Swati Sharma - Fashionably Yours

SWATI SHARMA is a born and bred Delhi product. Before dabbling into writing, she completed her post graduation in business. Before Fashionably Yours happened, Swati authored four coffee table books and has written for a lifestyle magazine.

One thing which very few people know that Swati is clairvoyant, and no it’s not a joke. She lives in Delhi with her extensive collection of nail polishes, lipsticks and with very neat piles of books and magazines.

Drop by her Facebook, Twitter ( @Author_swati) or website ( swatisharmabooks.com) and say hi!

This book is dedicated to my three glam divas; Viksha, Mayra and Ivana.

I wouldn’t be able to deliver this baby without these babies.

To my lovely publisher, Amrita Verma Chowdhury, for believing in me and in this story and giving me the opportunity to turn my dream into a reality. Thank you so much for your support and ideas. I am really thankful of every single person who has been involved in the production of this book; the editor, illustrator, publicist and printers. A big thanks to Harlequin India for taking this book to the masses.

Huge thanks to my family and friends for being so tolerant with my wild and weird ideas over the years. Special thanks to Christy Goldstein and Ananda aka Dr. Bliss, for being so fabulous and believing in me when I didn’t believe in myself. Humongous thanks to the entire team of Chicklitclub and to Stephanie Pegler, you guys totally changed my life.

I am also eternally grateful of all the people who have endlessly supported me and cheered me on Facebook, Twitter and on my blog. Every one of you is just amazing.

I have to give the special mention to my three little girls; Viksha, Mayra and Ivana for being in my life. These girls have made me complete in every way and their smiles have helped me get through the toughest and darkest times while writing this book. I will always be in debt of your unconditional love, trust and support. You girls simply rock!

Last but not the least, I want to thank every single person I have ever met in my life because each one of them has taught me a thing or two about life, good or bad (that’s an entirely different matter). A very special thanks to Costa and Starbucks for their excellent ice teas which helped me stay sane during zillions of editing rounds.

That’s pretty much it. I love you guys.

Once upon a time there lived a girl.

All she ever wanted was to be a part of something big …

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgement

Prologue

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Epilogue

Copyright

It was a very cold December morning and I was lying in my bed blissfully with one foot propped out of the warm quilt. A five-foot tall PVC Christmas tree was tree was standing gloriously by the window. It looked almost magical under the layers of twinkling fairy lights and hundreds of ornaments. Though it had been four days since Christmas, I couldn’t bring myself to take down the decorations and transport the tree back to the attic, much to the annoyance of my mom who could never understood that how on earth her by-all-means Punjabi daughter came to loving such a foreign festival. But for me Christmas was the most happy day of my life. Nothing could go wrong around Christmas. I blew a kiss to the tree before reaching for the top drawer of my nightstand.

As I pulled it open, I felt my heart flutter at the sight of a crisp, white envelope which was going to take me a step closer to my dream. Gingerly I reached inside the envelope and pulled out a letter. I read the job offer for the zillionth time since it had arrived last evening.

Dear Maya Kapoor,

Congratulations! We are pleased to offer you the position of ‘Feature Writer’ with the online division of Style magazine.

Please find the attached draft copy of your offer letter from Style, Mumbai.

Do go through the letter and let us know if you have any queries with regards to the offer.

I had waited for this letter for far too long. Though Style was not my first preference, I realized that Glamorous was too posh to recruit someone straight out of Shimla College of Mass Communication and Advertising. But at least Style was situated in the same city as my bible. For the last seven years I had dreamt only one dream, and that was to write for Glamorous. And for this I had fought a tough battle against my mom who was adamant to see me graduate to become a CA or a primary school teacher at the very least. Yuk! According to her, no decent man would marry a girl like me who had had a word ‘media’ written in her bio.

“Girls in media are considered to have loose character. You have landed yourself in a dark pit,” she grumbled in my ear as we posed for a family photo on my convocation.

Gazing at the letter in my hands I wonder if she would throw me out of the house, dragging me by my hair or have a minor panic attack when I broke the news to her.

Fifteen minutes later I was out of the comfort of my bed and ready to spill the beans to my parents. I just wanted to be over with all the drama as soon as possible so that I could finally celebrate my job with a tall cup of hot chocolate before starting to pack my stuff. Trotting along the creaking wooden floor I walked up to my closet and pulled out a jumper to slide over my old GAP T-shirt. It was freezing. It had been a week and it hadn’t stopped snowing.

Pulling the jumper over my head, I tied my light brown traces in a top knot on my head. Bracing myself for true Punjabi mother drama I tiptoed down the stairs and just when I gave myself one last pump and headed towards the kitchen where she was usually found in the morning hours, I came to the screeching halt at the sight of our neighbourhood ladies. The realisation hit me like a basketball. It was the last Sunday of the month. It was sort of a ritual on Gulmohar Street. On the last Sunday of every month all the women of the colony gathered at one neighbor’s house along with their daughters where they would cook a wide variety of delicious brunch treats. In the meanwhile, their daughters of nearly my age, a.k.a marriageable age, sat in the drawing room and merrily discussed whatever cooking, yoga, knitting or sewing classes they were attending. Then, over the breakfast table, the women discussed possible suitors for their daughters and recommended any eligible bachelors they knew of for each other’s daughters. And while all this happened, all the male members of the colony headed to the town’s sports club where they played squash, tennis, swam and bonded over beer and brandy. To be honest to me it all seemed like a cult where the women tried to brainwash their daughters into thinking that all they needed to do in their lives was to be a good housewife. I was the least favorite member of this cult.