by Ayisha Malik
Suj didn’t think the arrangement was big enough. I personally didn’t think anything, but felt it my duty to be involved so started Googling more options.
‘How about just a single orchid?’ I said.
The girls shook their head in unison.
Suj then took out her phone, presumably to also Google flowers, but got distracted and showed us photos of Charles instead.
‘Is that an eight-pack?’ Foz exclaimed. She grabbed the phone and zoomed in. ‘Jeez.’
I glanced at the screen and nodded.
‘Forget your American unless he looks like that,’ said Foz.
‘If anything happens with the American,’ I said, ‘I’d eat my own hand.’
‘Well, make sure it’s your left one if you’re going to write this book,’ said Hannah.
‘Speaking of which, I think I need to be professional and do things like interview you guys. Since you’re getting married and apparently have the most Times-worthy relationship, I’ll start with you, Han.’
Earnest writer that I’ve become, I put my Dictaphone on the table. Hannah sat up and cleared her throat.
Me: Soooo, do you think this’ll work?
(Silence.)
Hannah: Well, yes. I do.
Me: Hmm.
Hannah: Don’t you think it’ll work?
Me: Me? I er, yeah, no, why not.
(Gulping of drink.)
Me: Future’s a murky place. I mean, we’re not psychic. Also, people that give definitive answers are arrogant know-it-alls.
(Silence.)
(More silence.)
(One of the girls coughs.)
Me: You know those people who say, ‘Go with the flow?’ They’re idiots. Question everything and, more often than not, you’ll stumble across an answer.
Foz: Sofe, you should probably question things less.
Me: You wait your interview turn.
Hannah: I need another drink. Hi, can I have another virgin mojito, please?
Waitress: Virgin?
Me and Hannah: Yes, virgin.
Me: What was it your dad said again when you told your parents about Zulfi?
(Suj laughs out loud.)
Suj: He’s so fucking funny.
Hannah: (In Arabic accent) ‘You are almost thirty-one, never married, I show you man and you say no . . . Maybe you are lesbian.’ Mum walked in and said ‘Habibti, life is not like this, what do you call that programme you girls watch? Sex and the City.’
She’s right. You can’t reject a man because he wears Y-Fronts instead of boxers. Another won’t just come along and sweep you off your feet.
Me: Yeah, namely because by the time you find out he wears Y-Fronts you’d be married to him anyway.
Hannah: I thought, excellent. Telling him I’m becoming a second wife will pale in comparison to me being gay. (Sound of glasses being set on table.) I think he’d have preferred it if I was a lesbian.
(Pause.)
Me: How do you feel about, you know, husband-sharing?
(Pause.)
Hannah: It’s not ideal, is it? But then what’s ideal? (Pause.) Have you interviewed anyone else yet?
Me: No.
Hannah: Let’s put Foz under the microscope. Or Suj.
Suj: I’m not Muslim.
Me: Muslim, brown – all begins to leak into the same thing.
Hannah. Hardly. You know, actually I should finish this drink and then go. Early start tomorrow.
Me: Oh, are we done?
Hannah: Yeah. We’re done.
Friday 30 September
8.30 a.m. ARRRRRRGHHH! Mortification! Why, why, why is technology both friend, by introducing me to Muslim dating case studies, and foe, by stripping me of dignity in the same technical breath? I woke up to message failure emails. Wasn’t sure what that meant until I got an email from Shain:
From: Murphy, Shain
To: Khan, Sofia
Subject: (no subject)
Sofia, wow – what an offer. Is this part of the service when publishing with you guys? Haha. Or a personal entrepreneurial endeavour?! Anyone who has the balls to sell Viagra to their author is the kind of publicist I want! ;)
PS Did I get the Guardian slot you pitched?
Shain xxxxxx
My stupid email’s been hacked and is now sending out Viagra promos to everyone in my contacts’ list, including authors. If Brammers finds out, it’ll be death by administrative tasks. HITW Imran’s also in my contacts’ list. For a moment I thought: maybe this will induce him to drop me a line. And then I realised he’ll just be glad he didn’t marry a Viagra-selling hijabi.
10.30 a.m. Brammers is in a meeting. Granted I was a little late for morning prayers, but I dragged myself out of bed eventually. Surely that should help protect me against possible disciplinary.
Anyone would think I’ve given the new workie the task of sending out aid to Africa when explaining how to do a mail-out. I passed him a list of contacts as I was checking my Shady account, and he just stood there. I looked up from the screen.
‘Benjamin . . .’
‘Benji.’
‘Right, Benji, you print these out onto the sticky labels I gave you and put them on the jiffy bags, in which you’ll add a copy of the book with a press release.’
Of course, as I was explaining this, he was staring at Fleur’s legs. People and their distractions. Honestly.
12.45 p.m.
From: Sharif, Naim
To: Khan, Sofia
Subject: Thanks for the kind offer . . .
Good afternoon, I’m just wondering if there’s a reason you sent me a link to purchase Viagra/Cialis? Just so you know, I don’t have a problem that might require those. Unless, of course, you’re trying to suggest something . . .
Please, Earth, open up right now and swallow me, and my laptop, whole.
1 p.m.
From: Khan, Sofia
To: Sharif, Naim
Subject Re: Thanks for the kind offer . . .
I’m conducting a survey. Congratulations on being one of the chosen participants.
1.09 p.m.
From: Sharif, Naim
To: Khan, Sofia
Subject Re: Thanks for the kind offer . . .
Participants? Plural? Next time I think you should keep your men separate. Creating a competitive environment might not work to your advantage. What are you going to do if they all show up, pumped-up on Viagra?
1.25 p.m.
From: Khan, Sofia
To: Sharif, Naim
Subject Re: Thanks for the kind offer . . .
Excellent story piece, don’t you think?
3.11 p.m.
From: Sharif, Naim
To: Khan, Sofia
Subject Re: Thanks for the kind offer . . .
Maybe I need to hear more about this book. Quick question, does the one who buys the most Viagra win or lose? Interesting . . .
3.47 p.m.
From: Khan, Sofia
To: Sharif, Naim
Subject Re: Thanks for the kind offer . . .
For the person who buys the most, surely it’s a win-win situation. The future’s bright.
4.05 p.m.
From: Sharif, Naim
To: Khan, Sofia
Subject Re: Thanks for the kind offer . . .
Apparently for you the future’s looking limp. How many orders does it take to get a phone call? 07700 900 988. I’d like to hear more about this book.
Note for book: The way to get a man’s number is to send him a link for sexual enhancement drugs.
4.25 p.m. Arrghhh! I’ve just seen the list I gave to Benji! He’s sent out sixty copies of Facts About Hippos to all the financial editors on our list. Bollocks! I called Charlie in the post room.- He said I’d missed the delivery truck by two minutes. Maybe this is God’s way of telling me to be nicer to work experience people.
5.05 p.m. Oh dear. Brammers has just asked me to come into the office.
; 5.20 p.m. ‘Anything you want to tell me, Sofia?’
Brammers scratched her head. Sniff sniff. I had a flash of wanting to blame work faux pas on the workie, and then felt guilty for having such a thought. I prefer not to think about what a person’s instinct says about them.
‘About the hippo campaign?’
She looked at me blankly. ‘What? No. Shain seems to be happy, though, well done,’ she said, distracted.
Thanks to God! Maybe she hasn’t found out, and there’s no reason I can’t order some more books and send them out to the right editors ASAP.
‘Sofia . . .’ Brammers tapped the desk with her pen. ‘The book?’
‘Oh, going really well.’
‘Really?’
I swear her pupils dilated as her eyes bore into mine.
‘Great,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a look at the first chapter draft before we show Lucinda. Here’s the contract. Have a read . . .’
I held the mini booklet in my hands.
‘You know, it’s important that this is delivered on time.’ She looked pointedly at me.
Honestly. Anyone would think I’m not responsible or focused enough to meet a deadline.
10.24 p.m.
To Naim: Just so you know, this is a private number. Any orders relating to Viagra/Cialis should be made online. Obviously. Sofia.
10.32 p.m.
From Naim: Are you really writing a book or is that just a cover story for your real job, selling Viagra?
10.41 p.m.
To Naim: Of course I’m writing a book. Hijabis don’t lie. I’m very professional.
10.42 p.m.
From Naim: Professional what? That’s what I’m asking. Although, nothing like a bit of mystery to keep things interesting.
I’ve discovered that it’s very liberating being immune to flirtatious banter. Once one is sage-like and focused on the task at hand, they are also impenetrable; emotionally speaking.
OCTOBER 2011
Out of the Frying Pan
Muslim Dating Book
When Muslim dating, forget sex. Don’t think about it except momentarily when you’re sitting opposite someone and ask yourself, can I imagine having sex with this person? Because that’s all you’ll be able to do – imagine it.
Ugh. No. I forgot I’m against the sexualisation of society. Goes to show that marriage isn’t the only thing ingrained in us.
Muslim dating shouldn’t be confused with Asian dating. Plenty of clichéd stories exist of girl likes boy, boy likes girl – except girl has to marry her cousin from Pakistan or India or wherever – girl’s parents take her abroad for forced arranged marriage, so on and so forth. I mean authentic Muslim dating, where often chaperones are present, where first dates consist of discussions about living arrangements, how many times you pray in the day, conversation about the socio-political effects of 9/11 and skinny jeans. There is one purpose, and that is marriage. You are diving, head-first, into the fire.
Saturday 1 October
9.10 a.m. Oh, Lord, incessant phone bleeping woke me up. I’d been sent seventeen pictures of what is basically the same shoe in a different shade of gold.
9.12 a.m. Maria came in and sat on my bed.
‘Did you like the one with two straps at the front, or the slightly thicker single strap? The thing with the single strap is the heel’s a little shorter but . . .’
She flicked through Asian Bride. I sat up and looked at the pics with her, pretending to sound passionate about diamantés.
Once we’d gone through the five thousand shoes, she put the magazine to one side.
‘How’s the book going? Actually, you can tell me all about progress on our way to Green Street. Mum doesn’t understand about the golden shoes and just keeps handing me tubes of Fair & Lovely.’
8.20 p.m. Well, thanks to God that’s done! We came home and Mum was looking impressed with my purchase until I draped the scarf over my head. I didn’t have to – but who can resist?
Oh, Naim’s calling . . .
Wednesday 5 October
9.30 a.m. I came in to work early to write but a fuzzy wall stood between creativity and me. Katie came bounding in to work early too. She ran here. Five miles.
‘Training, Sweetu. I’m doing a half marathon.’ Her hair was still wet from her shower.
‘Are you mad?’
‘It’s important to have goals,’ she said, collapsing in her chair and switching on her computer. ‘Don’t you find that life is otherwise just, stagnant.’
‘You do know that when you run, you’re the one moving, not life?’
Katie looked at her screen. ‘Ugh. Thirty-nine emails.’
‘Let me buy you a cake. Or a disgusting spinach and kale smoothie.’
We both went to the canteen while Katie told me about her running routine. I was exhausted just listening to her. By the time we’d come back up, Fleur was also at her desk, and Benji was hovering around her.
‘How’s the book?’ Katie asked as she stared at the muffin in my hand.
I watched Benji tell Fleur a joke as I told Katie about the American and my research being underway.
‘He needs to just ask her out,’ I said, surveying the situation from the side of my computer. ‘I want to say, “Benjikins, time is of the essence.” ’
‘Exactly,’ she replied.
Honestly, Katie is such a nudger: clearing her throat here, a meaningful raise of the eyebrows there. I ignored her and continued to observe Benji fannying around with Fleur’s notepad when I felt Katie’s eyes still on me.
‘What?’
‘This American. Nice, is he?’
I told her that I ended up spending three hours on the phone to him last night.
‘What on earth did you talk about?’
‘Erm, Billy Bob Thornton, garlic sauce and that ad with the cow running down the beach.’
‘This is hopeful!’
Which is a lot better than Hannah asking whether we had phone sex. Ungh. If you’re not having sex before marriage then don’t have any kind of sex at all. Honestly.
‘Pink shirt and scarf – that’s all I have to say.’ Was it worth reminding Katie that I’m also no longer looking for a relationship (now, I just write about them)?
Note for book (and life?): Compartmentalising is a useful and essential tool in order to maintain focus.
To which she didn’t reply. Five seconds later I received an email:
From: Byrne, Katie
To: Khan, Sofia
Subject: . . .
WHATEVER.
Just as I looked over the computer and laughed, my phone beeped.
From Naim: So I was thinking we should discuss your Viagra-selling strategy over some coffee and Lemon Puffs. Saturday work for you?
‘Who is it?’ Katie’s also nosy as hell.
‘Speak of the devil.’
She jumped out of her seat, took the phone from me and read the message.
‘He’s asking you out.’
‘No, he doesn’t really know anyone in London. I’m his port of call. Literally.’
Katie had my phone clasped in two hands. ‘You’re very flirty.’
‘I am not and stop reading all my messages,’ I said, snatching it back. ‘I’m going to see him as part of my professional endeavour.’
‘Oh, God,’ she said, wrapping her cardigan around her and walking back to her desk.
‘I am,’ I replied.
‘Fine. And I’m going to record a conversation between you and George in Facilities and replay it in our catch-up meeting. Then we’ll see whether or not you flirt.’
Hmph. Friendliness is now mistaken with flirtation. The world’s moral compass is askew.
To Naim: Lemon Puffs on a Saturday sounds fine to me.
Saturday 8 October
2.30 p.m.
From Katie: Good luck, Sweetu! And remember – open mind and positive thinking! Xx
Pfft. If that worked, we’d all have positive-thought our way i
nto world peace, surely. Mum came into my room while I was trying to write and started showing me her sale shopping, including clothes for mine and Maria’s (unborn) kids, more solar lights, ruby earrings (forty per cent off!), nose trimmer for Dad – ‘Just because you’re getting old and blind doesn’t mean everyone is also blind’ – and a dress for me, which will be nice for when I visit my in-laws, apparently.
‘And which in-laws would they be, Mum?’
Since we were talking clothes, I abandoned my laptop and decided to go through my wardrobe to look for a dress to wear tonight. I pulled out an animal-print number and tried it on.
‘Do I look like a camel-humped Dubaian in this, Mum?’ The last thing a person should do is look like they have a huge head, as well as bum. This growing obsession with ever-expanding hijabs is very disturbing.
‘Hain? It looks nice,’ she replied, smiling at my attire in an all-too-approving way.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
‘O-ho, you will get married one day.’
‘Mum, I told you I’m not getting married.’
I got out of the disastrous Dubaian ensemble and tried on my orange dress. Mum looked at the clothes I’d flung on the floor as I tried on a pair of jeans.
‘Are you meeting a boy?’
My leg froze mid-air.
‘Huh?’
She repeated the question in Urdu.
‘What? No.’
Those sin points for lying seem to be stacking up. But it was either that or a floodgate of questions from her, and I was already drowning in clothes.
‘Why aren’t you marrying him? What happened? Didn’t he like you? Why didn’t you like him? You’re too fussy. It’s the hijab – I told you to wear it after you got married. Look at Ambreen, she was clever, she didn’t wear a hijab.’
Sometimes it feels like my decision to wear a scarf is a perpetual punishment. It’s bad enough to get raised eyebrows from the outside world, but Mum seems to think that she’ll huff and she’ll puff, and that one day she’ll blow my scarf off.
‘Shame, Soffoo,’ she replied. ‘People get married three, four times and you can’t even meet a boy.’
