Adult Reeva knew it was time to let go of all these insecurities and recognize her worth. At least that was what her therapist had been telling her for £60 an hour for the last four years. And if she was rational about it, she could recognize that comparing herself to her sisters wasn’t healthy—they were all different. Back at school, Jaya had been voted “Most Likely to Be a Model” and Sita “Most Likely to Be Prime Minister,” while Reeva hadn’t made any of the “most” lists at all. But she had surpassed her sisters academically, getting straight A’s while they brought home a collection of B’s and C’s, and she’d eventually carved out her own corner in Model United Nations. Her friends there weren’t popular enough to make any of the “most” lists either, but they’d been loyal, kind, and smart, and she still saw them to catch up—well, when they could get time away from their partners and children. And Reeva had never managed to have a stream of boyfriends at school like her sisters had, but she’d gotten there at university. When she’d met Rakesh.
“It isn’t embarrassing,” Lakshmi replied firmly. “Jaya’s a basic Barbie. Rakesh is a cliché. End of. You’re better off without him, Reevs. I mean, who chooses some dumb influencer over you? Think how shit their lives must be. Rakesh has to spend the entire time taking endless photos of her, while she can’t ever eat a single carb.”
“It doesn’t look so shitty when they’re both traveling the world, wearing Dior in waterfalls,” commented Reeva. “I don’t own any Dior. And I don’t remember the last time I had enough holiday leave to go anywhere near a waterfall.”
“Uh, Dior’s overrated. As are waterfalls. They’re so much colder than they look. Jaya probably photoshops the hell out of her nipples. And . . . you’ve got Nick. A music agent is so much cooler than a—sorry, what did Rakesh even do before he became an Insta husband?”
Reeva smiled despite herself. “Mergers and acquisitions. And as much as I wish I did, I haven’t exactly ‘got’ Nick. It’s only been three months. We haven’t even had the ‘what are we’ chat yet. God, the whole thing makes me feel like a teenager—I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“You’ll have the chat soon,” said Lakshmi confidently. “Maybe even tonight. Once you tell him you’ve got a secret dad who just died.”
Reeva looked at her in alarm. “I can’t talk to him about all this! He’ll think I’m mad. His family is so . . . normal and stable and British. Whereas I’ve got a famous mum who’s married to one of India’s most loved actors, a sister who’s marrying my ex, another sister who helped her do it, and as of the last eight hours, a dead dad I never knew about. It sounds like the plot in one of Mum’s movies.”
“Ooh, it would make such a good Bollywood film!” Lakshmi clapped her hands in delight. “Like if he was, I don’t know, a major criminal whose actions were going to get you all killed, so he faked his death to protect you.”
Reeva raised an eyebrow. “He worked at Specsavers. I don’t think he was a criminal mastermind.”
“Specsavers would be the ideal cover if he was, though,” pointed out Lakshmi. “But it’s fine, I’ve got more. How about . . . your dad was gay, and people were starting to find out, so he had to leave your lives to go and live his own?”
“Nice plot, but it’s not 1950 anymore. And you know my mum loves everything LGBTQ+. She’s been tweeting about it for years. She would have been thrilled to have a gay ex-husband to drink mimosas with.”
“Yeah, your mum definitely isn’t the average Indian,” agreed Lakshmi. “She’s more liberal than we are.”
“Uh, I subscribe to The Guardian,” said Reeva, looking down as her phone vibrated. “Oh, it’s Lee. I guess I should go. What am I going to tell him about all this? Can I really just leave for two weeks? What about the Sherwood-Brown case?”
“Reevs, you’re allowed a break from work. And you’re allowed bereavement leave when your dad has died. Just . . . maybe leave out the fact that you never actually knew him.”
Reeva sighed. “Okay. But, two weeks of prayers? Isn’t that overkill? I thought they lasted a day.”
“In St. John’s Wood, maybe.”
“What?
Lakshmi shook her head. “I forget how you grew up without a proper Indian community. Basically, everyone does it differently. My very Gujarati cousins in Leicester always do a full thirteen days of prayers, with the funeral in the middle and the kriya at the end—like your dad’s having. But my relatives in Harrow only do a week of evening prayers with no kriya. And our Sindhi friends who grew up near where you did in St. John’s Wood just do the one day.”
Reeva raised an eyebrow at her. “There’s a postcode lottery for grief?”
“Sure. The more affluent you are, the less time you have to mourn.”
“Well, that’s my privilege checked.”
“And all before nine a.m.! Nah, I think it’s just different family traditions. It’s all pretty confusing. And I guess because your parents are from different parts of India, it’s even more confusing for you.”
“Great. So what else should I expect if I go?”
“Dhal and rice. A lot of it.”
“Not paneer and chaats?” asked Reeva in disappointment. “The street food is my favorite part of Indian events.”
Lakshmi shook her head. “Sorry—not for the first week. Your dad’s family might do it differently, but mine don’t eat fun food until after the funeral. Week one is basic staying-alive grub, then in the second week, you’re allowed to eat all the dead person’s favorite meals.”
“What? That doesn’t make sense. Surely you’d want to comfort-eat delicious carbs when your loved one has just died?”
Lakshmi shrugged. “At least this way you don’t end up putting on extra weight. Combine the food with all the crying and it’s basically two weeks of extreme dieting. They should really use that to sell the extended version of prayers to people. ‘Two weeks of bereavement, and ooh, look, you’ve lost a dress size!’ ”
“Well, that’ll make a change from everyone telling me how ‘healthy’ I look.”
“Ah yes, the Asian synonym for fat.”
Reeva stood up and checked her phone. “Great. Well, let me see if Brian’s gotten back to me about— Oh fuck!”
“What is it?!”
Reeva looked up from her phone, stricken. “An e-mail. From Sita. It looks long.”
“What’s the big deal? I thought you spoke to Sita all the time? Don’t you FaceTime the twins every week?”