Romance fiction: The only way to get Mr McMiller to sell his plot is by dating one of his daughters

Life in Mumbai began as usual. Kim forced herself to wake up at six in the morning to rush to her first temp job of the day at a high-end grocery store.

The second was at the Indian Times office, making calls to sell advertising space using a fixed landline and an office laptop. This, the supervisor guarded with her life. The third job was as an intern at an advertising agency. Here, Kim was the oldest intern in a pool of young graduates. They already had goals, and plans to achieve those goals, making Kim feel like she was being punished for existing.

She ate lunch outside, on the agency’s stoop, instead of sitting in the canteen with everyone else. At her age, anxiety-related acid reflux was a real thing. Voraciously scrolling through social media, Kim ran out of data. It was probably for the best. The sudden lull made her look out at the street, at the people rushing about with purpose. The real world looked far too daunting. Her phone was like a stress toy she desperately clung to, so that she could drown out the questions her mind constantly screamed at her. Where are you going, Kim? What shifting goalpost are you running towards?

In desperation, because her thumb needed to scroll compulsively, Kim opened her contact list, each name a reminder of how much time she had wasted, all of them rushing to stab her like she was Caesar at the senate.

Light Dada Yusuf, Casting Agent Arvind, Assistant Director Lenny Creep and, finally, Limelight Pictures Lawyer. Her jaw clenched in anger. Limelight Pictures. That iconic film studio. Her dream, the shifting goalpost. She still remembered the lawyer’s cold voice over the phone, the big meeting with their copyright team, and the cruel email regarding her script, which they … never mind. It was in the past.

Her phone rang just then, snapping her out of it.

“Heyyy!” came a singsong voice through the phone. It was an old friend from school. “Listen, I’m having a brunch this Saturday, but don’t take this the wrong way, you’re not invited, okay?”

Kim pressed the phone closer to her ear. Maybe she was finally losing her hearing, too. “Sorry, I didn’t get that,” she said. “Did you just call me to not invite me?”

The friend laughed. ‘To give you a heads up! Just in case you see any Insta stories or something and feel left out.”

“Oh good, we wouldn’t want that to happen,” Kim said drily.

“See, it’s a couples-only scene, na. Just husbands and wives. It would get awkward for you, and you’d be bored out of your mind. But if you knew I hadn’t invited you … well, I didn’t want you to get the wrong picture.”

“No, don’t worry, I think I’m getting the right picture.”

What a cruel age to discover one had also made the wrong friends all along.

Perhaps she only looked this ineligible in comparison to her sister, Andie, who had found her calling early in life. Three years younger and so much more sorted.

Numbers. Andie had a head for numbers that helped her secure a job at a multinational financial corporation. It came with all the perks – a big campus, a cycling track, a gym and a food court that housed high-end restaurants. Of course, it was all wasted on Andie. She loved the things that the others didn’t notice, like the plush cream carpeting, the pine cone smell of the cleaning liquid used every morning and the elevator that only required a fingerprint scan to take you directly to your floor without meeting anyone else.

In two short years, Andie had rapidly shot up the ranks and now had a small cabin to herself. The only drawback of this cabin was that it was at the far end of her floor. This meant that every morning she had to power walk towards it, firmly looking away from the security and reception staff, and the aisles that seated her colleagues.

No one considered this rude. After all, small talk wasn’t Andie’s forte. To some, she was shy and private, but to most she came across as strange. Her cabin was stranger still. It was blank, devoid of any mess or memorabilia, almost as if it was unoccupied. The only giveaway that it was occupied were the three items tacked on the softboard – the first one was a photo of her father with his two girls, aged six and three. The sisters had worn saris for the first time for the annual day at school. The very first time Andie and Kim felt pretty, posing shyly for the camera. But in reality, their pallus were in disarray, the bindis were off centre, and the buns on their heads were drooping. Prakash looked exhausted, but he had tried his best to dress his two little dolls up all on his own.

The second photo was a magazine cut-out of Rosehill Cottage from the movie The Holiday.

And, finally, the third item was a letter from the University of Oxford. It read: “Ms McMiller, we are sorry to learn about your decision to decline our offer. The MSc in Financial Economics is indeed a rigorous programme, and being accepted is no small feat. We wish you all the very best for your future endeavours.”

These three items were the sum of everything that defined Andie. Her love, her desire and her heartbreak. In that exact order.

Despite her social awkwardness, Andie stood out because she was a classic beauty. When she walked past, heads turned. Marriage proposals poured in. But it was famously known that her father screened (and rejected) each one. Apparently, no one was good enough for the apple of his eye. Quiet and obedient. The ideal daughter. The adarsh balika.

Prakash McMiller did not blame either Kim or Andie for being unmarried. He only blamed himself. He had worked hard all his life to give them a great life, but it had always backfired.

Two years on, Prakash still hadn’t recovered from “the incident”. He lived with his daughters in a broken-down housing society, afraid to do business with the courage he once had. All three of them had been affected in different ways.

Andie had become withdrawn. Going unnoticed meant less problems. Her father, with his loud brands and big deals, had attracted attention. She didn’t want any of it. She felt that life was better when you slipped through the cracks.

Kim had stopped writing. She had experienced firsthand that art was not enough without the stability of money.

And Prakash had given up on his golden dream. His name would never be associated with being classy, respected and moneyed.

Sigh.

Excerpted with permission from Secret Eligibles Of Mumbai, Anmol Malik, HarperCollins India.