The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters

by Nadiya Hussain

  ‘He does send money,’ I said.

  ‘Not nearly enough to make up for the fact that we never know where he is, or what he’s doing. He couldn’t give a crap about any of us.’

  I wondered if Bubblee realised that a lot of the time we don’t know where she is or what she’s doing either. My bedroom door opened again and it was Farah. ‘This is where you’re all hiding.’

  I folded my legs to make room for Farah on my bed.

  ‘Bubblee’s the one hiding,’ said Mae, still tapping on her phone. ‘From her husband.’ After which she made kissing noises.

  ‘She could do a lot worse than him. They’re a good family. Good brothers,’ replied Farah, still standing at the doorway.

  ‘Good enough for someone else, maybe,’ mumbled Bubblee.

  ‘What?’ said Farah.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied.

  Farah’s hand rested on the door handle – she was still as a statue. ‘If you have something to say, you might as well say it. It’s not like I have other things to deal with.’

  ‘Nothing,’ repeated Bubblee.

  I don’t understand how someone can be so stubborn about something. I’ve seen the way Mustafa is around Farah – the way he’s looked after her. He might not be funny and clever – all those things that Bubblee goes on about – but he was kind, at least. Is kind. Which is more than can be said for a lot of men. God, I hope he lives.

  ‘Mae – get off your phone and sleep in the room with me tonight,’ said Farah.

  Mae sighed deeply, picked up her pillow and left the room with Farah closing the door behind her.

  I watched Bubblee who was staring at the closed door.

  ‘You can sleep on the bed,’ I said to her. ‘I’ll take the floor.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied, sounding as if she were somewhere far away.

  *

  I woke up early, absolutely starving. Creeping out of the room, I walked passed my parents’ room and heard weird noises coming from inside. Sounded like Mum’s arthritis was pretty bad, as she seemed to be moaning. When I went downstairs Malik was at the breakfast table, eating a bowl of cornflakes.

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘You’re up early,’ he replied.

  I couldn’t think of anything to say and wished I’d at least put my bathrobe on. My green polka-dot pyjamas weren’t exactly the most flattering in the world.

  ‘My jet lag’s bad,’ he added as I went over to the kitchen cupboard, forgetting what I was looking for. A plate – that’s it.

  ‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘Must be.’

  What I wanted was squeezy cheese and mashed prawns on my four slices of toast but I couldn’t let him see me do that. I grabbed an apple and sliced it into pieces, along with some tangerines and a banana.

  ‘Fruit?’ I offered.

  ‘Yes. Please. Thanks.’

  I handed him the plate of chopped fruit and made myself another one, thinking of the cheese I couldn’t eat. As I took the plate and made my way out of the kitchen, he said: ‘Sit with me, Fatima.’

  No-one ever calls me Fatima like that. It’s always Fatti, Fatti, Fatti. As if even my name lives up to the expectation of who I am. I took a seat opposite him and looked at my plate, feeling my face flush again. He’s meant to marry Bubblee. Even if she won’t marry him. It doesn’t matter. He’ll never look at you after having looked at her, anyway.

  ‘You’re very shy for the eldest,’ he said.

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t have much to say.’

  ‘That can’t be true,’ he said, putting a slice of apple in his mouth, munching so loudly it filled the room.

  ‘Did you sleep okay?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  When I looked up he was staring at me. Our eyes met and he didn’t look away, just smiled. I peeled off the white veins of the tangerine.

  He seemed to laugh at something.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing, it’s just that … well, you have your kala’s hands. My amma’s hands.’

  He observed my hands carefully.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ he said.

  That much I knew was true, or I wouldn’t be modelling them – long, slender fingers, petite and soft, finely shaped nails that never really need to be filed. It’s the only attractive thing about me.

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’

  ‘Tell me about yourself, Fatima.’

  The house felt so quiet we could’ve been the only two people there. Is this what being with someone would be like? You’d wake up in the morning and just talk casually about anything; this little space made of you and them, like a secret society of privileged members. For a moment I pretended that we were married and that it was just another day in our lives – the happiness seemed to swell inside me, until I realised that it wasn’t real and that I was even more pathetic than I thought.

  ‘Nothing to tell,’ I said.

  ‘What do you do? What do you like?’ He paused. ‘Have you had many marriage proposals?’

  Many? The banana pieces were already getting black, the juice from the tangerine touching the sliced apples.

  ‘I er … no. I’m learning how to drive.’

  He leaned forward, putting his plate to one side. ‘And?’

  ‘Well, once I pass, you see, I’ll be able to get around and maybe get a proper job. Right now, I just help around the house.’ I put out my hand. ‘I make money modelling my hands in a magazine.’

  ‘Good. I’m not surprised,’ he said, looking at my hands again. ‘Why haven’t Kala and Mama found you a husband yet? You’re the eldest – you should be married now.’

  Imagine if he’d said that to Bubblee – she’d have thrown her plate at him. But it was nice being asked, because it was as if it was possible that someone like me could be married. In his eyes, it wasn’t only possible, but actually weird that I wasn’t married.

  ‘Maybe. One day,’ I replied.

  ‘Someday soon, inshallah,’ he replied. ‘There should be no maybe. Of course you’ll get married.’

  It was nice to have someone believe that would happen for me, even if it was just to make me feel better.

  ‘And how’s your brother,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Jahangeer? He hasn’t come home for Mustafa?’

  We heard something drop and looked outside into the passage.

  ‘Oops,’ said Mae, bending down to get her phone.

  ‘Mae, if you were recording without us knowing …’ I began.

  ‘I wasn’t, I wasn’t,’ she exclaimed.

  Her eyes rested on my plate of fruit.

  ‘Amazing, Fatti. Well done. Better than those hundred slices of toast you eat when you think none of us are looking. All right, Mal-meister?’ she added, opening the fridge and getting some kind of smoothie concoction out.

  ‘Mal-meister Baia to you,’ he replied, his back turned to her as he winked at me.

  ‘Ooh, yeah, of course,’ she said, making stupid hugging gestures while he couldn’t see. ‘Doesn’t Fatti have to call you Baia out of respect too? I mean, if you’re my brother then you must be hers too, right?’

  I could’ve killed her, laughing like that, without him seeing, while I could do nothing but look and listen. She took a sip of her smoothie.

  ‘Ugh!’ she exclaimed, spitting out its contents and looking at the bottle and wiping her mouth. ‘Gross. Dad’s at it again, isn’t he? He made me this weird smoothie days ago and it tasted like he’d put a spoonful of sewage in it.’

  She tipped it out into the sink and threw the bottle in the recycling bin.

  ‘You’re almost half her age. She deserves your respect,’ said Malik.

  ‘And she gets it, don’t you, Fats?’ she said, messing up my hair while she walked past.

  I tried to hit her on the leg but she just about escaped out of the kitchen. He must think everyone walks all over me. I just shook my head and pretended to laugh. ‘Kids,’ I said.

  He leaned forward and put his hand on mine.
I was so taken aback, I couldn’t move. What was he doing? Why was he touching me? No-one’s ever held my hand before. All that fruit was churning in my stomach, and it wasn’t sitting very well.

  ‘She’s right, though, Fatima. You must know …’

  We heard footsteps come down the stairs just then. Mae must’ve woken everyone up, as Mum walked in and Malik took his hand away from mine.

  ‘Oh, Malik, you must let me make you a proper breakfast. This is no good.’

  He gave her this weird look. ‘No. Thank you.’

  She insisted but he kept saying no and I did think, just let her make you some chapatti and lentil stew. Mum hesitated a little and then smiled at me.

  ‘Fatti,’ she said, getting out my prawns and tube of cheese. ‘Shall I make you toast?’

  What must he have thought of me?

  ‘No, thanks, Amma. I’m just having this.’

  She looked at my plate of fruit and frowned.

  ‘You can’t just eat that,’ she exclaimed and was already making me a cheese-and-prawn sandwich when Bubblee came down.

  ‘Morning,’ Malik said to her.

  I took the sandwich Mum handed to me as I watched them and munched on the huge bite I’d taken. Bubblee simply gave him a nod as she made a cup of coffee for herself.

  ‘Amma, I really think you should call Jay,’ she said to Mum.

  Malik glanced at her as she said this. ‘Bubblee is right, Kala,’ he added. ‘Wouldn’t he want to know?’

  Mum looked annoyed but turned around and got the flour out for the chapattis.

  ‘I know Farah’d want to talk to him,’ added Bubblee. ‘And she’s in no state to call him herself, or tell him what’s happened.’

  Mum shot her a look before turning to Malik. ‘There’s no need to worry him,’ she said.

  I saw Bubblee shaking her head in disbelief. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t for the fact that Malik was staring at her. I took another bite of my sandwich and wished I hadn’t as Malik looked at me – my mouth full – while Bubblee’s delicate mouth sipped at her coffee. He smiled at me though, so kindly that I didn’t know whether to swallow what was in my mouth, or cry.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bubblee

  This place kills me. I’m, quite frankly, dying on the inside. I always knew Wyvernage was pedestrian, but it’s never seemed so closed-minded as it does to me now that I’ve actually lived away from it. And everything, absolutely everything, ends up revolving around Jay. The male XY chromosomes – a blight to all our lives – only our parents are too visually impaired to see it. The golden child, simply because he’s a boy.

  I walked down the steeped curve towards the town’s green, passing the small shops – the store I’d always go to because it was the only one that sold Arts Illustrated; a crafts shop where I’d buy paint and utensils; the off-licence and grocery store and charity shop. Even though none of them were new, I had to get out of the house – away from that Malik. Not to mention Farah. I made it to the park and sat on the bench, watching white families with their white kids, living their middle-class lives in their white little bubble. I’m told you can find art anywhere, but not here. Art should be messy and full of grit – this is all so clean. You can’t feel things here. You can’t create something. I noticed that someone had left a glass bottle by the bin because it was full. I stared at it as an empty packet of crisps fell out of the bin. Walking up to it, I knelt down and saw there were still a few crumbs left in the crisp packet. I emptied it out next to the bottle, tipping the bottle onto its side as I observed the effect. Taking a photo with my phone, I sent the image to Sasha. It was the most art I’d get out of this place. I mean, of all the things my twin sister could’ve done with her life, she chose to stay here; to get married to a man who’s exactly like this place – uninspiring. I had to laugh as I shook my head; I mean, if you live your life trying to fit in here, there’s got to be something wrong with you.

  When I walked back home I saw Farah opening her car door. She paused as she saw me. I noticed the way the sunlight hit her heart-shaped face, her black hair shining as it hung loose over her shoulders. It reminded me of how she looked when, as kids, we’d play out in the garden in the sun – Mae crawling around on her scrawny hands and knees, Fatti in her bedroom, looking out at us. Jay destroying something or other. Only Farah used to laugh a lot back then. She doesn’t laugh like that now.

  ‘Last one in’s a rotten bean,’ shouted Mae as she seemed to come out of nowhere and sprang into the car. She popped her head out of the window from the passenger’s side.

  ‘You might as well get in – do you know the carbon footprint we leave behind because we’re too lazy to plan journeys or get a bike?’

  I walked up to the car. ‘Go sit in the back like the family dog you are,’ I said to Mae.

  ‘Get lost. You’re sitting there with your husband – oh, look. There he is.’

  And out he walked in his ridiculous trilby, trying to be something he’s not. As if a hat can make you English.

  ‘Wish Mum and Dad hadn’t forced Fatti to go in their car,’ said Mae as I got into the back. ‘Him in the middle and both of you either side.’ She burst out into laughter.

  ‘Mae,’ said Farah as she got in and Malik followed suit.

  ‘Bubblee,’ he said.

  Even his voice was annoying. I bet he was looking at me, thinking how nice I’d look on his arm when we went out, and how much nicer standing in the kitchen, making his dinner for him. I looked out of the window. Does it look like I was born yesterday? My parents might not have said anything to him about marriage, but I know these men from Bangladesh – especially one who’s in his thirties and ready to get married. When he looked at me, I could imagine just what he was thinking.

  A few minutes into the journey he said: ‘This is a very nice green place, isn’t it? Mustafa would talk about it and I never could picture it. He was very happy here,’ he said, looking at Farah through her rear-view mirror. ‘What are your neighbours like?’ he asked.

  ‘Starkers,’ said Mae, turning around.

  He looked at Mae, confused. She stuck a carrot-stick in her mouth. ‘Naked, Mal-meister. Sorry, Mal-meister Baia.’ She chomped on the carrot. ‘They don’t wear clothes. Nudists, through and through.’

  He frowned. Yes, here we get to live as we please. Although, the sight of them in the garden is always a little disturbing.

  He shook his head. ‘What is the world coming to?’

  ‘I suppose you’d have everyone covered, head to toe, not being able to leave the house?’ I replied.

  He smiled. ‘Ah, you think all men from back home are like that.’

  I thought he might say something else, but he simply looked out of the window.

  ‘Don’t worry, Malik,’ said Farah, turning the car into the hospital car park. ‘Our Bubblee doesn’t really think well of anyone.’

  *

  ‘No change?’ asked Farah to the doctor who was looking at her clipboard, scribbling notes.

  ‘We’re monitoring him closely, Mrs Lateef.’ She looked up. ‘Situations like these are impossible to predict. You have to remember that the lacerations were large from the closed head injury. Take heart that he’s stable for now.’

  The doctor looked over at all the family faces: What are all these people doing here? she was probably thinking. She gave a small smile and walked away, her black plimsolls padding against the floor. Mum got her rosary beads out, letting her tears run freely. Isn’t she the one who always says that whatever God does is for the best?

  ‘What will happen?’ she asked, looking at Malik, as if he had the answer. ‘This is why you don’t wait so long to have children, Faru. Anything can happen.’

  Farah’s face drained of colour.

  ‘Mum,’ I said. ‘For God’s sake. Not now.’

  ‘They said he is stable, Kala,’ he replied, though he didn’t look particularly convinced.

  ‘All she heard was “injury”,’
I replied. I put my hand on Farah’s arm before walking away to make a phone call.

  ‘How’s it going in the sticks?’ said Sasha.

  ‘Dire,’ I replied.

  She asked how Mustafa was, so I gave her an update.

  ‘Your sister must be a wreck.’

  I turned around and looked at my family huddled together, Fatti looking perturbed, Mae’s eyes fixed on her phone, Mum and Dad solemn. Malik was saying something to Farah as she smiled at him.

  ‘Listen, I’m so sorry I missed the exhibition. How’d it go?’ I asked.

  ‘I kept looking out for you, wondering if you’d make a surprise appearance.’

  ‘Bubblee?’

  I turned around and it was Malik, completely ignoring the fact that I was on the phone.

  ‘Sash, sorry, I have to go. I’ll call you later tonight, okay?’

  ‘Yeah. Sure.’ She paused. ‘I hope he gets better, Bubs.’

  I wanted to hope that too. Except I couldn’t. People might say that I should’ve felt ashamed thinking like that. Wishing for someone not to recover is horrid, I know. But he’s not important to me. My sister is.

  ‘What?’ I said, putting my phone in my jeans pocket.

  ‘We need to get in touch with Jahangeer,’ he said.

  ‘No kidding,’ I said, folding my arms.

  Who is this guy? He might be family but he doesn’t know us or what we’re about – coming over here and sticking his nose into our business about Jay. He furrowed his eyebrows and folded his arms as well.

  ‘Your sister, Bubblee,’ he said, as if he was telling me off for being so dim. ‘You can see she needs him.’

  I had to laugh. ‘Yeah. And weren’t you there when I had this chat with Mum?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’ve also tried to ask your amma and abba about it.’

  ‘Let me guess – every time you mention his name, they either talk about what a great son he is and how he’s “finding his feet” or they just change the subject.’

  He brought his hand up, resting his chin on his fist, sighing. ‘They’re getting old. I know what it’s like when this happens – it’s harder to face up to things when you have such set ideas.’

  ‘And what are they meant to be facing up to?’ I said.