Page 31 of You’re So Vein

Coffin polish

It must’ve got stuck there after the stationery cupboard incident. Have I really gone through the whole day without even noticing a vampire’s shopping list stuck to my skirt?

Why does a vampire need to buy garlic pizza bread?

Or gardening gloves?

I think of Augustin running across the hospital parking lot, petals and vines falling off his body like… like he created them.

“Magic,” he said when I asked him, but what about Augustin Durant could possibly be magic?

I quickly pull off the note and shove it in my purse, but no one has noticed.

Preeti’s still struggling with the bottle.

“I can never get these infernal things open. Komal? Fix it!” Preeti thrusts the bottle under my nose. She’s made a tiny tear in the corner. I shove the corkscrew in and pop it for her. Preeti pours everyone a glass and sits down to eat and chat with the aunties about all the patients she saw that day, while I wearily trudge upstairs to deal with the twins.

After all the kids are put down to sleep in various spare bedrooms and nooks, Social Night really kicks off. Everyone gathers around the conservatory and patio area to show off their dance skills. The aunties have given out scorecards to the elders, and everyone claps and laughs as scores are given out and old grudges are settled.

The aunties do a choreographed dance to “Gallan Goodiyaan” from Dil Dhadakne Do that they perform at every opportunity. Then, Mamma spins Papa around in his wheelchair to one of their favourite songs, “Pehla Nasha” from Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar. The lyrics are all about the head-in-the-clouds, feet-flying-over-the-ground feeling of falling in love. They kiss at the end and receive a nearly perfect score and lots of cheers.

“Beta, you must dance!” Papa reaches for me, grinning.

“Sure, Papa, I’ll dance with you.”

“Not with me. With him!”

Papa points to Augustin, who looks like he’s desperately wishing his vampire powers included instantly transforming into a swarm of bats so he could fly out of here. The aunties take up the chant. “Dance, dance, dance!”

The last thing I want to do is dance a Bollywood song with my archrival and give Sunita an image to hold onto, but I can’t say no to Papa’s beaming smile, so I grit my teeth and turn to Augustin. “We’re dancing.”

“We are not.”

“You wanted to win my community out from under me, vampire? This is how you do it,” I hiss, dragging him onto the dance floor as the opening of “Jashn-E-Bahaara” comes over the speakers.

Please, not this song. Anything but this song.

“Jashn-E-Bahaara” is one of my favourite Bollywood songs. It’s about yearning, how when you’re in love, the world appears more beautiful – birds sing, butterflies flutter around, flowers bloom – as they did at the hospital when we absconded with Papa. It’s about those tender, doubtful moments when you don’t know if the other person feels the same way as you.

It’s about the strange, tingly feeling of fingers drawing circles on your back when you’re afraid.

I want to dance it with my future husband (who will definitely be able to dance). I don’t want to dance it with Augustin-bloody-Durant.

But we’re here, and the whole community is clapping and cheering, so I am going to make damn sure they know who the best mayoral candidate is.

I roll my shoulders and dance the familiar steps. I can do these moves in my sleep. Augustin, meanwhile, sways awkwardly while glaring at me in horror.

“Relax, Durant.” I grab his hands and try to shake some life into them. “This song is all about angst. Vampires should excel at that.”

He attempts a hip swirl that looks like he’s been stabbed in the kidney. I execute a perfect leap. He tries to copy but lands with all the grace and aplomb of a toppling bookshelf.

But the aunties are going wild for him. Every time he flails, they cheer louder. When he tries to dip me and gets our feet tangled together – laying me out on the grass and falling on top of me – they erupt into hysterics.

“Are you doing this on purpose?” I growl as he helps me to my feet. I pick grass clippings out of my hair.

“Oh yes, I’m secretly Fred Astaire’s long-lost cousin, attempting to throw you off guard with my terribleness—”

Augustin breaks off whatever he was going to say with a choking sound. I surge forward, thinking that maybe he has some pakora lodged in his throat. But of course, he hasn’t eaten anything.