Page 1 of You’re So Vein

1Komal

Argleton Weather Watch: Enjoy this lovely warm evening while you can, because it’s the last one we’ll have with a week of rain on the way. May I suggest having sex with a bowl of ice cream?

“…THE WASTEWATER SYSTEM REQUIRES EXTENSIVE works to maintain its integrity, with repairs focused on the Victorian pipes beneath the village green, which need to be uplifted and replaced—”

I shift my weight in the uncomfortable plastic chair, the kind of chair designed to punish anyone with a spine. A loud, judgemental SQUEAK reverberates through the community hall.

Acting Mayor Augustin Durant glances up from his boring agenda of maintenance issues, a line appearing across his brow as his amber eyes land on me. I smile sweetly and do it again.

SQUEEAAK.

Beside me, Councillor Mowbray stifles a giggle. I breathe in deep, relishing the familiar scent of council meetings – lemon cleaner, printer ink and the ghosts of arguments past. Augustin’s frown deepens and a familiar sense of triumph washes over me. I’ve pissed him off, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

I don’t know why I’m like this. To everyone else in the world, I’m bubbly, bright, people-pleasing Komal Ahuja. My friends and family call me Madam MacGyver because I can fix any problem. I never have a bad word to say about anyone. But if Augustin Durant so much as breathes in my direction I turn into this chaos gremlin. Maybe it’s the ex-soldier in me, because when I walk through the community hall doors on a Wednesday night, I’m ready to commit all manner of war crimes so I can stick my flag of victory right through Acting Mayor Durant’s thick skull.

Just the sight of that man makes my blood boil. Which is a pity, because if I were to look at him academically, he’s quite attractive, in a pinched, weasel-headed sort of way. He has dark wavy hair that’s always just a smidge unruly, falling over amber eyes framed by absurdly long lashes. No white guy is supposed to have lashes that long or dark – dark lashes are our thing. It’s desi law, and he’s breaking it. He also has the kind of aristocratic nose and stately bearing that suggests he either rode horses a lot as a child or has a stick permanently wedged up his arse. I suspect the latter.

He glares at me now, hands folded, posture immaculate, his flashy watch catching the flickering fluorescent lights. “If Councillor Ahuja would terribly mind sitting still until I’m finished with my wastewater proposal—”

“Is the acting mayor policing a woman’s body?” I ask sweetly. “Do I not have autonomy to stretch my legs or is that only for the male members of the Borough Council?”

I extend one leg, causing the chair to let out a long, ominous CREEEEEAK. A vein above Augustin’s eye throbs.

We’re only twenty minutes into the meeting, and I’ve got the vein already! This is the highlight of my shitty week.

“Perhaps,” I continue, holding my hands out, palms up, as if I’m surrendering, which Augustin should know I’d never do, “if the acting mayor had approved my father’s proposal for refurbishing the community hall, his boring agenda wouldn’t be interrupted by squeaky chairs.”

Augustin’s full lips form a firm line. “If I made the council agenda based on what entertains an Ahuja, this meeting would already be on fire. And Senior Councillor Ahuja’s proposal was absurd. If you recall, he wanted to paint the walls in lurid stripes and have us sit on chairs shaped like circus animals.”

“It was whimsical, something this village could do with more of.” I smirk. “Your chair was going to be an owl.”

He blinks. “Because of my wisdom?”

“Because you perch up there with your majestic feathers,” I point to his diamond-encrusted wristwatch, “and you blink judgementally while chaos unfolds.”

Councillor Mowbray makes a choking noise, but everyone else looks a bit uncomfortable. Of course they’re all on his side. Despite having all the personality of a zoning by-law, Acting Mayor Augustin Durant has this annoying habit of being so polite and fastidious and obsessed with procedure that people actually trust him.

Acting Mayor Augustin Durant.

The words still itch. Because they were supposed to belong to my father.

Papa’s back in hospital. After his last round of chemo, he was nearly back to normal, running his restaurant, Chirag’s Takeaways, and campaigning hard for his whimsical (and sometimes wildly impractical) village ideas. He’s been weak, but he felt like my papa again. And then last week he went in for a routine scan, and we found out that the cancer has spread to his kidney. He had a big operation over the weekend to remove it, and he’s going to be recovering in the ward for a while.

It’s not fair. Papa’s supposed to be our mayor. Chirag Ahuja is beloved in the village, and, unlike Augustin, he has ideas that could actually make Argleton and the surrounding borough a better place to live. Instead, my papa is lying in a hospital room and Augustin is running council meetings with a gavel.

Yes, he brought his own gavel. I bet he spoons it at night.

But with his popularity and the election fewer than three weeks away, Augustin and his gavel will soon be the mayor for real. And there’s nothing I can do about it except make his life utterly miserable, a role for which I am uniquely suited.

Durant clears his throat. The microphone – which he insists on using even though there are only eleven other people in the room – gives a polite little cough in response.

“If we can return to the issue at hand. For safety reasons, and to allow unimpeded access to the infrastructure beneath High Street, all commercial premises will be required to close during daylight hours for the next four weeks, starting Monday.”

Excuse me?

The room goes quiet.

He can’t be serious.