The Wedding Countdown

by Ruth Saberton

  ‘I love you too, Mills,’ she strokes my cheek. ‘We both do. Now what’s really the matter?’

  This is it. Truth time.

  I push my hair behind my ears and take the plunge. Full credit to my mother because, as I cautiously approach the subject of my internship at GupShup and moving to London, she doesn’t gag me but listens until I run out of steam.

  ‘But Mills,’ says Mummy-ji eventually, ‘what are you really trying to say? Do you want the freedom to meet men? Is that why you really want to go to London?’

  ‘I want to go to London because I want to be a journalist! I want to make my own life!’ I feel like banging my head against the wall in frustration.

  ‘But supposing you never come back and never get married? Like your cousin Mariya?’

  Here we go. Mariya, who, incidentally, is a barrister, left home to practise law and the last I heard was doing fabulously well in the States, where she was earning mind-boggling amounts of money and living in Manhattan. Most parents would die of pride but not my uncle and auntie, who apparently walk around with their faces to the ground and haven’t looked anyone in the eye since 2007. Why? I hear you ask. Isn’t it obvious? Mariya refused to come back to Bradford and marry their choice of eligible goat-herder.

  ‘She’s just like those Sexy in the City girls,’ tuts my mother.

  Lucky, lucky Mariya, I think, imagining the piles of Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks in her brownstone town house. But Mummy-ji won’t want to hear this, so I arrange my features into a sorrowful expression.

  ‘Look how she has turned her back on her becharay parents without so much as a second glance, those parents who brought her up with such pride and love.’

  This could go on until the cows come home. ‘Mummy-ji!’ I interrupt. ‘I’m not Mariya! I know the difference between right and wrong. I know my limits. I don’t want to lose my family, but,’ I add, sensing that she is about to tell me to put a sock in it and just get on with marrying Subhi, ‘I’m not going to lie to you and pretend I’m fine about this whole marriage hoo-haa. But I do promise this: I’ll go along with your plans, but after a year, OK? Just one more year. Try to understand how difficult this is for me. Please!’

  At this point a floorboard creaks outside the door. Fizz is craning her neck to see through the gap and Roma, as always, is a step behind. I don’t know whether I’m annoyed by their nosiness or pleased to have them near. I also have a sense that I’m doing battle not just for me but for the twins, too.

  ‘Mills,’ Mummy-ji says slowly. ‘You know we’ve considered other marriage proposals and you’ve said no to all of them. You said no to our suggestions within the family, so what choice did we have but to look further afield? Subhi is a good catch. He speaks perfect English and will treat you well, unlike some of the boys brought up in this country who have no idea about respect and izzat. We have to think about what’s best for you in the long run, not just what seems like a good idea now. And besides, he’s a doctor.’

  ‘OK, Mummy-ji.’ The time has come to lay my cards on the table. ‘Here’s the deal. You and Daddy-ji let me go to London for a year and I’ll work at the magazine, which will be brilliant for work experience, my career and CV. Not to mention my first mortgage. And first pair of real designer shades. Then I’ll come home and do exactly what you want. But supposing, just supposing, I meet some decent, good Muslim boy while I’m away? Would Daddy-ji let me marry him instead? Could I bring him home and introduce him to you?’

  There’s silence as my mother considers this. Outside the room Fizz and Roma must be holding their breath. I have never known them so quiet.

  ‘We as Muslims are not allowed to date in the western sense,’ she says eventually. ‘What about the shame it would bring upon the family? Have you considered that?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘I’m not an idiot, Mummy-ji. I’m not talking about dating everyone in London. I’m talking about meeting someone who thinks the same way I do, someone I click with, someone who’s my other half.’

  Now it’s my mother’s turn to roll her eyes. ‘Not this romance nonsense again…’

  ‘But if he was a good boy from a good family? With a good job? You already knew Dad. That’s all I’m asking for, the chance to get to know somebody before I marry him.’

  Her forehead crinkles. ‘I’ve never thought about it. Such a thing has never happened in our family before – well, not officially anyway. I suppose I could try to make your dad understand, but I can’t make any promises.’

  Yes! Yes! Yes! I fling my arms round her neck, sloshing tea all over the floor but too excited to care. ‘That’s fantastic! You don’t know how relieved I am to hear you say that. And I promise I won’t let you down, and I promise I’ll definitely get married next year.’

  But not to Subhi, I add under my breath.

  Mummy-ji laughs. ‘You certainly will. But tell me, Mills, how will you meet this nice Muslim boy?’

  Now, I’ve been thinking long and hard about this and doing my research, too. It’s amazing just how many ways there are to meet a suitable Muslim partner if you look hard enough. Very hard in fact, as pulling someone in a nightclub is obviously out of the question. Young single Muslims have to be really creative. Luckily I wasn’t at the back of the queue when imagination was being handed out.

  ‘I could meet him anywhere,’ I say, knowing I have to be careful not to undo all my good work and terrify her. ‘Maybe through work? Or through Eve or Nish? I’ve even read about Muslim networking in a halal environment.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘And then I’ll get to know him over the phone or via email and I guess if we get on well we would meet face to face. In a public place, obviously. Don’t look so worried; trust me, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes! Trust her!’ shrieks Fizz, bounding into the room and bouncing on the sofa. ‘And then trust me! Great idea, Mills!’

  I lob a cushion at her. The last thing I need is Fizz putting a spanner in the works.

  ‘Mind your own business, Fizz,’ says Mummy-ji, but smiles. ‘I trust Mills but I’m not so sure I’d let you loose in London.’

  My heart does a little pitter-patter of excitement. She’s going to let me loose in London.

  ‘I know you won’t let me down.’ Mum reaches out and touches my cheek. ‘I suppose we can put Subhi off for a bit. But I can’t promise you what Daddy-ji will say about moving to London. I’ll have a word with him tonight. I won’t tell him about you wanting to meet other men, though; he won’t like that.’

  ‘You’re going to lie to Daddy-ji?’ gasps Roma.

  ‘Of course not,’ Mummy-ji says. ‘I’m just going to forget to tell him about that bit. Girls, you can blame your bari baji Mills if we end up getting divorced.’

  ‘Mills is moving to London! Wow!’ cries Fizz, and I know she’s already planning mammoth shopping trips and a whole heap of trouble for me. ‘Auntie Bee will go crackers!’

  There’s a glint in my mum’s eye. ‘Well then you’ll definitely have to go, Mills,’ she says.

  And we all laugh, but I’m laughing with a heart rising up like a rocket taking off and zooming into orbit. This feeling is excitement, distilled into its purest and most goosebump-tingling form.

  I am going to London to make my way into the world of media – and to find my own soul mate.

  Chapter 5

  Question: how do you fit two parents, one daughter and all her luggage in a transit van?

  Answer: very easily, unless the parents are Pakistani.

  Mum, Dad and I are shoehorned into the transit van Daddy-ji has hired and are on our way to London. In spite of protesting I’m more than capable of getting on the train, Mum and Dad have insisted on escorting me at a steady sixty miles an hour and with full running commentary about the evils of the big city. I’m sandwiched in between them and nodding because I can’t get a word in edgeways.

  Still, I can’t complain. I can hardly believe I’m actually on my way to London or that my parents have a
llowed me to spend a year at GupShup. I have no idea what Mum said to Dad but it certainly did the trick. Maybe it had something to do with Mummy-ji cooking his favourite halwa before wishing us children an early shub khair on a Saturday night! Or did Auntie Bee’s comments regarding the foolishness of allowing me to attend university hit a nerve? Any road, Dad decided I should put my (very expensive) education to use and I’m not going to argue. I have to keep pinching myself to make sure that I’m not dreaming. I’m trying to stop this habit since Roma asked if I was self-harming. Black and blue arms are so not a good look with the lovely new clothes that I’ve bought for my working wardrobe.

  Oh. My. God. Working wardrobe! I can hardly believe it!

  Pinch.

  Ouch!

  ‘I hope you’ve got everything you need,’ worries Mummy-ji. ‘Did we forget anything?’

  I think this highly unlikely since the van is stuffed with every herb, spice and household item imaginable, courtesy of Uncle Abbas and his cash and carry card. Queen Elizabeth I probably took less on her progress round the country than I’m taking to Chelsea. I tried to convince Mummy-ji that Asians in London must buy their halal products somewhere but she wasn’t having it. As far as she’s concerned, anywhere outside of Bradford is to be viewed with utmost suspicion.

  ‘Ahmed!’ she cries, causing Daddy-ji to swerve into the middle lane. ‘I think I forgot the powdered milk!’

  ‘Mummy-ji, I don’t need powdered milk. They sell milk in London. I can always pop out to the newsagents when we get there and pick some up.’

  ‘Ai!’ She throws her hands up in the air. ‘No daughter of mine is going out after dark to be held up at gunpoint when she runs out of milk in the middle of the night. And just for a coffee.’

  ‘I’m going to Chelsea, not LA.’

  ‘Chelsea shelsea! Decent girls do not roam the streets after dark, Amelia Ali! You’re not even there yet and already you are starting to worry me. Tell her, Ahmed.’

  ‘Don’t go out after dark, Amelia beti,’ says Daddy-ji dutifully.

  I shut up. There’s absolutely no point in getting them stressed over a pint of milk. I don’t want Daddy-ji spinning the van around like something out of the A-Team and whizzing me back up the motorway.

  ‘London, twenty-six miles,’ Mummy-ji reads. ‘M25 North. North? Isn’t that where we came from? How can we go north?’

  Daddy-ji is busy cutting up a lorry in order to reach the junction and can’t reply.

  ‘The M25 doesn’t really go north, Mummy-ji,’ I point out. ‘It’s a circle going round London. It doesn’t go anywhere.’

  ‘A road that doesn’t go anywhere? Whatever next? Only in this London.’

  The van weaves its way through five lanes of traffic, all intent on going as fast as possible, and takes me mile by mile closer to my dream job and, insha’Allah, my dream soul mate. Gradually buildings replace the green fields and trees and boiled-sweet street lamps strung high above us. Lorries rumble by, and from the radio crackle the strains of music from Capital FM. Coming from Bradford, where the pace of life is so much slower, it’s incredibly thrilling, and excitement bubbles up inside me like fizz in a Coca-Cola bottle. The nearer we get to London the more I feel like I’m going to explode.

  I’ve been feeling like this ever since Sunday when my parents sat me down in the lounge – Fizz and Roma with their ears glued to the shut door, no doubt – and told me that, after careful consideration, they were going to postpone my wedding to Subhi and allow me some time to put my education to good use. I managed to contain myself just long enough to thank them before I flew upstairs, shut my bedroom door, turned the speakers up full blast and then screamed at the top of my lungs. I thought I might look different somehow, but when I checked in the mirror I saw the same five-foot three-inches girl with a button nose and brown eyes. The only difference was those eyes glittered manically and my cheeks were flushed as though I had a fever.

  Maybe I did. I felt light-headed and so totally and utterly over the moon that I needed an oxygen tank.

  Needing to share my good news before I spontaneously combusted (leaving nothing but a smoking pair of LK Bennetts), I’d flipped open my mobile and dialled Nish, who shrieked and hollered so loudly she probably broke the sound barrier. Then I’d called Eve, who promptly demanded I moved to Chelsea immediately and shared the flat her folks had given her.

  Most people get a bracelet or, if they’re really lucky (or in my case have Asian parents who want them home before the vampires come out to play), a car for their eighteenth. Not Eve Daniels. For her birthday her father, Bartholomew Daniels the wealthy Jewish PR guru, gave his daughter the door keys to a stunning treetop-level flat in Chelsea, complete with roof terrace and share of the private square below. I’ve never been there but Nish raves about the cornicing and the waxed lime floorboards so often I feel I know it almost as well as my own home in Saltaire. I can hardly believe I’m going to be living there!

  Finally, after another two hours, because Daddy-ji gets lost on the North Circular and won’t believe the Sat Nav, we pull up in Levington Square, right outside Eve’s house.

  ‘Very, very nice,’ comments Daddy-ji, which is possibly the understatement of the century. I crick my neck to gaze up at the imposing Georgian façade, all ornate white pillars and plaster work like some kind of masonry birthday cake, and feel really scared. What was I thinking to even imagine that I could fit in here? I’ll be like a very square northern peg in a very round and southern hole.

  As Daddy-ji kills the engine, a beautiful woman, all tortoiseshell hair and designer clothes, strolls past us with her Paris Hilton handbag dog. Her nose couldn’t be higher in the air if she tried. Maybe our transit van doesn’t quite fit in with the shiny sports cars and the BMW four-by-fours?

  ‘She’s probably worrying about the tone of the neighbourhood now,’ hisses Mummy-ji, all ready to jump out and give Ms Snooty a piece of her mind. ‘See what the people are like here?’

  I’ve been in Chelsea for all of thirty seconds and already I’ve encountered a London stereotype, the unfriendly city dweller.

  Bradford is full of friendly folk. Spontaneous conversations occur with the most unlikely people. Eve says if someone smiles at you in London you start to pray and hide your iPod bloody quickly.

  I’m going to miss Bradford. I'm even missing my sisters already...

  Just as I’m about to bottle out completely, tell Daddy-ji I’ve made a terrible mistake and let’s please go home now, the door of the house in front of us opens and a girl bursts into the street, shrieking with delight.

  ‘Eve!’ I fling open the van door, launch myself across my mother and dive into the street. ‘Am I pleased to see you!’

  ‘Oh me too, babes!’ Eve hugs me and I breathe in her familiar perfume mingled with Silk Cut. ‘Thank God they didn’t swap you for a camel.’

  ‘Camels are no good in Bradford,’ I remind her. ‘But if it had been an HD plasma screen I think my dad may have been tempted.’

  My mum and dad have clambered out of the transit van and opened the doors. Duvets, potted plants and the entire Schwartz factory spill out like a fat woman’s belly released from control knickers.

  ‘Bloody Hell,’ Eve gasps. ‘I’ve only got one flat!’

  ‘Hello, Eve beti,’ beams my father, his arms full of cooking pots. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Mr Ali,’ says Eve politely, and then whispers to me. ‘But he won’t be after he’s lugged this lot up three flights of stairs!’

  One hour later we’ve all got arms that feel like overcooked spaghetti and have climbed Everest’s equivalent in steps. The van is empty and Eve’s lovely minimalist flat resembles the aftermath of a Bring and Buy sale. Mummy-ji is delighted to find milk in the fridge and Daddy-ji is busily writing notes onto a big A4 pad he’s bought especially for the purpose. While Eve and I got stuck into the unpacking and Mummy-ji checked out every nook and cranny of the flat, Daddy-ji went on a recce of the immediate ar
ea, checking out the precise location of the local police station/hospital/mosque. Now he’s written me copious notes, which I’ll be expected to memorise and keep with me at all times; notes which give me directions to all these vital locations and even a list of phone numbers in case I get lost. Below this are twelve bullet points of advice, just in case the Big City drives all sense from my fluffy brain. Daddy-ji is very proud of his research and hands me Ahmed Ali’s Guide to Chelsea as though it were a Shakespeare First Folio, and twice as precious.

  After a cup of chai and a quick read through of Daddy-ji’s notes, my parents can’t put the moment off any longer: the time has come for them to leave the flat, the capital and me. It’s twilight and the street lamps throw orange pools of light onto the pavement. I hug my parents tightly, wishing they could stay for just a little bit longer. Am I doing the right thing?

  ‘Have you packed your toothbrush?’ worries Mummy-ji. ‘Or your rape alarm? The Holy Quran?’

  ‘Come on, Hamida.’ Daddy-ji gently places his hand in the small of my mum’s back, guiding her into the van. ‘Time to head home.’

  At the word home a lump fills my throat. I know it must sound ridiculous to be twenty-two years old and never to have left home before, but this is the first time I’ve been away from Bradford and my family. I think I can be forgiven for being a little bit teary-eyed. As they drive away, waving, blowing kisses and shouting advice until the van turns the corner, I can’t help myself. Two tears roll down my cheeks and plop onto the pavement.

  ‘Don’t cry, hon.’ Almost as if by magic Nish appears at my side; slim little Nish with her pixie-sharp features and neat black bob, and I’m so pleased to see her that I sob all the harder. Nish hugs me and I boo-hoo into her beautiful suede jacket for a bit while she pats my back.

  ‘Sorry,’ I sniff eventually, dabbing at my eyes with my sleeve. ‘I’m OK really. It was just saying goodbye to them was a lot harder than I thought it was going to be.’

  ‘It gets easier, believe me. And we are going to have so so much fun, Mills, that you won’t miss them for long.’