by Amal Awad
“It balances light and shadow,” I said, chuffed that I remembered it all. Even better, I understood it.
He had another, larger reflector, which he set up on a stand to the side. The model, Josephine, now stood in place, in a dress that was Cinderella stunning. Snow White and Rapunzel blow-me-out-of-the-water exquisite, and somehow, not ostentatious in the least.
She motioned to me and I rushed up to assist her. With a smile, she indicated to the back of her voluminous skirt. I leaned the reflector against a pillar then walked behind her, angling myself around the fabric to straighten it out. Next I smoothed out the short lacy sleeves and adjusted the boat neck bodice, leaning across so as not to step on the fabric, which was laced with pearls.
She thanked me with another luminous smile. I stepped back and retrieved the shade.
“Okay, let’s go,” said Gabriel.
I stood to the left of Josephine, holding up the reflector. Even though my visibility was limited, I could still see her well if I leaned my head to the side just a little.
I felt a slight twinge as I watched her confidently pose in the dress, her hand resting lightly on her hip, her hair elegantly styled in a French knot. She radiated happiness, seemingly without a care in the world, as though it really was her special day. I found my reaction odd given I’d never thought much about wedding gowns for myself. I don’t think I’d ever truly contemplated an actual wedding.
I suddenly felt more than a little frumpy in my hijab, black trousers and blouse-vest ensemble. I’d never be able wear something like that, I thought. Or if I did, it would only be in the company of other women. The men in my family didn’t count, and while my husband could see me in it, of course, he wouldn’t be beside me the whole night because I could only wear it if it was an all-girls party.
My hijab never bothered me much, so I was surprised at the feeling of regret that washed over me.
I returned to the office at 4.30, feeling a little exhausted after a day in the sun. Marcus was hovering around my desk and seemed poised to begin another session of Twenty Questions.
Honestly, he should’ve had his own television show. He could wear a snappy suit, stand at a podium and smile as he bellowed, “Welcooooooooooooome to Marcus’s Twenty Questions on Islam and Samira!”
There I’d be sitting on a little chair on a stage, a spotlight directed at me and I’d be awkwardly answering his questions about everything from the differences between halal and kosher food, to the pilgrimage to Mecca.
He thought about it all more than I did.
I smiled politely at Marcus then switched on my iPod, navigating the earphones under my headscarf. I checked my emails and responded to a couple from Jeff. There was also a message from Lara – a picture of a cute cat thinking psychotic thoughts. Maybe I was just tired, but I found it disturbing.
“Tiaras.”
I looked up from my computer. “Pardon me?”
“I need five hundred words on tiaras. We’ve an empty column,” explained Jeff.
“Okay, and-”
“Samina.” He sighed. “I’m telling you because you’re to write it. Got it?”
“What exactly am I writing?” I asked, bewildered.
“Five hundred words on the wonder that is the tiara. Be creative. And get me the survey results from marketing. Now.”
I sat confused, trying to figure out exactly what was so wonderful about tiaras when my inbox pinged. It was Lara again.
Subject: Hmmm
I was talking to Hakeem the other night. Interesting. You can thank me later. Has wimpy brother contacted you or popped the question yet?
Miss you
Love Lara xx
Oh, bloody hell. Honestly, Lara needed adult supervision sometimes. This is what happened when she was bored.
Subject: Re: Hmmm
Lara! What have you done? You can’t be left alone on the internet!
Remembering Jeff’s request for the survey results, I quickly printed off the report marketing had sent through earlier. As soon the pages were done, I rushed them over to Jeff and hurriedly placed them on his desk.
“Here you go, Jeff,” I said.
“Samina. Five hund-”
“Yes, Jeff. Five hundred words on tiaras,” I interjected.
“By 10 am tomorrow, please. That’s morning, A-M.”
All I could think about was whether Lara had responded yet. Of course, I know I should’ve been more enthusiastic about being asked to actually write, not just tweak or copy edit, a whole five hundred-word piece. But priorities!
Subject: Re: Hmmm
Are these the words of someone who trusts someone? I think not. And by the way, quick question: Team Aniston or Team Jolie? It still bugs me. You can go either way here and no one will think less of you.
Love Lara xx
P.S: I’m waiting for an update re wimpy brother! Don’t you be holding out on me! And don’t do anything irrational, like elope or something.
I had no idea where eloping came into this, particularly as I was hardly the type to do something that outrageous. But my mind wandered for a moment as I imagined what it would be like to run off and secretly get married. For some reason I couldn’t picture it without horses and Austen-era capes. Gretna Green was quite far too. Completely impractical.
Subject: Re: Hmmm
It’s not about trust. Don’t try and change the subject. What have you done?
P.S: Team Aniston (still).
By then I’d given up pretending to work. A horrible knot of anxiety was threading its way through me as I awaited Lara’s response, which finally arrived ten minutes later.
Subject: Re: Hmmm
Why is it that if you need something done you have to do it yourself? Please find attached an excerpt from my conversation with Hakeem. I was hoping to show it to you over chat, and that way you could get my accompanying commentary. But I would like to prove that I am, once again, right. Feel free to forward this on to wimpy brother. That ought to kick him into gear!
So you’re still Team Aniston, huh? Go figure. You always gun for the underdog.
Love Lara xx
P.S: I think Hakeem blocks me on Facebook sometimes. I’ve no idea why. Who wouldn’t want to talk to me?
EXCERPT FROM LARA’S CHAT WITH HAKEEM (which proves she’s right):
Lara: This bloke kept driving even though the lady was crossing the street. And there was a crossing.
Hakeem: Maybe he didn’t see her.
Lara: Oh he saw her.
Hakeem: Why assume the worst of people? It’s not good to think that way.
Lara: Ahuh, whatever!
Hakeem: You have a lot of sugar in your diet, don’t you?
Lara: Samira says the same thing, you know. I miss her. People can be such tossers. I hardly get to see her these days.
Hakeem: Insha’Allah you can make time then.
Lara: She hasn’t been in touch much. There’s obviously a guy in the picture.
Samira he totally paused here!!!!
Hakeem: Well, she needs to be careful.
Lara: Totally. She’s smart enough to handle herself though.
He paused here too! (Not just a short one, long pause)
Hakeem: I’ve told her to be cautious. She can be too trusting.
Lara: True. Still... Imagine if she gets engaged. ;) Wouldn’t that be fun?
And here!!! (MUST’VE FAINTED!!!)
Hakeem: Zahra’s fiancé’s brother appeared interested. I upset her. I told her to be careful about him.
Lara: Ahuh.
Hakeem: Anyway, like you said, she’s a grown woman. She can handle herself.
Lara: Totally. Besides, he can just ask to see her at her place and all’s good.
Hakeem: It’s a bit strange he hasn’t yet, isn’t it?
Lara: How so?
Hakeem: He should go directly to her parents. He’s a stranger to her.
Lara: I suppose. But you know how it is with Arabs. You meet one person, you know their
whole family. He figures she’s Zahra’s cousin.
Hakeem: So he’s interested officially?
Lara: Well, he hasn’t asked for a visit yet. But he’s definitely making it obvious that he’s interested.
Hakeem: And is she interested?
Lara: Well, you’d have to ask her. Not sure. But like I said, she’s never around! Oh lord, I have to go now. Nice chattin’ with ya, Hak.
Hakeem: Lara… Call me Hakeem please.
Lara: Right, course. Laters, HAKEEM.
I reread Lara’s email for the third time before finally drafting a response. I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Hakeem seemed curious, but so what? No alarm bells going off.
Subject: Re: Hmmm
Lara, is this what you said I needn’t thank you for? What were you hoping for him to say exactly? You’ve got nothing!
I went back to work, and I tried so hard to concentrate on tiaras. But my mind kept flitting back to Lara’s conversation with Hakeem. I didn’t find the pauses from his end (so thoughtfully indicated by Lara) that strange. He was always the protective type. Stern and commanding and disapproving. But then, maybe it was hard for me to tell because I knew him so well. I really had no idea.
17
Tonight I was being forced to go to Zahra’s house. I felt cheapened and abused. I told my mother as much. Just not in those words exactly. But I made it clear that I was most seriously displeased in a Catherine de Bourgh kind of way.
Mum didn’t care though, nor would she have picked up on the de Bourgh hostility despite having watched Pride and Prejudice with me a while back – the greatest version ever committed to the screen. (That would be the Colin Firth one). I could tell Mum grudgingly enjoyed it even though she wouldn’t admit to it. I knew because when I borrowed North and South, she watched it with me, under the pretence that she was “ironing”.
When I finally got home from work, Mum hurried me out the door, probably concerned I’d find an excuse to get out of going to Zahra’s place. I stayed quiet the entire way there, not wanting to start an argument I’d most likely lose.
We were greeted by aunt Shaimaa. I smiled politely and partook in the traditional three-cheek kiss: a kiss on the left, a kiss on the right, and another on the left for good measure. She ushered us into the dining room, which had been turned into Bridal Central. Magazines were neatly stacked on one side of the large dining table, alongside two black ring-binder folders and samples. Dress designs were spread out on the floor by the window. At the end of the large table sat ribbons, cardboard, organza bags and chocolate. There were fabric samples as well. Everything but the bride and groom.
I knew this selection was going to involve me but I wasn’t sure how yet. Then aunt Shaimaa explained that Zahra needed to make a choice on the bonbonnieres, and would I mind assisting since I know about these sorts of things.
I’d really no idea how aunt Shaimaa could be so lovely and nice when her daughter was such a brat.
“Of course I don’t mind,” I told aunt Shaimaa.
“Of course she doesn’t mind,” said Mum. “Where’s Zahra?”
“She’s just in the shower,” replied aunt Shaimaa. “Please sit,” she said, motioning us to the dining table.
We sat down and she went off to the kitchen. I looked around wearily, still a bit petulant that my Friday night had been auctioned off without my knowledge. Then I was pouting. I couldn’t help it. I looked at Mum with my whimper face and she half-smiled.
“Just help them,” she said, but almost as a request. Clearly, then, Mum realised that this was going over and above my responsibilities as cousin to evil control-freak Zahra.
“Assalamu alaykum!” said Zahra a couple of minutes later in her treacly tone.
We greeted her back and she fake-kissed me. Then Mum left the room to “leave us to it”.
For the next half hour Zahra and I were forced to sit together – by ourselves. It must have been some sort of karmic punishment, I decided. I was sullen as I flipped through old issues of Bridal Bazaar looking for pictures of bonbonnieres. There were lots and most of them were actually rather lovely.
There were the usual boxed bonbonnieres with ribbons or delicate roses on the lids, while some had glitter or beading. Then there were the organza bags, shimmery and elegant. I even liked the tiny photo frames with the bride and groom’s names engraved at the top, even if they seemed a bit self-absorbed. I mean, what was anyone to do with a photo frame with another person’s name engraved on it?
Occasionally I’d show some particularly nice ones to Zahra, who was surprisingly pleasant about the suggestions. She was still cold and detached and, well, Zahra, but there was something different about her. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.
Then it hit me. She seemed happy, I realised in disgust. Ekh. I preferred her bitter and horrible, to be honest. At least I knew how to deal with her, Kill Bill-style. Zahra 2.0 was unnerving and surreal.
“What do you think about this one?” asked Zahra. She held up a page with a scattering of boxes. They were metallic off-white with silver gauze ribbons tied around them. They were very simple, so I was surprised she’d picked them out.
“They’re nice,” I agreed.
She sighed. “This wedding has to be amazing,” she said as she doggy-eared the page. Then she licked her index finger and continued flicking through the magazine.
“I’m sure it will be,” I replied, rolling my eyes. (Oh, I couldn’t help it, all right?)
“By the way, it’s mixed now,” she reported without flinching.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s not going to be a typical Arab wedding. It’s going to be classy.”
“So does that mean you’re not having bridesmaids?” I asked, spades of hope shooting through me.
“Um, no, there’s still a bridal party, Samira,” she said in her “How was school today?” tone. She shook her head as she examined a foldout.
The doorbell rang and Zahra jumped up before I could respond. She opened the door and I heard garbled voices.
“Assalamu alaykum!” said a woman from behind me.
I looked up from my magazine to see who was there. It was Malek’s mother, and right behind her were her two sons.
I was sitting comfortably, but somewhat inappropriately, with my legs tucked under me on the fancy dining room chair. I hastily untangled myself and stood up, practically tripping over in my haste.
“Wa’alaykum assalam,” I replied finally. I went to give Zahra’s future mother-in-law the three-cheek kiss. They’re family now, after all, as Zahra had pointed out.
She smiled at me and patted me on the cheek. “Where are the ladies?” she asked in Arabic.
“They’re in the sitting room, khaltou,” I responded politely.
Zahra was laughing with Malek about something as she pulled him towards the dining table. Menem smiled at me, seemingly pleased to find me here.
“We’re picking bonbonnieres,” gushed Zahra as she dragged out a chair for Malek.
“Hi, Samira, is it?” said Malek.
“Yes, nice to meet you,” I replied, offering him a smile.
He seemed polite and had the same ease about him as Menem. There was a touch of something else though. Not confidence. Not exactly conceit. Arrogance, maybe? Couldn’t be too sure based on a hello. Still, I wondered if I had some sort of social responsibility to warn Malek of Zahra’s evilness.
I decided not, as it had nothing to do with me. And really Zahra completely adored Malek. Once again I recognised the look on her face: happiness.
Malek seemed to give me the once over before smiling tightly. I was left wondering if I’d met with his approval, but as Zahra was on his arm, he was quickly distracted.
“This looks exciting,” observed Menem. He was dressed casually but he still looked nice. I was so used to seeing him in suits whenever I’d run into him in the city.
I smiled again. Yes, pathetic, I know. But what was I to do? Giggle l
ike a hysterical school girl? Bat my eyelids? I’d tried that once when I was younger. It was only slightly more promising than the failed eyebrow hook of derision.
“Yes, Samira’s here because she’s the expert with this sort of thing,” remarked Zahra, her arms wrapped snugly around Malek.
Cow.
I smiled humbly. “Well, I’m not an expert, Zahra. And it’s not like being able to read or draft a contract of law, right?”
“Come ooooooooooooon,” said Zahra to Malek, completely ignoring me. “Sit down and help me pick.”
We sat down at the table, but I waited for Menem to take a seat first in order to make sure I wasn’t too close. I didn’t want to look as though I wanted to sit next to him. That would just look intentional. I had some self-imposed boundaries and self-respect, after all.
Some, mind you.
Menem took the chair a couple of spots down from the one I’d been sitting on. He looked perplexed. “This looks sort of complicated.”
“Well, it’s not brain surgery. But if you get it wrong, you have to deal with a lifetime of shame and censure. Weddings have to meet a certain standard,” I quipped.
Zahra and Malek were joking about, oblivious to anything and anyone else. I wished there was a fire hose on hand so that I could separate them. It was an embarrassing display, I thought uncomfortably. But then I was immediately alarmed at how Mum-like I sounded.
Menem took a magazine from the pile beside him and began flipping through it. He stopped on a particular page and studied it. He nodded proudly.
“There’s your name,” he said.
I started playing with the samples, suddenly an expert in box-making. I didn’t know why but I felt embarrassed by his expression. “Yup, every girl’s dream,” I said.