He said the TV was up in the master bedroom.
‘You for real? I’ve just stepped in your place and you’re already trying to get me in your bedroom.’
He panicked. ‘Swear down the TV’s in the bedroom! It belongs to my uncle. Look, I’ll level with you: this house isn’t really mine. My uncle’s a property developer. He’s looking for high-end tenants for this place. He ain’t found them yet so I thought we could have a fun evening.’ He swallowed, his Adam’s apple pogoing up and down his skinny throat. ‘Sometimes I come here when I want to get away from stuff.’
‘What stuff?’
‘My parents.’ Well that was blunt. ‘They’re always arguing, innit?’
With the saddest look on his face, he told me his parents were getting divorced and they were traumatizing him with their twenty-four-seven shouting matches. It scared him, made him angry and helpless. His little brother had him to tell lies about everything being OK. But Tariq had no one. ‘They reckon cos I’m nearly sixteen, I’m a big man, innit? And I don’t got feelings. Their stupid, selfish problems are doing my head in.’
We sat on the thickly carpeted stairs, chatting about family problems. I didn’t tell him everything, but I told him enough to know that living with Dad had been a nightmare.
‘When he died, it made me realize how short life is. So I’m going to be an actor.’ I instantly regretted blabbing. You tell people personal stuff about yourself, you give them power to hurt you.
‘You wanna be an actress?’ he asked, shaking his head and grinning. ‘Well, you’re peng enough.’
‘You think?’
‘Solid eleven. I can imagine you working it in a wet saree.’ He started singing some smutty Bollywood song and thrusting his pelvis. I would’ve been angry but for the fact I unexpectedly started laughing. He looked so damn foolish, hanging on to the stair rail, waggling his eyebrows as he gestured as suggestively as a Nautch dancing girl. We both cracked up and somehow it made me feel relaxed – brought my protective barrier down.
Tariq asked why it was so important for me to see Muzna later.
‘She’s helping me learn lines for my audition,’ I explained.
‘You’re serious about this.’ Tariq said, the penny finally dropping. ‘You don’t mind all the uncle-jis and the auntie-jis chatting crap about you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well cos acting is basically lying. You’re pretending something that ain’t is true. Plus you have to kiss all those men, do nude scenes, hop into bed with ugly old film producers . . .’
‘I ain’t doing no nudes—’
He suddenly pushed his lips up against mine. It was a sloppy kiss but I allowed it. ‘You know, you’re a good kisser.’
‘Yeah, well, you ain’t.’ It felt exactly like having a warm jelly shoved in my face.
‘Let me try again . . .’
‘Maybe later,’ I said, hurriedly getting up. ‘Plus, don’t just kiss a girl, bruv. Ask first. You get me?’
He pulled a face. ‘OK, OK. May I please kiss you, Miss Beautiful Bollywood Goddessness?’
I scowled. ‘So just cos I’m Asian means Bollywood is my only option?’
He licked his lips. ‘OK, so can I kiss you Miss Holly-Bolly-Lolly-Jolly-Wood?’
Somehow he’d done it again. I was in hysterics.
‘So, when’s your audition?’
I told him it was tomorrow and he offered to let me practise my monologue with him. He even agreed to film it so I could fine-tune my performance later.
‘You deserve an Oscar!’ he said enthusiastically after my fifth take.
I thanked him then wrinkled my nose. ‘I’m hungry. Where’s this dinner you promised?’
He grinned. ‘On it. Why don’t you go check out the TV?’
I gave him a look but he was already opening up a food app on his phone to order in, so I went upstairs to see if the bus-sized TV really existed. The master bedroom was super classy, decorated in subtle creams, with a king-size bed, but my eyes were drawn to the opposite wall where a TV, almost as big as the screen down the local cinema, was fixed to the wall. So Tariq wasn’t lying. I hesitated for no more than five seconds before grabbing the remote and channel surfing and finally settling on Glee. The picture quality made me feel like I was sinking into the TV and the sound seemed to be seeping out of the walls. I wasn’t just singing along but singing with my favourite characters, fully immersed in the action.
Tariq came in and instead of calling me out for being cringey, he grabbed a can of air freshener for a mic and joined me up on the bed-stage. We bopped like it was 1995. I was living my best life.
We both collapsed onto the bed, sweaty, dizzy but still buzzing.
‘Man, that was so fun!’ Tariq said, mopping his brow. ‘Look: actual sweat! I keep this up, I’m going to get a six-pack.’
‘Now imagine doing this as a job for life. Getting paid to have fun. That’s how I feel about acting,’ I explained.
‘Yeah but most actors don’t sing and dance though.’
‘You do if you’re auditioning for musical theatre.’
He rolled over, placing a hand on my thigh. ‘You didn’t say nothing about that.’
I sat up, discreetly slipping free of his wandering hand. ‘Cos I thought you’d take the piss. But you’re actually kinda chill.’
‘I’ll take it, though I would’ve preferred sexy. So what role you up for?’ He sits up, casually sliding an arm around me.
I pause for a beat. ‘Cinderella. It’s a fresh take on the fairy tale.’
‘Nice . . .’ His hand began wandering again. I promptly caught it.
‘Look, Tariq, I like you. A lot, yeah? But we need to take things slower. You get me?’
‘But actors always get it on in five minutes!’
‘Yeah, cos it’s not real. Plus, I already told you, I’m never gonna take roles that make me feel uncomfortable. So . . .’ I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head.
The doorbell rang and whatever he might’ve said in return was forgotten when he came back, arms laden with paper bags. ‘Grub’s up!’
‘Dude, what is this? You promised me a candlelit dinner and you bring me back a bucket of hotwings?’
‘This ain’t hotwings. This is a fourteen-piece Mela Meal Deal from LFC!’
‘Liverpool Football Club?’
‘Lahori Fried Chicken-shiken!’ he said in an exaggerated accent. ‘It’s finger chaat-ing good!’
You know that feeling you get when you’re having a nightmare and you trip so bad your whole body jerks you right awake? We’d eaten so much fried chicken that I’d fallen completely asleep. But the nightmare got ten times worse when I opened my eyes. Seven angry Asian men were crowding round the bed.
‘Tariq?’ one of them said in surprise, poking him with a baseball bat. ‘I brought my friends thinking there’d been a bloody break-in.’
I shrank behind the duvet moments before it was ripped off. Tariq yelped, lanky limbs clamouring to cover himself like a terrorized spider. To my horror he was in his underpants.
‘Look, it’s that missing girl!’ an uncle announced with boggling eyes.
‘Shame on you!’ one of them said in Urdu. ‘Your mother is worried sick wondering where you are and you’re sleeping with my nephew!
‘Oh my God, this is so not what it looks like!’ I told them, breaking out in a sweat. As if it couldn’t get any worse, I recognized one of them as Uncle Saleem, Muzna’s dad. Knowing him, something would go down with Muzna later. The look in their eyes said it all: nothing that came out of my mouth would ever be the truth. To confirm it, one of them jabbed a finger at me.
‘Besharam!’
Being called ‘shameless’ in English is hurtful; having it said in Urdu legit feels like you got disembowelled with a hot poker.
Mum passed down the line of frowning uncles, avoiding their eyes, like it was a walk of shame. Apparently, they’d been out looking for me after I failed to answer Mum’s calls. The
n they got a call from Tariq’s uncle, freaking out over what he figured was a break-in. Wary of the police, they’d decided to handle the matter themselves.
‘Let’s go,’ Mum said simply.
‘Mum, I—’
She turned her back on me, making a beeline for the door. Can’t say I blame her.
‘Tell them what really happened! Please!’ I begged Tariq.
Tariq looked at me then pointed at his dad. ‘This is your fault! You and Mum. If you loved me, like you’re supposed to, I wouldn’t look somewhere else.’
‘You’re blaming me for sleeping with this girl?’ Tariq’s dad shouted.
Mum whipped around. ‘That’s my daughter you’re talking about!’
The uncles’ eyes widened in surprise before Uncle Saleem spoke up. ‘Please take Salma home.’
‘Oh my days!’ I cried, exasperated. ‘There was no sleeping! OK? What is wrong with you people? Tariq, I’m begging you: tell them the truth.’
Tariq gave me a blank stare, like he had no clue what I was on about.
‘Salma!’ Mum hollered from the threshold, signalling for me to follow.
Fists balled, I gave a frustrated scream and pointed at Tariq. ‘I get blacklisted, I’mma come so hard for you, you’ll wish you never messed with me.’
Tariq looked between the faces of the angry men then back at me. ‘I already wish I hadn’t messed with you. You drew me into temptation.’
My jaw dropped just as Mum, grabbing my arm, hauled me out of that toxic environment and down the front drive.
Mum didn’t acknowledge me again until we were safely sealed inside her Corsa with the engine running. The motor sounded like it had a phlegmy cough. ‘What happened?’
Not the question I was expecting. It made me want to hug her and thank her for asking me instead of jumping to conclusions. But I was smart enough to know that a move like that could get me in trouble. All around us uncles were getting into their cars, throwing shade on a sliding scale of disgust to outright hatred. I want to give them the finger, but for Mum’s sake I didn’t.
‘I didn’t do nothing, Mum,’ I stammered. ‘Not like what they’re saying, anyway.’
‘So what exactly were you doing in there with that boy? You told me you were having a sleepover with Muzna.’
‘That was the plan. I was going to Muzzie’s straight after.’
‘I called her. She knew nothing about a sleepover.’
‘My phone’s dodge. I didn’t get a chance to run it by her, but you know she’s always up for it.’
‘That doesn’t explain why you were in bed with him.’ Mum gave the signal and pulled out, sidelights punching holes through the dark.
‘He wanted to help me prep for my audition tomorrow,’ I explain. Not entirely true, but not a flatout lie either.
‘So you jumped into bed with him?’
‘No! We were sat on his bed, eating fried chicken, watching Netflix on a massive TV. I think I ate too much. You know that makes you drowsy, right? I fell asleep by accident. That’s all. I swear.’
‘Don’t you realize how dangerous that is? Just falling asleep in some random boy’s bedroom?’
‘I didn’t mean to. He’d already conked out . . . I thought he was trustworthy.’ I hold my head, trying to make sense of the madness and betrayal. ‘Somewhere between me falling asleep and those uncles turning up, that idiot must have stripped down to his underwear. Aw, Mum, don’t cry!’
Fat teardrops rolled down her cheeks. ‘I thought you knew better. I told you I didn’t want you dating until you’re eighteen. We live in a close-knit community, Salma. There are people on our street who hold very tight to their traditional values.’
‘Please! Everybody’s dating and worse – including kids down our street! Khalil’s two-timing Monifa and Zoe, and Auntie Balquis’s precious Yasmin is always posting two-second boob flashes on Snapchat. Bet you didn’t know about that, huh?’
‘I don’t care about anybody else. You’re my daughter. I want to protect you.’
I cover my face, panicking cos I’ve lost control of the situation. ‘I can’t live like this, Mum! You say one thing and then make me do the other. I feel like I’m split down the middle: one half is the real me and the other is some fake version who only exists to keep the old gossips happy. You’re making me into Dad! You’re making me two-faced!’
Mum winces and I immediately regret shouting.
‘You’re right. I admit I made mistakes with your dad, but I care about you more than I care what people on our street may or may not be thinking. You have to remember that I’ve had to lean on them in the past and they’ve always come through for us. They’ve lent us money without interest, stepped in at the last minute and childminded you when I had emergency shifts at the hospital. Now you’ve got us wrapped up in the middle of a scandal and nobody’s going to care to learn the truth.’
‘What about Tariq? He’ll get a bad reputation too, won’t he?’
‘It’s not the same . . .’
‘Why? Cos I’m a girl? How is that fair?’
‘It’s not. People are always judging our community and calling us backwards and patriarchal when the rest of the world is exactly the same. The world is full of double standards but, Salma, we can’t afford to invite trouble.’
Mum drives silently, her jaw muscles clenched.
‘But Mum, you know I’d never lie to you, right? You believe me about Tariq?’
She nods. ‘But our neighbours won’t. Life is just going to be that much harder when they turn their backs on us.’
‘But why, Mum? After looking out for us, it makes no sense.’
‘In their minds a line’s been crossed.’
‘Yeah, in their minds; not in real life. Anyway, people like Muzna won’t judge us. Our generation’s different than yours.’
‘No?’ She smiles sadly. ‘Muzna’s a sweet girl and Uncle Saleem and Auntie Parveen have been especially kind, but do you think they’d jeopardize their own position in the community by letting her mix with us?’
‘But you didn’t even do anything! And all I did was make a stupid mistake. Tariq’s the one who got undressed and lied about it.’ I pause for breath, seeing the worry and fatigue in every premature crease and wrinkle in Mum’s face. ‘I’m sorry, Mum!’
‘It’s my responsibility to parent you right. I’m grounding you.’
‘What? You can’t do that! I’ve got my audition in two days.’
‘You just admitted that you made a mistake. I’m proud of you for that, but there have to be consequences, Salma, because that’s real life.’
‘But Mum!’
‘It’s not up for discussion. I went out of my mind looking for you. It’s not what I expect after a long shift at the hospital.’
Mum drives us back in silence, while I simmer with guilt. All I wanted was to know what it would be like to date someone. Stupid Tariq! Somehow, in spite of all my rules and careful planning, I lost control and now everything’s ruined.
No. Tariq doesn’t get to spoil my acting dreams with his messed-up lies. This audition could be my big break. Whatever I have to do, whatever it takes, the show must go on.
CHAPTER 4
‘It’s called hair and make-up for a reason,’ trills Shaista Mian – YouTube’s latest MUA, repping South London in the beauty stakes. ‘Hot irons make you perspire and hairsprays spit in your face. Like rude little brothers called Ilyas!’ The door behind her clicks shut and she looks at the camera pointedly. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that sweaty and sticky does not a flawless finish make.’
Mum’s at work and I’m anxiously watching Shaista’s ‘Get Ready With Me’ vlog. Figure if I want to beat the competition, I need all the beauty hacks I can get. Defying Mum after getting grounded makes me feel sick, but I tell myself I’m doing it for the both of us.
Checking my ribbon curls in the mirror, I pull them back with a pink kitten-ear headband, and begin applying make-up under Shaista’s no-nonsense guid
ance. I’m counting on the cerulean-blue skater dress I ordered off the internet to send subliminal messages to the casting directors, riffing off Disney’s version of the fairy-tale princess. I’m not your classic blonde-haired, blue-eyed white girl but there’s other stuff, important stuff, that connects us. We both lost a parent, ended up broke and bullied, and dream of a better future. For Cinderella that meant marrying the prince, for me it’s about proving everybody wrong.
Finally ready, I have another wobble at the door, my stomach flipping because I’m breaking the rules. ‘Gotta break a few eggs to make an omelette,’ I mutter, steeling myself then heading out.
A giant magnifying glass must be floating over London today. Concentrated sunbeams scorch our city, conjuring a dancing, shimmering haze above the tarmac. Global warming I can take; global roasting, not so much.
First stop is the local Boots on the high street, where I douse myself in an Issey Miyake tester before being chased away by an irate assistant. A little while later, I duck inside an upmarket coffee shop, relief washing over me from the cool blast of the air-con, fluttering my flyaways and drying off my sweat. I hover by the fridge, staring longingly at the ice-cold drinks. Sadly, I’m priced out; even the water here needs a down payment. Muzna once told me there’s a rare coffee that costs a bomb and is basically harvested from elephant poo. Looking at the pompous expressions of the people at the counter, that just cracks me up.
‘Are you buying that?’ asks a voice at my elbow, making me jump. It’s a man with a trolley, looking to replenish the fridge. I glance down at the bottle in my hand sadly, then shake my head. I’m about to put it back when he speaks up.
‘Take it.’
‘Nah, I’m all right.’
‘It’s hot and you’re the prettiest girl I’ve seen all day.’ He pulls out some coin. ‘I got you.’
I smile, grab the drink and beeline for the door. It’s messed up that people treat you differently just cos they think you’re pretty. But dehydraters can’t be choosers.
Outside on the pavement I’m instantly baking again. I press the precious bottle to my forehead, rolling the cool surface over my blazing skin. There’s plenty of time before I need to be at the theatre, so I meander over to the local park to brush up on my lines. I’m halfway along the winding path, admiring the clusters of brightly coloured summer flowers, before I spot trouble: a gang of boys, crowding round a kid on a bench. If there was any doubt about what’s going on, the threatening laughter clinches it. Turn around, Salma, and walk outta here alive. Every Londoner knows not to mess with gangs unless you wanna get shanked. Plus, there’s me in my boohoo glam, hardly fight wear. I’m about to duck out when I glimpse the expression on the kid’s face. It’s the look of a baby antelope surrounded by a pack of lions.
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