by Farah Heron
“Of course not! Can you imagine how that conversation would go? So, Dad, I needed to drown my sorrows, so I went to a bar and had way too much gin while taking sinus medication. But don’t worry, your employee also had a shitty day, so we drank together. But then I slept in his bed, and he gave me lice.”
He frowned. “We don’t know if you even have them. Let me at least check…”
There was rock bottom, and then this. “Okay. Fine. I don’t have a whole lot of shame left to lose, anyway.” She let her head fall into her arms on the breakfast bar, needing the solid countertop under her to hold her up.
She definitely thought this situation warranted a cry, not a laugh.
“Okay,” he said softly, “I’m going to put my hands in your hair. Tell me if you want me to stop.”
She nodded into her arms. The room fell silent a moment. Two moments. Finally, she sensed a whisper of a touch on her neck. Feathery light fingers that trailed upward into her loose curls. She shivered as he raked through the hairs on the back of her head slowly. It was like nothing existed but her head and his hands parting through her hair. She fell into a sleepy trance, more relaxed than she had been all week.
As he reached the sensitive patch behind her ear, he stroked the soft skin there. The soft skin where no hair grew. That was a caress. She should put a stop to this. Now.
But as he continued to the top of her head, warmth enveloped her whole body, all while his touch, barely there, reminded her exactly what was happening, and who was making her feel this good. This was heaven. The deep serenity eased her mind and calmed her soul.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured.
“You found some?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I think so. You should use the treatment shampoo and let me comb out your hair, just in case.”
She closed her eyes again, leaving her head in her arms. Another blow to her battered life. It didn’t seem fair that this one came with boneless tranquility and soft fingers stroking the back of her neck.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Reena had endured much in her thirty-one years on the planet. As a short, middle-born, socially awkward visible minority, she’d had birthdays forgotten, been bullied at school, been dumped on the subway, and even once had an ex-boyfriend post a picture of her sated, after-sex face on social media—with a self-congratulating caption. But having insecticide shampoo thoroughly applied to her hair by a brown Captain America type felt like a new level of humiliation. She managed only with her eyes squeezed shut—because this stuff apparently stung like the dickens if it came into contact with eyes, and so she wouldn’t catch a glimpse of this in her bathroom mirror.
Surprisingly, though, sitting on the sofa with a man close behind her carefully dragging a narrow comb through her hair turned out to be an oddly intimate experience. Intimate, but not sexual. The comb was hard metal, and Nadim’s enthusiasm about the process of looking for bugs in her hair didn’t do much for the sensual allure of the experience.
“Don’t you find that gross?” she asked after he wiped the comb on a damp paper towel.
“Not at all. I grew up in Africa, remember? I have nothing against creepy-crawlies, unless they carry malaria. Lice are annoying but harmless.”
Reena shuddered, closing her eyes. Only way to survive this was to pretend to be in Tahiti. Or Siberia. Anywhere but here.
“We’re never going to speak to anyone about this, right?” she asked.
He moved her head to get behind her left ear. “I have no intention of telling the world I picked up lice from a hookup. Or that I may have passed them to you, of all people. I don’t even think we should talk to each other about this again.”
Add it to the list of things they wouldn’t speak about, right after the drunken cooking video. “What do you mean me of all people.”
“The boss’s daughter. The woman I’m supposed to impress, but who I’ve already made a fool of myself to.”
She lowered her head so he could reach the back. “You don’t need to impress me. I told you, I’m not going to marry you. Think of me like any other neighbor.”
He didn’t respond. With her head down, she felt brave enough to ask the question she’d wondered since the beginning. “Nadim. Did you really agree to marry a complete stranger?”
He took a while to answer, silently working through her scalp. “I agreed to come here and get to know Aziz Manji’s daughter with the intention of seeing if we could be compatible as husband and wife.”
“Then what? I’m supposed to drop everything, marry you, and move to Africa?”
He sighed. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” He unclipped a section of her hair and started combing it. “If you aren’t interested, that’s obviously okay. But they told me you were willing.”
There were so many more questions. Why did he sleep with that teacher if he’d already resigned himself to marrying Reena? And why did he care so much about what Reena thought of him, even after she told him she wasn’t going to marry him? “Is that all I am? Aziz Manji’s daughter?”
He stilled for a moment. “No. No, you’re not. You’re…unexpected. You know that night at the Sparrow? I was having a monumentally shitty day. I was one step away from saying screw it all and leaving town. But”—he stroked behind her ear—“you were there for me. With your flip-flops, and your gin, and your even worse mood. I had the most fun I’ve had in a very long time, on the night that was supposed to be the worst. You were a great friend exactly when I needed it.”
Reena squeezed her eyes shut. She felt the same way. She’d told her friends that she had regrets after that night, but it wasn’t true. On what should have been the worst night ever, she’d laughed, she’d cooked, and she’d forgotten about it all.
“But at the end of the day,” he said, “I work for your father, and if I upset you, my job is at stake.”
And there it was. Any relationship between them, even a simple friendship, sat in the shadow of her family. Could she ever truly trust a man employed by her father?
He worked a little longer at the back of her head before speaking again. “Done,” he finally said, putting the comb down. “We have to do the whole thing again in a week, to be sure.”
Reena lifted her head and stood up, stretching her tired legs. She turned to look at Nadim. “I’m not sure if you figured this out yet, but I don’t have the best relationship with my parents. We can’t be friends if you’re always worried about what my father will say and…and I’d like it if we could be friends.”
Reena bit the side of her lip, realizing how pathetic she sounded. Was this grade two? Asking him to be her friend?
He smiled, though. Wide enough for her to see that dimple for the first time without the concealment of facial hair. She had an urge to stick her pinky finger into the deep crevice. “I’d like that, Reena. Friends.” His smile was infectious.
She could do it, be his friend. She could put aside her attraction, her parents’ interference, and his secrecy, and just get support from the man who lived across the hall, and who needed a friend as much as she did. “Deal.”
He beamed. “Okay, then, friend. Be back in a second. I just got a pumpkin porter that you have to try. We can toast this friendship.” He grinned and left her apartment.
Reena smiled to herself as she checked her phone. And a perfectly timed message from the foodie gods themselves was waiting for her in her inbox.
To Reena Manji,
Congratulations! Among hundreds of entries, yours has been chosen to participate in the FoodTV Home Cooking Showdown! The winning couple of this talent search will be awarded a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship for the Asler Institute, Canada’s premier cooking school with locations in every major city across the country. Winners may also be showcased in a FoodTV holiday special, sharing their unique home-cooked cuisine!
Reena skimmed the rest of the email outlining the rules while her heart beat heavily in her ears. Shayne’s inside information was right. She was in.
And at
that moment, Reena decided that she wanted to do it. Cooking with Nadim had saved her the night she lost her job—she needed, deserved more of that.
Her kitchen timer went off before Nadim returned, so by the time he was back in her kitchen pouring the dark beer into glasses, she was at her counter getting ready to form the challah dough into loaves.
“Pull up a stool,” she told Nadim after he handed her the beer. “I need to ask you something. No pressure, just an idea, okay?”
He grinned as he sat opposite her at the breakfast bar. “I’m all ears. Go ahead.”
“Okay.” She took a breath. “First, a question. Do you remember that video we made for that FoodTV contest?”
“Of course.”
“One of us sent in the application.” She paused. “I was too drunk. I don’t remember who did it.”
He cringed. “Yeah, I should apologize. We applied together, but I talked you into it. I may have been a bit persuasive.”
“We got in.”
His eyes widened. “Shit. Really?”
She nodded. “And…I want to do the contest. But I’ll need your help to continue.”
Pulling off a six-strand braid of bread dough while explaining to an attractive man that she wanted him to pretend to be her fiancé to compete in an online cooking contest was no easy feat, but she’d made challah enough times that she managed. And the smirk on Nadim’s face told her the idea didn’t turn him off. Amused him, though.
“We were supposed to be a couple in that video?” he asked. “You told me it was just supposed to be pairs.”
“It’s a family cooking challenge. We were supposed to be family.”
“I thought you didn’t want to marry me,” he said, laughing.
“I don’t. It’s just for the contest. I may not have wanted to enter, but we did. And we’re finalists.”
“So now you want me to do it?”
“I’ll do all the cooking, and you would be like my sidekick. I really want this scholarship. The Asler Institute has the most amazing artisan bread baking program. I’ve wanted to take it for years.”
“I don’t think you need a course, Reena,” he said, watching her hands again. “That bread you gave me last night was divine. And that”—he pointed to the thick, plaited loaf that was forming from the six snakes of dough—“how are you doing that?”
“Practice,” she said, finishing the braid and tucking the ends under. “Look, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to. I just…I wanted something fun to keep me occupied right now. Things have been…but you don’t have to.” She turned to fetch the beaten egg white she had saved after adding the yolk to the dough and started to brush it over the bread.
“No, of course I’ll do it. I pushed you to enter. I’m not going to bail on you now. What exactly am I saying yes to? More videos?”
“Yes.” She opened the email. “There are four rounds, and it starts with eight couples. Two couples are eliminated through online voting after each round. Rounds one and two are videos that we produce and submit. If we make it to round three, they fly us to Toronto—or I guess we’ll just take the subway. The four couples tape that round in the FoodTV studio and get a tour. Finally the last round will have only two couples, and they send a camera crew to tape it in our own homes.”
“Okay, that’s a lot.”
“I know. And we’ll be pretending to be engaged the whole time. And we have to keep it from my parents. They’re not really into the FoodTV scene and it won’t be on TV, just the website, so I don’t think they’d find out, but it might mean lying to your boss. Would you be okay with all that?”
He nodded. “I gave you lice, Reena. I owe you majorly. But I’d do it anyway. Sounds like a lot of fun.” He paused, watching her again. “Hell, I’d do it if only to watch you cook again.”
“I’m baking now, not cooking.” She smiled. “But I will be cooking for the contest. Home cooking. So, you’re in?”
He grinned. “Yes. Apparently, we’ll be engaged after all.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The balancing act of résumé writing and job searching while hiding her unemployment from her neighbors and family turned out to be no problem whatsoever. Reena just dressed in her usual business casual on Monday and headed to the library with her laptop in hand. She’d worked part-time shelving books in college and was well aware of what some people got up to while using public computers. Ew.
So far, job searching had gone better than expected—after a cursory scan of positions in her field, Reena found several she miraculously felt both qualified for and interested in. Well, sort-of interested. After all, these were still finance jobs, but the companies seemed up her alley and the locations good. She made a list of suitable options for when Amira finished helping her polish up her résumé. She also made an appointment with the employment agency Railside contracted to help laid-off employees. And she made an appointment for a mani/pedi. Job searching felt like a scorching walk through the hot bowels of hell, so may as well walk with painted toenails.
Her meeting with Abigail, the employment counselor, on Tuesday morning was exhausting, but fine. She subjected Reena to countless online tests to determine her proficiency with various computer programs and interviewed her so thoroughly Reena half expected to be asked what brand of peanut butter she preferred. Abigail was almost comically optimistic and believed she would have no problem placing Reena in a full-time position before the end of the month. She said she had several leads, including a top secret posting that hadn’t gone public yet for a position in the food-services industry. Between chirpy Abigail’s infectious optimism, and the sparkly purple polish on her fingers and toes, Reena had an honest spring in her step as she climbed the stairs to her apartment at the end of the day. Shayne, Marley, and Nadim were joining her for dinner to discuss plans for the next video in the contest. She had some chicken thighs marinating in Thai curry paste and planned to wrap them in pandan leaves and roast them to serve with cucumber salad and sticky rice.
But her hope for a pleasant evening with friends crashed into the sun when she got to her apartment door. Standing there was a five-foot, zero-inch tracksuit-wearing woman carrying a stack of foil pans, along with a spaced-out-looking woman drinking muddy green sludge.
“Mum. Saira. What are you doing here?” Reena asked as she pulled out her key from her bag.
“What, a mother can’t visit her daughter? Why are you wearing flip-flops? It’s September.”
Strangely, she’d heard this question a lot lately. The flip-flops, of course, were to protect her newly painted nails from smudges. But if she told Mum that, she’d have to admit she’d had a pedicure and was not at work.
“It’s warm. I don’t like driving in heels,” she said before unlocking her door. “And of course you guys can visit me. I’m just surprised.” She motioned her mother in first, before dropping her bag on the kitchen counter. She gestured toward the foil pans, which her mum was placing near the stove. “What’s that?”
“Dinner. Kebob jo shaak and rice.”
“I just got off work or I would have made you something, too,” Saira added. “Did the bone broth help with your cold? I’m not sure the pressure cooker extracts the nutrients as well as a long simmer.”
Reena hadn’t subjected herself to Saira’s weird soup. It was still sitting in her fridge, the jellied mass mocking her whenever she opened the fridge looking for real food.
She opened the top foil tray. The rich tomato broth with spicy kofta meatballs and potatoes smelled heavenly, but her mother showing up at her door with one of her favorite dishes was not unconditional parental care. She doubted the woman knew a thing about unconditional anything. Mum and Saira wanted something.
“There’s lots. I thought you could invite Nadim to share dinner with you.” Mum grinned.
Aha. Mystery solved. In Mum’s opinion, a home-cooked meal was just the thing to make him fall head over heels in love with Reena. Food being the way into a man’s heart and all.
It was a laughable attempt.
If Reena wanted his heart (or any other part of him), she would have cooked herself—and made something more showstopping, like the duck and shallots au vin she made for Amira’s going-away dinner. Ooh, maybe with smoked salt focaccia, and star anise-cardamom crème brûlée for dessert. And to drink, maybe…wait. Mum was still talking.
“I didn’t make any maani,” Mum said. “But I bought you some frozen ones.”
Reena’s nose wrinkled. “Ugh, Mum. Frozen bread?”
“You know what you should try, Reena?” Saira said. “Serving the kebobs with lettuce cups.”
Reena tried so hard not to snort. Lettuce cups wouldn’t win a man’s heart, any more than frozen bread. But since she didn’t want to win Nadim’s heart, it was a moot point. She’d serve the kebob jo shaak, but with her own sourdough bread, and save her Thai for another day.
But she didn’t want Mum to know that—Mum would see it as a victory.
“Maybe tomorrow. I’m eating with Marley and Shayne today. Thank you for the food, though.” Reena smiled, hoping Mum wouldn’t push.
“Mahreen? We never see her anymore. We don’t even see Amin and Shaila that much since her sister died.”
Amin and Shaila were Marley’s parents. Shaila’s younger sister had passed away from ovarian cancer a few years ago, and it was true, Shaila Aunty had taken her sister’s death hard. But it was understandable, they were very close.
“Mahreen’s not still doing that stuff, is she?” her mother asked.
Saira rolled her eyes and plopped herself on the barstool at the breakfast bar. “Really, Mum? That stuff? You can just say she’s bisexual. Nobody cares.”
Saira had a point. When Marley came out to her parents last year, the news caused barely a blip on anyone’s radar in the extended family gossip. Really, there had been more judgment when Marley dyed her hair blond for about six months than when she started dating women. But, of course, Mum judged.
Deflect and distract time.
