‘Poor cow,’ says Fizz. ‘Her family sound like a bunch of thugs.’
Mummy-ji’s brow is furrowed. ‘They’re upset, beti, but still, what a reaction. Surely they should sort it out?’
Fizz snorts. ‘Yeah right, like you and Dad sorted it out with Aunt Seema and now Qas?’
‘Fizz!’ Roma says. ‘That’s totally different!’
‘How? Different because Daddy-ji and our uncles haven’t beaten the crap out of them?’
‘It just is, isn’t it, Mum?’
‘Hmm?’ My mother tears her gaze back from GupShup. Her eyes are troubled. ‘I don’t know, beti. I’m starting to wonder. What sort of people put pride before their becharay children?’
I’m just about to try and answer when the sitting-room door bursts open and Auntie Bee waddles in, closely followed by Sanaubar. Fan-flipping-tastic. I’m shattered and looking forward to a quiet night in with my family and now I’ll be subjected to the type of questioning that would make the Spanish Inquisition look sloppy.
‘Amelia beti,’ cries Bee, crushing me against her bulk. ‘Chi chi, Hamida! She’s thin and peaky!’
I am not!
‘Bilqees bhabhi,’ says Mummy-ji, quickly trying to not look horrified. ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’
‘We had to come and see Amelia.’ Bee plonks her enormous bum onto the sofa. ‘Chai would be nice, Fizz.’
Fizz opens her mouth to protest but a stern look from Mum sends her scuttling to the kitchen.
‘Ooh! GupShup!’ Sanaubar’s stubby fingers clutch the magazine. ‘Everyone’s talking about your piece, Mills.’
‘Great!’ I say.
Bee clicks her tongue against her teeth. ‘Chi chi, that Khan girl has no shame. How could she shame her becharay parents so?’
‘She’s not a criminal; she’s in love,’ I point out. ‘She’s actually really brave.’
Bee’s pebble eyes harden behind her thick glasses. ‘Hamida, listen to her goray ideas! Love schmuve! What about our izzat, my girl?’
Oh bollocks to your izzat, I say.
Actually, I don’t say this but I’d like to. Instead I mutter something about life being really hard for Aisha.
‘I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised that you sympathise with her,’ pipes up Sanaubar. ‘What with Qas dating a gori. It must be a family trait.’
‘Yes indeed, Hamida,’ Bee nods. ‘You need to take a firmer hand with your errant children.’
And she’s off, elaborating on the shame that Qas has brought to the family izzat blah blah blah while Mum grits her teeth and pours the chai, no doubt wishing she could pour it over her sister-in-law’s head. Roma valiantly tries to steer the conversation in other directions but Bee boings back to the same subject, loving every minute of rubbing poor Mummy-ji’s face in it.
‘The Daily Mail want to run my article,’ I blurt out in desperation. ‘And London Tonight have contacted the office too.’
‘See how successful my beti is,’ says Mummy-ji staunchly. ‘She’s doing so well in London.’
‘Mmm,’ says Bee. ‘But what else is she getting up to in London, eh Hamida? What does she get up to when she is on her own? Is she respectable?’
Those beady eyes meet mine and for a hideous second I think she can read my mind and knows all about Dawud and Muslim Matrimonials. I’m dead!
‘Mills works really hard!’ cries Roma. ‘She’s going to be a top journalist!’
‘Journalist schmernalist!’ Bee plops three sugar lumps into her chai. ‘What about her marriage, Hamida? Subhi won’t want a journalist: he’ll want a good wife. Is she still making square chapattis?’
I haven’t made a chapatti since August. My shorthand’s improving though.
‘Subhi’s happy to wait,’ says Mum. ‘He’s looking forward to seeing Amelia next year.’
‘The sooner the better,’ says Bee. ‘I’m so blessed with my children, two grandchildren now, mashallah, and Kabir in communications.’
I don’t dare catch Fizz’s eye. Communications my bum! He’s working for a telephone call centre.
‘Still,’ she continues, ‘I dare say one day your children will cease to be an embarrassment, Hamida. I pray for you and Ahmed everyday.’
‘I’m proud of my children.’ Mummy-ji puts her arm around my shoulders. ‘All of them.’
‘And Mills is going to make her super proud,’ says Roma.
I think of Muslim Matrimonals and the race against time to find my own suitable soul mate. I’m not reckless enough to emulate my Aunt Seema; nor am I as brave as Aisha Khan. But with the weight of family honour placed firmly on my shoulders and Auntie Bee longing to gloat, I’m starting to feel the strain.
I hope Muslim Matrimonials come up with the goods soon.
Chapter 17
It’s nearing the end of a long Tuesday and I’m frantically trying to finish editing an article when my mobile rings for the third time in as many minutes.
I tuck the phone under my chin and continue to type. ‘Mills Ali.’
‘Hello, Miss Ali,’ chirps a male voice. ‘It’s Ayoob Bhutto here, from Muslim Matrimonials.’
I nearly shoot into orbit. ‘Thanks for calling back!’
Ayoob chuckles. ‘That’s no problem. In fact we ought to be thanking you.”
‘Me? Why?’
‘Because you’ve sparked an amazing response. In fact I’m delighted to say you’ve had a phenomenal response! You topped the response ratings!’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously! This has never happened before! That’s why I’ve called you first.’
‘Are you sure you’ve got it right?’ I’m glad I’m sitting down otherwise I’d be an amazed splat on the GupShup carpet.
‘I promise I’m not joking,’ Ayoob reassures me. ‘Listen to this.’ I hear the rustle of paper. ‘You’re the only female who’s ever aroused such an interest sparked by her personal appearance! In fact according to my figures you now hold the record number one position. This has never happened in all my experience of previous events and I’ve been doing this for years. You must be thrilled!’
I think gobsmacked describes it better.
‘It’s amazing,’ says Ayoob. ‘You’ve got twenty-three attendees all eagerly requesting contact. Shall I give you their details?’
‘Sheesh, I don’t know!’ I’m stunned. ‘I’ll be there forever, won’t I? Shall I just give you the names of the three guys that caught my attention?”
‘Only three?’
‘I’m looking for the right person,’ I explain. ‘I’ve got to at least have a connection with someone, I think, if he’s my soul mate.’
‘Of course,’ Ayoob says quickly. ‘I totally agree. How about you tell me the names of the guys you’d like to get in touch with and we’ll see if they’ve requested a meeting too?’
‘Give me a second.’ I rummage in my bag, pulling out tissues, a fluffy Tampax and several lipsticks before locating the screwed-up list from last week. ‘OK. I really got on well with Aadam, Mikhail and Basim. Any luck?’
‘Good news. All three gentlemen are mutually interested in pursuing dialogues with you too.’
‘Really?’ My heart rises up like a helium balloon released by careless fingers.
‘Absolutely,’ laughs Ayoob. ‘May I pass your details to them?’
‘Of course,’ I say. This could be it! One of those three guys could be the one to save me from the hairy goat-herder!
‘And if it doesn’t work out with these gentlemen,’ Ayoob adds, ‘we’d be honoured to invite you free of charge to our next event!’
‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘but I’m hoping that one of these guys could be the one.’
‘I hope so too,’ says Ayoob, ‘and I’d like to thank you for choosing Muslim Matrimonials. Our success rate is seventy-four percent of meetings end in shaadi and I so hope you’ll be one of those happy statistics!’
Me too, I think once he’s rung off. Me too.
I snap my mobile shu
t and try to get my head around it all. All those guys were really interested in short little northern old me! That’s… incredible!
‘You look smug,’ says Raj, passing by on one of his many meanders around the office. ‘Have you got another scoop in the Mail?’
‘Better than that,’ I say, going on to share my popularity ratings with him.
Before long a small crowd has gathered to hear my latest networking saga and everyone has an opinion – except Wish, who remains at his Mac messing around with Photoshop.
‘Twenty-three divine men,’ sighs Raj. ‘Darling, you utter bitch! Give me that list immediately!’
‘I’m not surprised at all.’ Nish sniffles from beneath a tissue. ‘Any man with eyes in his head would snap you up in a second.’
‘That’s an exaggeration,’ I smile, ‘but a very nice one. Hey guys, how about a mini celebration? Pizza on moi?’
Suddenly I have an urge to celebrate. I know these guys all want to find their own wives before their olds drag them off to Pakistan but, even so, I can’t help being really flattered. Twenty-three attractive, solvent and eligible Muslims that any girl would be delighted to date were interested in me! My mood is lifebuoy buoyant. I want all my friends to share in my good news.
‘Wish,’ I call. ‘Fancy coming for a pizza?’
He doesn’t even look up. ‘I’ve got plans.’
‘Me too, I’m afraid, darling,’ sighs Raj. ‘It’s time I saw the rellies.’
This is Raj shorthand for going to tap his parents for cash.
‘I’ve got my waxing girl coming over,’ says Kareena.
‘Just you and me then,’ says Nish, sneezing. ‘Could we make it a takeaway and face packs? I feel crap.’
I feel a bit deflated. It’s not every day a girl gets twenty-three guys dying to get hold of her number and I would have liked to celebrate this ego boost even in my own low-key and non-alcoholic way.
‘If you’re doing face packs I could always put my olds off,’ offers Raj. ‘Provided I get the Clinique one.’
‘God,’ says Kareena. ‘You really are gay, aren’t you?’
As they start to bicker I return to my work. Gradually the newsroom empties and before long there’s only me, Nish and Wish left. I’m just thinking about wandering over and offering him half a Crunchie when the door flies open and a whirlwind spins through.
A blonde whirlwind wearing the celeb-about-town uniform of skinny jeans, Uggs, smock top and massive sunglasses that make her look like an insect.
I’ve visited Google and flicked through Heat for long enough now to know exactly who this is.
Araminta Vane is in the building.
‘Wish!’ she shrieks, in a voice that could shatter steel. ‘Turn that bloody computer off! We’re meeting Kate for drinks.’
Wish looks up from his work. I try to pretend I’m not watching but it would be easier to turn a blind eye to a T-rex marauding through the office. Ignoring Nish, Raj and me, Minty sashays past and drapes herself over Wish’s desk.
He sighs. ‘I’ve got to finish this. We’re putting Friday’s issue to bed.’
Minty flips her blonde mane.
‘The only thing you need to be taking to bed is me,’ she hollers, winding a skinny arm around his neck.
Wish patiently uncoils her. ‘Ten minutes,’ he promises. ‘I must finish this.’
The bee-stung lips – last seen advertising lipstick – pout. ‘But the others are already there!’
‘Ten minutes,’ says Wish. ‘I promise. Why don’t you get to know Mills and Nish while you wait?’ He looks up and his eyes, the green irises brighter than ever against the tired blood-shot whites, meet mine pleadingly. ‘You, remember Mills, Minty? She did the article on Aisha Khan.’
‘The dating girl?’
‘The girl who had her article on dating published in the Mail,’ says Wish firmly. ‘Come on Mints, I’ve told you all about Mills.’
He has?
‘Have you?’ Minty looks blank. ‘I don’t remember.’
What a cow. Only the fact bechara Wish looks so exhausted stops me from bopping her on the nose.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ I ask, holding up my tub of Nescafé.
‘Coffee?’ echoes Minty. From the look of horror on her face you’d think that I’d offered her a cup of hemlock.
Actually…
‘Have you any idea what’s in that crap?’
Call me stupid, but I’d always presumed the prime ingredient of coffee was, in fact, coffee.
‘It’s full of toxins!’ screeches Minty. ‘And toxins play havoc with your skin. That’s going to be fine for someone like you, but my face is my fortune.’
‘Just as well it’s not your personality,’ mutters Nish.
‘Mints!’ says Wish, appalled.
‘Sorry.’ Minty looks anything but. ‘That came out wrong. What I meant was it doesn’t matter what journalists look like, does it? I mean, look at Janet Street-Porter and Carol Thatcher.’
‘Mills just had twenty-three guys from Muslim Matrimonials all frantic to go on dates with her.’ Nish leaps to my defence.
Minty studies her nails. ‘I’ve never met somebody who’s used speed dating before. I can’t imagine having to do that myself but it takes all sorts.’ She fixes a bright white smile on me. ‘What’s next? The small ads? Or the Internet? I hear that’s very popular with girls who can’t get partners.’
Up until now the excitement of holding Muslim Matrimonials’ record for responses and the hope that Mr Right is just around the corner has been fizzing through my blood stream like Coca-Cola bubbles. But Minty’s sharp tongue pops them neatly while she bares her pseudo smile at me. Suddenly I feel really conscious of my shiny face and the slightly greasy hair I’ve pulled back from my forehead with an elastic band.
Wish leaps out of his seat. ‘I’m done!’
That has to be the quickest ten minutes in the history of magazine journalism.
‘Thank God,’ says Minty. ‘I was starting to think I was stuck here forever.’
‘See you later, girls,’ Wish says, slinging an arm around Minty’s narrow shoulders. ‘Have a good night.’
‘Blimey,’ breathes Nish, as we stare after their retreating backs. ‘What an absolute bitch! Wish must be crazy!’
And I don’t think I could have put it better myself.
‘What’s this film about then?’ Eve picks up the DVD case and scrutinises the copy. ‘Office Hours? Who chose this shit?’
‘Me,’ says Nish innocently from the sofa where she’s lurking under a bright yellow face mask. ‘It’s supposed to be really good. It’s all about this girl who hates her boss but doesn’t really. In fact they get it on.’
‘Sounds like bollocks to me.’ Eve slam-dunks the case onto the coffee table.
‘It’s got George Clooney in it,’ says Nish.
‘I hate George Clooney.’
I look up in surprise. ‘I thought you loved him.’
‘No.’ Eve stomps into the kitchen. Moments later we hear the fridge door open and the glug of wine splashing into a glass.
‘What’s upsetting her?’ I ask.
‘Damien Oxley,’ Nish grins.
‘She has got to get over her problem with him. He can’t be that bad.’
‘I don’t think he’s that bad at all,’ Nish says. ‘In fact I think–’
But what Nish thinks I never discover because my phone beeps and I jump as though someone has zapped me with electricity. I’ve been waiting for this ever since I gave Ayoob the go-ahead. Even if Minty thinks I’m the saddest thing since Romeo died, I’ve got to press on with this now. My three admirers have been busy sending introductory messages and I’ve been texting back like crazy.
My thumb is starting to ache but it’s a small price to pay for finding the love of my life.
This first response is from Aadam, asking if he can call me in an hour.
I text back:
Sure!
Eve settles back on
to the sofa and picks up the phone. ‘Shall I order?’
‘Mmm, please.’ I don’t look up from my mobile because now Basim has texted requesting a chat.
Talk tomorrow? am working now
I fib, wanting to perpetuate the myth of the busy journalist. If Minty believes it then Basim certainly will.
‘Cheese Feast and extra garlic bread,’ demands Nish.
Beep! Here’s Basim. It’s sweet that he’s so keen. Maybe he’s the one?
No problem. Will contact you in the next few days.
‘Hello?’ Eve waggles the menu under my nose. ‘I know you’re the most eligible woman in London but could you give it a break long enough to order some food?’
‘Sorry. Veggie Feast, please.’
Beep! Beep!
‘Bloody Hell!’ says Eve.
I dive for the phone. ‘This is the last time, I promise.’
It’s Mikhail. He’s at the airport, about to jet off on business but wondering if he can contact me on his return.
‘This is cute,’ I tell the girls. ‘He’s really worried he’s blown it by going away and that he can’t wait to see me.’
‘Cancel that pizza, Eve,’ groans Nish. ‘I’m feeling sick!’
‘Enough already!’ Eve grabs my phone. ‘I’m through with these text pests, Mills. Not another beep until I’ve ordered.’
‘Fine.’ I relinquish my mobile. ‘Order away. We’ve got fifty-two minutes until Aadam calls!’
Actually, that was a joke but sure enough I’m only two slices into my pizza and thirty minutes into watching George Clooney and J-Lo pretending to hate each other when my mobile buzzes.
‘Aadam,’ I read. ‘Bang on time too. Do you mind if I take this, Nish?’
Nish is chomping pizza and just shakes her head, so I creep into the hallway
‘Hi, Mills?’ Aadam asks nervously, or I think he does because he’s so quiet I have to raise the hearing volume on my phone.
‘I can’t hear you,’ I say. ‘Is it the line?’
‘I can be too quiet at times,’ he sighs.
‘Not like me,’ I tease. ‘I’ll probably deafen you. Ha ha!’
But Aadam doesn’t laugh. ‘I love the sound of your voice already!’
The Wedding Countdown Page 12