‘Yeah, like Dobby liked serving the Malfoys.’
‘I can’t believe you’re comparing me to a dark wizard!’
It’s while we’re in the throes of this squabble that my dad calls me to let me know that the Tower Hamlets guy has rejected me because, according to the middle person, I’m too old and don’t wear hijab. And they heard that I’ve been engaged before.
I feel as though I’ve been punched in the middle of my chest. It’s all my darkest fears vocalised in one phone call. In the minutes after the call, I excuse myself to the prayer room and sit there, sobbing, for ages. I hate my dad for calling me at work with this news instead of waiting until I get home. I hate him for telling me the reasons why they said no. And I hate him for making me feel that I’m nothing because I can’t secure a husband.
‘Are you OK, babe?’ I look up from my position on the floor to see Francesca peering around the door, her eyebrows knitted together in concern. I try to answer, but the words get caught in my throat. She slips into the room and sits down next to me in silence until I’m ready to talk.
‘I’m all right,’ I whisper. ‘Just feeling so drained from all this marriage business.’
‘All that stuff your parents are making you do?’
‘Yeah. My dad called to tell me that I’ve been rejected by a man I wasn’t interested in to begin with. And it hurts a lot more than I expected.’
‘It’s his loss, hun. And I know it’s a cliché, but there are loads of men who would kill to be with you.’
I snort unattractively. ‘Where are all these mystery men? I can’t see any.’
‘What about that guy you’re dating? The Egyptian one? And the one from the app?’
I look down at the worn carpet and sigh. ‘The guy from MuslimMate has made no move to meet me, and yeah, there’s Hamza but we’re not exactly dating. We’ve only met twice and I’m really not sure about him.’
‘So meet him more so you can decide,’ she says simply. I think back to the text that I still haven’t replied to. She’s right. How can I decide for certain if we’ve only met up once after the chocolate event? I take my phone out and shoot him a reply: Hey, I’m free tonight. Let me know where to meet you.
I sit there for a bit longer, and Fran, the sweetheart, goes and gets me a baby wipe so I can clean up my smudged mascara before I head back to my desk and pretend that I haven’t spent the last half an hour crying in the prayer room.
‘A few of us are going to the pub after work,’ Adam says, loitering by my desk holding a gigantic sub sandwich and offering me the half he hasn’t touched. That guy doesn’t stop eating. I refuse the sub; my appetite seems to have disappeared along with my self-esteem. ‘Why don’t you come out with us for a change?’
‘Have we seriously never had this conversation before?’ I reply, probably more harshly than I should have. After what’s happened, I’m not in the mood for Adam’s judgement. We’ve been working together for what, three years, and he’s only now realised that I never go to pubs? ‘I don’t go to pubs.’
‘Oh. Why not?’ He looks genuinely confused and once again I’m reminded of how different we are. How is it that a Muslim man is asking me such an obvious question?
‘You know I don’t drink,’ I say simply.
‘So? You don’t have to drink.’
‘Please don’t say something as cliché as “have an orange juice”,’ I scoff, rolling my eyes.
‘Well, yeah. Or a Coke.’
‘Why on earth would I want to be surrounded by people getting drunk and acting stupid when I’m perfectly sober? You might not remember that you’ve slobbered all over Harriet from Housing in the morning, but I will.’
‘God, judgemental much? Not everyone who drinks is a raving drunk,’ he exclaims, his face turning pink with indignation. ‘It’s a social thing. Lighten up.’
If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s being told to ‘lighten up’. Or ‘chill out’. It has the completely opposite effect and makes me furious, even if previously I was only mildly irritated.
‘Well, excuse me for having values,’ I retort, my own cheeks heating up.
‘Are you trying to say I don’t? Because I drink?’ Adam splutters. ‘I might not be a perfect Muslim but it’s not your place to judge me. I’ll take my chances with God, thanks.’
‘You go ahead and do that!’ With a final glare I look pointedly at my screen. As in, ‘this conversation is over’. I can feel him still fuming as he stomps out of the office entirely.
The thing is, I honestly don’t care if Adam and the whole world drinks. That’s their business. It’s my business to decide whether I want to participate or not, and if I choose not to, why does it make me judgemental, boring or holier-than-thou? The worst part is that Adam, as a so-called Muslim, should get it. I’ve never had a non-Muslim colleague or classmate give me grief over avoiding the pub, so why is he?
Anyway, I have too much to do so I try not to dwell on Adam and his warped mentality. For the rest of the day I ignore him and his huffy back and get on with ploughing through my mammoth task list.
‘Zara, are you going to join us tonight?’ Francesca asks me late in the afternoon. ‘You could probably do with a pick-me-up today.’