The Other Half of Happiness

by Ayisha Malik

  I don’t understand this sudden need to send winky faces.

  8.20 p.m. Have gathered up all of Conall’s things and put them in the attic. Foz helped me as she’d also started sorting her things out. All this shifting and moving around – where am I meant to go from here? I almost fell through the attic ceiling thinking about it.

  Wednesday 14 August

  4.10 p.m. Knocked on Mum’s door.

  Me: Mum, why don’t you email Uncle Wasim to wish him a Happy Pakistan Independence Day?

  Mum: Get lost.

  Me: If I do, will you marry him?

  Mum shuts door in my face.

  Tuesday 20 August

  11.10 p.m. I have, in true professional form, finished the book. It’s almost impossible to read a book you’ve written about marriage without thinking about your husband, no matter how many of his items you’ve hidden from sight. But it’s the penultimate episode of this life series. It could only include one other thing.

  To: Conall O’Flynn

  From: Sofia Khan

  Subject: House

  Hi,

  Wanted to let you know that I’ll be moving out at the end of next month. Date tbc, but I’ll let you know and you can organise tenants or whatever you need.

  I looked at the email.

  I hope Eamonn is doing better.

  Sofia.

  11. 35 p.m.

  To: Sofia Khan

  From: Conall O’Flynn

  Subject: Re: House

  Hi.

  Thanks for letting me know. When you have the date, drop me a line.

  Conall.

  Hain?? Is that it? I charged into Foz’s room. She was on the phone, changing into her pyjamas, as I shoved my phone’s screen in her face. She looked at it.

  ‘Let me call you back,’ she told someone.

  ‘Can you believe it?’ I exclaimed.

  She reread it. ‘Right.’

  ‘I mean can you actually believe it? As if he wasn’t my husband, but some man I’d met on a date or something.’

  ‘But isn’t it a good thing?’

  ‘How is this good?’

  I looked at the email again as she took a seat on the edge of her bed. ‘He’s moving on.’

  My gaze rested on her.

  ‘Now you just need to read it over and over to do the same.’

  Wednesday 21 August

  11.20 a.m.

  From: Sakib Awaan

  To: Sofia Khan

  Subject: Book

  Thanks for sending this through. Read the first few pages and I think I love it already.

  Well done.

  Sakib

  I don’t know why but I wanted to print that email out and pin it on my wall. It can go alongside Conall’s email from last night.

  Monday 26 August

  11.45 a.m. ‘I think it’s better than the dating book,’ said Sakib, squinting because of the sun in his eyes. He moved his chair round, joining me in the shade.

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  He shaded his eyes and I pushed my chair back a bit – close proximity and all that. ‘It’s just more insightful – more depth,’ he replied.

  ‘Oh.’

  The waitress came with his lemonade and my milkshake. He reached into his briefcase and brought out a manuscript. ‘Can you read this and report back tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  He took a sip of his drink, lifting his little finger as he did so. Picking up the MS, I looked at the last page – four hundred and thirty-six.

  ‘Might just need a few days.’

  ‘I’m on a deadline with this, Sofia. I need to know you can work with me.’

  ‘Right.’ I put the MS in my bag and stood, picking up my milkshake. ‘Guess I should make a start on it.’

  ‘Wait,’ he said, following suit. ‘Why don’t you read it in my office?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I get lonely.’

  The concern must’ve shown on my face as I put my sunglasses on.

  ‘I’m joking,’ he said, straight-faced.

  His jokes are very hard to get sometimes.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You can tell me your thoughts as you go along. And anyway,’ he added as we began to walk back to the offices, ‘it’d be good to have a bit more structure to your working hours. Don’t you think?’

  Words like structure give me hives. ‘Not sure if that’s necessary,’ I said.

  We reached the front of the building and he opened the doors for me. ‘I think it is.’

  Friday 30 August

  8.20 a.m. Oh my fucking days. If I believed in reincarnation, I’d think that Sakib was a fascist in his previous life. I’ve read four manuscripts since Monday and am in the office already, with number five. On top of which it’s really difficult to get comfortable on the sofa in someone else’s office. Every time I laugh, or say something, he throws me this withering look, to which I respond with: ‘I can work from home.’ And he just says, ‘It’s fine.’

  Plus, I still don’t have a house to live in, and living with Mum again would send me over the edge, even though she insists it’s the right thing to do. Imagine: mother and daughter, living together and getting over their respective collapsed relationships. Shudder.

  One more look from him and I’ll throw the manuscript in his face.

  9.45 a.m. He sighed. Really loudly.

  ‘I don’t think I get paid enough for this,’ I said.

  ‘Nor do I,’ he replied, putting an elastic band around a bunch of papers. ‘What are your thoughts so far?’

  ‘Hard to form amidst all the sighing.’

  ‘So you can’t work like this?’

  I looked up. ‘Having my own desk might be nice. So I don’t end up walking like a ninety-year-old before I’m thirty-five.’

  ‘What else?’

  I settled my hands on the manuscript. ‘Coffee and a muffin if I’m expected to start work before nine thirty.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘My own office and a huge sign on the front that says Queen of the World.’

  Sakib didn’t look very impressed. Someone had obviously fallen off the wrong side of the bed. ‘Queens don’t put their shoes on someone else’s sofa,’ he said, looking at my pumps.

  I made rather a point of shifting my feet off the sofa, standing up and brushing down the beige suede.

  ‘OK, OK,’ he said. ‘I get the point.’

  Amazing what happens within a week when you’re practically locked in a room with someone eight hours a day.

  ‘You can put your shoes back on the sofa,’ he said.

  I put my hands out. ‘No, no. I wouldn’t dream of dirtying your sofa with my scummy shoes.’

  ‘Please,’ he said, joining his hands as if in prayer.

  I sat back on the sofa, picking up the manuscript again.

  ‘Put your shoes up,’ he repeated

  ‘Nope,’ I replied.

  He shot up off his seat and grabbed my ankles.

  ‘Oh my God, what the hell are you doing?’ I exclaimed, laughter escaping as he swivelled my legs on to the sofa.

  He held on to my ankles, pressing them against the sofa. I looked at him and realised that Sakib is, beneath it all, a little mad.

  ‘Keep your shoes on the sofa, please. Or I won’t hear the end of it.’

  Just then there was a knock on the door as it opened. Katie’s head popped through, seeing me splayed on the sofa and Sakib with his hands clasped around my ankles. He straightened up and cleared his throat.

  ‘Oh. Sorry,’ she said, throwing me a look.

  ‘That’s quite OK,’ he replied.

  I was still a little shocked by Sakib’s display of madness.

  ‘They’re starting the digital meeting now,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll just get my notepad and be with you.’

  Katie gave me another look before turning round.

  ‘I’ll have a coffee on your way back,’ I said.

  He’d grabbed his noteb
ook and pen. ‘You don’t ask for much, do you?’

  ‘Got to take what you can,’ I said.

  When I looked up he was standing over me, one hand in his pocket. ‘And that’s exactly why, when I leave this place, I’m taking you with me.’

  SEPTEMBER

  Opportunity Knocks

  Monday 2 September

  10.45 a.m. ‘I did things the wrong way round last week,’ he said as soon as I walked into the office. He gestured for me to take a seat.

  ‘The thing is, Sofia . . .’ He looked at me. ‘Since Husna left it’s made me re-evaluate everything.’

  I know how that feels.

  ‘She used to be the only one I ever really wanted to be with.’

  ‘“Ever” is a vast word for someone who’s only in their thirties,’ I replied.

  He rubbed his wedding ring for a while as he nodded. ‘I’ve played it too safe in life – studying law when I really wanted to be an editor. Ever regret a thing like that?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said.

  ‘Never?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You never regretted anything?’

  ‘There’s my marriage – but I’m beginning to get over it.’ This wasn’t particularly truthful. It just seemed like the right thing to feel, under the circumstances.

  ‘Don’t you say the most charming things?’

  I gave the best smile I have – which, according to Conall, looks like I’m constipated.

  ‘I don’t want to leave the world without a mark,’ he said.

  I leaned forward. ‘Are you dying?’

  ‘No.’ He looked over my shoulder at the office door and lowered his voice. ‘I don’t want to do this for the rest of my life – working for other people, always looking for the bottom line. They talk about bringing diversity but they’re still the ones who get to choose what type.’

  ‘It’s the way the story goes,’ I replied. ‘Quite literally.’

  He sat back. ‘Don’t you care?’

  ‘Of course I care.’

  ‘Don’t you want to do something about it?’

  ‘I want to do something about many things.’

  He stood up and started pacing the room as he looked at me. ‘I want to launch a publishing company.’ He paused, as if waiting for my reaction.

  ‘Oh. That’s . . . that’s great.’

  ‘Specifically for authors from ethnic minorities. There’ll be schemes which give opportunities that people like you and I never had when we were younger.’

  He looked at me, eyes sparkling with excitememnt.

  ‘Imagine: first-off, Muslim authors only. All of them – white, black, gay, lesbian, whatever. Then we introduce all ethnic minorities. And then,’ he said, leaning his hands on the desk and looking into my eyes, ‘we take over the world.’

  ‘We?’

  He nodded. ‘At first I thought I’d move and take this idea to Dubai because Husna loves it there and she has her family home – and God knows they need a bit of culture . . .’ He sat back down and looked at me rather intently. ‘But then I realised: fix what you need to fix at home first. Don’t get me wrong. London’s not what it used to be – especially when you’re Muslim.’ He took off his glasses, tapping them on the table. ‘All this social angst is just a prelude to something bigger. Probably worse.’

  ‘Aren’t you the harbinger of joy,’ I replied.

  He smiled and, don’t take this the wrong way, but he had a twinkle in his eye. It suited him.

  ‘That’s why I want you to do it with me.’

  I must’ve looked perturbed as he got flustered and said, ‘I mean come and work with me. I wouldn’t be able to pay you much to begin with, but if it’s a risk you’re willing to take . . .’

  ‘Work?’ I said, making sure I hadn’t misheard anything. ‘With you?’

  It was so unexpected. I had a hundred questions: How would it be organised? Where would our office be? Where would we even begin? What would happen to my book?

  ‘I’ve spoken in confidence to Dorothy – or, as you like to call her, Brammers -–’

  Sakib is a very disapproving person, isn’t he?

  ‘She’ll handle things with that. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t do anything that might jeapordise things for you. But I will need you to be there from the beginning while I work my notice. I don’t want to wait around. Can you handle it?’

  I didn’t know – I was still trying to grasp it all. What a risk he was taking! Funding this all by himself. There was something about the urgency in his voice that gave me a sense of urgency too. -Who knew if I could do this? But wouldn’t it be exciting to try? Not write about about my dating and my marriage but be a part of something new and different. Of all the questions one specific one came to mind. ‘Why me?’

  He adjusted his tie. ‘I like you. In a strictly professional sense, of course,’ he added rather quickly.

  I mean, calm down, love. The feeling is mutual. So what if he has a nice face?

  ‘How you work and the kind of books you love are different from mine.’ He leaned forward. ‘I think we’d make a good team. Don’t you?’

  Something fluttered in my stomach. I had the sudden urge to hug him and say thank you because you don’t realise how deflating it can be when no one wants you until someone finally does (in whatever capacity, really). He looked away as he noticed my tears surface. I just nodded. ‘Yes. I do.’

  7.15 p.m. I looked at the room with Mum, Auntie Reena, Maars and Tahir in it.

  ‘Le,’ said Mum. ‘You never listen to me. Women your age are making fifty, sixty, seventy thousand pounds and you will be earning like you have just started working. I told her,’ added Mum, looking at Auntie Reena. ‘People do banking – stock-breaking. O-ho, like that Sameena.’

  ‘You must let children do what they want,’ said Auntie Reena.

  ‘She is, and now look,’ said Mum.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this thing with Sakib?’ asked Maars.

  It’s as if my marital mistake has made my family question all my decision-making abilities. My heart beat faster. What if they were right? Was I just being impulsive? Jumping head first? Whatever you do in life, be resolute. Whether that’s leaving your husband or starting a new job.

  ‘I mean, you’ve been a bit all over the place, haven’t you?’ Maars added. ‘You need head space for this kind of thing, right?’

  I wavered and then steeled myself. ‘No. This is what I’m going to do,’ I said, hoping I sounded more convinced than I felt.

  Mum shook her head at me.

  ‘Well then,’ Maria said. ‘What do you need? Shall we go office furniture shopping?’

  ‘You’ll need decent insurance,’ said Tahir. ‘Give me Sakib’s number – my mate can give him a discount.’

  Thanks to God for Maars and even Tahir.

  Thursday 5 September

  8.10 a.m. Bloody hell. I have manuscripts coming out of my ears. I thought being a reader for Sakib was bad – try being your own bloody boss. On top of which I don’t know where I’m going to live!

  7.50 p.m. We pulled up outside Sakib’s house.

  ‘Do you need to get something before we go to the new office?’ I asked.

  He took off his seat belt and with a huge smile said: ‘What do you think starting out a company means?’

  Turns out he wants to use his home as an office.

  ‘What about your wife?’ I asked.

  He got out of the car. ‘Are you going to stay in the car?’

  ‘God, you’re bossy.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve spoken to her. She plans to stay in Dubai – starting out a fashion label. And I have enough saved to cover the mortgage for a while as we get started.’

  He led me into the house, past the kitchen to another room that looked out into the garden.

  ‘I’ll get two desks here,’ he said, squaring out his arms, eyes in deep concentration. ‘We’ll have plenty of light coming in.’

  I lo
oked round at the panels, light wooden flooring (real, naturally), flowers potted everywhere. He turned to me, resting his hands on his hips. It reminded me of Conall. It all felt so small and uncertain. The garden and panelling began to lose some of its sheen as the reality of what I was about to do began to set in. Something this serious can’t just be a distraction from life; it has to be a part of it.

  ‘This is about building something,’ he said, looking at me earnestly. ‘It’ll be hard work, but God, it’ll be fun.’

  ‘What, with you constantly breathing loudly every time I say something?’

  ‘OK, I’ll stop doing that.’

  But then . . . the idea of building something of your own – putting your heart and soul into something other than a bloody marriage.

  ‘Oh, before I forget.’

  He rushed out of the room and returned a few minutes later with a rectangle frame, handing it to me, a look of mischief on his face. I turned it over and laughed. I mean, really laughed. It was a sign: Queen of the World.

  ‘Let’s hope one day you pay me like a queen as well,’ I said, looking at him. He was so excitable that it began to catch on. ‘What will we call it?’ I asked.

  He paused. ‘What do you think of Avaaz?’

  ‘Voice?’ I said.

  ‘Too cheesy?’ he asked.

  ‘Totally.’

  He looked into the garden, concentrating.

  ‘But sod it,’ I said. ‘Let’s use it.’

  He turned round. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Let’s be brown and cheesy. Just once in our life.’

  Then he did something entirely unexpected. He strode up to me and hugged me. I couldn’t help but hug him back. As we let go I composed myself. ‘Right. We’re really doing this then?’ I said.

  He looked serious for a moment. ‘If you’re sure you want to. It’s a big commitment.’

  It occurred to me: if you do a thing, then do it well; put your all into it – just like Conall used to. I nodded, thinking about the money I’d received from the second book – how I could actually put it to good use. ‘If this is something we’re building, though,’ I said, ‘then I want it to be mine as well.’