by Ayisha Malik
I let him do the hard work of filling in the silence as I thought about my argument with Hannah.
‘So listen,’ he continued, ‘we need to talk. I know things are a little crazy because of your dad.’ He paused. ‘Here’s the thing, Daisypuffs, I’m being serious, I’m so flattered you’d feel that way . . .’
Oh my actual God. It’s like that nightmare you have, only you realise it’s unfolding before you in reality and you can’t jolt yourself out of it . . .
‘. . . but look at us. We’re so different . . .’
I sat up in my bed. I couldn’t quite believe the words he was pouring into my ears, like lava, heating up more than my brain.
‘Oh, Naim, please stop. Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘OK, so you get it?’
Excuse me? The lava spread.
‘Save the pep talk.’
‘Hey, don’t get defensive. I’m just being honest, and I’m telling you how flattered . . .’
ARGH!
‘OK, fine, whatever. I have to go.’
Silence.
‘Come on, Sofe. Who else can I share Lemon Puff jokes with?’
Bloody, bloody, Naim.
‘I’m not going to have time for those seeing as I’m getting married.’
Oh I hated the phone in that moment. If only I could’ve seen his face right then.
‘What?’
‘Married.’
Silence. Turns out someone doesn’t want to join me on stage or on the road, but in actual life, I wanted to say. Moron.
‘But, your email . . .’
‘What can I say, Naim? Feelings change.’
‘Oh, right.’
I stared at my red paisley bed cover.
‘When are you getting married?’
‘Imminently.’
‘That was fast.’
Ha. My family would disagree. It’s been about ten years coming.
‘Listen, appreciate the call, but really must go now . . .’
‘That’s it?’
‘What else is there?’
Silence.
‘Well, he’s a lucky son of a bitch.’
Before I could think about how he could genuinely feel this and say what he’s just said, I told him goodbye and hung up.
You think it’ll be like in the films where you either feel you’ve shifted excess weight from your life (and/or body), or that there’ll be some kind of symbolic denouement (see? Hollywood). But there was nothing. Just hollowness. The only catharsis I could find was to delete him from my Facebook. I must say, the ritual of letter burning would’ve hit the tired and angry spot.
I looked at the istikhara prayer, resting on the bed, picked it up and did what I had to do.
11 p.m. It’s no use. I’ve prayed, but can’t get my mind to settle. Have just seen Conall’s light on next door. All I want is to see a friendly face. And have a fag. Conall won’t judge me if I smoke.
12 a.m. When I knocked on his door I must’ve looked like crap.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
I said I needed to be out of the house. ‘And also,’ I added, taking out the emergency cigarettes, ‘I kind of needed a cigarette.’
‘Thank fuck you’ve finally told me. I was wondering how long you were going to use the bathroom to smoke while I was out.’
‘Oh shit, you could smell it?’
‘From a mile, Sofe.’
‘Why didn’t you say something?’ How embarrassing!
He just shrugged as he led the way into the kitchen and opened the door. We both sat on the step as I offered him a cigarette.
‘Filthy habit,’ he said.
‘Yes, thanks. Just so you know, I’m not a smoker – it’s just in emergency cases.’
‘Of course.’
I inhaled and looked at the stars. I could still feel my heart pumping so fast the heat spread to my face. Then I thought of Hannah. Arguing with her is the worst. She’s the one who tilts my head in a different direction when I don’t like what I see. And I’ve told her to keep her heart in a place she no longer found contentment. Whatever she might’ve said to me was probably said out of sheer frustration. A person doesn’t get divorced every day. I am a bad friend.
‘Unhappy marriages are a bore, aren’t they?’ I said.
‘Generally unhappiness is,’ he said. ‘Ah, fuck it,’ he added, taking a cigarette and lighting it up.
‘This is nice. Shared smoking experiences are better.’
‘Not the healthiest.’ He looked at the cigarette and then at me. ‘Aren’t hijabis meant to be a good influence?’
‘I’ll try again tomorrow.’
‘Where were we?’
‘Unhappiness.’ I was beginning to realise how small the step was – there was barely an inch between us. ‘When I was at the hospital, waiting for Dad to get better, I kept thinking about my parents and how much of it was, well, a struggle.’ I looked for a place to ash the cigarette. Conall reached behind me and handed me a cup. ‘Forget it, I’ll shut up,’ I said.
Don’t know why I was bothering to say all this – ranting is one thing – but lately it feels like it’s a lot to keep in. I never used to have this problem. Perhaps as you get older you have less emotional storage space.
‘Don’t half-finish a thing. It’s annoying.’
I took a deep breath.
‘I just feel glad. Despite the fact that my parents were either shouting or ignoring each other through most of my childhood, I’m glad they stuck at it. Selfish person that I am.’ I rubbed in some ash that fell on the grass. ‘If I was my mum’s friend, I’d have told her to leave, and I’d probably have been right.’
She might’ve had a better life, but I wouldn’t have had my dad in the same way. Mum with her solar lights and sacrifice.
‘Maybe she didn’t stay just for you,’ he said. ‘Not great times in the Khan household?’
‘Oh well, it’s not a particularly original story. Anyway, all’s well that ends well etc.’
‘And,’ he said, ‘At least your dad wasn’t a raging alcoholic.’
That was another dot to add to the bigger picture of Conall’s life. It was his turn to look at the stars. I wonder whether he still speaks to his dad. Whether the dad is even alive? I didn’t want to pry, though. No one wants to be reminded of a crap childhood on a reasonably starry night.
‘That’s not a great time, either,’ I said.
He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Disgruntled Asian immigrant parents and an alcoholic Irish father?’ I sighed. ‘Aren’t we a pair of second-generation clichés?’
Conall tends to fix his eyes on things; the ground, the sky, the cigarette. Me. He looked at me as if I owed him a debt of information. Except I didn’t know what that information was, and for a moment I wanted to give it all – whatever I had inside – information-wise. I could’ve blurted out my entire family history there and then.
‘Here,’ I said, handing him another cigarette, hoping to distract him. I didn’t want to give more than I already had. ‘For your troubles.’ Then I realised that my stupid scarf had come off. I hadn’t pinned it because it was the middle of the night and I wasn’t going to stay long. I put it back on as quickly as I could as he looked away. Awkward!
‘Take a lot more than a cigarette for my troubles, Sofe,’ he said after a few minutes. I wish I had something useful to offer – words of wisdom, a profound statement that might help to bundle up his sadness into a manageable size.
‘I’m afraid it’s all I have right now.’
A siren blared in the background.
‘Your dad’s going to be all right, you know.’
I nodded. ‘But no one lives for ever,’ I said. ‘And that’s not being pessimistic. Unless you want to try and prove me wrong?’
‘I’ll prove you wrong another time.’ He handed me the cigarette after taking a puff. ‘A cigarette shared . . .’
I raised it towards him. ‘. .
. is the chance of lung cancer halved.’
‘To clichés,’ he said, smiling.
We sat in silence until I threw the stub in the cup. Never been at Conall’s when it’s this dark and it had already been a bit awkward, but for that moment I was so grateful that he lived next door, and so grateful that he was next to me that I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek, without even thinking. Despite the cigarette smoke, he did smell very lovely and clean. ‘Thanks for listening to my crap.’
‘Oh, yeah, fine,’ he said, not seeming sure where to look. Way to make a person feel uncomfortable, Sofia. I got up, picking up the packet of cigarettes.
‘I think it’s time for me to give these up,’ I said, throwing the packet in the bin.
‘Thanks for getting me to smoke after eight years and then deciding to give up.’
‘You’re welcome.’ I thought about Naim. ‘It should be easy enough to give up the things that are bad for you.’
He smiled as he stood up. ‘Ever the philosopher, Sofe.’
Sunday 22 April
7.30 a.m. I didn’t think it was possible, but I ended up sleeping well enough last night, and I’ve woken up with a bit of that hollowness filled. That must be the answer to my prayers.
Tuesday 24 April
8 a.m. Dad’s coming out of hospital at the end of the week. Thanks to God. This does mean I have to announce to the family that I’m getting married. Called Hannah to say sorry, and then she said sorry, and we carried on saying sorry to each other for about ten minutes. Must be grateful for friends who forgive and forget. They are the best kind.
Maria and T are still in quiet talks. Every time Mum and I try to eavesdrop, they go quiet. That’s the thing with couples – one minute they’re telling you everything that’s wrong with their marriage and partner, and the next minute they’re defending each other with sanctimonious silence.
‘What’s with all the privacy?’ I asked her.
She locked her arm in mine and just smiled. Which was good enough for me.
9.30 a.m. Imran called as I was on my way to work. The least a person can have in the morning is peace. We were speaking and he was telling me about the cricket match from the night before – me wanting to poke myself in the eye to keep awake and, all of a sudden, he said, ‘Isn’t it weird how me and Fozia were at the same singles’ do?’ Huh. What? ‘Like it was a sign or something?’
Well, I don’t know. I’d think something if I knew what the hell he was talking about. What singles’ do? Did he mean the one Fozia went to without me? And what did that have to do with emailing me? Of course it’s important to maintain a sense of sisterhood, so I pretended as if what he said made perfect sense.
‘Yes, totally a sign. They’re very useful.’
The only thing this was a sign for was dodgy dealings. And now Fozia isn’t picking up her phone!
9.40 a.m. Why isn’t Fozia picking up her phone?? Need caffeine. Must go and make coffee.
9.55 a.m. Still no answer and now Brammers wants to see me in her office.
10.30 a.m. Book, oh book! Between hospital-ridden Dad, preggers sister, friend suffering marital breakdown and a man in my life who insists on talking about bunting for the wedding stage, I haven’t done nearly as much work as I was supposed to.
‘I know with your father it’s been very difficult, so we can push the deadline forward a little for you, but you know, it’s er, well, still tricky.’ Brammers moved her head side to side.
‘No, of course. I’ll do it. I’m just ploughing through.’
ARGH!!
10.45 a.m. Sign shmign! Cannot believe that one of my best friends would coerce person that is now my fiancé to email me in an attempt to divert my attention away from Naim! It’s so underhand, so calculated, so interfering. So me.
‘You’re engaged, aren’t you? That’s what you wanted,’ she said when I started shouting at her down the phone.
I can’t actually remember saying that’s what I wanted. Is there a template for all expectations and wants?
‘You meddled. If you hadn’t told him to email he probably wouldn’t have and . . .’
‘And what? You’d still be speaking to that dirty dog and going back and forth. Sofe, listen,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking so much about Riaz and when I saw Imran at that do, I just thought . . . I don’t want both of us to regret things. One of us should be happy, right?’
How can anyone stay angry with this girl?
‘Please just find him on Facebook and message him,’ I said to her.
‘No, darling. I couldn’t. It’d be different if he messaged me.’
‘Oh Lord help me. OK, fine, let’s wait for that to happen. In the meantime, I hope your pride makes a comforting bedfellow.’
‘Let’s just focus on you right now.’
‘Me? I’m great. And FYI, I didn’t need Imran to get over Naim; I’m engaged to him because it’s a reasonable thing to do. You know, when someone says they’ll move out. I’m being reasonable.’
‘But you do love him?’
There should be a ban on the ‘L’ word too.
7.40 p.m. Auntie and Uncle Scot have made at least three comments about Chachu not being home, raising their eyebrows in judgemental unity.
9.35 p.m. It’s bad enough that I have a dad with a failing heart, but now I also have a chachu who probably has a battered liver. Can everyone please act responsibly towards their organs?? I’m going to find this chachu of mine. I don’t care if I have to walk into every pub in London.
9.37 p.m. Right after I get some coriander from Bismillah Grocery store because they’re selling five bunches for the price of three, according to Mum.
‘Oh haan, and also get some garlic and chillies. But fat ones.’
Sure, Mum. I’ll just walk around as if I’m poised to cook a curry.
11.45 p.m. Turns out I just had to go to the pub around the corner (not before I stopped off at Bismillah’s, obviously). Felt like an idiot hijabi strolling into a pub at ten o’clock at night.
I looked around and Chahcu was sitting at the bar, ordering a drink. I marched over to him and prodded him on the shoulder, so I could tell him off in finger-wagging fashion. He turned around and for a moment I don’t think he realised who I was. He looked so sad that any thoughts of wagging my finger went out of my head. Then he clearly added all the factors together in his alcohol-addled mind: niece is here, I’m in pub, therefore niece must be in pub too – cue look of horror.
‘Soffoo. What are you doing here?’
He stumbled as he tried to stand up. I got him to sit down as the barman placed his drink on the table.
‘Chalo, Soffoo, I have to take you home.’ But his second attempt to stand up was no more successful than the first.
‘Don’t look at your chachu!’ He put both his hands on my shoulders and looked at the floor. I wasn’t sure whether he was about to say something profound or that he’d just fallen asleep.
‘Let’s try this again, Chachu.’ I held him around the waist and he got up, knocking the barstool over. Then the plastic bag with the stupid shopping got caught in the stool leg, the bag ripped, and all the items fell to the floor. Chachu went to pick them up and was about to fall flat on his hammered face when someone came and grabbed him.
‘Time to go home, eh?’ I looked up to see Conall drape Chachu’s arm around his shoulder. I had to put the garlic and chillies in my inside pocket and bunch up the coriander. Conall looked over at me.
‘Christ, what are you doing?’
I stood there cradling coriander and was about to explain that there was an offer on, but he was already at the door.
‘Love,’ called the barman. ‘Who’s gonna pay for the drink he didn’t have?’
Bloody hell. Paying for alcohol is just as bad as drinking it but then not paying for something is also bad. It was quite a moral dilemma. I fumbled around for my purse, trying not to drop anything, paid the man for the whisky and got out of The Hog’s Head.
&nb
sp; Mum distracted the Scots while Conall took Chachu to his room. Conall managed to get him on the bed and when he turned around I realised I was still cradling the coriander.
‘He’ll sleep that off. But, Sofe, I really think he needs help. I’ve seen him in there getting drunk, a lot. Who’s Bobby?’ Chachu let out a huge snort and his leg fell off the bed. ‘Listen, if he wants, he can join me in one of my AA meetings.
‘You’re in AA?’
He nodded.
‘I’ll give him the number. Don’t worry,’ he said.
Conall’s in AA? I thought about it and actually I’ve never seen any alcohol in his kitchen, but I’m so used to not seeing alcohol I didn’t think anything of it. And at the launch he did just have orange juice. Then there’s the dad. Is that presumptuous of me – just because his father’s an alcoholic, he’d be too. But I have a feeling we do inherit our parents’ problems.
‘If you’re in AA, why are you in pubs?’
He sighed.
‘Helping a friend.’
‘Oh.’
‘How’s your dad?’ he asked.
I went to lift Chachu’s (hefty) leg back on the bed and pulled the covers over him.
‘Back tomorrow. He’ll be just fine when I tell him I’m getting married.’
I turned around but couldn’t see Conall properly with only the pale light from the street lamp. Plus I didn’t know what to do with the coriander.
‘How long have you been in AA?’ I asked.
‘Who the hell are you marrying?’
‘Shhh. Keep your voice down.’
‘The American that didn’t show up?’
‘No. Not the American.’
‘Forced marriage, beardie?’
‘Er, no. Imran.’
‘Who?’
‘Imran.’
‘Imraein?’
‘Imraaaan.’
‘Hole-in-the-wall?’
I nodded.
‘You’re getting hitched to the hole-in-the-wall, after all your ranting?’
Chachu let out another snort and shifted his bulk towards us, his knuckles scraping the floor.
