It felt good to have her so near him. His arm itched to open itself and gather her to him, like he’d done the day before at the hospital, but he couldn’t. She wouldn’t allow it, possibly. This wasn’t the beaten and forlorn Megha. No, this here was his warrior girl. Not only was she battling cancer and the aftermath of chemo, she was also putting up with the womenfolk of his family. That alone would be enough to recommend her for sainthood.
His step had faltered when he’d come in, seeing her lying there on the sofa with his sisters, dressed the same as them, as if she belonged completely in this setup. A part of his family. The girls seemed to adore her, and so did his mother—she’d told him downstairs how much she liked the young woman sleeping above in one of their numerous guest bedrooms. She had praised Megha’s perfect manners and genuine heart, and in a way, it had felt like the compliments had been bestowed on him rather than her. Because he was the one who had brought her here. At the time, it had seemed like the best thing to do, but as the day had gone by, he hadn’t been able to hide from the truth.
He’d wanted her there—a part of him had needed to see how she would fit in his world. If only … But there wouldn’t be any of that, would there? Megha tolerated him at best. Who was he to even imagine that a strong, beautiful woman like her would ever look at the empty husk of a man he was?
But this, having her this close, he’d take it. He wouldn’t get more, and he’d resigned himself to that. People thought things had come easy for him, but they hadn’t. Yes, he was rich, with a family name that would open even the doors of Buckingham Palace simply through being spoken at the gates. Poor little rich boy, they’d say. But rich boys had feelings, too. They were people, as well. People with very common yearnings and needs. Like the love of a good woman … You didn’t choose love; it chose you. Bloody hell that he’d had this slammed into him this way. He seemed to have everything, except for her.
As she squirmed next to him, he directed his attention back on her. Wrong move—if he tilted his head just so, he would be able to touch her lips with his. He still remembered how cracked and dry they had seemed last night, and upon that sight, he had prompted her to swallow some warm water he’d dribbled into her mouth. She’d had a light fever, too, not enough to warrant medical attention, but Siobhan, the nurse, had told him this could happen. So he’d kept watch, bathing her face with a cool cloth until the fever had appeared to break and she’d fallen into a deep sleep.
She hadn’t given any indication she knew he’d been there, and this was just as well. No one but Carson was aware he’d spent the night in her room, the faithful butler being the one who had supplied the water and linens throughout those long hours he’d kept vigil by her bedside. Try as he’d wanted—he’d known it was wrong, stalker-ish even—he hadn’t been able to pull himself from that chair and leave her side. He hadn’t wanted her to be alone. And good thing he’d stayed, because she shouldn’t have been left on her own. Nausea and vomiting had plagued her, despite the meds they’d given her at the hospital. Guess they had run their course. Megha wouldn’t have been able to hold herself together in her state. Even dry-retching appeared to take so much out of her, energy she simply didn’t have.
What must she be going through?
He ached to make it right. True, the plight of those suffering had always saddened him, but never like this. Lars’ words returned to haunt him—because this time, it’s someone you know. This time, it was someone he cared about, and even loved. The get-together today with the company that would provide the ovum and sperm storage for the clinic had been utter hell. For the first time, he who’d been used to nights and nights of no sleep had had a hard time keeping his shit together during the day after a sleepless night. The meeting had even lasted well into the afternoon, when it should’ve been wrapped up by noon. His mind hadn’t been there but here, with her.
“It’s not making much sense to you, is it?” she asked softly, close to his ear.
He blinked, shattering out of his thoughts, and offered a non-committal grunt. No, he did not understand how he had fallen for her so fast and so completely.
“They have a rocky start, but they wade those waters and end up falling in love,” she continued.
“Huh?”
A small giggle left her throat. “Jaspenor.”
Oh, that. She was talking about the show. He focused his attention on her, shifting a little to his left so his shoulder would burrow more into the cushion and thus allow him to better see her.
A gentle smile graced her beautiful face. Seemed like this silly show was taking her attention off her post-chemo woes. A quick glance at the tray now on the side ottoman showed him a bitten piece of toast, the spoon next to the clear broth bowl wet and glistening with some of the fat from the soup. So she’d eaten something, at least. Good. Could he try to make her better? He so wanted to engage with her, but didn’t have a clue how. Around her, he became a bumbling school boy, light years from the smooth and sophisticated society lad he could be everywhere else.
Then it struck him. He nodded at the screen. “You watch this thing?”
“One of my faves, yes.”
Finally, kindling for some conversation. “What is that whole Jaspenor thing even about?”
“Shh!” hissed his sisters.
Megha laughed again, softly, then tilted her head towards him. “So, she’s the princess, all right? He is her bodyguard. Later on, they find out he is no bodyguard at all but in fact an American con artist who came here to literally steal the family jewels.”
“And he’s blackmailing her for sex?” He remembered Tindra saying that.
“At first, yes. He made a sex tape so she’d keep sleeping with him, otherwise he would leak it out.”
“And they end up falling in love, anyway?” Sounded like Stockholm syndrome to him so far.
“Yes, because he ends up telling her there’d been no tape. He’d just wanted her.”
“She forgave him?”
Megha nodded. “She also forgave him for sleeping with her mother, the queen, once.”
At this, he had to blink. “He cheated on her?”
“He had no choice. Her Majesty’s orders, you see.”
“Yeah, right. And this is supposed to be an epic love story?”
“Shh!” hissed someone.
“Because he repented, Magnus. He fell so totally for her that he gave up everything else for her. All he wanted was a second chance to prove to her that her love had made him better, had changed him. That he would do anything for her.”
He’d had strings of affairs, loads of one-night stands, a slew of female friends, most of them with benefits. Still, he’d never understood love. Because he’d never been in love before?
“And that’s all it takes? That you would do anything for this person?” he asked.
She frowned. “I think … every woman wants this. At least, a part of her wants this. To be loved like that.”
“And you? What do you want?”
The question had left his lips before he’d been able to think it through. Damn.
She stared up at him for a long time, and then, she nodded. “To be loved like that, yes.”
“You say it like it’s a pipe dream.”
A snort escaped her. “I’m not betting on it, no.”
“Why not?”
“Because …”
When she let the word dwindle, something in him knew he shouldn’t pry more. Her face had darkened, her gaze growing faraway.
Right there and then, he wanted to tell her that he loved her. He wasn’t sure if he’d go to the lengths of Jaspenor to win her favour, but he wanted to do whatever was in his power to make her better, to make her happy.
But this wasn’t the time, nor the place. It would have to be a hushed declaration, yes, but not with his three sisters and his mother less than a foot away.
“You’ll always have my friendship, you know,” he said softly.
She remained silent for a while, then she smiled up at him. It seemed sad, but he couldn’t be sure. What he did know was that she was getting tired and overtaxing herself. Her eyes were sinking into their sockets, her dark circles becoming more pronounced. She should rest.
He shuffled on the sofa, and suddenly, her head lowered onto his shoulder. Seconds later, he could hear her breathing slowing and growing steady. She had fallen asleep.
The others hadn’t noticed. He should get up and take her to her bed.
But the feel of her against him proved too blissful. Her soft, warm breaths tickled the sensitized skin of his neck every time she exhaled. As he focused on that rhythmic pattern, he found his eyes closing, too, and he gave in.
When he next blinked his eyes open, it was to find the room bathed in the glow from the screen and everyone else fast asleep where they had nodded off on the sofa. Megha still slept close to him, now burrowed into his side—in his sleep, his arm had come up to wrap around her and tuck her to him.
What time was it? As he glanced around, the scene playing out on the TV caught his attention. Jaspenor again, in what appeared to be stone tunnels. It seemed the Jasper bloke was breaking up with the princess, telling her she was too good for him. Rather than slap him for that nonsense, Eleanor told him that she wasn’t too good for him but actually perfect for him.
And that’s when he got it. Princess Eleanor was as much bodyguard Jasper’s weakness as she was his strength.
Maybe he should really look into this pairing for love to finally make sense.
A peek at his watch showed him it was well into the early hours of morning. He should put Megha to bed—she needed her rest more than anything. So he shuffled away, gently so as not to wake her, then stood and pulled her with delicate reverence into his arms. Even in the dimness, he could see that the back of her hand where the I.V. needles had gone in had turned a battered blue, the veins of her forearm having taken on a sickly dark hue. They’d pushed poison into her through those veins, no wonder.
With light steps, he made it out of the sitting room, down the spiral staircase, and through the corridor to her room. He held her to him with one arm as he smoothed the bed sheets with the other, then softly deposited her onto the mattress and tucked her in. For good measure, he went in search of the basin in the bathroom and placed it by her bedside on the small table he dragged from the corner.
For a moment, Magnus stayed there and watched her. He refused to think how creepy this could appear, but he wanted nothing but the best for her.
Truth be told, it was starting to look as if Megha Saran was as much his strength as his weakness. And so be it. Because even though she was perfect for him, she was also way too good for the likes of him.
He couldn’t saddle her with everything he was—was not sounded more like it. But he could be her friend. And this, he would never relinquish.
***
A cacophony of sounds tore Megha from her sleep. Before she could situate herself, the breath whooshed out of her as something heavy landed with a plop on her bed. More oomph noises followed as other people joined the fray.
She peeled her eyes open to find the three Trammell sisters sprawled out on the mattress around her.
“Let me look!” one of them said. It sounded like Tindra.
Indeed, Agneta had something in her hands and which she kept away from the others’ grasp.
“Out! Let her rest!” came Magnus’ deep voice as he waltzed into the bedroom.
Her eyes could suddenly only register that he was dressed in boxer shorts and an old Linkin Park T-shirt. She’d been seeing him in suits, or with the jacket off and the shirt sleeves rolled up, lately, a far cry from the man she still recalled meeting at the Kensington flat not so long ago. It didn’t seem like the same person—as if by cutting his long hair, and getting rid of the man bun in the process, Magnus had shed his old persona and started to morph into a different, more fully-realized man.
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport. And it’s already past noon, Sleeping Beauty,” Agneta said in Megha’s direction.
“She had chemo less than forty-eight hours ago,” he countered.
Agneta whipped her head around to her. “But you’re better, right? I still say you best get out of bed and get moving, take your mind off everything.”
“And this is the perfect reason,” Tindra said as she swooped in and snatched the magazine from her older sister’s hands.
“Give that back, I wasn’t done!”
To this, Tindra stuck her tongue out and then started to read aloud.
As her words registered in Megha’s mind, she began to figure out what this was all about. Goodness, no. It had caught up with them. She had completely forgotten about the article.
“That was today?” she managed to croak.
Magnus sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The locks were so short, it didn’t appear he’d even ruffled them.
She missed his longer hair, and God help her, the man bun. It had suited him.
“It slipped my mind,” he said. “The magazine sent the proof a few days back, but with all that was happening, I forgot.”
A few weeks ago, they had sat together in the private viewing room at the Daimsbury Trammell’s shop with a reporter from a glossy with a huge feminine readership. There had been a photographer along, who had snapped candid pics of the two of them as well as formal shots that were supposed to grace the article about Magnus’ initiative and how the fertility clinic was tying in with his family’s company outreach program. Thank goodness it had been scheduled a few days before her chemo cycle—she had looked rather human back then, and some makeup had done the trick.
“Hey, it’s even online on their site,” Elin said from where she had sat up with an iPad in her hands. “Getting a lot of hits, too.”
Megha blinked. What had they gotten involved in? All this had seemed like the right thing to do back when he’d approached her and after her terrible experience getting her eggs frozen. But had they really thought it through? She’d never pondered how this would shine a spotlight on her, on them.
Tindra was reading the article aloud, even changing her voice when she got to Magnus’ lines or hers. Drat, did she sound so much like a husky-toned but posh cow? People often told her she had the BBC accent, but if Tindra had coined her right, she should do something to change that, ASAP. She must sound horrible.
The further the girl read, the more Megha cringed. Because she had spewed empty platitudes and polite drivel throughout the conversation. There’d been the apprehension of the interview, yes, but she’d wanted to come across as calm and composed. She appeared nothing short of a robot now.
“You did good, you two,” Tindra finally said as she finished reading.
A snort escaped Megha.
Agneta smiled at her. “Not bad at all for a first time in front of the camera and that dreaded dragon. You’ll do better next time.”
Yes, there would be a next time. What had she gotten embroiled in? She wasn’t cut for this. The Trammells came into this world under the spotlight; they knew from their very first steps how to deal with being in the public eye.
“Ooh, wait. Someone’s commented on how chummy you and Magnus look, Megha,” Elin piped up, her head still directed towards the tablet, finger scrolling the screen. “And it’s getting picked up by other people, too.” She looked up then. “Something you two are not telling us?”
Megha blinked. Wait, what? She shook her head, suddenly too shy to glance at Magnus. He’d told her yesterday he was her friend, and that was just it. She might’ve yearned for something more at some point, but that’s what they were. Friends.
“That must’ve gotten misconstrued,” he said after a while.
See? He was dotting the ‘i’s. There was nothing else but friendship between them.
Her heart clenched at this reckoning, but she pinched her lips and forced a smile onto her face. “People will read everything they want in a picture.”
Elin and Agneta were watching them with their heads cocked, as if they didn’t really believe any part of their spiel. Tindra, thank God, had her head buried in the magazine.
Awkward, but even weirder was her still being here. She had definitely overstayed her welcome now, waking up two days in a row in their house.
“What time is it?” she asked as she pushed the covers away and made to get up.
“One o’clock on Saturday afternoon,” Tindra said without looking up.
A gasp escaped Megha. She’d overslept, again. High time she got back home. “Can you tell me where my clothes are? I should get going—”
“Nuh-uh. No can do, sweetie. You’re having lunch, then we have the stylists coming throughout the afternoon so we can choose our gowns for the gala,” Agneta said.
Megha reared back. Gala? What on earth was she talking about? Before she’d realized what she’d done, she found her gaze on Magnus. He looked back, and must’ve made out the confusion in her as he shrugged and gave a small smile.
“The Trammell gala is in two weeks. Every three years, Nammy hosts it, with some pieces from our private collection of jewels put on auction for a worthy cause.” He paused. “This year, she has included the fertility clinic in the list of charities.”
“Meaning you have to be there, being the face of the endeavour and all that,” Tindra chimed as she threw the magazine away and jumped to her feet. “Come on, I can’t wait to see what they’ve brought!”
“And you can’t say no!” Agneta added. “Wait ’til you hear where the gala is taking place. Blenheim Palace!”
Megha gasped. “That’s—”
“Where they shoot The Royals! I know, right? So you can’t say no! When else would you get to visit this place? They’ll even let us use the tunnels where Jaspenor meets in the show!”
This sealed the deal for her. In her everyday life, she would never get to set foot in a place like that. The park and general visiting rooms, yes, sure. But the state rooms where lofty-enough folks could entertain? She’d never be on those guest lists. She’d love to see where her favourite show was shot.
Before she could blink, Megha found herself being pushed into the bathroom, a shower being run for her by Tindra. Agneta had disappeared, Elin shooing Magnus out, then the two sisters returned as she was under the spray of the hot water, too dazed to really stand her ground. These women would run over a herd of stampeding buffaloes and still emerge unscathed, it appeared to her.
Mortification grabbed her as Tindra whipped her towel off once she’d returned to the bedroom, leaving her naked as the day she’d been born in the middle of the space. She’d always been self-conscious about her body, but now, without her breasts and with all the scars, embarrassment flamed on her cheeks and made her lower her gaze. They were Swedish, she recalled—that nationality seemed to have no problem with nakedness. Still, what would they say when they saw what she’d become?
But strangely enough, the girls said nothing. Instead, Agneta was pushing down a halter-neck top with surprising gentleness over her head while Elin ran around her tying a wrap-around skirt onto her lower belly. Only after that did she offer underwear, a silk and lace thong that still had its tag attached to it.
Whose clothes were these?
“I am so never gonna get back into my pre-baby clothes again,” Agneta wailed.
This allowed Megha to put two and two together—she’d been wearing Agneta’s garments all this time. And judging by the looks of things, the ankle-length skirt on her would probably be a mid-calf affair on the tall, leggy blonde.
“Come on. Lunch for you, then we try on the clothes,” Tindra said as all three of them steered her out of the room. Strangely, they didn’t offer any shoes or slippers. Nobody seemed to wear shoes in this house.
Easier to go with the flow and not put up any resistance. Goodness, she’d thought her Indian relatives pushy and over-enthusiastic. Guess she hadn’t counted on Swedish-British women being fair competition for all that madness and drama.
Lunch turned out to be hot soup in a cosy dining room adjacent to the big kitchen. Then, across the maze of staircases she discovered inside the house, they all ended up in a gigantic room in which the windows opened onto the street outside. They’d be able to fit the restaurant, its kitchen, and her father’s flat inside this space without problem. Once again, the thick rug, stuffed furniture, and gilt-etched walls and mouldings echoed the rest of the house’s décor.
Megha hadn’t known what to expect, but she sure hadn’t been expecting this. A procession of clothes racks was wheeled into the room—it appeared there were two racks for each girl and their mother, and that was just the dresses. Accessories and shoes came from other ginormous display cases.
Surprisingly, there were two racks of clothes waiting for her, as well. Bafflement more than joy filled her, and this all went up in smoke when a tiny old woman stomped into the room.
“You started without me,” she railed.
Tindra leapt up to wrap her arms around the diminutive creature. “Nammy!”
Agneta reached for her on the other side. “Nammy, you’re the one who’s late.”
Amelia Trammell huffed. “You couldn’t wait for an old woman.”
“You’re not old, Nammy,” Elin said as she joined the hug.
“Okay, off with you lot. Let her breathe,” said their mother.
Everyone in Daimsbury revered and feared the matriarch of the Trammell clan in equal measure. Megha was no stranger to this awe filled with apprehension. A bit like getting to meet royalty—you really didn’t wish to bungle this up, should the opportunity ever arise.
And hers had arisen. She just wished it never had. Elsa Trammell had been a darling, but she was Swedish. Swedes appeared to have no problems with social or class divide, or at least, if they had them, they didn’t make a big deal of it. But the British, that was something else. Megha was brown, and she perfectly knew her place in the world. Not the bottom of the ladder, maybe, but not far up, either.
So when Amelia Trammell turned her piercing grey gaze onto her, she squirmed and quickly pushed to the edge of the sofa so she could stand up, almost at attention, like in a military inspection. She topped the old woman by a scant few inches, which enabled the dragon to look her in the eye without having to tilt her head back too much. Silence stretched for long seconds between them even as the noise of the stylists setting up continued in the background.
Then, Amelia Trammell smiled. “You must be this Megha I hear so much about. How are you faring, my dear?”
The urge to dip into a curtsy and bow her head hit her hard, but she resisted and instead smiled. “I am well, thank you.”
“Ha! Don’t take her word for it,” Agneta said. “She had chemo less than forty-eight hours ago. Though she isn’t at death’s door as per what Magnus says, well, we’re trying to keep her busy so she won’t have time to think of being sick.”
Megha blinked as she turned to the blonde. Agneta came across as brash and somewhat aggressive, a diva who got her way by running over everyone, but despite the harsh matter-of-factness of her, she cared. In that instant, she knew she had made a friend, someone who understood her and was giving her support in the only way she knew how. Truth be told, she wasn’t one for hugs and coddling, and so the normalcy of this bond with Agneta, and even her sisters, struck her as exactly what she needed right then.
Too bad it wouldn’t last. Yes, they could stay in touch, become friends on Facebook, follow each other on Snapchat and Instagram, but their worlds didn’t really converge towards one another. She was maybe one step above the help, but still not one of them.
But all this rattled to sudden stillness inside her as Amelia Trammell reached out and cupped Megha’s cheek.
“You dear, dear child,” she said softly.
Accustomed to her Indian ways, Megha almost expected the old woman to add a ‘blessed be’ to her words, in the way elders traditionally bestowed their blessings on younger kin.
‘Nammy!” Magnus exclaimed as he made it into the room. In seconds, he had engulfed his grandmother in his big arms and lifted her off the floor.
“Put me down, you boor,” she said, laughing as he twirled her around.
He finally dropped her gently back onto her feet, placing a soft kiss to the crown of her head in the process. The old lady clapped her hands and went to the sofa.
“Chop chop. We haven’t got all afternoon,” she stated.
The flurry of activity picked up once more, one of the girls pulling Megha onto the sofa. Her mind whirled as it tried to process what had just happened. Amelia Trammell wasn’t a dragon, and she’d just extended hospitality and, dare she say it, even a blessing to her back there.
She snuck a glance towards the matriarch. Magnus lay slumped on the sofa next to her, the two deep in conversation, appearing thick as thieves. He seemed to adore his grandmother. No wonder she was giving him all this money for his birthday and relinquishing her treasured ‘cottage’ to him.
At one point, it struck her that both of them were looking in her direction. When she glanced up, it was indeed to find their gazes upon her. Amelia said something while looking at her, and Magnus replied with a very solemn face. It gnawed her inside to know what they could be talking about, what they could be saying about her. But she blinked it all away, letting the proceedings dull her mind as a haze of tiredness registered in her senses. She prayed she wouldn’t end up nodding off sometime on those too-comfortable cushions.
One by one, the stylist had her assistant produce dresses first for Amelia and Elsa, then for each of the Trammell girls. It was all a blur to her as the other exclaimed and laughed and dissed outfits with a simple wave of the hand, trying on a few options in the adjoining room before coming to prance like models on a catwalk in front of the others.
Even bridal wear buying looked nothing like this in scope—when she’d been to India to her cousin’s wedding, they’d each been shown two gowns at the shop and told to choose one, even the bride. To say this was novel would be an understatement. Once again, she’d seen these kinds of happenings in TV shows and movies, something royalty would be accustomed to. Guess the Trammells were nothing short of royalty, too, if this were to be believed.
The hours passed, surprisingly fast and with her not dozing off at any point. And then, it was her turn. All eyes veered to her, making her self-conscious as she sat there being the centre of attention.
The stylist pulled out dresses from the racks dedicated to Megha. It appeared she’d been given a pretty good description of her looks and physique because all the colours were on the spectrum that suited her dusky skin tone and dark looks as well as her shorter stature. Not a hint of salmon pink or peach in there, as she’d dreaded. The gowns were all in rich hues like burgundy, sapphire, and velvety black.
But as she kept going, Megha’s heart sank. She wouldn’t be able to wear half these dresses. Her dismay must’ve been clearly visible, because the stylist asked for the two of them to be excused so she could try on the dresses.
In the drawing room next door, Megha let her frustration out and turned to the woman. “I don’t know if you’ve been told, but I’ve just had a double mastectomy. Almost all the clothes you showed me need a solid rack to even look their shape.” She sighed. “I’m sorry to have made you waste your time.”
The woman smiled. “Don’t be sorry, love. I know about your situation, and look.” She went to a small case that had been laid out on an armchair. “See? Every kind of foundation wear you can think of. All of them will hold a silicon or soft foam prosthesis. You can even get away with knitted knockers in some of those bra pockets.”
This stunned her—she hadn’t expected this kind of consideration and preparation. Truth be told, Megha hadn’t worn a bra since her surgery. She’d kinda grown used to not having that constricting feeling upon her chest and shoulders. When the time for radiation therapy came, soon after her chemo cycles had ended, she would be even more relieved to not have to wear any such undergarments as they’d told her the skin and flesh would get burnt and become very sensitive. Honestly, she didn’t look forward to the prospect of wearing a bra ever again, and she’d been thinking about it for a while now.
Under the expectant eyes of the stylist, she shrugged her thoughts off and smiled.
“And …” the woman started.
Megha furrowed her brows and paid attention. “Yes?”
“The burgundy dress. You could even wear it without anything up top.”
Go completely flat, in other words. Something sacrilegious, if one were to believe most medical teams. Since Day One of her diagnosis, the possibilities of reconstruction had been pushed down her throat relentlessly. But she’d been thinking about it, researching the process, and so far, it didn’t appeal to her. It hadn’t convinced her at all that she needed ‘new’ boobs to replace the old ones. Still, it was something she’d been debating and had never said out loud to anyone else.
The stylist, however, had rekindled that notion in her mind, and like a splinter that had burrowed under the skin, it refused to stop niggling at her now.
“Would you like to try it?”
Would she?
She didn’t have to answer when the woman went to the door and asked one of her assistants to bring the dress in. With the deep brownish-red garment over her arm, she returned and handed it to Megha.
Her heart started beating hard in her chest as she gazed at the gown. Could she …?
Taking the plunge, she undressed and then slipped the dress on. A thick silver chain roped through the back piece and went over the shoulders like straps to then enter the bodice from the two sides and tie up at the middle, right above where her cleavage would’ve started. The underarms dipped just low enough to allow movement but keep her scars covered on the sides of her body, and the fabric flowed from the chain all the way down to the floor in an unhindered A-line cut.
When she found herself in front of the standing mirror, Megha lost her breath. No one would even know she no longer had breasts under that dress. Yes, she looked flat, but not like an ironing board and more like she could have the tiny and unnoticed A-cup boobs known as mosquito bites on her chest.
In short, she didn’t look like she’d even gone under the knife.
Someone knocked on the door. The stylist turned to her, as if asking if she could go open. Megha gave her a nod, too stunned to do much more.
“What are you up to—Oh, my!” Agneta exclaimed. “You look like a vision.”
“I know, right?” the stylist replied. She came behind Megha and started to lift her hair. “With an up-do, imagine what she will look like.”
Right then, she didn’t have the heart to tell her that her hair might not still be there in two weeks’ time, and just for today, she wanted to bask in this feeling of being beautiful, of looking ‘normal’ and not like a freak.
The woman pinned her locks up with a few bobby pins she carried on a bracelet on her arm, and as she moved away, Agneta stepped in and took Megha’s hand, pulling her towards the sitting room.
“Everyone, doesn’t she look like a dream?” she exclaimed as she tugged Megha to the centre of the room and left her there.
About a dozen pairs of eyes zoomed in on her. Self-conscious didn’t even start to cover it, but one set of eyes in particular, she yearned to see. Just this once. It would continue the fantasy that had started in the other room, but she could live with just a memory.
Just one time …
Megha’s eyes lifted, and her gaze trailed over to Magnus.
He stood stock-still, a stricken expression on his face.
Was it wishful thinking on her part to imagine that he was drinking her in?
You’re friends, dumbarse. Nothing more.
Tell that to her galloping heart. To the sudden dryness in her mouth. To the weak feeling turning her legs to jelly. If she’d been wearing heels, she would surely have tipped over and fallen. Thank goodness she was still solidly anchored on her own two soles.
Time seemed to stand still, the two of them ensconced in a bubble where none of the surrounding frenzy and rapid talks could reach them.
Until a tall and big, bearded blond man she didn’t know stepped into the room and caught her eye, his deep voice shattering the link.
“Damn, Magnus. Stellan did say your Megha was a looker, but he hadn’t even gotten close to the truth, had he?”