The Greenbriar Club doesn't look like much. It has a shabby, run down sort of look to it. The walls, light beige turned brown, and the door both have stickers on them advertising everything from "lern Engrish classes" to Bollywood film posters. The "no bills please" sign obviously isn't doing the trick.
Despite the name, the club has nothing remotely resembling greenery around it, let alone briars. It's not surprising for Mumbai, being the concrete jungle that it is. What is surprising is that the Briar manages to stay in business in one of the hippest parts of town: Bandra. Across from us are several high-rise office buildings and residential towers that more resemble miniature palaces than anything else. And of course, the latest development nearby has been the club, Bounce, where celebrity spottings are rumored to be pretty common.
Bounce has little in common with Briar. It's extremely upscale, complete with black lights, a ginormous membership dues, and a bowling alley.
A bowling alley? The closest we come to that at the Briar is a ratty old pool table we have in the common room, where everyone gathers for discussions and almost no one gets a turn at the pool table. I'm apathetic to the fact, though. My pool skills are almost as good as my juggling skills- nonexistent, that is to say.
Today as I enter the club, my old friend Jeet greets me. He's won another game of pool, but I'm not surprised. I claim the reason is his name; Jeet in Hindi means victory. Mostly when I say that, he just smiles.
"Have you heard?" he asks. "Netherfield Park-"
"Not you too," I groan. "I know. My mother told me. Why is it so interesting, anyway?"
"I thought you in particular might be interested, Lizzy, because it turns out that the guy who's renting the place is gora* too, just like you. He's English."
"Really?" I say, sitting down. "How… interesting." The truth is, I haven't really heard of too many English guys settling down in Mumbai. Rich English guys, that is. No wonder my mother was caught wind of this. Even I have to confess that my interest is piqued. "When's he moving in?"
"Soon," says Jeet, but admits that he doesn't know exactly when. He then migrates back to the pool table to play another game; a new opponent has seemingly surfaced. Sometimes I have wondered how much pool a human being can play. Jeet has shown me that the answer is simply, a LOT.
Exiting the room, I decide to make my way to the library. It's one of the less frequented rooms of the club, and for good reason. Containing mainly books on Venus fly traps and raccoon hunting (People hunt raccoons? As sport? And write books about it?), the books must obviously have been donated by some old rich man who donated all the good ones to his alma mater. Drat.
Luckily, I've brought my own book, as I soon learned to do after my first encounter with the room. I'm currently reading A Tale of Two Cities, and it's pretty good, even if it seems like Dickens was paid by the word. I think I'll attempt Twilight next…
My train of thoughts is interrupted by a man walking through the door. He's handsome, quite young, and very obviously English, judging by the accent voice in his polite acknowledgement. I smile back, and he seems placated for the moment. Picking up a book on carnivorous plants, he seems to want to linger for a moment and speak to me, but a voice beckons him to hurry up and move his bum already.
He blushes for a moment, and I laugh. It isn't until later, however, that I discover that this chance encounter was with none other than the man currently occupying most of my mother's mind space, Mr Charles Bingley.
*Hindi slang for white person. I'm pretty sure it's not derogatory, but my Hindi slips up sometimes.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed the last chapter. Sorry this one's a tad on the short side. Reviews are easy to write and make me happy, so why not press that lovely button down there? Also, if you have any idea where you want the story to go, please include that as well.
