‘It’s not a “date” date,’ Eve said firmly, fully engrossed in her role as Trinny to Nish’s Susannah. ‘It’s a coffee with a nice guy.’
‘You have coffee every day with Wish and Raj,’ added Nish.
‘It’s not the same,’ I muttered, watching my friends pile the contents of our combined wardrobes onto my bed.
After endless dressing and undressing (I now have the greatest of respect for strippers because, believe me, taking your clothes off this often is hard work) the girls have decided upon my wearing a pair of grey skinny jeans worn with Eve’s tight-fitting Miu Miu cashmere turtleneck sweater. I won’t dare eat any cake but Eve assures me the effect is worth it. Even my feet are glam in Eve’s Chloé boots.
I check my reflection again. Hardly any skin showing at all. Excellent!
After a good few make-up trials, I’d finally settled upon a subtle daylight au naturel face, my make-up limited to a glossy lip shine and a bit of a smoky-eyed look. I’ve worn my hair in loose curls and when I did my final twirl in front of Eve’s full-length mirror both of my friends gave me the thumbs up.
I check my watch again and am horrified to see I’m twenty minutes late. Crap! How did that happen? Hoping Basim will think I’m fashionably late rather than just plain old-fashioned rude, I dash across the piazza to the café. Sure enough, there he is waiting by the entrance just as we agreed.
‘Mills?’ cries Basim and before I have any time to object he embraces me.
At least I know he smells as good as he looks but I pull away a little taken aback.
‘You look sensational,’ Basim smiles.
‘Err, thanks.’ I really must get used to this compliments business. Maybe I should buy a book off Amazon, Flattery for Dummies or something?
He motions to the waiter. ‘What kind of coffee would you like?’
What I’d like is a latte. What I’ll ask for is an espresso because I can’t risk having a frothy coffee ’tache. Not cool.
‘Espresso, it is,’ says Basim. ‘Although I’m not convinced you need all that caffeine. You seem pretty jittery as it is.’
He’s not wrong. Because of the unexpected hug I’m starting to experience a severe paranoia attack. I’m a dating novice and I’m terrified.
I can’t help imagining a rogue family member spying undercover from the rooftops of the tall buildings opposite the café, which offer a great view of where we’re seated. Auntie Bee could easily be up there with her binoculars taking note of my indiscreet actions so she can report straight back to my parents and tell them what a bad girl I’ve been, seen in plain view chatting animatedly to a male and hugging him.
While Basim natters about his fascinating job as a dentist, I compose my features into an expression of rapt attention, my imagination galloping ahead at full paranoid speed. I wouldn’t put it past Auntie Bee to hire a private detective to do her dirty work. Supposing someone did recognise me and wired the information back to my parents?
Oh God!
Daddy-ji would be straight on the phone demanding to know what his single daughter was doing talking to and touching a guy in broad daylight. He’d demand I catch the next plane to Bradford, or even worse he might start on Mummy-ji, blaming her for supporting my move to the big bad city in the first place.
And it would all be my fault.
I can just picture Mummy-ji wailing, ‘Allah-ji where did I go wrong? I thought I knew my daughter better than this! Maybe Bilqees is right? Maybe I am a bad mother after all? Oh Allah-ji. Why me?’
And Dad would say, ‘Yes indeed, it’s your fault this has happened. Had you not allowed your laadli beti to pull the wool over your eyes then we’d still have our izzat. Who will marry her now knowing that she has touched another man?’
I can see it now, a close-up of my unexpected hug with Basim, the racy image being flashed all over the world to all and sundry advertising the fact that a daughter of the previously highly regarded Ali clan has sold her izzat to the wolves – and all because she was eager to meet her own man her own way. All Muslim Pakistani mothers with an ounce of izzat-sense will stick my mug shot on their refrigerators to serve as a reminder to their daughters, who will then think twice about challenging their parents’ matchmaking...
‘Blah, root canal, blah veneers,’ says Basim.
Meanwhile back in the imaginary conversation between my parents…
Mummy-ji will scream back, ‘It’s not my fault, Ahmed! It was you who encouraged Mills to study and you who brought her books and you who allowed her to go on to university schuniversity! So it’s you who’s to blame for her head being filled with radical thoughts! The liberal western education system is to blame of course, brainwashing our daughter to question our ways, tearing her away from our old traditions. You should have just said a simple “Nahin!” when Mills pleaded to go to uni.’
And then Daddy-ji would say, ‘You are very mistaken, woman. The thought of university would not even have entered her head had you agreed with me to send her to a boarding school in Pakistan with her cousin Noreen. And look at how wonderfully Noreen has turned out. Noreen can speak perfect Urdu, unlike the broken Urdu our children attempt. And Noreen chose to remain in Pakistan, even after marriage. The only time she set foot in this country was to give birth (four times), and then she returned back to her mother country with her baby straight after the six-week resting period!’
And so the naming-shaming-blaming will go on and on, further and further back in time. My once loving parents will be reduced to tearing each others’ throats out, dissing each other’s izzat till there isn’t an ounce of spousal respect left, and all because, one afternoon out of sheer carelessness, I committed izzat suicide and allowed myself to be hugged by a man; a hug which could have easily been avoided had I just listened to my parents and followed traditional izzat-saving laws.
Oh Allah-ji! I wish I’d never gone on that singles’ night.
What if the worst comes to the worst and my parents drop the bombshell that I, Amelia, previously Amelia Ali but now Amelia no-surname, am disowned? I’ll never be welcome at home again.
I’m going to lose my family thanks to Mr Touchy-Feely Dentist!
I hate him!
‘Mills, are you OK? Is it something I said?’
It’s a real surprise to find myself outside a Covent Garden café opposite an attractive man, rather than back in Bradford and in the middle of family meltdown. For a moment I can’t speak, and Basim stares at me, understandably confused. And why not? He’s a good-looking guy and a top-earning Harley Street dentist so he’s probably used to girls hanging onto his every word, not drifting away into another dimension.
Well done saheli, now you’ve well and truly blown your chances of coming across as a composed character. What must he be thinking? I wouldn’t blame Basim if he asks the waiter for the bill, makes hasty excuses and then flees the scene.
Next time I’ll just set fire to two hundred quid. It’d be easier.
But Basim doesn’t click his fingers or rush away. Instead he looks at me with a slight frown.
‘You’re very pale.’
I can’t repeat my parents’ imaginary conversation because he’ll think I’m crackers.
‘Sorry, Basim, I’ve had a crazy week at work. My head’s all over the place.’
‘I know that feeling,’ chuckles Basim. ‘Sometimes all I can think about is teeth.’
And off he goes again, teeth blah, fillings blah, dentures blah. I try hard to look riveted but to be honest watching the coffee grow cold is more exciting. This date is not going well.
I order another espresso to ensure I don’t nod off.
‘May I have the sugar?’ I ask, desperate for some energy.
‘Sure.’ Basim hands over the pot but as he does so his fingers brush mine. I’m pretty sure it’s unintentional but my hand snaps back, bumping into my coffee cup and pouring scalding liquid all over my lap.
‘Ouch!’ I screech, leaping backwards.
Unf
ortunately as I leap back a waiter passes behind my chair, carrying a tray of hot drinks, which he drops instantly.
Crash! Crash!
Abruptly what has been a calm café volcanically erupts into a freak coffee-spilling show.
‘I’m so sorry!’ I gasp. ‘Please, excuse me!’ and pushing my chair away I dash for the loo, dangerously close to tears.
Don’t cry, Mills! Your make-up will be wrecked and you’ll look even more like a clown, really not the way to charm the designer pants off a potential suitor.
I spend ten minutes in the ladies, hovering under the hot air drier and taking some very deep breaths before I’m ready to face the music. Not that I think Basim will still be there. As I leave the loo I’m fully prepared to bet all my worldly goods (OK then, my fake Jimmy Choos) that I’ll return to an empty table and a really peeved waiter.
It’s just as well I’m not a betting woman. Basim is still sitting there looking really concerned.
‘I was getting worried,’ he says. ‘I’ve had the chair dried. Please, sit down.’
‘I thought you’d be long gone.’
‘And leave you scalded?’ Basim raises his eyebrows. ‘That would hardly be gentlemanly, would it? Shall we start again?’
‘That would be lovely.’
And I fully intend to start again, I really do. He’s a nice guy and on paper he’s everything I ought to be looking for but despite his good intentions I don’t feel comfortable in his presence. He’s really tactile and much as I’d like to I can’t exactly come out with a ‘don’t touch me please’ warning. How conceited would that look, like I think he can’t wait to touch me because I’m so totally irresistible! So instead I keep my hands off the table and lean back in my chair.
‘You’re really tense,’ observes Basim, after another stilted conversation.
It isn’t easy balancing on this chair and every muscle in my butt is screaming, so, yeah, you could say I’m tense. Any more wound up and I’ll be ticking.
‘Here, allow me.’ Without warning Basim leaps from his seat and before you can say ‘sleazy git’ has started to massage my shoulders. For a split second I’m frozen with shock, before I come to my senses and shove his hands away.
‘If I want a massage I’ll go to a spa, thanks!’
Basim looks shocked at this reaction; presumably he’s used to girls pleading to have his fingers probe their tired muscles. ‘I didn’t mean to offend you. I was only trying to put you at your ease.’
‘Well, you haven’t!’ My paranoia levels surge, and I look left, right and behind me. Wait! Who’s that old woman in shalwar kameez, just passing by? Please Allah-ji don’t let it be one of my auntie’s cronies up for a day’s shopping!
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ asks Basim, watching this display of twitching. ‘Are you waiting for someone else?’
‘What?’
‘Like a boyfriend? Or an estranged husband, maybe?’
My mouth falls open.
‘You seem very nervous.’
‘I’m on a date with a total stranger,’ I say, outraged on my own behalf. ‘A stranger who’s just touched me! You bet I’m nervous!’
His eyes narrow. ‘Are you telling me you’ve never been on a date before?’
‘Isn’t that the entire point of Muslim Matrimonials? We can’t date so this gets us started?’
Basim stares at me as though I’ve grown two heads.
‘You’ve never dated?’
‘Never, ever.’
‘I didn’t volunteer for this,’ he mutters. ‘Good company and relationships: that’s what I’m looking for.’
‘I’m happy to be good company,’ I say. ‘But I could really do without the uninvited massages, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Yeah, sure,’ he agrees. ‘Let’s start again!’
And here we go for the third time, ordering more coffees and shooting my caffeine levels sky high. Yet as we sip our drinks I can’t help noticing that Basim ceases talking about himself and asks me loads of cautious questions regarding my situation. I tell him all about my family but Basim responds with no more than a ‘hmm’ or a ‘uh-hum’ and he’s completely stopped cracking witty comments.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask, after a painful silence.
Basim seems to find his fingernails extremely fascinating. ‘I guess I feel a bit awkward. I’d expected you to be more chilled. You seemed really different on the phone.’
I feel like pointing out that it’s easy to be relaxed when I’m safely tucked up in my flat and another thing entirely to be expecting to have my bones jumped every minute, but this seems rather harsh. And is there any point? I’m obviously not the sussed city babe he thought he was getting.
Basim glances at his watch. ‘Goodness, I hadn’t realised it was getting so late,’ he says eventually. ‘I’d better be getting back. My mother will send out a search party otherwise.’
‘Let me pay,’ I say, reaching for the tab. ‘It’s the least I can do after spilling most of the drinks.’
‘Absolutely not.’ Basim takes it. ‘I’ll settle this. It’s been interesting meeting you, Mills. I’m pretty busy with work for the next couple of days but I’ll be in touch.’
Once he’s gone I place my head in my hands and groan. I think I can safely say this date has been a total and utter cock-up.
Two down and one to go.
Maybe third time lucky?
Chapter 19
I’m not mad on this dating lark. In fact the idea of giving up altogether and marrying Subhi is starting to look really appealing, but dammit I’ve paid my hard-earned money now and I’m a top investigative journalist to boot, so I’m going see this through. Of course Basim never rings again and Aadam is mercifully silent, which leaves me with Singles guy number three, Mikhail.
Third time lucky…
After all, who’s to say he isn’t the one?
It’s six o’clock on Friday evening and Nish and I are crammed into the office loos in a frantic attempt to turn me into a babe for my impending meeting with Mikhail. I’m squeezed into Nish’s Earl jeans and red skinny rib sweater and trying to restore my shiny face with gallons of Clarins Beauty Flash.
‘This is supposed to be fun,’ says Nish, dusting blusher across my cheeks. ‘Try not to look like you’re off to the dentist.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Sorry. But this is supposed to be enjoyable. Mikhail sounds gorgeous with those lovely blue eyes you say he has.’
I apply a final layer of baby-pink lip gloss. ‘He wasn’t bad.’
Actually, according to my rather Swiss-cheese-style memory I seem to recall that Mikhail is pretty yummy: even-stevens with Wish on the eye front. Instead of aquatic green, Mikhail’s eyes are deep-sea blue, I seem to recall, and just as deep-sea drown-worthy.
At least I think they were…
‘So where is it tonight?’ Nish enquires as we return to the office.
‘Thai Heaven, the new place just off Russell Square.’
‘I’ve heard about that.’ Nish looks impressed. ‘All the celebs are raving about it. Hey, Wish!’ she hollers. ‘Didn’t you and Minty go to Thai Heaven last week?’
Wish looks up from the light board where he and Imran are examining a fashion spread. A lock of glossy hair falls across his face and he pushes it back impatiently.
‘Yeah, why?’
‘Mills is going on another date!’ cries Nish, for whom privacy is just a concept. ‘Her latest man is really treating her.’
‘Well,’ says Wish, his eyes sweeping over my new outfit before meeting mine, ‘she’s worth it.’
My cheeks suddenly feel very warm indeed. That skinny rib must be hotter than I realised.
‘We all know that,’ says Nish. ‘But what’s the food like? I guess Minty only had half a bean sprout but you must have eaten something?’
Wish’s green eyes hold mine. ‘The food’s amazing. You’ll have a fantastic time, Mills.’
‘Thanks.’
Why do I get the impression Wish wants to say something else? I smile at him and wait but it seems I’m mistaken because he turns his attention straight back to his photos and it’s as though I’m not even there. I will him to look back and just wish me luck, or maybe make a joke about the things I’ll do for my work, but he doesn’t.
Feeling dismissed I shoulder my bag and turn my back on him. Wish has been a right grouch lately. He hasn’t bothered to show any interest in my dating escapades even though the rest of the staff are fully paid-up members of this new office soap opera. Some friend he is.
I arrive at Thai Heaven early and even though it’s only seven in the evening the place is heaving. I push open the door and at once my taste buds go into overdrive because the aroma is so delicious you can practically eat it. Glamorous couples are seated at tables chatting over sublime dishes while a bevy of black-suited waiters tend to their every need. As the concierge escorts me to my table I notice how beautifully dressed everyone is. Is that really Sienna Miller in the corner? I love the cream catsuit thing she’s got going on there.
I really wish I hadn’t worn jeans.
‘Please,’ the concierge says, ‘take a seat.’
No sign of Mikhail. Maybe he’s caught in the traffic?
‘Can I fetch Madam a drink?’
I look around for Madam. Duh! He means me! Since when did I graduate from Miss? Is all this city life giving me lines and wrinkles that I haven’t noticed? Ordering a Diet Coke I check my face in the back of a knife but so far the free radicals don’t appeared to have done too much damage.
Unfortunately there’s only so much peering in cutlery that a girl can do to pass the time and once I’ve been waiting for over twenty minutes I start to lose my cool. That paranoia is back big time and I find that I’m doing the same jerky twitchy thing that ended in disaster when I was out with Basim. This evening it’s a different type of paranoia because rather than trying to spot Secret Service-style family members I’m now searching for a blue-eyed Pakistani Adonis. I may as well have a neon sign above my head that reads ‘stood up’ because, judging by all the surreptitious glances from the other diners, that’s exactly what everyone thinks has happened.
The Wedding Countdown Page 14