The Wedding Countdown

by Ruth Saberton

  The

  Wedding

  Countdown

  By

  Ruth Saberton

  With

  Sofia Latif

  Copyright

  All characters, organisations and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Ruth Saberton

  Cover illustration copyright © Carrie May

  Editor: Jane Griffiths

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Also by Ruth Saberton

  Weight Till Christmas

  Katy Carter Wants a Hero

  Ellie Andrews Has Second Thoughts

  Amber Scott is Starting Over

  Writing as Jessica Fox

  The One That Got Away

  Eastern Promise

  Hard to Get

  Unlucky in Love

  Always the Bride

  Writing as Holly Cavendish

  Looking for Fireworks

  Writing as Georgie Carter

  The Perfect Christmas

  About This Edition

  The Wedding Countdown has been written and edited in British English rather than American English, including spelling, grammar and punctuation.

  It was previously published in 2013 as Rearranged.

  Chapter 1

  I’m seeing red.

  Everywhere I look I see different shades: rubies and crimsons, burnt umbers and rusts, sunsets and burgundies. I never knew so many reds existed. What is all this red stuff? It’s on my clothes, my hands and all over my body. Am I the victim of some frenzied knife attack by our friendly neighbourhood psycho, or have my twin sisters, Fizz and Roma, made the mistake of pinching my make-up again, provoking me to ensure that they never do it again?

  Then, to my intense relief, I realise it’s nothing more sinister than layers upon layers of maroon and scarlet georgette, and the appliqué of henna on my hands. But this relief is short-lived when I realise the georgette is my zardosi-embroidered lehenga choli jora.

  Or in plain English: my wedding dress. Red is the colour worn by an Asian bride, and it appears that the bride is me, Amelia ‘Mills’ Ali. How on earth has that happened?

  Try as I might, I can’t move. I’m desperate to reach out and grasp something solid, to cling to it like a barnacle, in order to stop my life spinning out of control. But every finger is heavily ringed with wedding gold. I focus all of my effort and concentration into wiggling those poor fingers. If I’d put this much effort into revising for my finals I’d have got a first for sure. Not that I’ll probably have much use for a first in English Literature where I’m headed once this is over. My chapatti-making skills will be far more useful.

  Who’s the bridegroom anyway? With my luck it’s probably a goat-herder with a body odour problem rather than Atif Aslam, Pakistan’s lushest singer. Or, knowing the Alis’ preference for ‘keeping it in the family’, some interbred third cousin with a monobrow and more overbite than Goofy. How can my parents do this to me? The ink’s barely dried on my degree certificate and already they’ve shipped me back home to Pakistan.

  Except it isn’t home, is it? My home’s here, in Bradford.

  I can’t sneak a look at my intended thanks to the weight of the headdress, the sohna, which is practically bolted into my skull. Its purpose, I’m sure, is to keep my head bowed and my gaze modestly on the floor. Good brides are supposed to be demure, sad and a little afraid at the thought of the wedding night, a daunting prospect for any virginal bride, especially if your parents have made the decision for you. My mother finds Terry Wogan attractive, for Heaven’s sake. God only knows who she’s lined up for me.

  Do I really want to know?

  With the sort of effort normally reserved for Olympic weightlifters I lift my head very slowly and, as I do so, almost take out the auntie-ji on my left.

  I take a deep breath. How bad can it be?

  I turn.

  Oh, no.

  I know it’s rude to stare, and I don’t want you to think my parents have done a terrible job of raising me as a respectful and dutiful Muslim daughter, but I can’t help myself. I have just never seen so much hair in one place.

  First there’s the monobrow; it looks like someone’s glued a furry draft excluder on his forehead. Then there’s the massive mole sprouting a lone hair the exact width of piano wire. And I can’t even see his mouth. How does he breathe with all the fuzz blocking his nasal passages? Maybe he has gills? If his face is that hairy, what must the rest of him be like?

  I am so out of here.

  Oh, Allah-ji. I think I’m about to have a full-blown panic attack. Breathe, Mills, breathe.

  Then something else stops me in my tracks.

  Uh-oh.

  He. Is. Wearing. Make-up.

  For those of you not familiar with Asian weddings, this may provide you with a false picture. You’re probably imagining me standing next to a Boy George lookalike circa 1980, all pouting pink lips, slashes of blusher and emerald eye shadow.

  I wish. I’d be over the moon.

  No. My groom is wearing surma, black kohl that, traditionally, female family members use to line the groom’s eyes. Not often a problem, except the loving mummy-ji who did this must have all the motor skills of Mr Bean and the make-up sense of Marilyn Manson, because he’s a dead ringer for Chi Chi the giant panda. I half expect him to start munching on a bamboo shoot at any minute.

  Any road, you get my gist. This is so not a sexy look.

  Now, in Bollywood movies this is the part where the heroine cries ‘Nahin!’ – ‘No!’ – just when she is on the brink of taking her vows and realises she simply cannot marry the guy with the foul breath/nostril hair/monobrow who is sitting next to her. That’s right, folks, you guessed it, the guy chosen by her parents, who are proudly expecting her to shout, ‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’ But our heroine loves another, and cannot live without him. Just as she’s contemplating suicide (by Veet inhalation?), her bruised and battered lover – who has survived the dishum dishum session with the local thugs hired by her parents to beat the crap out of him so that he couldn’t gatecrash the wedding – miraculously appears on a white charger…

  I look around frantically but alas I have no one true love (Atif Aslam has yet to make it to Yorkshire and One Direction are on tour) and souped-up Ford Escorts are more popular in Bradford than white chargers.

  Bollocks.

  I can’t go through with this! I simply can’t! Around me the room starts to fray around the edges, then blurs and dips alarmingly, like a fairground ride. Before I can stop myself I’m screaming…

  I wake to pitch darkness. My heart’s thudding frantically against my chest and I am drenched in icy sweat. The duvet is tangled tightly around my body and my copy of The Canterbury Tales has slipped from the bedside table and lies across my head. There is an awful crick in my neck and my hands, which are tucked beneath the pillow, tingle as I withdraw them. My dark hair tickles my nose.

  Oh Allah-ji, thank you. Thank you! I’m still in my own bed. I’m not at the wedding from Hell. I’m not getting married.

  I sit up, knees hunched up under my chin, and listen to my breathing as it calms. Somewhere in the distance I hear a siren, and a car swishes past, casting a sweep of orange light across my room. It’s raining and the patter of raindrops on the glass is as familiar and as comforting as the warmth of my own bed. Good old miserable British weather, about as different from the relentless heat and air
less nights in Pakistan as any weather could ever be. The house creaks and sighs, and, from the attic conversion, I hear a toilet flush. It soothes me to know that my brother, Qas, is also awake. Gradually my breathing returns to normal and the horror of my dream fades. I plump up my pillows, shake out my crumpled duvet and fall back onto my bed.

  It was only a dream, Amelia, just a silly dream. Mummy-ji is right; a vivid imagination is such a curse. Maybe it’s time I put it to good use.

  OK, I’m writing the script this time. Let’s rearrange this wedding…

  I’m wearing a gossamer-light wedding lehenga. It’s a beautiful pale pink and, as I move, it shimmers like the heat on a summer’s day, with over five thousand Swarovski crystals. Each crystal has been lovingly (and painfully) stitched by hand, and the dress itself is designed by Manish Malhotra, India’s premier designer, dresser to the royalty of Bollywood, the Aishwarya Rais, Preity Zintas and Shilpa Shettys who grace the silver screen.

  I’m still wearing my sohna bling but this time my head feels like a feather and I’m finding it hard not to smile. I sneak a look at the man beside me and find myself gazing into eyes the same melting brown colour as warm chocolate buttons. He’s got the cutest dimple, and hair as glossy and blue-black as a raven’s wing. He’s wearing an Armani suit, too. Being a girl who really knows her labels I’m impressed. Things are looking up.

  Yep. Mr Lush has it all. Good looks, style and, beneath that suit, the firm lines of a fit body. High cheekbones, flawless café au lait skin, darkened here and there by stubble, a curly, kissable mouth. He’s the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, and what’s more, he’s staring at me with eyes that brim with passion. Then he winks.

  Now that’s more like it!

  The only problem is – he doesn’t actually exist. Maybe I’ve spent far too long reading romances?

  My nickname is no coincidence. I was rebranded as Mills after my parents caught me devouring a Mills and Boon novel instead of the intellectual material they thought I was reading for my GCSEs. I must have read thousands of the things and of course I know they all have the same plot. Doh. I’m not stupid! I just enjoyed seeing the plot unfurl and the happy-ever-afters arrive with satisfying regularity. Who doesn’t want a happy ending? Honestly?

  I know I do. I want what most girls want. I want to have my wedding cake and gobble it, too. I want the whole works – the dress, the confetti, the honeymoon and the outrageously attractive groom who’s crazy about me. I want a gorgeous husband that I’m head over heels in love with.

  What’s wrong with that?

  The problem is that I’m not in charge of the search for him.

  Find my own husband? Are you kidding?

  ‘Love? No such thing! Love comes after marriage,’ say all my elders. Yak yak yak, until my ears are practically bleeding. Marriage, they say, is a tradition. Almost all the parents I know have taken their son’s or daughter’s marriage into their own hands, because that’s just what happened to them, and to their parents, too. No one in our family has ever denied their parents’ wishes. Mummy-ji and Daddy-ji had an arranged marriage when they were really young. I think that Mum was only about seventeen and Dad couldn’t have been more than twenty, and of course it all worked out brilliantly, which is great news for them but more down to luck than judgment if you ask me. Not that you could ever convince them of that.

  I don’t think I could take the emotional pressure if I don’t ‘see reason’ and agree to their choice. My parents are fantastic. Not fanatics, dictators or control freaks, and all they want for me is my happiness. They see themselves as wholly responsible for this, and if I go against their wishes they’ll be failures and bad parents in the eyes of our community. How could I live with that? I might be a Muslim but believe me I can give the Catholics a run for their money when it comes to guilt.

  I sit up and click on my bedside light. The alarm clock reads 4.22 a.m. but I’m wide awake. My brain is fizzing with excitement because I am certain I’m on the brink of having a brilliant idea.

  I only graduated three weeks ago, but already Mum has been dropping hints about my ‘next big step’ and somehow I don’t think she’s talking about my glittering career as an international magazine journalist. Nope. My parents are not talking about me becoming the next big star of the media world. They are talking about the dreaded S word.

  No! Not sex! (Before marriage? No way.)

  S for shaadi, Urdu for marriage.

  I’ve reached the deadline. A bit like those best-before dates you get on food, which makes me the curdled yoghurt at the back of the fridge or maybe a mouldy heel of cheese. Anyway; after my A-levels, when I’d reached the grand old age of eighteen, the age when women in our family tend to give in and get married, I’d rashly promised my olds that of course I’d eventually get married, but only after I’d completed my education. I put it right at the bottom of my ‘Things To Do (much) Later’ list – along with lose a few pounds, do sit-ups every night and always take my make-up off before bed-time. But time seems to have been on fast-forward mode and here I am, twenty-two years old and firmly bolted to my shelf with my parents starting to make noises about having nikkah papers to frame next to my degree certificate.

  Miss Mills Ali, you have been evicted! Please leave the Big Mother house!

  Tomorrow is my cousin Tara’s shaadi. My new churidar kurtas are hanging up in my wardrobe and the bargain Jimmy Choos I found on eBay are in pride of place on my chest of drawers so that I can worship them from my bed.

  But clothing aside, I’m dreading the whole affair. Every relative for miles around will be there, gobbling free grub and wailing at the sadness of Tara leaving the family home, while endless auntie-jis will be dropping concrete-heavy hints regarding my unmarried state. Mum will be whipped into a frenzy of sentimental paranoia and by the time we leave she’ll be mentally drawing up a shortlist of eligible bachelors for me and probably running up an Everest-sized phone bill calling all her friends in Pakistan for suggestions.

  I’m getting a migraine just thinking about it – and I don’t even get migraines.

  So anyway, back to my brilliant idea.

  My friend Eve always says if you sit in the passenger seat too long you forget how to drive.

  Maybe it’s about time I learned?

  Chapter 2

  I’m sure Oscar Wilde once said something about relatives being a group of irritating people who come out for Christmas and special occasions but really shouldn’t bother. And if he didn’t say that then he should have done. But maybe Oscar Wilde never got to attend a Pakistani wedding, unlike my good self, who must have been to literally hundreds.

  Lucky, lucky Oscar Wilde.

  Take it from me, shaadis are not fun. Whatsoever. Unless your idea of fun is warped, that is, and you enjoy getting trampled in the rush for the food or being prodded by all the auntie-jis and interrogated about your shockingly single state and the wicked waste of throwing a degree away on a mere girl.

  You get the picture.

  I’m at Tara’s wedding, wearing my new churidar kurtas and Jimmy Choos, and being talked about as though my tongue as well as my brain were cut out at about the same time the midwife said to my parents, ‘It’s a girl!’

  Because there has to be safety in numbers I’m hanging out with my favourite female cousins, Sara, Hoor and Emira, hoping this will offer me some protection from the awkward questions about marriage that are bound to come my way. Already I’ve had to hide in the loos in order to avoid the gruesome twosome, my Auntie Bee and her dear daughter Sanaubar. So far so safe, but it’s only a matter of time before they hunt me out and come over to commiserate about my pitiful unmarried state. I’m hoping the opening of the buffet will distract them. Auntie Bee makes Sumo wrestlers look malnourished and will dedicate all her attention to food for at least ten minutes. Sanaubar is pregnant again, so with any luck she’ll be throwing up somewhere.

  ‘Relax, Mills,’ Hoor says. ‘They’re just about to open the buffet. You’
re safe for a while.’

  ‘Not if you get in the way,’ points out Emira. ‘The bruises I got at Ash’s wedding took weeks to fade.’

  ‘I’d rather be trampled in the tikka rush than have to listen to Auntie Bee for hours on end,’ I tell them. ‘A night in the Bradford Royal Infirmary would be Heaven in comparison.’

  The girls laugh at this as we press ourselves against the wall while the crowd of auntie-jis stampede past like the bison on the Discovery Channel. Auntie Bee is moaning loudly about the lack of table service and pointing out to anyone who’ll listen that Sanaubar’s shaadi had included a sit-down meal for over two hundred people.

  Sanaubar’s perfect wedding. Sanaubar’s perfect baby. Sanaubar’s perfect hubbie-ji. If I had a pound or even a penny for every time that she’s mentioned them I could single-handedly resurrect the Pakistani film industry.

  ‘What’s your problem with Sanaubar?’ asks Sara. ‘You wouldn’t want her life, Mills.’

  ‘Too right I wouldn’t,’ I agree. ‘But try telling Auntie Bee that. As far as she’s concerned I’m an abject failure and a disgrace to the family.’ I raise my voice an octave, puff my face out and, plucking Emira’s trendy glasses from her perfect nose, balance them on mine for a convincing Auntie Bee impersonation. ‘University Schuniversity! Why does a girl need to go to university? Amelia Ali can’t even make a round chapatti. Why send her to university?’

  My cousins are shrieking with mirth. Why is it I always end up clowning around when I’m worrying about serious stuff? I’ve lost count of the times I’ve joked or made witty asides when the conversation gets a little too close to the knuckle for my liking. My friends and cousins may think I’m Bradford’s answer to Catherine Tate but it’s probably truer to say I’ve just perfected a defence mechanism. Basically I’m an emotional jelly when it comes to thinking about my love life.

  Hoor has tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Stop it Mills! Have you any idea how scary that impression is? You’re so funny!’