The Wedding Countdown

by Ruth Saberton

  ‘I don’t doubt it for a minute,’ says Wish, perching on my desk and fiddling with a sophisticated camera. ‘If you need a photographer you know where I am.’

  ‘Shukriya,’ I say, thinking privately there’s no way that I’m having the model dating Wish watching me make a prat of myself. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  Wish leans forward and a lock of dark hair falls across his cheek. ‘How are things with your brother?’

  ‘Stalemate. I talked to Mum last night. She’s really upset but she wants to meet Lizzie, Qas’s girlfriend, and get to know her. It’s my dad who won’t budge. Apparently he’s locked himself in his office and won’t talk about it.’

  Wish smiles. ‘Yeah, my Pakistani granddad’s a bit like that. Sounds like your mum’s pretty sensible though. Any chance she’ll be able to talk him around?’

  ‘Maybe. She managed to persuade him to let me come here.’

  ‘When things calm down a bit you ought to think about doing an article on mixed-race relationships,’ suggests Wish. ‘It could be your own article, with your own experiences. I could help if you like.’

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ I say. ‘It could be really interesting. And I’d love you to help me, if you don’t mind talking about personal stuff.’

  ‘Course I don’t mind; it’s not as if Raj and Kareena don’t spend every spare minute gossiping about me. Yes they do!’ He laughs when I protest. ‘My past is no big secret. And what they don’t talk about my girlfriend tells OK! magazine! And talking of Minty, I’d better go and pick her up. I’m freelancing today and she’s got me some work with Marie Claire.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘It’s not nearly as exciting as it sounds.’ Wish picks up his motorcycle helmet. ‘Never mind, it pays for the bike. Good luck with the supermarket.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Good luck with the supermodels.’

  Once Wish has gone I come back to earth with a thud because Nish and I have so much work to do. We spend an hour brainstorming before calling the radio station. To my surprise they invite us over to the studio and pretty soon we’re cruising through London in a black cab.

  HuM SaB FM is the hippest Asian radio station in London. Or so Nish tells me because, being a Bradfordian, I’ve never tuned in.

  ‘Everyone listens to this station,’ Nish says as the taxi pulls up outside a shabby warehouse in West Ealing. ‘They play all the latest music; anyone who’s anyone is desperate to get airtime on the DJ Kishii show.’

  I nod wisely. This isn’t a good time to tell Nish I have never heard of DJ Kishii.

  ‘So how come you’ve managed to swing us an invite to meet him?’ I ask, following her into the radio station’s lobby where hip-hop belts out.

  ‘Kishii owes me a favour,’ hollers Nish, swaying to the beat, ‘from way back when he was at school and known as Kishore Shetty. I broke the nose of the guy who was calling him Shitty.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had Ninja skills.’

  ‘I don’t,’ admits Nish. ‘I was throwing a hockey ball to one of my mates and by happy coincidence the other boy was in the way. He never picked on Kishii again. Or talked without sounding like he had a peg on his nose, come to think of it, but that’s between you and me, OK? Kishii doesn’t know I’m not really a super hero.’

  ‘My lips are sealed.’

  We sign in and the receptionist takes us to meet the big cheese himself, although the place is so plastered with posters of the superstar DJ, complete with baggy tracksuit and the obligatory bling, I feel I already know him.

  ‘Go on in,’ says the receptionist, pausing outside a studio. ‘He’s expecting you.’

  There’s a big red light above the door and a sign that says ‘On air.’ I point to it. ‘Shouldn’t we wait?’

  The receptionist looks puzzled. ‘Not if you’re on the show.’

  What?

  ‘Sorry, Mills,’ says Nish. ‘I didn’t think you’d come if you knew.’

  ‘Too bloody right!’

  ‘Come on, babes, please! This is our big break. Just think how impressed Nina will be if we can get GupShup mentioned on one of the hottest radio shows in London!’

  There’s no arguing with this but I don’t like being cornered. On the other hand Nish has a point: we’re the rookies and we need to impress our boss.

  ‘All right. Just this once, though.’

  We’re ushered into a dark space crammed full of scary-looking electronic equipment. Music booms out and across the room is DJ Kishii himself, a strange elfin figure in a lime tracksuit, jigging away happily.

  ‘Nish!’ Kishii leaps his decks and envelopes her in a bear hug. ‘It’s great to see you.’

  Nish hugs him back. ‘And you, babes! Thanks for seeing us.’

  ‘No sweat,’ grins Kishii, revealing a jewel-encrusted grill that’s probably worth more than Eve’s flat. ‘My producer thinks it’s a great idea, especially the bit about linking our name to GupShup!’

  Alarm bells start to ring. What exactly has Nish offered without consulting Nina?

  ‘I’ll mention your magazine on my show every time we do the singles thing,’ promises Kishii.

  ‘This is Mills, my friend and fellow journo,’ Nish adds because I’ve lost the powers of speech. ‘She looks constipated because she’s got stage fright.’

  ‘Thanks, Nish!’

  ‘Shit man!’ Kishii leaps the desks. ‘The track’s ending! Get your earphones on girls and pull the mikes down! You’re on air.’ Fixing his own headphones and mike with a practised sweep he slides down some controls and launches into the bizarre gangster speech that Kareena favours.

  ‘Awwight!’ screeches Kishii, doing a really weird clicking thing with his fingers. ‘I got with me two babes from the phat gossip magazine, GupShup! It’s Nish and Mills! And they is here to talk about love! Awwight ladies?’

  ‘Awwight!’ chirps Nish while I just stare at him like the poor lost Northern lass I am.

  ‘So gels, spill the juice!’

  Nish launches into a spiel about being lonely and single in London, how hard it is for young Asians to meet when they are so busy being doctors/lawyers/hedge fund managers. She’s a natural.

  ‘I can’t believe you is both single,’ says Kishii gallantly. ‘Listeners, they is well fit!’

  ‘But it’s about finding the right one,’ I say, ‘your soul mate. Imagine if he was there all along, pushing his trolley through the fish-finger aisle but you never got to meet him because you were in the magazine aisle. Your lives went along side by side but you never actually met! That would be awful!’

  Kishii and Nish stare at me.

  Nish mouths ‘fish-finger aisle?’ and shakes her head.

  ‘Err, yes! You is right!’ Kashii recovers. ‘So all you desi singles out there, hit your local desi supermarkets on Thursdays between the times of six till ten, and find love in the aisles!’

  ‘Tell them about the rules,’ urges Nish.

  ‘I is just coming to that, ’cos rules are important innit!’ says Kishii, reaching out and taking the notes Nish has scrawled quickly on a takeaway menu. ‘Here is the rules! Always use a shopping basket and put a box of gulab jamuns on the top of your baskets for identification purposes. It’ll single out the singles hoping to meet a fit individual of the opposite sex!’

  ‘And if that’s not incentive enough,’ chips in Nish, ‘anyone who emails or writes to GupShup with their personal experiences will be entered in a draw for the chance to win a meal for two in a top London hotel.

  ‘How fine is that?’ Kishii clicks his fingers again. ‘And if you get lucky you can even take your supermarket lover with you! Blinging! Nish and Mills from GupShup!’

  Then he slides up the controls, there’s a noise like hyenas playing the dustbins and thankfully the whole ordeal is over.

  ‘You totally stitched me up,’ I say angrily, once we’re safely out of the studio. ‘And what’s all that stuff about hotel prizes? Has Nina okayed it?’

  ‘She wil
l,’ says Nish airily, ‘when she sees her circulation go up.’

  ‘I bloody hope so.’ I’m still cross, not just because of the fait accompli radio interview but because I made an idiot of myself live on air to most of London. ‘Otherwise, we’re history.’

  ‘Well then,’ says Nish, and there’s a wicked glint in her eye, ‘we’d better make sure this supermarket idea is a big success, hadn’t we?’

  Chapter 12

  I can’t believe I let Nish talk me into doing this.

  It’s seven o’ clock on Thursday night and against my better judgment I’m lugging a basket round my local halal supermarket.

  ‘Why have I got to do it?’ I moaned when Nish pulled up outside the store and told me to get on with it.

  Nish yanked up the handbrake. ‘We’ve been through this. One of us has to be in the office to man the calls and the emails.’

  ‘Why don’t I do that and you make a prat of yourself?’

  ‘Because,’ said Nish, fixing me with a stern look, ‘I’m not the one who has a year to find a fiancé, am I? It makes sense for you to kill two birds with one stone.’ She gave me a poke in the ribs. ‘Get shopping, Ms Undercover Reporter!’

  You’re here purely for career purposes, I tell myself as I scan the aisles in the vain attempt to spot a lush male shopper. I’m trying not to look too obvious but I’ve perched three boxes of gulab jamuns (no point in doing things by half) right on the top of my basket and I can only hope that any poor single fellow out there buying his weekly groceries has been listening to DJ Kishii and doesn’t think I’m a greedy cow with a very sweet tooth. I’ve dressed up in my best skinny jeans and suede boots because I want to look the part and not because I seriously think Mr Right is going to pop up somewhere between the Bombay mix and the pickles.

  But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared just in case!

  The supermarket’s quiet and I wander aimlessly up and down the aisles for a good hour filling and emptying my basket to kill time. I get a few strange looks from the other shoppers and a yellow-toothed smile from an ancient gent limping round with a trolley, empty except for a giant packet of gulab jamuns.

  No way! I hastily rearrange my basket and bury my sweets under a bag of chapatti flour. I’m dedicated to my job but some things are way beyond the call of duty.

  I’m just emptying my basket for the fourth time when a jar of mango chutney slips from my fingers and shatters all over the floor. Splashes of sticky orange goo instantly cover my boots and jeans, and the cloying sickly sweet smell is overpowering.

  That’s it. I’ve been here long enough. Supermarket shopping obviously isn’t the way to find love. I need to get back to the flat as soon as possible if I’m going to be able to save my boots. I look around for some supermarket staff to deal with my pickle but they’re either camouflaged as cooking sauces or are on a tea break. Time is of the essence because I can feel the condiment seeping through to my toes. I think it’s time to abort the singles search mission. How likely is it that a guy will want to get close to me now I reek of mango chutney?

  And right then, just as I’m speed-dialling Eve and looking down sadly at my poor boots, Fate decides to pull a moonie at me. I crash smack into the very embodiment of the male specimen for whom I’ve been trawling the supermarket, knocking the basket out of the bechara man’s hands and spilling his shopping all over the floor.

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry!’ I gasp, crouching down to help him retrieve his unbroken (phew) bits and pieces. ‘I’m so, so sorry!’

  He’s bent down too and when our eyes meet across the groceries I suddenly get all flustered, and keep repeating ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ over and over again.

  He laughs. ‘It’s no problem! I don’t mind being knocked off my feet by a gorgeous girl!’

  I cast a swift glance around just in case there’s a gorgeous girl about, but no! It seems that he means me.

  ‘Actually,’ says Mr Spilled Groceries, ‘I may be seriously injured. Could I have your contact details just in case I need to sue for compensation?’

  I laugh. ‘I’m sure you’re fine.’

  ‘I am now! You have no idea how many circuits I’ve done of this supermarket. I’m Jag, by the way, short for Jagbir.’

  Damn. That’s a Sikh name. What’s a Sikh doing in a halal supermarket? It’s impossible, this husband-finding lark, like playing snakes and ladders. I just thought I’d got to one hundred and now I’m sliding down the biggest snake right back to the start again. Then I silently berate myself for being so insensitive. Don’t I mostly shop in non-halal supermarkets like Asda?

  ‘You’ve gulab jamuns in your basket,’ smiles Jag. ‘So did I before you knocked me flying. You heard the DJ Kishii show, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. That’s technically not a lie. I did hear it, just not on the radio.

  ‘Can I have your number?’ asks Jag, and now his cheeks are pink. ‘If that’s OK?’

  ‘I don’t normally give my number out.’

  ‘I understand,’ says Jag. ‘How about I give you mine, and then you can call me? If you want to, I mean?’

  ‘Oh. OK.’

  ‘Cool!’ Jag retrieves a receipt from his wallet and scribbles down a number. ‘There.’ He hands it to me. ‘I’ll be looking forward to your call.’

  And off he goes, swinging his basket jauntily, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I feel guilty about him because he seems like a lovely guy but I can’t get involved, even though it’s no fault of his.

  With a sigh I pick up my basket and walk up and down the aisles putting back my groceries, ending up at the delicacies counter to place the gulab jamuns back where they belong. I’ve got no more need for those. I’m through with shopping for men. All I want now is to go home and jump in the shower so I can rinse off the reek of chutney.

  That’s funny. Where are the gulab jamuns? I can’t see them and I’m sure there were loads earlier. They’ve all gone! Our singles night must have been a success! Come to think of it, there are loads more shoppers around and there’s a real buzz in the air.

  The supermarket must be teeming with lonely singles looking for love. Hopefully this means Nish and I will get lots of feedback to help us write a brilliant feature.

  ‘Excuse me,’ says a voice. ‘Are you returning those?’

  A tall guy with long dark hair and a body corded with muscles and sinew like the outside of the Pompidou Centre is smiling nervously at me. Trendy glasses lend him an intellectual air.

  ‘I’ve just remembered I’m on a diet,’ I improvise. ‘I really don’t need them.’

  He smiles. ‘I don’t think I need them either now.’

  ‘You don’t look like you need to be on a diet.’

  ‘And you certainly don’t need to be denying yourself. You’ve got a great figure, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  ‘Err… thanks.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, grinning at me. ‘That was really forward, but I couldn’t resist. You’ve been listening to HuM SaB too. I don’t need the gulab jamuns any more, do I? I’m Dawud, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

  I ‘phew’ mentally because Dawud’s a Muslim name. ‘I’m Mills.’

  ‘Can I take your number?’ Dawud asks. ‘I’d love to take you out for dinner and get to know you better. I feel a real connection between us!’

  I can’t say I feel anything much apart from relief I’ve finally met a Muslim guy. And he’s only being so flattering because he’s delighted to meet a single Muslim girl. But deciding it’s time to take a chance, I give Dawud one of the business cards Nish printed for me.

  ‘Thanks.’ He tucks it into his wallet. ‘Here, take mine.’

  Dawud’s card is expensive thick cream paper embossed with gold writing.

  ‘Architect,’ I read. That ticks one of my boxes, I suppose. ‘I love architecture.’

  ‘See!’ smiles Dawud. ‘Instant connection. I knew it! Can I call you?’

  He’s attractive. He’s Muslim. He’s single. He’s
solvent. I guess that means he can call me.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  We say goodbye and I finally leave the supermarket, but not before I’ve noticed all the young people wandering around with baskets and surreptitiously checking each other out over the groceries. Success!

  Once I’ve called Eve I sit on the wall outside the store and enjoy the warmth of the evening sun. The sky above the rooftops is streaked with pink; the clouds are all golden and rosy. Is it just my imagination, or does everything suddenly look really romantic?

  I pull Dawud’s card from my bag and study it thoughtfully.

  A great story for GupShup and the telephone number of a suitable man.

  Even though I’ll have to leave my name off the article so my parents don’t die of shame I feel a delicious ripple of excitement. My life is moving in exactly the direction that I’d hoped it would.

  I am so glad I moved to London.

  Chapter 13

  ‘Amelia Ali in my office, now!’

  Nina’s order is followed by a hacking cough, which spoils the effect somewhat.

  ‘Oh dear,’ says Raj, who is sitting next to me and playing around with page layouts for my latest article on, you’ve guessed it, dating. ‘Sounds as though the boss is coming down with the office flu. Maybe you should put a mask on before you go in there?’

  I grab a pen and notebook. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  ‘Your choice, angel.’ Raj returns to Photoshopping a picture, amusing himself by stretching the subject’s nose to elephantine proportions. ‘We’ll paint a red cross on the door once you’re inside.’

  Ignoring him, I make my way to my boss’s office. Normally the newsroom is so crowded I have to shove my way through, so it’s an indication of just how bad this flu is that my path is unhindered. In the corner Kareena sniffles into a hankie; Nish is mainlining Lemsip at home and even the two senior reporters have called in sick. The place is decimated.