The Wedding Countdown

by Ruth Saberton

  ‘Enter.’ Nina splutters when I knock on the door.

  After a month of working at GupShup I’m no longer terrified of Nina but I still have a very healthy respect for my boss. Fortunately I’m in her good books because of the success of our supermarket-dating feature. Circulation was up over twenty-five percent, so Nina wasn’t at all put out we’d rashly promised a mini break as a prize. The entire desi community is talking about supermarket dating and even the big radio stations like Heart FM and Capital Radio have been discussing our article. Nina’s made appearances on Loose Women and This Morning to discuss the pitfalls of Asian dating, which has raised her profile no end and made her a very happy bunny. I think I even saw her lips twitch.

  I’m just pleased to have got a good story from it, even if the story has turned out to be a hilarious collage of close encounters of the supermarket kind rather than a serious reportage about Asian dating. I wish I could have written more about my own involvement but I couldn’t risk it. Mummy-ji would have had to buy every copy in Yorkshire and burn them in order to preserve our izzat. Going incognito might save the Ali family name but it isn’t doing much for getting me noticed.

  Sheesh! I bet Julie Burchill never has this problem.

  I’m expecting Nina to talk about the follow-on piece from the supermarket-dating feature. There are a few romances in the making as a result and it would be kind of fun to do something on them. One of them could even be mine, though it’s early days yet. I’ve chatted to Dawud on the phone and although we’ve yet to meet we text most days. Who knows, I may even dial his number and he’ll turn out to be the love of my life, and we’ll tell our children all about how we met...

  Calm down saheli! You’ve only met the guy once.

  ‘Right.’ Nina’s brisk tone snaps me back to the present. ‘As you know I’ve been impressed with your work but it’s all been lightweight stuff so far. Do you think you could handle something more sensitive?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘I agree,’ says Nina. ‘Irfan and Sunny are off sick and you’re the only reporter in the office so I’m giving you this assignment. Enter!’ She barks when there’s a knock on the door. ‘About time, Darwish, thank goodness OK! could spare you.’

  Wish ignores her sarcasm.

  ‘Thanks,’ he sits down next to me. ‘Hi, Mills.’

  ‘Hi, Wish.’

  Nina starts to smoke, coughs and stubs her cigarette out in rage. ‘You’ve heard about Aisha Khan?’

  ‘The missing schoolgirl?’

  Seventeen-year-old Aisha vanished from college six days ago and her image has been on the news constantly.

  ‘She’s not missing any more,’ Nina says. ‘She called GupShup an hour ago. She’s run away from an arranged marriage and is in hiding. Apparently she’s been having a relationship with another man and her brothers have found out. They’ve threatened to kill her and him unless she complies.’

  Wish and I are silent. This is serious stuff but not unheard of. When izzat’s at stake things can get really nasty.

  ‘The police have found her a safe house,’ Nina continues. ‘The poor girl’s terrified.’ Her eyes take on a faraway look. ‘She wants to put her side of the story across.’

  ‘She wants to talk to the magazine?’ I ask.

  Nina nods. ‘Amelia, this is a story you can handle really well. You’re young and you understand where she’s coming from. It’s impossible to say how many other girls there are in the same position but this story could really help them. It will also raise GupShup’s profile with the mainstream media.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ Wish asks. ‘I’ve got my motorbike but–’ He glances at me and raises his eyebrows. ‘I don’t think riding pillion is the most respectable thing for a single girl to do.’

  ‘Aisha’s in Southampton. You may be a keen biker but I think that’s a jaunt too far even for you.’ Nina fishes into her bag and pulls out a set of keys. ‘Take my Merc. I’ll take a cab back to Notting Hill and die in peace. Just don’t prang it.’

  My mouth dries. Nina’s Mercedes is nothing like Daddy-ji’s sensible family-sized model. It’s a scarlet convertible and goes like a rocket.

  Wish jangles the keys, his green eyes glittering with excitement.

  ‘Let’s go!’ he says.

  And I don’t need asking twice.

  We’re reaching Southampton in record and probably totally illegal time. Wish pops the hood down and plugs his iPod into the car’s impressive sound system, guiding the Mercedes along with one hand on the wheel and looping the other casually over the gear stick. Very conscious his hand’s only inches from my thigh I move my leg away, the fabric of my skirt sliding easily over the cream leather.

  I’m in a car with cream leather seats! Whoah!

  Feeling like a film star I put on my fake Chanel shades (cut a girl some slack, I’m biding time until my first promotion) and drape an arm over the glossy side of the car, loving the warmth of the sun on my cheeks and the way the wind whispers through my hair. Once on the motorway though my hair starts to whip itself into a bouffant and my eyes start to stream. I glance in the vanity mirror and moan in dismay. Alice Cooper is so not a good look!

  Laughing, Wish presses a button and as though by magic the hood glides soundlessly back up and we’re cocooned in our own little world of cream leather and Corrine Bailey Rae.

  I delve into my bag for a hairbrush and spend the next ten minutes trying to untangle the knots. So not cool. I bet if Minty had been Wish’s passenger she’d have insisted on having the hood up since Canary Wharf, or at the very least have covered her tresses in an elegant Hermès scarf. I have a lot to learn about gracious living.

  Since I started at GupShup I’ve heard a great deal about the famous model even though I’ve yet to meet her in the well-toned flesh. She’s constantly on the phone to Wish or leaving complicated messages with Kareena, and once she was even – wait for it – seen in the lobby meeting Wish from work, which caused a real stir because lots of tourists wanted autographs.

  While Wish floors it, Basingstoke and Winchester whizzing by in a blur, I run through the mental list of things I know about Minty Vane, top model and IT girl.

  1. She is five eleven, size six and with a total BMI of less than one of my thighs.

  2. She is the face of countless products and rumoured to be the next face of Marks & Spencer.

  3. She is twenty-four.

  4. Her family is absolutely loaded and aristocratic. According to the Internet, the family seat, Eldred House, is one of England’s finest houses.

  I sneak a peek at Wish, who’s humming along to the music, and decide it’s just as well he’s off my list of possibilities. I mean, as lovely as our family home is, I don’t think a semi in Saltaire compares to a genuine stately home, does it? Not that I’d ever say that to Mummy-ji! Our house is her pride and joy.

  But even so, a genuine mansion, a stunning figure and a perfect boyfriend?

  Some girls really do get all the luck.

  ‘That’s a big sigh,’ Wish says, flicking a knob on the dashboard and instantly lowering the music’s volume. ‘Thinking about Aisha?’

  Err, no actually. Doesn’t that make me a selfish, trivial moo? Here’s me worrying about not being able to compete with a model while bechari Aisha is in hiding for her life. That puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?

  ‘Kind of,’ I say, shoving the hairbrush into my bag. ‘I was thinking about relationships and stuff. How complicated they make everything.’

  That’s not a lie, is it?

  Wish tucks the car into the fast lane and flicks to cruise control.

  ‘They sure do,’ he agrees, ‘but wouldn’t life be dull without them?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I look out of the window. A service station goes by in a blur and the road seems to be racing up to meet me really fast. This is not a good time to remember that I get car sick. ‘But they also cause a lot of problems. I mean take Aisha for example. She’s thrown her entire life up
in the air; gone against everything her family believes in and for what? An emotion? A dream?’

  Wish’s eyes don’t leave the road but a muscle twitches in his cheek.

  ‘Maybe she thinks he’s worth it?’

  ‘But at what cost, Wish? What’s going to happen to everyone else in that family? Won’t they miss her? Won’t she miss them? Or supposing the guy’s family aren’t thrilled about their son getting together with Aisha and kick him out? Won’t his family miss him? And won’t he miss them? None of their Eids will ever be the same again. And since we are on the topic of family get-togethers, what about the funerals and supposing their favourite auntie-ji dies?’

  ‘Mills,’ Wish says gently, ‘stop panicking. And stop chewing your nails. Do you think Kate Adie chews her nails?’

  Probably not but she doesn’t have Fizz or Auntie Bee to contend with, does she? Still, I loathe my nail-biting habit and so I sit on my hands to prevent further nibbling. I bet Minty Vane has perfect nails. She probably pops out to have a manicure at least once a day.

  Note to self: find a nail bar and get false nails/extensions. Soon.

  ‘Anyway,’ Wish continues, ‘your family isn’t the Khans, Mills. They’re not about to send a hit squad around to sort your brother out.’

  ‘You’re right. Daddy-ji will come round eventually but knowing he’s so upset is hideous. Roma says the only way to make things better is for me to meet that elusive perfect partner and take the heat off.’

  ‘Mr One Hundred Percent Pakistani Barrister?’

  ‘Nothing less will do.’

  Vrooom! The car suddenly surges forward. With a squeal I clutch at the dashboard.

  ‘Sorry,’ Wish says. ‘My foot touched the gas. I forgot I was on cruise control.’

  My heart is pogoing in my chest. For a hideous moment I’d thought we were about to become very closely acquainted with the car in front. I never thought my big mouth could kill me.

  ‘That was really tactless.’ I hang my head. ‘I forgot about your family.’

  ‘Lucky you,’ he says. ‘Don’t look so worried. I’ve had twenty-six years to get my head around the fact I don’t quite fit in.’

  ‘Was it really hard?’ I ask. ‘As a kid, I mean?’

  He shrugs. ‘I guess I just got used to it. How much do kids question things anyway? Like I said, my parents have no problems with making their marriage a success, but sometimes it’s hard having a foot in both camps?’

  ‘But it’s like that for all of us. We’re all stuck between two worlds, home here and home Pakistan,’ I point out. ‘Who do we please? Who do we listen to? Parents? Friends? The news? I’ve been known to pack a bag with going-out clothes because Dad’s insisted I wear my shalwar kameezes and, here’s a top Mills Ali secret, I once spoke to a boy in public and pretended to be my cousin Sanaubar!’

  Wish laughs. ‘Shocking! Call the izzat police.’

  ‘My sister Fizz must spend half her life in the public ladies trying to squeeze into her drainpipes and put her slap on. And my Auntie Bee swears she once spotted her doing a Wonder Woman behind the bushes,’ I add, warming to my theme. ‘So I do know!’

  He shakes his glossy head. ‘It’s nothing like the same. My Pakistani relatives refused to acknowledge me and my brother while my English relatives totally overcompensated by saying I was a Brit through and through just like Gramps, even though I’m obviously not and I don’t even want to be. I’m proud of my heritage, I’m proud to be British and I’m proud to be a Pakistani but as far as my dad’s family’s concerned I’m not a Pakistani. I’m some kind of mistake they’d rather forget. When people in London look at me,’ he continues, ‘what do you really think they see?’

  Sex on a stick?

  ‘They see an Asian guy,’ Wish says. ‘And if I’m on the tube with a rucksack

  they see a suicide bomber. Yes, they do!’ He insists when I protest. ‘And who can blame them? You’ve seen all the negative portrayals of Muslims in the media.’

  I nod. Islamophobia is an emotive topic.

  ‘But when Asians look at me they see someone who isn’t quite right, someone who isn’t like them. Not one hundred percent Pakistani.’

  ‘I didn’t mean–’

  ‘I know you didn’t mean anything. No one ever does.’

  He sighs and I feel awful.

  ‘But what do you think it feels like for us mixed-race kids sometimes?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Bloody impossible, but the point is I wouldn’t swap it. I’ve had the

  best upbringing and the greatest parents possible, so maybe I’ve had the best of both worlds? I’m totally at ease with who, with what, I am. So take that look off

  your face, Mills, I’m not offended.’ He focuses his full attention on the endless tarmac. ‘Sometimes things happen to remind you of the tough bits, of the differences rather than the similarities. Sometimes you want… you want stuff you know you can never have.’

  The atmosphere in the car swells and is so heavy I can almost see it pressing down on us. Then his mobile call-tone blasts out. I peer into the recess by the gearstick. Minty Mob. Without missing a beat, Wish changes lanes and pops his Bluetooth headset on.

  ‘Hey babe!’ he says brightly, and pop, the atmosphere vanishes. ‘No, another journalist.’ His eyes meet mine and he rolls them theatrically. ‘Yes, it’s a woman. She’s new. Mills Ali?’

  I sit up a bit straighter and suck my stomach in.

  ‘Yeah, the supermarket dating girl,’ says Wish cheerfully.

  Ouch. Coming back to earth with a bump really hurts.

  ‘I haven’t forgotten. I’ll be there. OK? Got to go, our exit’s just ahead.’ He checks the mirrors and the car hurtles across three lanes, making the turn-off by metres.

  My life flashes before my eyes again. God, it’s really dull; I must do something exciting soon.

  Wish flips his phone shut. ‘That was Minty.’

  He’s smiling now. A two-minute conversation with a leggy blonde model has cheered him up, whereas a sixty-minute journey with moi made him seriously miserable. Go figure.

  I stare out of the window and watch the suburbs turn into the inner city, as minute by minute we get deeper into Southampton. Big detached houses with leafy gardens blend into semis and then stretch into rows of terraces, which reach for miles.

  ‘Right,’ Wish says eventually, dropping the car down a gear and touching the brakes. ‘53 Shakespeare Mews; should be somewhere along here.’

  We are in an unremarkable street in an unremarkable part of the city. A mother with Vicky Pollard hair, dragging a toddler with one hand and smoking with the other passes a blank-eyed stare over us. A dustbin spews its contents onto a pavement while a dog picks over a chicken carcass.

  ‘Nice area,’ remarks Wish wryly. ‘And this is supposed to be a safe house?’

  ‘That’s definitely number fifty-three.’ I check the details that Nina gave me and look across the dull brick house, all peeling paintwork and parched flowers. A nicotine-yellow net curtain twitches in the bay window. ‘I think that’s Aisha. She’s seen us.’

  Suddenly this becomes real. Not an exciting day out with Wish or my big chance to prove myself to Nina and the world at large that I’m a budding journalist. There’s a girl behind that curtain, a scared and frightened girl with bruises and a tear-stained face. A girl who’s risked her life and given everything for the man she loves and who is counting on me to do justice to her story. I clasp my notebook tightly and my knuckles glow like chalk through the skin.

  Wish leans across and touches my arm. ‘You can do it.’

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘Of course you can. I can’t think of anyone better.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ says Wish. ‘Now come on, you’ve got a job to do.’

  And he’s right. I have.

  Inside the safe house the air is thick and still. Gloom pools across the lurid carpet and dust motes twirl through bars of sunlight
caught between heavy curtains. The draylon sofa prickles my bare legs; the coffee the WPC made me is filmy with skin. A hidden clock ticks away the minutes as Aisha Khan struggles to find the right words.

  ‘Sorry,’ Aisha’s voice is tissue-paper fragile. ‘I’m not telling this right, am I?’

  ‘You’re doing a great job, Aisha,’ I say. ‘It can’t be easy to talk about this.’

  A car backfires and Aisha jumps.

  ‘I keep thinking it’s my brothers, Hassan and Mushtaq,’ she says. ‘You’ve no idea what they’d do if they found me. Hassan always said he’d kill anyone who threatened the family’s izzat rather than suffer the shame, and believe me I’ve shamed them now.’

  My eyes meet Wish’s and he shakes his head. From the way Aisha jumps every time a car door slams or voices are raised in the street we can guess exactly what her brothers would do.

  ‘So why get involved with a gora boy if you knew how your family would react?’ I ask, knowing this question will be on the lips of all my readers.

  Aisha says, ‘You’ve never been in love.’

  It’s not a question.

  ‘You know how it is,’ I shrug. ‘My parents have found a cousin.’

  ‘Yeah, mine too,’ Aisha laughs bitterly. ‘The shaadi’s all planned in good old Pakistan. Did you know that the average cost of a wedding is over thirty thousand pounds? And I’ve wasted every penny. No wonder they want to kill me.’

  ‘So why do it?’

  ‘Because I fell in love with Jake,’ Aisha says simply. ‘And I can’t live without him. If you’d ever been in love you wouldn’t need to ask.’

  Ouch.

  ‘I appreciate you love him, Aisha, but what about your parents? How do you feel about them?’

  ‘I love them, of course I do, I really love them but… I just couldn’t do what they wanted. I couldn’t marry someone I don’t love.’ Her eyes fill and she wipes them with the sleeve of her hoodie. ‘Even for family honour, I couldn’t do that. I know I’ve ruined their lives, I know that I’ve shamed them, but I just couldn’t give Jake up!’ She’s weeping in earnest now, big ploppy tears that roll down her cheeks and splash onto the shabby carpet.