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London hadn’t changed much from the last time I had visited, a decade ago. I was only ten years old but I could remember everything so vividly. My father had business in England and, instead of leaving me at the manor in India, he decided to take me along. It was perhaps the nicest sign of affection he has ever shown towards me. I remember everything moving so quickly; the people, the cars, the birds… everything. I remember the brilliant colors of the red double decker buses, the large LCD screens displayed over Piccadilly Circus, everything. I also remember that for the majority of the trip, London had been a gloomy shade of gray. Likewise, today, it was the same broadcast.
The driver of the Bentley we were currently riding in, a new welcoming gift from Malik Industries, was making his way slowly through London traffic. Father was sitting beside me, typing away into his laptop. I adjusted the earphones of my iPod, nestling them deeper into my ears. Coldplay wasn’t loud enough and I needed them to drown out all other noises I was currently hearing, including the “clacking” of my father’s fingers against his laptop keyboard. I gazed at my reflection in the window I had been resting my head against for the past half hour; I looked a mess. The direct flight from Mumbai, India to London, England was somewhere around nine and a half hours. I was incredibly jet-lagged, hungry, and, in general, irritated with everythingI pulled the hair tie out of my hair and let my black hair fall back onto my shoulders, running down a third of my back. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my lip balm, and applied three even coats to my thin lips. My lips were a gracious gift inherited from my mother, according to my father. They were thin and pale and disgusting; they were rightfully my least-favorite physical trait. My eyes, luckily, were inherited from my father; they were also a darker shade of hazel. My skin was a few shades lighter than my father, thanks to my mother’s fair complexion. I wasn’t completely white but I was tan enough for one to recognize my partial Asian ethnicity. I put my lip balm back into the pocket of my jeans and then lay my head against the window once more. It felt cold against my temple and I closed my eyes, losing myself to the music that played through the earphones.
I woke to my father yelling my name into my ear. I quickly collected myself when I noticed his embarrassment; this was no proper behavior for the woman of Molavi Industries. For some time I had forgotten that I was here to sell myself like a box of cookies. When I climbed out of the car, I took notice of the large, twelve acre estate before me. I wasn’t very impressed; our manor in India was over twenty acres. I watched as butlers and maids greeted us with polite nods and then attended to our bags of luggage. They seemed nice enough.
When we entered the home of my prospective husband, the first thought that crossed my mind was on the subject of the interior decoration; it was well done. Matter of fact, it was magnificent. Antiques lay on every corner of the rooms we walked by, large chandeliers hung from the ceilings, long and elegant tapestries draped the walls. It was significantly better than the decoration at our manor, which was homier and less grandiose. I felt like I was in an overwhelming palace.
My father and I were following the butler and maids carrying our luggage. They brought us up a spiral crystal staircase, to our respective rooms. Father mumbled something about freshening up and presenting ourselves in front of the Maliks in half an hour. I muttered something back, half listening to everything he was saying. I locked the door of my guest room and faced the bedroom. It was fairly large, normal for what I was used to. The king-sized bed had a grand red and gold canopy over top, with crystal elements hanging off the ends. A large tiger rug sat under the bed and, frankly, it was grossing me out. The head stared back at me, the mouth agape in a silent roar. I felt a shudder race down my spine.
