by Amal Awad
That’s what people always did on Oprah. They’d come on looking all glam even though just two weeks ago they were living in a trailer park and paying for all of their household goods with coupons. Well, maybe a little different.
Then Lara spoke up. “He’s not like her father. He’s just very protective.”
“She wants a husband, not a bodyguard,” replied Sahar.
A say in my own life might have been nice about now too. I sighed.
“Why do you care so much?” continued Sahar.
“Because I want the best for Samira!” Now Lara crossed her arms, defensive and taken aback.
“How do you know what’s best for her? She needs to be with someone who has the guts to step up and ask for her.” Sahar tossed a wooden spoon furiously into the sink. It made a loud clanging sound and we all looked at it. Then Lara and I stared at Sahar, whose attention was still focused on my wide-eyed cousin.
Really all that was missing was some popcorn by this stage. Perhaps some gladiatorial gear mightn’t have gone astray either.
“Should I provide some mud?” I said.
They ignored me.
“FYI, Hakeem wants the best for her. He’s always buying her books and whatnot,” said Lara passionately.
“So what? If anything, he’s just trying to make her into what he thinks she should be.”
Sahar may have had a point there. I didn’t mind Hakeem’s gestures towards me at all. Most of the time I appreciated them. But Menem was different with me. He wanted to know what I wanted; he didn’t simply want things for me, and he left me to it.
Besides all that fairly obvious stuff, Islamically, Menem had done the right thing in the end. He’d come to my parents and asked permission to see me. He didn’t care how – supervised, in a basement, behind a curtain – he would have agreed to just about anything.
I coughed loudly. “Seriously, don’t let me interrupt you, guys.”
They didn’t.
“It’s like you’re in love with him or something!” said Sahar hotly. Following this was an especially powerful moment of shocked silence. I leaned against the fridge, my arms crossed, my mouth residing somewhere on the spotless tiled floor.
Well, that was it. Sahar definitely had a pile of romance books stashed away somewhere in her house, maybe even in this kitchen.
Lara, sitting up straight, turned beet red. She was speechless and I couldn’t help but wonder briefly at her reaction.
More disquiet. I eventually broke the tension.
“Are you both finished?”
They both looked repentant as they turned to me.
“I wasn’t going to say anything, but I suppose I have to now. Just for the record, nothing is going to happen between Hakeem and I, at all,” I said, unwaveringly, but not without a slight nudge in my stomach. “Lara, you have to let it go.”
There was another moment of stunned quiet in the tiny kitchen.
“What happened?” exclaimed Lara. Sahar looked curious too.
“I don’t want to be with Hakeem, Lara. I really don’t. And I’m not in denial. I don’t love him that way.”
More astonishment.
“Either do I, by the way,” mumbled Lara eventually.
I smiled. Sahar seemed perplexed.
“I was right about him, though. Wasn’t I?” said Lara, obviously missing the solemnity of the moment. Think of a cat lapping up its milk.
I didn’t want to tell her what happened at the wedding. Feelings were involved, real emotions, not meaningless nothings for Lara to dissect. And what would I say? Yes, he does appear to have feelings for me but he thinks we’re completely wrong for each other? Never mind that he was right about that. Still, he was my friend.
I slumped into a chair but I really just wanted to curl up into a ball somewhere far, far away.
“I think I’ve lost a perfectly wonderful man,” I said, miserably.
“I’m sure it’s not too late with Menem,” said Sahar a moment later.
“If he never spoke to me again, I couldn’t blame him. He’s done nothing but be patient and respectful, and I’ve gone and thrown it in his face.”
Lara was silently digesting my words, a guilty air about her.
“I’m sorry for not being more encouraging and useful,” she finally said. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I replied.
Lesson learned. What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger. Write it all down. Catalogue it. Memorise.
We were all quiet again, the mood as deflated as a botched soufflé.
“God, adulthood is highly overrated,” said Lara eventually. She studied the tablecloth thoughtfully, her finger tracing the pattern. “It comes with all these conditions. One minute we’re treated like babies, the next we’re expected to make all these massive decisions.” She frowned.
I nodded and felt the tears well up in my eyes. Bloody hell.
“Oh, oh!” said Lara getting up immediately. “Oh sweetie!” She swooped over and put her arms around me. Sahar quickly joined in on the hug.
“Everything will right itself, you’ll see!” said Lara, rubbing my back.
“I know,” I said, a bit weepy. “I’m just being silly.”
Lara tapped Sahar on the shoulder. “Quick, say something religious!”
35
When I woke up on Monday morning, I was still in my clothes from the day before. It took me a moment to orient myself, as I wondered if I’d perhaps been kidnapped given that I wasn’t tucked comfortably in bed in my PJs.
The panic subsided when I recognised my surroundings. I was definitely in my room. Somewhat painfully I registered my dressing table, the TV and DVD player then my wardrobe. My laptop sat precariously on my bedside table, in hibernation mode. I’d fallen asleep listening to a CD Lara lent me last night.
“You need a soundtrack for this time in your life, sweetie,” she’d said, thrusting Mumford & Sons into my hands. Not five minutes earlier Sahar had done the same thing, but she was lending me her treasured Purification of the Heart series.
I was in emo territory though, so I opted for music that would make me cry.
I stumbled into work at 9.15, late but only just. For the first time in ages, I really didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be Jeff’s assistant. I recoiled at the thought of instant coffee. I sat staring at my screen, reading but taking in nothing. I had 35 unread emails, but the names blurred into each other.
“Samina.”
“Hi, Jeff.”
“News.”
“Pardon me?”
“Samina,” he sighed. “I have news.”
The job. Oh God. This is it, I thought, suddenly wide awake.
“Yes, Jeff?”
“What?”
“What’s the news?”
“What do you bloody think?” he said. “You got the job. You start in a month.”
“Oh my gosh! Thank you!” I said, a bit excited.
“Good pitch on that Muslim Barbie doll. They loved your ideas. Get me a coffee please. Now.” Jeff stalked off.
I watched him saunter away, casting his eagle eyes over the editorial department and yelling out an indecipherable command to someone.
I remained seated, a little overwhelmed by the job offer. I’d won it, fair and square. I smiled but a sick feeling snuck in, taking me by surprise. My excitement was rapidly evaporating. I had to remind myself what an amazing opportunity this presented. It would only be for a year, and it would lead to something better. I’d focus on the positives, I thought. Never have to think about instant coffee again; will be a bona fide journalist; will have respect.
But I couldn’t ignore the negatives: I didn’t like writing much. I much preferred taking photos.
I took Jeff his coffee and asked if I could speak with him for a moment. I couldn’t believe I was about to do this.
He stared at me. Eventually realising I was waiting for permission to sit down, he said, “Well, come on then”.
>
I sat down and took a deep breath.
“Jeff, I’m not sure how to say this,” I began nervously. “But I think I’m going to move on.”
“Ah yes, Samira, I think we just established that.” He smiled at me like I was a nutter.
“No, I mean, I’m leaving altogether. Thank you so much for the job opportunity, but I’m afraid I have to refuse.”
“Why in bloody hell would you do that? I know you like your job but-.”
I shook my head. “No, Jeff, it’s not that. I need to explore other things.”
“Such as?”
I toyed with the idea of being truthful with my boss. He was never really cruel to me, so I needn’t have felt afraid. But I wasn’t sure there was any point. I’d been left out of the entire process beyond the ad, for obvious reasons, but I assumed the positions had all been filled.
“Samina?”
“I like taking photos,” I told him.
“Photos?”
I nodded. “I’ve learnt a lot while assisting at location shoots. I prefer that to writing. I’m sorry, Jeff, I should have been upfront about it when you first spoke to me.”
Jeff looked unusually lost for words. He drew his hands together in a steeple at his mouth, David Brent-style. Despite the circumstances and my mood, I wanted to laugh.
He swivelled about in his chair a bit before saying, “Get me your portfolio and I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said, panicked, because I didn’t have one.
Jeff sighed. “Samina, that’s not a request.”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t accept your resignation. Goodbye.”
A frantic phone call to Gabriel later and I was looking better on the portfolio front. He was planning to extract my shots and put them together for me. All he asked for in return was a tray of baclawa and for me to “get over myself”. It seemed like a fair deal.
I felt better about it, knowing I was in Gabriel’s capable hands. Even so, I was fidgety and skittish. I needed to talk to someone about all of this work stuff. I was feeling hyper, kind of double shot coffee intense.
The only person I could think of was Menem. Or rather, he was the only one I wanted to speak to. I decided against messaging him. It would seem odd for me to contact him out of the blue to ask for his advice. Much better to wait.
I know I said it would be wrong to message Menem. I said it and I meant it, but it didn’t stop me from proceeding to do exactly that a few minutes later.
And you’re probably not surprised to hear that I was crushed when he didn’t reply within a few minutes. Not a single word from him.
I didn’t know exactly what I was expecting. I’d be lucky to receive a polite conciliatory reply. Yet here I was hoping that he’d send me a meaningful SMS. Or call me.
Oh, I shouldn’t have contacted him. I knew it.
I proceeded to phone-watch. Soon after that I went from watching to outright staring it down, the useless thing. Such a little object with so much power. Hardly seemed fair. I hadn’t felt this cheated since the time Dad’s car broke down on the way to the circus when I was six. Never got around to seeing one in the end, by the by.
My head drooped with disappointment and fatigue. I frowned then I sighed. I picked up my phone and checked that the message had gone to the right person.
It had.
It was very unlike Menem not to reply. Even when he’d gotten very mad at me that day, he didn’t walk away without a polite farewell. So although it was unreasonable for me to expect a message in return, it wasn’t stupid of me. I felt silly and childish. Then I realised with no small amount of discomfort that I’d never let any man affect me this way. Obviously I hadn’t known many men, which tended to decrease the risk of being affected. Still, I am sure you get my point.
An hour later the phone did a little dance on my desk when a message alert sounded. I grabbed it immediately, my heart pulsing so hard in my throat I thought I’d swallowed it.
It was from him! He hadn’t let me down, I thought with relief. I finally managed to open the message with slightly trembling hands.
Congratulations on new job, that’s great news. Sorry for the delay in replying. My phone battery was flat.
Oh.
Well. That was nice, I suppose. I’d no idea exactly what I was expecting. I’d really only announced the job offer to him, I reasoned. Nevertheless, I felt immediately deflated and sad. A bit annoyed, at him and then myself.
I quietly said a brief prayer, best suited to times when you’re feeling crap about everything.
You see, I’d hoped for something more. Something that told me that he wasn’t mad at me, and that he was still hopeful that we could repair things between us even after all of my shenanigans. Well, they weren’t really shenanigans. Besides which, that word belonged in 1985. No place for it here.
But then something else came along and told me that Menem was, in fact, mad at me. A little smugly, too. Ha ha, it said. He’s mad! You lose!
So this is heartbreak, I realised. The Boy was nothing in comparison. To think I’d given him such status, such presence in my mind, when all he’d left me with was an extra kilo because of all the ice cream I ate. In fact, had I a tub of ice cream in front of me right now, I couldn’t eat a bite. I don’t care what flavour you put in front of me, not a single bite.
No, The Boy wasn’t real heartbreak. That wasn’t real, period. This was though. This hurt. This made me want to curl up and fall asleep and not have to deal with anything. Which, granted, was a little pathetic. I couldn’t recall ever feeling this forlorn. Nor could I recall ever using the word forlorn, now that I think about it.
This was different. And I couldn’t do anything about it.
Or could I?
I had a light-bulb moment. It couldn’t have been clearer had a lightning bolt shot me down. A lightning bolt might have left me dead on the ground, thereby rendering my profound shiny realisation useless, but still. I realised I was being ridiculous. Why was I conceding defeat? I thought about it: what else was Menem supposed to say to me?
We hadn’t officially ended our “courtship”. Close to, but not quite. Was I overreaching here? I didn’t think so. Obviously Menem was far from pleased with me right now (understandable). But as far as our parents knew, we were still working towards an official engagement. And Menem had left me to do some important thinking. Possibly link my conflicting personalities.
At least that’s what I thought he’d done. I had to speak to him. I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t.
Despite my burst of self-confidence, I was preparing myself for the worst. The worst being that Menem had indeed decided I wasn’t worth the effort and had moved on already. If he had, well then, I’d be well rid of him. How dare he move on so quickly just because I have some issues? We’re both Arab, after all; surely he should understand.
And if things didn’t work out, well, I’d become a career woman. I’d learn how to cook, too. And you know what? Emo-ness aside, I was deeply unsettled because I knew I was moving into a new chapter. I’d emerged from a life slump. A bit grazed and worse for wear, but I’d made it out of the wilderness. Head held high and all that.
I was going to be A-OK.
And, there’d be no more doorknock appeals. Not a one. I was done with them. Maybe there would be more love interests along the way, but they weren’t going to be coming over with their mums.
No more stats, no more awkward banter. No more chocolate biscuits to the undeserving.
Anyway, what was wrong with boys these days? So I’d been indecisive and apprehensive.
Oh, I was doing it again. If I wasn’t saying too much, I was thinking it. Really what this situation called for was a solution. ‘Fix it’ would be my new mantra, I decided.
Yes. Brilliant. Like a politician who’d made a public gaffe, I’d get into damage control mode. But I’d stop short at kissing babies as that wouldn’t do much for me just now.
I
sent Menem another SMS and asked him if we could meet because I needed to talk to him. I was serious but exceedingly polite at the same time. And a few minutes of anxious thumbnail-biting later, I received a reply. He couldn’t meet me now. Something about being very busy and that I was too late.
Okay, perhaps I made up that last bit. He didn’t say I was too late, I just felt it.
Soon I was tossing up between locking myself in a bathroom cubicle and crying my eyes out (partly due to fatigue, not simply because I was pathetic even though I’d come to terms with being loserish and a complete affront to Girl Power, Muslim or otherwise), and writing a strongly worded reply to Menem. I knew the latter was the correct choice, but the former was awfully tempting.
It would have made for a rather cyclic sort of occasion. Pre-Zahra’s engagement: crying my eyes out in the bathroom. Post-Zahra’s wedding: same. Even if for entirely different reasons.
36
A bunch of Bridal Bazaar staff were assembled in the lobby, ready to go out for a group lunch. Amy from sales was returning home to London, and Jeff had added in the email that I’d be moving on from Bridal Bazaar. Obviously that was before I cornered him in his office and offered my resignation.
Everyone was very excited, but I supposed that it was more to do with the prospect of a free lunch than Amy’s departure or my cadetship. When they didn’t all whisk us up and carry us out of the building, cheering gaily, I knew I was right.
Cate swept up beside me, looking gorgeous in a summery off-the-shoulder maxi dress and gold stilettos. Her only accessory was a large plastic bangle – no witty badge today.
“Hey, sweetie,” she said, roping her arm into mine. “I forgot to tell you that this place has a bar. Is that a problem?”
“No, that’s fine. I just don’t like pubs,” I told her.