Chapter 19
It’s Friday night and, although it’s been a quiet week at work, I’m feeling really drained. I’ve been out nearly every evening this week despite my half-hearted efforts to chill at home: gym, cinema with Layla and Ezra, who I haven’t seen much of lately because she has some fancy new job that has her working all hours. I’ve seen Hamza twice. I had to; we went for dinner on Wednesday and he mentioned that he was planning on buying his sister a blender for her birthday. A blender! So I made him meet me in Selfridges on Thursday and picked out a pretty silver bangle instead.
Mo, by the way, unblocked me long enough to send me another text before blocking me again.
I can’t believe I wasted so much time on you, you giant freak. You’ll never find anyone as good as me. Bitch.
I still feel pretty shaken by the whole thing, to be honest. But I also feel as though I deserve it for speaking to him behind Hamza’s back. I don’t reply.
Tonight, I want nothing more than to curl up in bed with a film and a tube of Pringles and give my mind and body a chance to recover, but I can’t. My eldest cousin Sabina is here from Dubai for four days and if I bail on a night that’s been in the diary for months, she’s going to murder me. Or worse, tell my mum about the dodgy things we got up to as teenagers.
I put the final touches on my makeup and then spray myself generously with all sorts of chemicals; fix spray, setting spray, hair spray and perfume, before stepping back and checking out my reflection in the mirror. Sabina is a famous makeup artist in Dubai, so I’m extra conscious of my face today. After Mo’s ‘giant’ comment, I’m tempted to give heels a miss. I know Sabs will be in at least four inches; she’s almost as tall as me and she always wears heels with confidence, so why do I let the fact that I’m the tallest Bengali girl in London bother me? It’s better than being the shortest. Pushing Mo and his parting words out of my head, I slip them on and then complete my look with a rich red lippy. For the first time in a long time I feel good about myself.
The roar of a powerful engine, together with pounding bass, indicates the arrival of my cousin. I peer out of my bedroom window and, sure enough, there’s a shiny white Range Rover struggling to fit into the space right outside our house. It goes forwards and backwards about ten times at various angles and I smile to myself, excited nerves brewing in my belly numbing the pain from earlier. I’m in dire need of some fun – and judging by the loud hip-hop that’s causing our entire street to vibrate, it looks like she’s ready to party too.
‘Amina! Yas! Sabs is here!’ I yell to my sisters as I grab my bag and head down the stairs. I hear the doorbell ring and the sound of squealing as Sabs greets and hugs Mum and Nani, towering above them in her heels.
‘Ahlan wa sahlan habibti!’ I call out in Arabic, grabbing my cousin in a bear hug. I’m looking forward to catching up with her and getting her perspective on the Bollywood drama that is currently my life.
‘What’s happening, tart?’ she replies with her trademark, blinding smile. ‘You’re looking good!’
‘Thanks.’ I shrug modestly, hearing the thundering steps of my sisters running down the stairs.
There are more hugs and shrieks, then much to Mum and Nani’s dismay, we head out soon after. Nani grumbles about us choosing to go out for dinner instead of eating home-cooked food, and Mum looks put out at being unable to catch up with her niece. We assure them that Sabina will be staying over tonight and they can feed her and gossip as much as they want in the morning. They reluctantly let us go, making us promise to behave and not stay out too late.
‘By the way, Samia’s going to meet us at the restaurant and will come back with us and stay at yours too,’ Sabs says as we climb into the car.
‘Yeah, cool.’ I shrug, although truth be told, I’m not sure how I feel about seeing Sam after she lied to me, but I say nothing and grab Sabs’ ancient pink iPod and flick through all the old school hip-hop and R & B tracks instead. She stops me, making us all recite the travelling and protection prayers first, and I gulp, hoping she still remembers how to drive on this side of the road.
Windows down and music blasting, we sing and dance the entire drive into Central London, screaming every time Sabs takes a corner too fast or slams the brakes too hard. People are looking at us disapprovingly, but we don’t care. In fact, the more the car swerves and shudders, the more I let go of my worries and my fatigue. It’s summer, the weather is amazing, we’re young, we’re healthy, we’re attractive. We have so much to be grateful for.
Our first stop of the night is to an Indian restaurant in Covent Garden; not exactly the place to party but the food is amazing. Samia is already there waiting for us, a scowl on her face because we’re half an hour late, so we all hug her and compliment her on her new outfit to soften her up before making our way to the table where we order every halal item on the menu.
‘So! What’s been happening since I was last here?’ Sabina asks, touching up her siren-red lipstick, so I copy her and do the same. I look around the table and see that my sisters and Sam are also pulling their lippies out. As well as being a hugely successful makeup artist whose client list includes members of the Dubai royal family, Sabina is also beautiful and always looks flawless. Back in the day, she was approached by a modelling agency, despite wearing a hijab. Now she’s in her mid-thirties but she still looks fabulous and she’s always being gawked at, stalked or stopped by random people; men and women alike. Whenever we’re around her, we all make an extra effort with our makeup because if we don’t, she’s bound to look at us with a pained expression and murmur, ‘Are you sure you blended your eyeshadow properly today?’
‘Erm .?.?.’ I flounder, not sure where to begin, or how honest to be with Samia right there, ears wagging. I don’t really want to spend the evening dissecting my marriage prospects, but then, having been married for donkey’s years, Sabs is the right person to explain my dilemma to. It all comes out: Mum’s threat on my twenty-ninth birthday. Hamza. Dr Farook. Mr MoneyMaker Mo. The rejection from the Tower Hamlets man I never even met.
I go through the events as succinctly as possible, with Yasmin and Amina chiming in every so often, until the food arrives. Then they’re all too busy munching away on the gorgeous grills and fragrant curries to bother. I can tell that Samia is paying close attention, though. I find her silence off-putting, but I can’t exactly stop talking, not if I want Sabs’ perspective on things.
‘Let me get this straight,’ Sabina says, picking up a lamb chop with her hands and biting into the tender flesh with her teeth bared. That’s the endearing thing about her; she looks like a Muslim supermodel and then she does something uncouth like fart in public.
‘OK .?.?.’ I prompt her as she loses her train of thought, grease all around her mouth as she savours every last morsel.
‘Yeah. As I was saying. Let me get this straight. You rejected the doctor, and now you’re going out with the unattractive one?’
‘I wouldn’t class it as “going out”,’ I interject hurriedly, while Amina and Yasmin roll their eyes. They’ve heard this a million times already. ‘And he’s a bloody dentist, not a doctor. And Hamza’s not unattractive. I’m just not madly attracted to him.’
‘Whatever,’ Sabina says dismissively. ‘So, you don’t know if you want to marry him because you don’t fancy him?’
‘Er, I suppose it could be simplified like that, if you decide to leave out all the detail and nuance,’ I concede reluctantly. When she puts it like that, I sound like a right flaky floozy.
She looks at me incredulously. ‘What I don’t understand is: why the hell are you going out with a bloke you don’t fancy?’
‘You’d understand if you met him,’ Amina pipes up. ‘He’s really intelligent and well spoken—’
‘He is,’ Yasmin agrees. ‘He’s also one of those genuinely decent guys.’
‘See what I mean?’ I tell Sabs. ‘I really like him and get along with him. He’s funny. He’s smart. He’s respectful. He reminds me that not all men are bastards.’