by Ayisha Malik
‘A fake date? With who?’
‘Yes. No. Not fake. Well, maybe.’
‘Glad you got that figured out.’
‘With the hottie. From Shady.’
He poured milk into his coffee.
‘Well, good luck to you.’ He mixed in some sugar, tapped the spoon on the cup and put it in the plate. ‘He’s probably going to be less romantic and just hopeless.’
The sullenness was rather endearing, to be honest. Until he said, ‘I mean, do you think he’s serious about you?’
I felt my face flush.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Look at him, Sofe.’
I mean, it’s not as if I think he and I would look great together. He is way out of my league. But it’s different when someone else thinks it. Especially when you realise that person means something to you, though it’s not clear what.
‘What am I looking at?’
There was an earnestness in his expression that I don’t think I’ve seen before.
‘You know what, you’re a grown girl. I guess you can look after yourself.’
‘No, tell me. What am I looking at?’
He then smiled in that suggestive way that I find both irritating and entertaining in equal measure.
‘Oh, come on, Sofe. Arguments are for boring couples. What we have is special -– we got it figured out.’
How does a person go from earnest to suggestive? Sometimes I wish I could peel through the layers of his words just to get to the heart of the matter.
Thursday 8 December
9 p.m. Who are these people who seek perfection? I’d like to sit down with them and discuss the date I just had.
I waited for the hottie (whose name I should probably start using) at Waterloo. The conversation with Naim kept playing in my head and it made me keener than usual to prove him wrong. I kept glancing around, waiting for a familiar face to appear. When Hottie called, I realised it was the first time we’d spoken. Weird. I looked around at people on the phone, seeing if I could find him before he found me. Then the crowds parted. The station became a blur. I caught his eye and he broke into a smile which, in turn, almost broke me. When he was in front of me I don’t think I actually spoke. Maybe words came out. If they did I’m not sure what they were.
‘We finally meet,’ he said.
I love you.
For a second I understood how beautiful things might induce people to behave in stupid ways.
‘So many people look different, but you look exactly like you do in your picture,’ said Hottie.
So do you! Naim – you were wrong.
‘Where’s your beard?’ I asked.
He rubbed his jaw. Who’d have thought such a simple act could make your knees weak.
‘That’s for the next time we meet.’
Next time!
We sat and had coffee on the riverside. The London Eye’s Christmas lights twinkled in the background. He kept asking me questions about me: where did I grow up, who’s my favourite author, do I prefer pasta or biryani. I didn’t know what to make of all this attention. As I answered his questions, I thought, well, isn’t this linear. Conversations with Naim jump from Lemon Puffs to Bollywood music.
He got up to use the bathroom, which was a good opportunity for me to recollect myself. There was an elderly couple next to us and the woman leaned over.
‘Is that your boyfriend?’ she asked.
I laughed and said no. Although the idea was pretty fetching.
‘He is absolutely gorgeous.’ She watched him as he walked away. ‘Now let’s keep that between you and me.’
Something felt odd, though. Warm, friendly, but normal. We walked back to the station and stopped just outside. He said, ‘So, Sofia Khan. Until next time?’
Isn’t it odd that when something goes well you can feel redundant? As if you know that it could’ve been you or anyone else and the whole thing would’ve probably gone the same? It sounds stupid, but I feel like I’d read about this before, or watched it in a film. Whatever else it was, it wasn’t new.
‘Next time I expect a beard,’ I said.
He smiled, the cardboard cutout of a beautiful face.
‘I will try my utmost.’
But when I think of him, I have to admit, my heart can’t help but flutter.
9.55 p.m.
From Naim: You’d better be home in the next five minutes. Or I’m going to come to that fake date of yours and make a scene.
Ordinarily that would’ve made me laugh, but I’m finding a residue of annoyance when it comes to Naim and his words. For that reason, I’m going to ignore his call.
10.20 p.m.
From Abid: Salam, Sofia. It was really nice to meet you. Let’s do it again soon.
Odd things are happening in the world. Flutter, flutter, flutter.
Friday 9 December
7 p.m. As soon as I walked through the door, I was instructed to walk right back out. I had to post leaflets to the neighbours to let them know there’ll be noise over the weekend because of the dholki. It seems necessary to us ’Stanis to spend a whole evening beating a drum, singing songs and dancing around the room for entertainment.
When I came back, Chachu’s voice was resounding in the living room. He was pacing up and down, on the phone, shouting in Punjabi at Bobby for not picking him up from the airport last week, or in 2001. Sigh. Went into the kitchen and Mum was making roti, looking over at him.
‘He’s been on the phone for half an hour. And I can’t ask him if he is calling a mobile or landline – they don’t think about phone bills.’
10.50 p.m. Naim called asking where I’ve been. I had to tell him it’s been manic the past few days.
‘Don’t give me that bullshit.’
‘I don’t deal in bullshit,’ I said.
‘But fake dates aren’t bullshit, right?’
Honestly. I knew why I was being an arse but what was his excuse?
‘So?’ he said. ‘How hopeless was he?’
I looked at Maria’s mounting boxes in my room.
‘He was the opposite of hopeless.’ I was damned if I was going to say anything more. ‘And, as it happens, he didn’t seem to think the idea of seeing me again was completely ridiculous.’ Apparently I am damned.
‘Why would it be ridiculous?’ said Naim.
‘You tell me, Naim.’
‘Huh?’
The worst thing about people who are oblivious to what they say is when you’re really pissed off and then have to explain why you’re pissed off. So you’ve been walking around, seething, and they’ve been pottering about without a trace of excess emotion.
‘Oh, now you play stupid.’
‘OK, I don’t know what’s going on.’
So I had to remind him – that he found it difficult to believe Hottie would go on a date with me. It wasn’t something I particularly wanted Naim to know bothered me, but it was either that or be pissed off without explanation, which can make a person seem a bit like an ungh.
‘Where the fuck did you get that from?’
I repeated our conversation for him.
‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘For someone who’s doing research I hope you’re paying better attention to people’s stories. That’s not what I meant at all. I meant you’re a hijabi and, so you know, you’re a certain way. There’s depth and whatever to you – maybe not depth of understanding conversations . . . I can’t believe you thought that’s what I meant.’
I took in what he said. There was an inclination to believe him, but something pinched at any propensity to really trust him.
‘Hmmm.’
‘Sofe, if ever you decided to get married . . . that man? He’d be the luckiest guy on earth.’
Oh, his words! Sometimes they’re like tiny splinters, catching at the fabric of my focus.
‘You have to say that because you’re scared I’ll shout at you, and then who’ll put up with your nonsense?’
‘I may say a lot of shit. But I
don’t have to say anything.’
‘Right. Fine.’
‘Can we move on to discussing important things now?’
I paused.
‘Fine.’
He paused. ‘Let’s have sex.’
I laughed. He really is such an idiot. ‘Next time you say something like that, you’re going to get punched in the face.’ If it were anyone else, they really would get punched in the face.
‘Just once. Please?’
‘You need lessons on how to speak to a hijabi,’ I said.
‘What are you talking about? Islam is all about manners, and I said please. Plus, my parents taught me equal opportunities.’
‘Any opportunity here would be close to a miracle.’
He sighed. ‘And that is why I will always have faith.’
Argh! Another splinter, but before I could stop myself I said, ‘Good. You should keep it.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Absolutely.’
Don’t know why I said it. Don’t know where it came from, but maybe Katie’s right. Maybe I should be keeping an open mind.
Note for book: If you edge towards a cliff slowly enough, you should be able to catch yourself before you topple over.
Saturday 10 December
6 p.m. Dholki day! Woke up super early to write, which means I have circles under my eyes. Does Brammers understand the consequence of her eagerness? Maria’s given me a cream that apparently takes ten years off. I’d just dabbed blobs of it around my mouth when Fozia opened the door.
‘Ugh,’ she said. I looked at her in a royal-blue outfit and bronze sequins scattered everywhere, hair in disarray and no makeup.
‘Oh, I love all the decorations in the house,’ cried Suj as she waltzed in with Hannah.
‘I feel like I’m living in a theme park,’ I said.
Suj looked into the mirror and re-touched her lipstick before adjusting the wild curls in her hair.
‘The wedding industry has gone mad,’ said Hannah.
‘Have you heard from the hot guy again?’ asked Suj.
‘We’re texting.’ I wish my heart would bloody well stop fluttering at the mention of him. ‘I don’t know about these sleeves,’ I said, inspecting them. ‘My arms look like chicken drumsticks. Look.’ I shot my arm in front of Hannah.
‘Oh, shit. I forgot to defrost the chicken.’
Mum then walked in – my room had turned into a wedding venue.
‘Hannah and Maria married. You must all do something now,’ she said, looking at Fozia, Suj and me. ‘Maybe you two are not as fussy as Sofia.’
‘Don’t ask me, Auntie,’ said Fozia. ‘I’m waiting for Kamran’s parents to stop being so backward.’
Mum scoffed, ‘Very clever. He has spent the time with you and now his parents care that you’re dye-vorced. Tell him, if you don’t marry me I leave you. Tell him, I damn care.’ Mum waved her finger in the air. ‘Acha Suj, show me this lipstick.’
Girls and I glanced at each other. Fozia fiddled with the sequins on her outfit, looking intently at her lap as Mum inspected all the lipsticks Suj handed to her.
‘I will take this one.’ And she walked out of the room, leaving the proverbial elephant behind. Suj offered to do Fozia’s hair when my phone rang.
‘Oh my God.’ I looked up. ‘It’s Hottie!’
I realised that I’m sure the girls and me have had this very moment, many times, like a decade ago. Some things never change.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hi.’
I put him on speaker. Foz forgot all thoughts of Kam as she kept mouthing, marry him. Marry him. Haha.
He asked what I was doing so I told him about dholki day.
‘Are you going to cause trouble, Sofia?’
‘Only when absolutely necessary.’
It was a perfectly decent conversation that lasted ten minutes, and then he said he’d leave me to it. We said goodbye and he hung up. I sat down on the bed and stared at the girls.
‘I don’t get it. He’s so, so, not of this world.’
‘Don’t you dare tell him about the book,’ said Foz.
What am I doing? What exactly am I doing? To be fair, it doesn’t feel like I’m doing anything.
Note for book: No matter what you keep telling yourself, you’d better come to terms with the fact that we are all life’s marionettes.
Wednesday 14 December
2.45 p.m. I was in the medical/prayer room, sitting on the patient bed, post-prayer, thinking of life and sorts when Suj called.
‘Toffee, I can’t stop eating, and I can’t be arsed to be bulimic.’
‘One day I’m going to have my stomach stapled, I think.’
‘Your stomach is beautiful.’
‘Fudge.’ I prodded said stomach, and my finger was in danger of getting lost in its folds. ‘I’m very happy to be alone for ever; going out, seeing the world, that kind of thing. But what about when we’re sixty?’ No one wants to be the Mad Woman in the Attic. ‘Am I going to be a cat lady?’
‘We’ll have each other, Toffee. Anyway, you shouldn’t think about that. Overthinking causes stress, which gives you wrinkles. And maybe a heart attack.’
I kicked my legs in the air.
‘You’re not going to be alone, Toffee.’
I made the valid point to Suj about it being fine because it’s a choice and all . . . but just because you make a choice, doesn’t mean it’s the right one.
7.50 p.m.
From Abid: Hey there. You should know the beard’s coming along nicely. Meet up after Christmas? Would be good to catch up.
Without sounding pernickety, I did want to ask: catch up with what? I hardly know you. Which just made me determined that the next time I see him I’ll try to puncture a (tiny) hole in the veneer of his perfection. I will get to know you.
Friday 16 December
5.10 a.m. I’ve woken up in a panic re book. Prayed and now I can’t sleep. Maybe I should use my time productively and do some writing. Wonder if Naim’s awake. Will just look at his Facebook.
5.20 a.m. Who is this new girl he’s friends with? And why can I see her bra through her T-shirt?
6.10 a.m. I’ve rummaged through kitchen cupboards and Chachu seems to have eaten my stock of chocolates. I also want to know why there are four tubs of butter in the fridge with everything in them but actual butter. Everything is Tupperware for ’Stanis.
6.12 a.m. I need to see that picture again.
6.14 a.m. How can someone that thin have such big boobs?
6.17 a.m. Argh! Looked in the mirror. Shouldn’t I seem youthful and fresh given abstinence from partying and drinking? Maybe it’s that occasional cigarette . . . might as well join a convent and be done with life altogether – except I’m the wrong religion.
Speaking of which, it’s the work Christmas party tonight. I’ll decide what to wear, right after I’ve looked at that picture one last time . . .
1 a.m. We were at Millbank and it was the usual paper hats, cheesy music, Christmas cracker situation (which I always rather enjoy). People were getting increasingly inebriated as I chugged back glass after glass of Diet Coke. At least two people from Editorial told me they loved me, and someone from Facilities complimented my arse, which isn’t the worst thing in the world, though it did make me question my decision to wear this particular green dress.
Katie came and put her arm around me and said, ‘Sweetu, I love you so much. You are my best, best friend at work.’ She gasped and then stroked my hijab. ‘And look how beautiful you are, sparkling like a brown Christmas tree.’
‘Yes. Thank you. Now let’s . . .’
But before I could say let’s call a taxi, Katie exclaimed, ‘Sweetu! Let’s go to Heaven!’
‘Errr, yes. Great idea.’
‘You’ll come to Heaven. With us?’
I laughed at how alcohol can make a person think about the deeper questions to do with life and death.
‘We’ll all walk through the pearly ga
tes together,’ I said. ‘But right now, let me call that taxi.’
‘Guys! Sofe’s coming to Heaven with us!’ Katie exclaimed.
At which everyone cheered and I was swept out of the building by a charge of publicists et al. with Fleur following suit, grabbing people’s coats on the way out.
Except I hadn’t quite realised that Katie wasn’t talking about the afterlife kind of Heaven, but rather the current life, club, Heaven.
‘Are you mad?’ I said to her. ‘I can’t go in there.’
The music thumped as crowds of people – wearing such little material that I felt cold just looking at them – gathered outside.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. She leaned forward as if she were letting me in on an exciting secret. ‘They’re mostly gay! Isn’t that great? You can take your scarf off.’
I laughed and held her by the shoulders as the work lot queued outside.
‘Sweetu. You know I’m a boring cow and don’t do bars or clubs. As wonderful as the prospect of being around gorgeous men sounds.’
She looked so disappointed. I almost went in just to put a smile back on her face. Before she could contest too much, the girls dragged her into the club and Katie waved at me, shouting, ‘It won’t be the same without you!’
I turned around to call a taxi and bumped into a rather tall man. I looked up to say sorry and started.
‘Oh, hello,’ I said, smiling in surprise. It was Hottie! I was rather startled to be so pleased to see him.
His face fell.
‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.
He seemed to be lost for words.
‘And where’s this beard you’re meant to be growing?’ I added.
Then he looked over my shoulder. I turned to see what had caught his eye -– it was only the club entrance. Why was he looking so uncomfortable? He still hadn’t answered me and so I waited. Come on, Hottie . . . what’s happened to your perfect ability to have a conversation? Katie’s voice trickled into my head. They’re gay! Isn’t that great?
No way.
‘What are you doing here?’ I repeated.
