more closely than most of the Asian girls in the neighbourhood. Her head of glossy, blue-black hair was tied back in an elaborate plait for the purposes of the audition, highlighting her creamy, coffee skin, sparkling almond-shaped eyes half-drowned in mascara, and sensual lips.

  “You look like Kareena Kapoor after a collision with Max Factor,” sniped Krishnan. “How much lip gloss? Did you leave any for the rest of Leicester?”

  “You don’t want me to succeed, do you?” Jas pouted and thrust out a hip so the layers of diaphanous silkiness that made up her skirt shifted and stroked her thighs.

  “You can’t keep the masquerade up forever. Besides, why do you think white girls can’t apply? Isn’t that racist or something?”

  “It didn’t say. I just think I stand a better chance if they think I’m Indian. I’m Jasmeena today, not Jasmine. And I’m borrowing your surname.”

  “I hope people don’t think you’re any relation of mine.”

  “Aww, Krish.” Jas leaned on the counter so the fountain of tiny gold coins that constituted her bikini-style top clattered down on its Formica surface. “You almost are my family. My big brother.”

  “Are you going? I’ve got shelves to stack.”

  “Your empire to run.” Jas wheeled around dramatically, opening her arms to encompass the rows of tins and packets and bottles that made up the thriving corner shop. “Your fortune to make, big bro,” she said.

  And that was all he could be, despite the crush she’d had on him for the several years she’d been working in the shop. He’d never marry a white girl. He was too traditional. Come to that, he’d probably never marry. He was far too busy running his clutch of grocery shops to indulge in frivolities like dating. What a horrible waste of a handsome man.

  “So where’s Sunya?” he asked, lugging a boxful of packet rice from the storeroom. “You’ll need to get going soon, won’t you? What time’s the audition?”

  “We have to be there at three. But I’m going alone. Sunya’s ill. I’ll just have to get the train.”

  Krishnan unbent his spine, drawing himself to his full, impressive height, and jabbed a long finger at his assistant.

  “Like that? You’re taking the train to Nottingham dressed like something out of the pages of the Kama Sutra? Oh no, Jas, I don’t think so.”

  Jas stared at Krishnan, his presumption provoking conflicting emotions of indignation and excitement.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “If I’m going to be your big brother, I should act like one. You can’t have it both ways.”

  “Krishnan, I’m going to this audition and you aren’t going to stop me.”

  “No. But I’m driving you there.”

  He put a hand on her shoulder, steering her towards the door and fishing for his mobile phone at the same time.

  “What about the shop?” She watched him change the sign from ‘Open’ in six languages to ‘Closed’.

  “I’ll call Ashok. He can cover until we get back. I’ll just have to close up until he gets here.”

  “There’s really no need, I can—”

  “No, you can’t.” He pointed a key ring, eliciting a bleep from a sleek, silver car parked across the street. “Come on.”

  What Krishnan missed out on in terms of the playboy lifestyle, he made up for with its accoutrements. His car was an expensive sports model, upholstered in luxury fabrics with a top-of-the-range entertainment system on the dash. Jasmine had been in it before, but she never tired of the smell of wealth once the doors were closed—an aroma she rarely encountered in her life.

  Krishnan sniffed the air as the key turned in the ignition and the engine started up its moneyed purr.

  “What’s that perfume you’re wearing? Or rather, it’s wearing you. I might have to open the windows.”

  “It’s cold,” complained Jas as the glass buzzed down an inch, letting in the brisk October air.

  “Maybe you could consider wearing something then,” came Krishnan’s unsympathetic reply.

  “I am wearing something.” Jas looked down, rather guiltily, at her bare midriff with its delicate gold chains looping from her pierced navel.

  “Barely,” he muttered, turning left onto Belgrave Road.

  “You don’t think I should be a Bollywood star, do you?”

  Krishnan sighed heavily. “Better than being a footballer’s wife, I suppose.”

  “It’s nothing like being a footballer’s wife! Do you see them as being on a par?”

  “Isn’t it all about the shiny things and the adulation?”

  “No! Maybe for the footballers’ wives. But to be a Bollywood star you have to work really hard. You know how many years I’ve been doing Bollywood dance classes! You kno
w the hours I put in.”

  “I know you are talented and you work hard, yes. I just think these dreams of riches and fame and all that are a bit…silly.”

  “But you dream of riches. Why else would you slave away from six till ten every day of the week?”

  “When I get my riches, Jas, I’ll know I’ve earned them.”

  “Krish!” She wanted to grab his wrist in that chunky gold watch and wrench it from the steering wheel, force him to listen properly to her, to give her some respect. But that would be a bit dangerous, so she didn’t.

  “Besides,” said Krishnan, obviously feeling he’d gone too far and needed to do something to silence the angry rattle of Jasmine’s bangles. “Who will make the mango lassi if you go to Mumbai?”

  “I’ll leave you my secret recipe,” said Jas, marginally mollified.

  “I hope you do. Those are my biggest earners. The best lassi in town. Half of Leicester will go into mourning if they can’t buy them anymore.”

  “Hmm.”

  Jasmine folded her goose-pimpling arms and hugged herself as they left behind the urban streets and headed for the open countryside.

  Looking sideways at Krishnan, she wondered what he was thinking. His lazy-lidded eyes rarely gave anything away. What did he really think of her? It was true they were different personalities, but so were Kareena and her co-star Shahid in Jab We Met.

  Oh, what did it matter? It wasn’t Krishnan’s attention she needed to hook now. It was Ajay Amir’s—Bollywood’s premier heart-throb, the go-to guy for any role requiring a bare-chested scene, the man whose severe and beautiful profile had gazed down at her from her bedroom wall since she had first started watching the movies.

  She settled back into a daydream, imagining herself capturing his heart, winning the talent show final, flying with him back to Mumbai where they would be the golden couple, attending every premiere, acting opposite each other in every romantic comedy…

  Then they would marry—she conveniently glossed over any awkwardness that might transpire when he found out she was Jasmine Wyatt, not Jasmeena Khan—and on their wedding night…hmm, how would that be?

  As the fields and farms flew past the window, Jas placed herself in the centre of a huge four-poster bed, lying naked on its satin sheets while Ajay dripped champagne onto her sheenily moisturised skin, licking up the frothing beads where they fell.

  “My Jasmeena,” he murmured, his luscious, full lips kissing their way to her throat. “My goddess. Let me teach you the arts of love.”

  She quivered, melting into his touch, parting her legs for him.

  “Show me how it is done, Ajay.” Should she pretend to be a virgin? No, he was a man of the world. He wouldn’t fall for that. “My other lovers knew nothing of a woman’s body,” she improvised. “Beneath your hand, I am new.” Segue into song and dance routine based on Madonna’s Like a Virgin. No! This was a sex fantasy, not a script. Scratch the singing.

  Instead, he would tumble her into a passionate kiss, rolling around the bed with her until the satin was well-rumpled before holding her down and gliding into her… But no. There should be foreplay. Long and sweet and slow. Perhaps he would finger her, discovering each fold of her intimate hideaway, bringing her almost to her peak then letting it die away before teasing her again. Or he would lick her, washing her thoroughly with his tongue, or maybe she would get close to the hefty bulge she had seen in his films and actually be able to touch it, or kiss it or take it into her mouth… What would he be like in bed? Suavely alpha-dominant, she was sure, but brought by her to his knees, to a place of worship and adoration. The steam would rise from their bodies and they would spend the night in every contortion imaginable until their skins were wet and their limbs leaden with exhaustion…

  “I said, where’s the studio?”

  “Oh…Lenton. Hang on.” She scrabbled in her bag for the printout with the audition details on it. “Yeah. Next junction.”

  Inside the studio building, it was as if a million rainbows had merged together to create an infinity of rich colour. Vast hordes of girls in saris and shalwar kameez of every hue, as well as more Westernised glamourwear, ran around the foyer and into the waiting rooms, while a much smaller contingent of high-cheekboned boys in bandanas grouped together, watching the females flutter and jingle past.

  “You’ve got competition,” said Krishnan dryly, struggling with Jas up to the reception desk to check in.

  “What’s your name?” The receptionist had to shout over the din of improvised song and dance routines in the vicinity.

  “Jasmeena Khan.”

  She watched as pages of names were checked before hers was finally crossed.

  “Okay, do you have your tape for us?”

  She handed over a cassette.

  “And what’s the number?”

  “It’s Bebo from Kambakkht Ishq.”

  “Lovely. Find yourself a seat and take this number. You’ll be called when they’re ready for you.”

  Jas looked around intently, as if expecting Ajay Amir to pass through. Of course, he would be in the studio now. But he is in the building. The same building as me. The knowledge tipped her into the same giddy frame of mind that seemed to be infecting everybody else in the room. She took a seat.

  “Hi,” said the beautiful girl in the turquoise and silver sari next to her. “I’m Anjali. Are you from here, too?”

  “No, Leicester. I’m Jasmeena, this is my brother, Krishnan.”

  “Krishnan, enchantée,” said Anjali.

  The girl’s flirtatious bat of the eyelashes instantly put Jas on the defensive. Pretentious idiot! As if Krish would be taken in by that!

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Krishnan, extending a hand urbanely.

  “Are you both auditioning?”Anjali wondered.

  “No, just me,” said Jas, chin thrust forward in defiance. “Krish is just here because he has nothing better to do.”

  The little barb struck him where she had hoped it would.

  “I’m here as your chaperone, Jas. To take care of you.”

  “What a lovely brother,” breathed Anjali. She leant down to whisper in her ear, “Is he married?”

  “Yes,” Jas whispered back, irritated still further. To his shops.

  A girl with a clipboard appeared at the top of the stairs, and a great hush descended over the foyer as she opened her mouth ready to shout.

  “Everyone numbered one hundred to one hundred and twenty, upstairs now, please.”

  Jas checked her ticket—one hundred and fifteen. Anjali’s was one hundred and eleven, to Jasmine’s annoyance, so the pair of them made for the staircase together.

  “Aren’t you going to wish me luck?” Jas asked Krishnan, her tone petulant.

  “Good luck,” he said neutrally. “To both of you.”

  Huh! What has she done to deserve his good wishes? She’s a complete bloody stranger. He’d better not fancy her. I bet he does, though.

  She shook her head on the way up the stairs, attempting to dislodge by physical means her annoyance with Krishnan. She should not think about him. Think about Ajay Amir. Visualise his eyes fixed on you, his chest rising and falling as he watches your routine, his mouth watering, his heart pounding.

  “I can’t believe we’re going to meet Ajay Amir, can you?” said Anjali at the top of the stairs.

  “I’ve loved him since I was thirteen,” agreed Jas.

  “And Ranjit Dhaliwal from Filmfare, of course. But I’m a bit scared of him. He’s such a biting critic.”

  “I suppose they need their Simon Cowell,” said Jas nervously.

  “But I especially want to meet Priti Mehra. What a legend. I’ve seen all her films.”

  “She’s brilliant. I wish she hadn’t retired. How old was she? Thirty-five, thirty-six?”

  “I know, it was a sad day.”

  Jas followed Anjali to a row of plastic chairs in a hallway and used nervy chatter to try to defuse the sudden vice-like clamp in her chest.
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  They talked in a brittle kind of way about their routines and their favourite films until Anjali’s number was called and she stood, smoothing down her skirts and taking a deep breath.

  “Wish me luck,” she whispered.

  Jas felt it would be mean-spirited of her not to, despite the girl’s earlier designs on Krishnan, so she gave her the thumbs-up and watched her swish along the hallway to the star-decorated door at the end.

  When she came out, five minutes later, a man with a camera was chasing her along the hallway, accompanied by a famous soap opera actress with a microphone.

  “She’s either very good or very bad,” the man next to Jas whispered. “Otherwise they wouldn’t bother.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Jas watched as Anjali took a seat farther down the corridor on the opposite side. Her words carried on the air to Jas’ ears, sounding confident and unforced.

  “I think I did okay. I couldn’t look at Ajay, though, I was just too starstruck. He was very kind, and Priti asked me where I studied dancing. She seemed to like my performance. I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see, though.”

  All too soon, Jas’ number was called and she held her head high, tinkling along the corridor and pushing aside the starred door.

  “Good luck,” said the cameraman who stood just inside it.

  She was only capable of half-muttering thanks, overwhelmed by the sudden reality of sharing room-space with three Bollywood icons.

  “Hello,” said Priti Mehra kindly. “Come on in.”

  Jas tiptoed forward, facing the long table behind which they all sat. Ajay in the flesh was dazzling, his skin so perfect, his teeth so gleaming, his eyes so dark and stormy…

  She swallowed.

  “I’m sorry, this is a very great honour…”

  “Don’t apologise,” said Ajay with a blinding smile, those rich, smooth tones pouring into her ear directly from his mouth instead of via celluloid.