I caught sight of my face in a mirrored panel behind the counters and saw streaks of mascara on my cheeks. I tried to rub them away.
‘I’ve known Ralph forever and he still won’t give me a discount!’ she pouted, smiling at the owner.
‘You don’t need a discount!’
They bickered like old friends.
‘What are you buying, Faiza?’ said Julia.
I wanted to say, ‘I’ve seen some earrings that I like’, but as the jeweller was listening, I decided to go with a version of the truth.
‘I’m recycling some old pieces I don’t wear anymore.’
‘Oh, that’s why I heard you asking for money,’ she said.
I turned to Ralph. ‘You’re busy. I’ll come back later.’
My hand was already on the door knob when she added, ‘How’s Tom, by the way? I saw him dropping Sofia off. How come they let him out for the day?’
I pretended I hadn’t heard and escaped. Water seeped in through the collar of my coat, cold rivulets trickling all the way down my back. I didn’t care. I had the money for the fees. Well, most of it.
Bumping into Julia had been a close call. If she’d walked in earlier, she would have seen me begging Ralph for an extra couple of thousand, and being told that my family heirlooms were fake. I stopped walking for a second. She and Ralph were friends. As far as I was aware, jewellers took no oath of confidentiality. He could be telling her everything right now…
Nine
I had forged Tom’s signature, taken out a bank loan, sold all my jewellery, as well as Diana’s. My guilt felt heavy. It was a lump in my throat and a burning in my chest when Tom smiled at me, or hugged me as we lay in bed.
I had never expected us to end up like this, with a wall of lies between us. Pretending – in one way or another – had always been part of my life, but with Tom I could just be myself.
That was why I’d fallen in love with him. With Tom, I didn’t have to be the peacemaker daughter, always thinking before I spoke. I didn’t have to be more English or more Pakistani than I was, depending on my target audience, or, like at work, smooth away any quirky ethnic edges in my appearance or conversation so I could blend in. Tom just saw Faiza.
My first sight of Tom was of his six-pack stomach. I was smitten. I had walked into my friend Ella’s flat for a dinner party and, in the middle of the living room, I saw a very tall man, reaching up to change a bulb in the ceiling light. His T-shirt had ridden up and his stomach muscles, covered with coiled, light brown hairs, were visible. His arms looked strong… I couldn’t tear my eyes away, even though I knew I should.
Ella worked with me, and Tom had been at university with her boyfriend. We all worked in the City and Tom was often at after-work drinks, weekend brunches and dinners with the same group that I was friends with. The more I saw him, the more I liked him. And this was a problem. Ever since I could remember, I’d been told I must only marry a Pakistani man, a suitable one at that, and one introduced via approved matchmaking channels. Dating was not an option. Having a crush on someone who didn’t meet these criteria was most inconvenient. When my obsession with Tom did not lessen, as I had expected it to, I decided to try and neutralise it. Instead of admiring him from afar, I started talking to him more, hoping that, up close, I’d see all that was wrong with him. I’d used this tactic before, to quash past infatuations. Friend-zoning, as Sofia would call it now. She didn’t know that I was an expert at it before they coined the phrase.
Instead of seeing flaws by spending more time with him though, I saw how funny he was and how kind. He was different to the other men in the group, with their loud laughter and banter. They seemed like boys, and Tom was a man. Tom didn’t say much, but when he spoke, everyone listened. I saw humour under his serious expression and, when he did smile, his face lit up. I was fascinated by his eyes changing colour to different shades of blue, not just in the light, but depending on whether he was concentrating on watching a film, or laughing, or when he was tired. I loved his hands, his forehead, the way he never said anything bad about anyone.
Tom asked me questions about myself and what I wanted to do in life, and when I replied, he listened. When someone commented, as they inevitably did, that I was a boring teetotal, Tom didn’t say, ‘Oh go on, just have one!’ as people usually did. He asked me if he could get me a coke or a juice instead.
Tom didn’t seem to want anything more than the easy friendship we had struck up and I was relieved. My one-sided desire had nowhere to go and would have to die at some point. I wanted to get back to a life without the constant agony of wanting to touch him and longing for the moments I could see him again.
One day, we both left the pub together. The tube was packed but we found a pocket of space to stand in. My hand couldn’t reach the rail at the top, which he had grabbed before the tube started to move. I swayed and he put his other hand on my arm to steady me.
‘I’ve got you,’ he said.
The tube jerked again, pushing me against him, and his arm went around my back, to steady me. I looked up and saw that his eyes were the deepest blue. My head tilted back as if by itself, his face moved closer. I looked down again and his arms tightened around me. I shut my eyes and leaned against him, my heart hammering.
As we got off the tube, he took my hand for the first time.
‘I thought you weren’t interested,’ I said.
‘Ella told me you’re not allowed to date and all the stuff about your parents. I didn’t want to scare you off.’
He invited me for a picnic the next day.
‘Just to be clear, it’s only the two of us – and it’s a date.’ Tom didn’t play games and was straightforward in his invitation.
I didn’t tell Ami and Baba about Tom. At first, I thought there was no point, as Tom would probably leave me after a few months. It was all too complicated. When he asked me to marry him, I decided to be completely honest with Ami and Baba. I couldn’t hide behind a lie to smooth things over as I usually would, not if I wanted to be with Tom.
I was suddenly the cause of turmoil in our house and in their relationship. They blamed me and each other for ruining my life and theirs and for bringing shame on the family. The temptation was high to give in, to accept their decision and go back to my role in life – soothing, appeasing, calming things down.
But I couldn’t give up Tom. For the first and only time, I risked everything by showing my parents who I really was and what I really wanted.
I sighed, looking at Tom as he slept next to me. I should have told him the truth when I found out the emergency money had gone. Now, there had been too many lies and it was too late. The sooner I got a job, the sooner I could replace the money and we could get back to being us again. But I still hadn’t heard back from any of my applications.
One morning, while the children were at school, I was curled up on the sofa, hugging a cushion to my chest and refreshing my email. Tom stood in front of me. He was looking happier, after a successful first interview with an American bank a few days before.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Why doesn’t anyone call me? I’ve applied for so many jobs!’ I wailed.
‘These things take time. To be honest, you’ve got such a long gap on your CV that they might not even look at your application. Let’s ask my headhunter if he can help. Come here.’
He pulled me up and brought his lips down on mine. A comfort kiss. I kissed him back, putting my arms around his neck. He started grazing my lips gently with his teeth, then moved my hair back and kissed the side of my neck. I arched towards him and his hands moved down to my bottom. I closed my eyes and forgot everything. I wanted to forget.
‘I’ll email Richard now,’ he mumbled against my skin. ‘There’s just something I need to do first…’
He took my hand and we ran upstairs. I closed the bedroom shutters, then we both took off our jeans. I felt his weight on top of me as soon as I lay down. We were quick, not bothering to take off the rest of
our clothes. It would’ve felt strange to be naked in the middle of the day, and besides, I didn’t want the glare of the sun on my skin. I was getting too old for that.
Afterwards, I snuggled my head into position on his shoulder. He pushed up my T-shirt and drew soft circles on my breast with his fingertips.
‘I can’t believe how you’re getting a job to help me out. You’re something else, kid!’
I flinched at the love in his voice. I forced myself to smile.
‘I’m not helping you; I’m helping us. We’re in this together – kid!’
He laughed.
‘You’re worried you haven’t got any interviews, but at least you’ve been out of the market for years. Think how I feel. I’ve only had one so far.’ He smiled. ‘At this rate, I’d earn more if I dropped dead.’
‘Hey!’ I elbowed him gently in his side. ‘You don’t get out of this so easily. You’d better stick around to share all the fun with me!’
‘Are you sure? My life insurance is £150k.’
I climbed on top of him.
‘Chicken feed! I’m afraid you’ll just have to get a job after all,’ I said.
We laughed and he pulled me down so that I was lying on top of him, my face resting on his chest. He started to stroke my hair and I blinked back my tears.
‘See, it’s not all bad having an unemployed husband. When was the last time we did this in the middle of the day?’ he said.
‘Darling, I appreciate the post-coital romance, but can you email the headhunter now? I want to find a job.’
I smiled and handed him his iPad.
I had to fix things. Tom could never find out what I’d done. It would devastate him and destroy us.
Ten
4½ weeks to May 30th
Everyone came to my parents’ annual Eid party: extended family, old friends who often brought along their own extended families, children and grandchildren. Naila, who Ami called her ‘third daughter’, her husband Tariq, who was a good friend of Tom’s, and their two teenagers, would also be there.
I’d hung up our Eid clothes, new salwar kameez suits for us all, including Tom, and was going to help my parents set things up, before coming back to change.
Tom’s final interview at the American bank was in ten days. We alternated between getting excited, then reminding ourselves that there were no guarantees. I’d allow myself a sliver of hope for a few seconds, as if taking a deep breath of clean, fresh air, imagining what life would be like if he got the job, before diving back underwater into the gloom that was our current reality.
When I got to my parents’ flat, there was a whirlwind of activity.
Baba, immaculate in his ironed pale-blue shirt and a tie I remembered from my childhood, was sitting at the dining table, making egg sandwiches, cutting them into delicate triangles, as per Ami’s instructions. I laid the table with serving dishes for their usual Eid spread of seekh kebabs, parathas, dahi baray, chickpea chaat, haleem, naan, pakoras, samosas, fruit chaat and mithai, then took out crystal glasses to serve mango and orange juice. I took out the chocolate cake, which I’d baked and Sofia had decorated with ‘Eid Mubarak’ written in white icing. I cleaned the guest bathroom, put out fresh towels and loo paper, and vacuumed and dusted the living room, before arranging the dining chairs in semicircles so we had enough seating, and putting pink gladioli in a vase. I’d cooked some of the dishes at my house the night before, and now helped Ami finish off the others, that she didn’t trust me to cook properly by myself.
She was chopping pistachio nuts into thin slivers and I watched the sharp knife, so perilously close to her fingers. She passed me a small bowl of the sayviyan, her Eid speciality. I breathed in the saffron and ate it up quickly, needing the sugar rush.
‘I miss your sister so much, especially at Eid.’
‘We’ll FaceTime her later, OK?’
I put my arm around Ami.
Farrah blamed our parents for the breakup of both her engagements. She told me the reason she was too afraid to commit to marriage was because she’d witnessed the turmoil in our parents’ relationship. I used to get annoyed that, as a grown woman of thirty-eight, she still used them as an excuse, but recently I’d been wondering if she had a point. Would I have dodged every awkward conversation about money with Tom, if I hadn’t been so terrified of ending up like Ami and Baba?
Later, as Tom and I drove to the party with the children, the car was silent as I scolded Sofia.
‘Why couldn’t you just wear your Eid clothes? I bought them specially.’
‘I didn’t want to, OK? I don’t even want to go to this stupid party but I’m coming. Isn’t that enough?’
‘There’s no need to speak to Mum like that,’ said Tom.
Tom turned on the radio and started to sing along to some Eighties pop and soon had the children joining in. I looked out of the window, wondering what would happen to our family if Tom didn’t get this job.
I had to stop worrying. The bank had all but offered Tom the job. You didn’t get to the final stage for such a senior role unless the decision had been made. Tom was smiling more these days, talking about the people he met at the last interview and how well they got on, and what a relief it would be to have a salary again, so we didn’t have to use our savings.
The car turned and I almost dropped the plate of samosas that I was holding. I tried to shield my electric blue-silk salwar kameez from any oil. My matching chiffon dupatta, edged with tiny pearls, was folded up in my bag. I was wearing blue and silver glass bangles on each wrist and red lipstick.
I always had a stack of crisp £10 and £20 notes in my bag to give out as Eidi at the party to all the children there. This year I’d just have to pretend that I had forgotten to bring the money with me. I couldn’t just not give it, and nor was I in any position to explain why.
Once we got there, I was enveloped in countless hugs as I went from person to person, wishing Eid Mubarak to all the friends squeezed into my parents’ flat. I loved the way everyone came together at Eid. There was such a feeling of family, even if you weren’t related by blood, and a warmth that extended across generations. The aunties and uncles who had asked me about my university choices, were now asking Sofia about hers. They gave advice, they told you off, they hugged and kissed you, they fed you.
When I was younger, I used to wish that my parents’ friends, and the Pakistani side of my culture in general, had some boundaries or filter. My English friends never had to put up with such inquisition and interference. Over the years, though, I came to realise that if these elders felt the right to question and guide everyone, it was because they genuinely cared, and this capacity to care for so many people was something extraordinary. They had been there through every stage of our lives, good or bad.
Tom was shaking hands with two of the uncles.
‘How’s work, Tom?’
I froze. I’d forgotten to warn Tom not to say anything yet. My parents had no idea about Tom’s job and this was not a bombshell to drop in the middle of the Eid party, where it would circulate with a velocity that would hit Ami and Baba within seconds. I shouted out to Tom before he could answer.
‘Tom, I have a samosa emergency! Sorry, Uncle!’
I took Tom into the guest room.
‘Darling, fifty people are going to ask you about work today, but please don’t say anything.’
‘I think it’s OK to tell people now. It’s been a while,’ he said.
‘No! I can’t let my parents find out. Not like this. You know they’ll freak out and it’s dangerous for Baba to get stressed. Anyway, you’ll have a new job soon. Why do we need to tell anyone at all?’
‘What am I supposed to say if someone asks about work?’
‘Just say, “Oh, you know…” and then start asking them about their work or their children. Please.’
I had to supply a template lie because I knew he wasn’t very good at it himself.
He still looked unsure but when he saw my face he sai
d, ‘OK.’
After the feast had been devoured, all the children received their Eidi and sat counting their loot. Tariq and Naila helped us clear up, all of us squeezed into my parents’ tiny kitchen.
Tom and Tariq went to fetch more plates.
‘Why isn’t Sofia wearing her Eid clothes?’ asked Naila.
‘Because she’s a brat!’
‘You shouldn’t let her get away with it. It’s disrespectful.’
Naila was always talking about the importance of traditions. Her children attended Urdu lessons and she chided me for not enrolling mine but letting them learn informally from Ami. Seema, her sixteen-year-old, had come dressed in salwar kameez. Naila’s mini-me.
She was wrong about Sofia being disrespectful, though. Despite not wearing her Eid clothes, she served tea to all the guests, carrying a huge tray from person to person, the way Ami liked. She said ‘Eid Mubarak’ and chatted in broken Urdu to her grandparents’ friends, not because they wouldn’t have understood English, but because it made them happy.
Maybe I was being too harsh. Two of the aunties were also wearing trousers and neither Ami nor Baba had complained about Sofia’s clothes. My parents and their friends had mellowed and adapted, with age and time. These days they were just as excited if a young person wanted to become a musician or a fashion designer, as when they followed the more traditional careers of medicine or law. Dating was now acceptable, and although they may have preferred it if their grandchildren married other Desis, it was now not unusual for them to dress up and dance at weddings where cultures and races combined.
It was Eid, and I didn’t want to be fighting with Sofia.
I handed Naila the dishcloth.
‘Actually, do you mind if I go and have a word with her?’ I said.
‘Good idea. Tell her how important it is to show respect on occasions like this,’ said Naila.
Sofia was sitting on the living-room sofa, between Ami and Zeyna Khala, each of them holding one of Sofia’s hands and talking across her. I waved to her and she escaped gratefully to the guest room with me.
Would I Lie to You? Page 6