Chapter 12
I am so late for work that I don’t have time to deliberate on what to wear, let alone iron anything. Hoping no one will notice, I throw on yesterday’s outfit, pull my greasy hair into a bun and rush to the station as fast as I can without a scrap of makeup on. That’s the last time I go to bed without showering; I feel, look and smell like rotten doner kebab.
When I got in last night, I went upstairs before anyone could interrogate me and climbed straight into bed. I couldn’t sleep, though. I lay there, in the dark, staring at my ceiling and wondering where I would be in ten years’ time. I went through all sorts of scenarios: marrying Hamza and having a sexless marriage; marrying a freshie – short for ‘fresh from the Desh’ – and having to support him financially for years and years; not getting married at all and growing old, bitter and alone .?.?. I must have nodded off though, because I had a disturbing dream that I can vaguely remember snippets of. In it, Hamza had Jordan’s face but his own body, and kept making me do push-ups while screaming at me for not going to the pub with him.
Adam and Francesca stare at me when I stumble into the office at ten thirty, panting from running up the stairs instead of waiting for the lift as I usually do.
‘I’m so sorry I’m late!’ I gasp, jumping into my seat and switching on my computer, my face glossy with perspiration. ‘Adam, I know you’re waiting for approvals on the new roll-ups so they can go to the printers. I haven’t missed the deadline, have I?’
‘Er, not yet,’ he says quietly, still staring at me with a bewildered expression on his paler-than-usual face. Must have been all the drinks he was guzzling away with his beloved Francesca.
‘We’ve been trying to call you,’ Francesca blurts out, also looking at me strangely. Unsurprisingly, she doesn’t look worse for wear in the slightest. In fact, she looks like she’s come out of the spa, all glowy and radiant in minimal makeup, a beige slouchy jumper falling off a perfect bony shoulder, wide trousers and white trainers. You’d never catch her coming into work in yesterday’s battered ensemble.
‘Oh, my battery died last night and I couldn’t charge it. Sorry. Was it something urgent?’ I rummage around in my desk, pull my USB cable out and connect my phone to my computer so it can charge up at last.
‘Um, no, nothing urgent,’ she mumbles, exchanging a knowing look with Adam. I have no idea what their problem is. It’s as though I’ve shown up with my hair shaved off. And then it hits me. They’re acting weird because something happened between them last night and they’re worried that I’ll pick up on the shameless vibes they’re emitting and report them to HR for having an inter-departmental love affair. OK, I know I’m being a cow, but the thought of them getting together bothers me. I don’t know why, but it does. I decide to ignore their nonsense and get on with sorting out my event.
I’m dying for a cup of tea to calm me down, but after rolling up an hour late and almost missing my print deadline, I can’t wander off to make one. My stomach lets out a tiny growl, protesting the lack of a Nani-prepared breakfast. I could really do with some biscuits to accompany the imaginary tea. If Adam and I weren’t sort-of fighting, I could have asked him to get me some. But we sort-of are. I have to sit here, parched, sweaty, smelly and hungry, and make sure that my tardiness hasn’t screwed up the event I’ve been planning for the past two months.
With a huge sigh, I ignore my rumbling stomach and get to work, blocking out all distractions. I go through the artwork I have to approve, make sure there are no embarrassing spelling mistakes or incorrect sponsor logos, and send it all to the printers. Adam’s done a great job with the designs – very Banksy-esque with hand-drawn sketches and a pop of colour – and I hope to God that people show up.
By lunchtime, I’ve worked through more than half of my task list so I allow myself a quick break to recharge. Grabbing my revived phone, jacket and handbag, I let the gruesome twosome know that I’ll be back in half an hour and make my way down some back streets to a greasy spoon caff that does the best jacket potato with cheese and beans.
I settle down on a plastic chair, brush away some sugar granules on the Formica table, and cut through the crispy, perfectly-baked skin to find moist potato drenched in butter underneath. After a couple of massive mouthfuls, I begin to feel more like myself.
As I eat, I pull out my phone to see what I’ve been missing while it’s been out of action – and nearly choke on a baked bean when I see that I have 176 WhatsApp messages and a hundred other missed calls, texts and notifications.
My appetite disappears. Something has happened, I know it has. Please God, don’t let it be Nani. She was complaining of a headache this morning and I was too stressed about being late for work to pay attention. What if it wasn’t a headache? What if it was a brain tumour and I’m so self-absorbed that I’ve missed all the signals?
I start reciting the prayer ‘Inna Lillahi Wa Inna Ilaihirraajiuun’, over and over, trying to calm my pounding heart. We belong to God and it is to Him we shall return. Throat dry, I take a big swig of my drink and force myself to open the first unread WhatsApp conversation. It’s from Layla.
OMG WHO WAS THAT HOT GUY ON YOUR INSTAGRAM LAST NIGHT?
OK. That wasn’t what I was expecting. What hot guy? The only guy I saw last night was Hamza, and I wouldn’t classify Hamza as ‘hot’.
ZARA!!! Answer me God Dammit! Who is this BAE? I thought I was your BAE?
I have no idea what Layla’s on about, so I ignore it and move to one from Amina, split up into about twenty lines. I hate it when people do that. No wonder I had 176 unread messages. Half of them are from my sister, the serial return-key presser.
Zara
Mum heard me gasp
She grabbed my phone
She’s having hysterics
Luckily
Her and Dad
Have gone to Uncle Mujib’s house
Just go to sleep
Before they come home I mean
Otherwise