‘Thanks,’ I say, turning back to the folder in front of me.
I look up when Omar continues to linger. ‘Anything else?’
He shifts his weight.
‘Omar?’
‘We’re going to need more than just media appearances to win this election.’
I raise my eyebrows. The insinuation isn’t lost on me but I let him carry on.
‘I know you’re friends, but Faraz doesn’t exactly have a spotless history. We can start gathering—’
‘No,’ I say.
I run a clean campaign. Always have, always will.
‘So, are you going to tell me?’ I say as Niv heaps pasta on a plate and hands it to me.
‘Tell you?’ she says, twisting away to open a bottle of Italy’s finest and carefully pouring the wine into two long-stemmed glasses.
‘About your new man?’ I say, my tone teasing, friendly. I’d tried to apologize to Niv about my behaviour the other night, but she’d waved my apology away, skipping right past the awkwardness to welcome me in.
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ she says. There is something artificially flippant about her tone. It gives her away.
I fix her with a look, just enough to give her pause. It works.
‘Okay, fine.’ She sighs, pushing her spaghetti around. ‘There is someone . . . from work . . . but it’s complicated.’
‘Complicated how?’ I ask. I break off a piece of bread and dip it into my plate, lopping up some of Niv’s gorgeous pomodoro sauce.
‘Just, you know . . . it’s still very new and I don’t know if it’s going to lead anywhere.’ She reaches for her wine, gives it a swirl. ‘And he’s not exactly single. Yet.’
I feel a shiver of anxiety as the scene I’d witnessed earlier in the week flashes before my eyes. I brush the thought away. Niv would never do that to me. And anyway, I reason, if she was having an affair with my husband, she’d hardly be sitting here talking to me about it.
Right?
‘Anyway,’ she says, eyeing me over the rim of her wine glass. ‘I heard Sabah’s in town.’
I rush to cover my reaction with a gulp of wine. I wait till my heartbeat settles. When I speak, my voice is casual, unconcerned.
‘Oh really?’
‘She’s here for work, apparently. A documentary,’ Niv says. ‘Neighbourhood gossip,’ she adds by way of explanation.
Sabah and Niv are neighbours, or they used to be. Though Niv moved out years ago, her parents still live in the house where she grew up which means we occasionally get titbits of gossip about Sabah from the neighbourhood grapevine.
‘Do you think she’ll be at the reunion?’ Niv asks and I shrug. Considering her history with the school, I’d skip it if I were her.
Unless.
‘What’s the documentary about?’ I ask, hoping Niv won’t question the sudden pivot in the conversation, or the slight tremble in my voice.
Niv lifts her glass and drains it in one long swallow. She places the glass on the table, a single drop of wine dancing along the rim before trickling all the way down to the tablecloth, the stain spreading slowly, a blotch of dark red on the creamy linen.
When I look up, Niv’s eyes are fixed on me.
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
SABAH
I start the way I always do: with the family.
‘It’s good to see you,’ Faraz says, pulling me into a hug as I step out of the car.
‘I’m so sorry I couldn’t come sooner. When I heard about Javed Uncle . . .’ I trail off, not knowing how to finish that sentence.
‘Thank you,’ Faraz says, squeezing my arm.
‘Looks like you’re doing a lot of work here,’ I say, looking around as we circle the fountain and walk up the front steps. There are at least a dozen tradesmen scattered across the grounds, cleaning out the fountain, trimming down the ivy, pruning the bushes.
‘I thought it was time we laid the bad memories to rest. This used to be a happy place,’ he says. ‘And the renovation gives Ammi something to focus on. You remember how much she loved working in the gardens.’
I nod. Faraz has always been thoughtful like that.
‘How is she?’
‘Oh, you know. It’s hard. She seems to have developed a bit of an obsession with online courses and she hasn’t left the estate since . . . I guess everyone deals with grief differently.’ He shakes his head. Smiles. ‘She’s been looking forward to seeing you. She always had a soft spot for you, didn’t she?’
Guilt softens my edges and for a moment I forget why I am here. Neither of us are strangers to the horror of a sudden death. People always assume it’s easier than a long drawn-out illness. They’re wrong. The shock, the disbelief, the stabbing pain. It blinds you every time you remember what you’ve lost. I search for something to say, some way of reassuring him, but there is none.
‘And you were always jealous,’ I say instead and he winks, relief spilling into his face. ‘Congratulations on the new position, by the way.’
‘Congratulations on the latest award,’ he counters, before adding, ‘Ammi’s on the terrace.’ Without either of us leading the way, we walk along the wraparound porch and climb down to the back garden.
When I first called Faraz about the documentary, I’d expected a certain amount of resistance, a period of cajoling – after all, the Qureshis had consistently refused to talk about Noor for fifteen years – but he had been surprisingly willing. Keen, almost. His only request had been that I interview his mother in his presence. He was worried it would be too much for her and I’d happily obliged.
The terrace, as the Qureshis have always liked to call it, is an elaborate sunken garden at the back of the house. I remember watching it being dug up and as the memory lingers, I can practically see Fatima Aunty standing there, shouting out instructions to a bunch of gardeners and landscapers as they installed arches, paved looping paths and planted rose bushes.
I trail Faraz as we walk silently along the concrete path and descend the stone steps to the terrace. The gardeners haven’t touched this part of the estate yet and the air of dilapidation only adds to the charm here, a faded grandeur that will play well in front of the camera. We step through an ornate arch and make our way towards the edge where I can see Fatima Aunty stooped over the rose bushes.
She straightens up and turns to face us. I was expecting her beauty to have faded, but she is still as striking as ever. With her delicately lined skin and pale cream hijab, she looks almost aristocratic.
‘Sabah, jaan,’ Fatima Aunty says, cupping my face. She leads me towards the white wrought-iron table in the corner, as a maid appears with tea and a platter laden with dates and almonds.
‘I’ll be right back,’ Faraz says, frowning at his phone.
‘He’s been so busy,’ Fatima Aunty says, her eyes on Faraz as he paces a few feet from us, talking quietly into his phone. ‘He should really be at the party office, but he refuses to leave me on my own.’
‘I was so sorry to hear about Javed Uncle,’ I say when her gaze slides back to me.
Fatima Aunty nods but doesn’t say anything and I sit in silence while she pours tea into two delicate china cups. Time flies past as she quizzes me about my life in London and asks after my parents, our shared history peppering the conversation as we catch up.
I notice the light changing and busy myself with setting up my camera. I very rarely film research chats – there is the risk of the final interview looking rehearsed if the contributor knows what questions to expect – but I am hoping that I will be able to use footage from today’s conversation as part of the sizzle reel. Pitch decks are great for communicating narrative arcs and listing assets but the real selling point for any documentary is its emotional impact, and nothing demonstrates that better than a trailer-style sizzle reel featuring the key contributor.
‘Thank you for agreeing to do this,’ I say, slipping into work mode once Faraz is back. ‘I know how hard it is to talk about everything t
hat happened back then.’ I direct my words towards Fatima Aunty. She had never been comfortable in the spotlight, often staying home with Noor instead of attending political rallies and events with Javed Uncle. ‘Try to forget about the camera and just think of this as a regular conversation with me.’
I ease into the interview, asking Fatima Aunty about what Noor had been like as a child, pretending I didn’t remember what her favourite films were or how every Friday had to be pizza night.
Her voice dries up when we get to the later years.
‘Do you still think about her?’ I ask, cautiously.
Fatima Aunty doesn’t say anything. I am about to repeat myself when I notice her hand trembling as she sets her water down. I look away. She heard me.
‘Every day.’ Her voice is quiet. ‘You know, people skirt around it, they worry about reminding me. What they don’t realize is that losing a child . . . like that . . . that’s not something you can forget.’
I nod, urging her on.
‘It was my job to protect her, to keep her safe, and I –’ She pauses and as I realize what’s coming next, my stomach twists. ‘When the news broke and all the papers started attacking her . . . I should have stood by her . . . and I didn’t. It was so selfish of me . . . I keep thinking about how scared she must have been, my girl. My baby girl.’
There is anguish in every word. I glance at Faraz but he is looking down, his hands clenched in his lap, and for a moment I consider backing off. But then I think of the piece of paper pinned up on my corkboard and some of the steely resolve that I had relied on during the Harriet Clarke documentary reappears.
‘What do you think happened that night?’
‘I don’t know. We can never know. That’s the hardest part. But I don’t care if she held the gun to her own forehead. It was that boy. He stole the light out of my Noorie’s eyes.’
ALIA
Fifteen years ago
Is there anything more dangerous than a bunch of bored teenagers?
Halfway through the winter term, the headmistress called a special assembly for our class. There had been an incident involving firecrackers on the fire escape in our block. It seemed it was a Wescott tradition for the year eleven students to set off fireworks on school grounds both as a mark of respect for the graduating class and as a reminder to the school authorities: you can’t control us.
The school had all but come to accept it and from what I was told, the perpetrators usually got off with a day or two’s suspension. This time, though, the boys from our class had taken it up a notch. They had used an incense stick to set off a ladi, a string of five thousand interconnected firecrackers, in the stairwell behind our classroom. The ladi went off for a good twenty minutes and caused one of the windows to shatter. Pieces of hot glass crashed down from the fourth-floor window and hit one of the janitors. He had to have eighteen stitches. This was before the days of CCTV in schools, and thanks to the slow burn of the incense stick, the culprits were long gone by the time the ladi started going off. There was no way for the teachers to know who set it up. It was borderline genius.
Of course, most of us knew. Orchestrating something of this scale took meticulous planning and a serious amount of cash and we had all contributed in one way or another.
Noor and I shuffled in with the rest of our class, the floorboards creaking under the weight of anxious footsteps as forty-something students filed into the auditorium.
‘What do you think she’ll do?’ I whispered to Noor as we slid into the second row next to Mohit and Yash. Sabah was in the front row with Vineet, Addi and Saloni. The school had put up the schedule for the Head Girl interviews the day before and that had brought with it a fresh round of under-the-breath insults and angry snares, which, terrible as it was, made for a refreshing change from all the in-jokes and shared history that they used to laud over me. Since Oxford, Noor and I were the ones with the in-jokes and for the first time, I felt like I was on an even footing.
‘There’s not much she can do. Banerjee likes to call these things every once in a while to remind us that she’s the headmistress.’
‘Yeah, but someone got hurt.’
Noor looked at me like I was crazy. In this world, maids and janitors existed to make our lives easier but their value was in their invisibility.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
From the aisle our homeroom teacher shot us an irritated look and held a finger up to her lips.
Noor waited till she had turned her wrath on another group of gossiping students and then leaned in towards me, giggling. ‘Here we go,’ she whispered as Banerjee started speaking.
‘I know you all think you can get away with anything but let me remind you that this prank has caused serious damage. You’re lucky that the janitor only had to have a few stitches, or we’d be looking at getting the police involved. I’ve warned you before and I’m warning you again – I will not tolerate vandalism.’
Banerjee paused and I snuck a sideways glance at Noor. She was sitting straight in her chair, her face set in a blank expression. Around us, the others had occupied a similar stance. Noor was right: it was obvious that they had all been here before. The thought was comforting and I allowed myself to relax until Banerjee started talking again.
‘Letters have been sent out to your parents informing them of the damage you have caused and the action the school will be taking. I will find out who is responsible for this and when I do, the concerned students will be expelled and the rest of you will get suspensions.’ She paused, letting her words sink in as the warning rippled through the room. ‘Unless you come forward yourselves. Your choice. You have until Friday.’
I felt my breathing quicken. I absolutely could not have a suspension on my record.
As we filed out of the room, I could sense that the mood had changed. Banerjee’s warning had had more of an impact than Noor had thought it would.
Outside, Sabah was standing in a huddle with Addi, Saloni, Vineet, Mohit and a few of the rowdier boys from our class. She beckoned us over.
‘So we’re agreed? No one says anything,’ Sabah said.
Everyone nodded.
‘We could all get suspended,’ I burst out.
No one spoke. I saw a glance pass between Sabah and Noor and an almost imperceptible nod as Noor took over.
‘Not if we stick together,’ Noor said, gripping my arm.
‘I don’t know, she sounded pretty serious,’ I said, looking around the group for some support. None came.
‘Banerjee loves issuing warnings,’ Sabah said, echoing Noor’s words from earlier. ‘You think she’d dare suspend any of us?’
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have rich and powerful parents waiting in the wings to come to my defence. I wasn’t untouchable like them.
‘Alia’s obviously not going to say anything,’ Noor said, her hold on me tightening as she turned to me for confirmation.
I swallowed, feeling myself cave. Without Noor, I would go back to being a nobody and we both knew it.
‘Obviously,’ I said.
I almost convinced myself. But as the week wore on and Banerjee piled on the pressure, my panic grew. These kids could risk anything, I couldn’t. A suspension would mean I’d lose the financial aid I relied on to go to Wescott. It would make getting a scholarship to go to a good university impossible. It would cause so much pain to my grandparents who had done nothing but support me.
And a comprehensive in London was all well and good, but going to a state school in India would be the end of my prospects.
It would seal my fate as a nobody.
I didn’t even dare think about what my parents would say.
We all knew it had been Yash and his cousin, Tanmay, who climbed into the stairwell and lit the match. In the end, I did the only thing I could. I wrote an anonymous note and slipped it under the headmistress’s door before classes started on Friday.
Both boys and their parents were called in to the headmistress’s offic
e after school the following Monday.
‘I can’t believe someone grassed on them,’ Noor said.
We were gathered in the school’s car park waiting to find out what had happened. The buses had long gone and other than the handful of drivers waiting to take their charges home, we were the only ones there.
‘I wonder who it was,’ Sabah said, looking at me. She leaned into Vineet as he draped an arm around her waist.
‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘it’s a pretty shitty thing to do considering we were all involved.’
‘I just saw them,’ Addi said, panting as she joined us. ‘Tanmay said Banerjee was threatening expulsion, but Yash’s father offered to pay for a new indoor swimming pool. They’ve been let off with a week’s suspension. Off the record.’
‘Well played,’ Vineet grinned. ‘Nothing like a wad of cash to set things straight. Do you need a lift home, babe?’ he asked Sabah, pulling her close.
I saw something flicker across Noor’s face briefly before she rolled her eyes and turned to me, her finger looped around the gold pendant necklace she always had on. ‘Told you it would be fine,’ she said. ‘My place?’
SABAH
I nip into the house under the pretext of using the loo before the long drive back. Almost automatically, my feet find their way up the stairs and along the corridor until I’m standing in front of Noor’s room. Even though I know what to expect, a gasp works its way out of me as I push the door open. Though most of the old furniture is still there, the room has been stripped of anything even remotely reminiscent of Noor. It occurs to me that in keeping my room exactly as I left it, my mother was holding on to some invisible thread of hope that one day I might return. There was no such hope for Fatima Aunty to hold on to.
My legs gravitate towards the window seat that Noor and I had spent hours cuddled up on as little girls, our tiny legs tangled together as we whispered secrets. As we’d grown, the space, too small to fit us both, had taken on a different significance. I lift the cushion and run my hands across the wooden panelling, feeling the bumps and grooves under the fresh paint until my fingers find what they’re searching for. I run a finger along the plank on the far right and slip my nail under the edge. I ease it upwards, revealing a small cavity in the woodwork. The ingenuously titled Hiding Place, where Noor stored everything from Valentine’s cards and miniature bottles of alcohol to her diaries.
Can You See Me Now? Page 11
