The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters

by Nadiya Hussain

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Farah

  House cleaned? Check. Shopping done? Check. Shopping delivered to Mum and Dad’s, along with money from Jay, that’s not actually from Jay but me? Check. I needed a minute and ended up collapsing on the sofa. Bubblee’s face swam in front of me even though I tried to blink it out of existence. It shouldn’t bother me – it’s been five years since I’ve been listening to the same passive-aggressive tone. I suppose you just don’t get used to your twin’s disappointment. The doorbell rang. It was Pooja who came to give back the electric screwdriver she’d borrowed.

  ‘Have you seen the monstrous boutique they’ve opened up on Henway Road? The designs of the Indian suits are awful. And you know our neighbours will be queuing up to buy some if there’s a South Asian wedding within a ten-mile radius.’

  I smiled and gestured for her to come in but she said she had to go and make sure her husband didn’t feed her children Tuc biscuits for dinner.

  ‘Oh, an email’s gone around to confirm our meeting. You’re okay with next week?’ she asked.

  There was a burglary a few months ago and we’d set up a neighbourhood watch as a result.

  ‘Yes, that’s fine and let’s have it at mine. I’ll respond to everyone.’

  ‘As long as we don’t ask Marge to bring snacks, because honestly, I don’t think I could stomach it,’ said Pooja.

  I laughed and told her I’d delegate with that in mind as she said goodbye. Since I was up I checked whether Mustafa had paid the bills I’d found a few weeks ago. They all still needed to be paid. I picked up my mobile.

  ‘Hey,’ I said to Mustafa.

  ‘Hon, listen, I’m on my way to an important meeting. I just know this idea’s going to be the one,’ he said.

  Which is what he said last time, and the time before that, and the time before that. I’d told him before that I knew this company was his dream – a place where he and his associates would get together and think about new inventions and apps – and then try to create them. But all the money he made in the stock market, coming out of university, was being used up in this company to no avail. Still, it was his money, and he still traded, which gave us a comfortable life, so I couldn’t complain. There was just no nice way of saying that his ideas were … not good. I didn’t want to be the cynical wife, though, because maybe, just maybe, he’d surprise me. And it would make me happy to see him happy.

  ‘I’ll call you in a bit, okay?’ he said, sounding distracted.

  ‘I just needed to know when you were transferring that money into our joint account. You still haven’t paid those bills, so I thought I’d do it.’

  He paused.

  ‘Today,’ he replied.

  ‘Babe, that’s what you said last week. And the week before that.’

  I included the ‘Babe’ to stop myself from sounding like a nagging wife. I waited for him to speak but it took a few moments.

  ‘I know. I’ll sort it out today. I promise,’ he added. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he pressed.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, then lost the will to pretend. ‘Bubblee.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Why didn’t she see that despite the fact that this man’s been shunned by her, he still manages to bite his tongue when her name’s mentioned. But I suppose rage isn’t his thing. It’s neither of our thing. That’s what I love about him.

  ‘How is she?’ he asked.

  ‘Still Bubblee.’ I sighed and took out the groceries from the bag, putting them on the kitchen counter. ‘I thought going to London might soften her a bit.’

  He laughed. ‘For a born-and-bred Britisher, you don’t have a very good idea of what London’s like.’

  It still amuses me when he says ‘Britisher’.

  ‘You’ll transfer the money then?’ I said, suddenly feeling tired from having to talk about Bubblee.

  I don’t need her to understand my marriage to Mustafa – I understand and so does he and that’s all that matters. I waited for him to respond. Five years with a person can help you to read their silences and hesitations as well as the intonation of their speech.

  ‘Is everything okay, Mustafa?’ I asked.

  I just had to check – his silences weren’t normal. I don’t see how things couldn’t be okay. We had everything, after all. I looked around the house and the lack of toys cluttered everywhere; no playpen, no children’s books, no pieces of Lego or dolls left lying around. I hear people complain about what their children have or haven’t done and it stirs something inside of me – making me want to shout – not sure what I’d shout, but that doesn’t matter.

  ‘Everything’s fine, Far,’ he added. ‘I’ll always look after you. You know that, don’t you?’

  Of course he will. He always has.

  ‘Have you heard from Jay lately?’ he asked.

  ‘He emailed last week. Why?’

  ‘Just wondering,’ he said. ‘I er …’ he paused. ‘I promised your parents I’d get him to help out with work. Just to give him a hand.’

  ‘Oh.’

  It was the first I’d heard of it. Why hadn’t anybody told me? When I asked Mustafa he simply said that it was only bits and pieces Jay was doing – nothing major.

  ‘I’ll see how he gets on – it’s nothing permanent.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘For helping him out.’

  ‘You’re happy with it?’

  ‘I know it’ll mean a lot to Mum and Dad. But take it one step at a time with Jay. I love him but it’s not exactly an ideal plan.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, of course.’

  ‘And come home early tonight if you can,’ I added.

  He replied that he would as he put the phone down, when the doorbell rang again.

  ‘Hi, Abba,’ I said as Dad walked into the living room and switched the television on.

  ‘Your amma thinks I’ve gone out to buy some things for the garden,’ he said.

  He settled down on my large white sofa, giving a satisfied sigh and smiled as The Arti-Fact Show flashed on our fifty-inch screen.

  ‘I’ll make the tea,’ I replied, glancing at the television screen. ‘The presenter’s put on weight, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Look at that,’ said Dad, observing what can only be described as a painting of a swan, studded with crystals. ‘Beautiful. Even your amma would like that,’ he added, turning to me, and possibly seeing the disgusted look on my face.

  I gave him his tea with a slice of cake and sat down next to him.

  ‘You’re okay?’ he asked, not taking his eyes off the television screen.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Bubblee’s ideas are different,’ he said, sipping his tea.

  I picked a bit of walnut off my cake and put it to the side.

  ‘London,’ Dad said, shaking his head. ‘Everyone talks about London, but we are happy here, aren’t we?’ he added, putting his arm around me, squeezing my shoulders.

  ‘Yes, Abba.’

  ‘She’s a good girl, but if she could just get married so your amma would stop worrying, it would help me very much. Now your brother, on the other hand; we might not always see him but he still thinks of us, sending us money. Plus, you know boys will be boys.’

  It was useful to have the TV as a distraction, because the look on my face might’ve given my secret away. I couldn’t quite bear the idea of Mum and Dad thinking that their only son’s one redeeming feature of sending them money was actually me.

  ‘Before I forget,’ said Dad, taking out a letter. ‘What is this?’

  I read through it.

  ‘It’s just about parking meters. You can read, Abba.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but the English sometimes is confusing.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ I added. ‘Won’t affect our road.’

  ‘Very good.’ Dad smacked his legs with his hands and got up to leave.

  ‘Don’t forget to get the soil that’s on offer, Abba,’ I said. ‘Not the full-p
rice one. Mum won’t stop telling me about it otherwise.’

  He nodded, gratefully, kissed me on the head and left. When he’d gone I wandered around the house. I do this often; when all the chores are done and the kitchen and bathroom can’t get any cleaner. I look at the high ceilings and arched doorways, the mowed lawn, with flower beds dotted all around. Mum used to tell us that a woman makes a house a home. But sometimes these spaces seem so empty I’m not sure what else I can do to fill the void that seems to stretch. There are potted plants in the home, picture frames and even some organised clutter I’ve arranged, but nothing fills the emptiness apart from when my husband comes home.

  I remembered the day we moved into this house. I couldn’t believe we’d be living in a place so big and beautiful, but thanks to Mustafa’s job and some help from Mum and Dad we were able to afford it. There’s nothing quite like making your own home; filling up the spaces with things you’ve been given or have bought; deciding where to put the television; disagreeing over the paint, only to settle on a colour that looks dangerously close to Magnolia. Mustafa had come up behind me and put his arms around me.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

  ‘I love it,’ I replied.

  ‘The small room upstairs would make a perfect nursery, wouldn’t it?’ he added.

  I shook myself from the memory and sat at my laptop, looking at baby items on the Internet. If I had a baby girl I’d dress her up in pink – I don’t care what people say about the colour; it’d look beautiful on her. And my boy would be in blue. I’d want the girl first so she could play me to our baby boy, who’d obviously have some of his Uncle Jay’s looks. She’d hug him when he fell over, cover for him whenever he got in trouble with me or Mustafa – she’d call him when we asked where he was before he’d come stumbling home, careful not to wake us. Before going to sleep he’d creep into her room and plant a kiss on her forehead, which she’d accept before hitting him on the arm for making her lie again. I laughed at the memory it conjured and missed Jay so much, I wished he’d visit us. Five years ago it would’ve been Bubblee I’d have gone to, but now he’s the only one I could tell: No, Jay. I can’t have babies.

  I looked through my inbox and clicked on his latest email to me.

  From: Amir, Jahangir

  To: Lateef, Farah

  Subject: Hi

  Hi Sis,

  Thanks for sending through that money again. You know how much I appreciate it. I promise I’m trying to get my life together. Sometimes it’s hard, but this time I really think I’m going to get my big break. I’ve a friend who’s got a business plan and he wants me to be a part of it.

  Don’t tell anyone about it yet, not until it all goes through. I know it’s been a while since I’ve called Mum and Dad but I promise I’ll do that too. I’m just concentrating on this business plan.

  Take care,

  Jay

  P.S. I do know how I’m lucky to have a sister like you.

  God, please let this work. At least he did call Mum and Dad, even if it was five days later. I’d asked him what this plan was but he didn’t want to go into detail because he said he’d jinx it. I don’t know why it is that for some people things just don’t seem to go smoothly. It’s always been something with him – whether it was school or work. I prayed that next time he emailed, it would be good news.

  I ended up falling asleep on the sofa. When I awoke it was already six o’clock and Mustafa wasn’t home yet so I called him. No answer. Whenever I get up from a nap I feel anxious – as if I’ve missed something while I was asleep. I need to stop looking at Internet sites for baby clothes.

  ‘Right – dinner,’ I said to myself.

  Adding the tomato puree to the fried onions, I glanced over at the clock. Six thirty-five. As the chicken simmered in the pan I reached for my mobile and called him again, but it went straight to voicemail. When it got to seven-thirty the demeanour of easy-going wife began to slip. I checked our joint-account balance online and saw no money had been transferred.

  Why doesn’t he just tell me when he can’t do something? Why does he have to lie? But the anger dissolved as I looked at the dinner that was getting cold. That’s when the doorbell rang.

  ‘You’re late and you forgot your keys,’ I called out as I opened the door.

  I looked up at two young men in police officers’ outfits.

  ‘Mrs Lateef?’ one of them said.

  What had happened? Had there been another burglary on the street?

  ‘Yes?’ I replied.

  ‘Is there anyone home with you?’

  I shook my head. Just then Alice from next door was coming home and stopped to look at what was going on.

  ‘Everything okay, officers?’ she asked, walking over.

  ‘Is this lady a friend of yours, Mrs Lateef?’ asked one of the officers.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ replied Alice.

  The police officer gave a constrained smile as he looked at me for confirmation. I nodded.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  I didn’t know why but a knot formed in my stomach as I gripped the door handle.

  ‘It’s your husband,’ one of them said.

  I couldn’t quite focus on their faces as my heart began to thud so loudly it muffled my hearing. Their image became a blur.

  ‘I’m afraid he’s been in an accident.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mae

  ‘Mae, put the camera away,’ Fatti whispered into my ear.

  Was she mad? This was prime videoing time; all these faces, the hospital, the tension.

  ‘Put it away or I’ll throw it in the bin,’ exclaimed Mum.

  Everyone in the waiting room looked at Mum. Didn’t look like she cared. I tucked the phone under my leg as Dad gave an exhausted sigh. Fatti got up and made her way towards the door, outside, where Farah was sitting on her own. Looked like Dad was lost in a world of his own, so I got up and walked towards the door too with my phone. I’d just got a message from the girls from school.

  Omg. Jus saw on your snapchat that your bro inlaws been in an accident. Are you alright?? Hashtagged on Twitter #Pray4family. Lemme know if you need anything. Xxx

  I knew it wasn’t ideal to video all of this but it was my GCSE assignment. Plus, it’s weird how people find my family so interesting. Whenever I put something on Snapchat about them it always gets loads of hits, because some people appreciate creativity – and not the Bubblee kind, but the real, gritty, my-generation kind. What my fam fail to understand is that they don’t actually have peripheral vision. Yeah, in the literal sense they have it, but not in the metaphorical sense (I’m going to ace my GCSE English too). For example, as I walked up to the door, Mum and Dad in the waiting room couldn’t see how Fatti looked, sitting next to Farah. I sneakily got my phone out again. Of course Farah’s going to be crying and all sorts but when I zoomed in on Fatti, just a little, there was something more than upset there. A look no-one would’ve noticed if it weren’t for me and my trusted camera.

  The doctor came and paused in front of Farah and Fatti as they both looked up. She started saying something about Mustafa being in a medically induced coma.

  ‘A coma?’ said Farah, looking confused.

  ‘It’s just a precaution to avoid nerve and brain-stem cell damage that can be caused by the swelling of the brain,’ she said.

  ‘But he’s going to be okay, isn’t he?’ said Fatti. ‘I mean, he’s going to come out of it.’

  The doctor removed her glasses. ‘It’s too early to tell. The injuries to the head have been severe. We’ll have to wait to see the extent once the swelling has reduced and we take him out of the coma.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Farah, clutching her stomach.

  ‘So, the coma’s not permanent?’ said Fatti.

  ‘No, no. Just temporary and reversible.’

  Farah shook her head. ‘I told him,’ she said to Fatti. ‘Always use your head-set. You’ll get caught by the police. You’ll have an accident.
’

  I felt a lump in my throat but pushed it back. Fatti rubbed Farah’s back, not saying much. She did look a little slimmer at this angle.

  Every1s asking what’s goin on with ur bro-in-law. U should tweet sumthin.

  I tweeted:

  Bro-in-law in coma. In hospital with amazin staff.

  #Pray4Family

  ‘Who was he speaking to?’ asked Fatti.

  Farah shook her head. ‘Don’t know. His phone’s dead—’

  She stopped and did this weird staccato intake of breath as if she’d forgotten how to breathe. I realised only then that I didn’t think I’d ever seen Farah cry. Fatti cries all the time. I know because I sometimes hear her in her room. All it takes is me offering her a salad before her eyes fill with tears. Bubblee cried the day she said she was moving to London. Those were more tears of rage, though. What a drama that was. I should watch that video back one day – ‘You’re stifling me! We’re human beings, not just girls who are made to get married and churn out babies …’ On and on it went.

  Fatti took Farah into a hug and I zoomed in on Fatti’s face again, looking so sad and sorry that I decided to switch the camera off. Though I did wonder: what’s she got to be sorry about?

  When Bubblee came running down the corridor, Farah looked up as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. Bubblee slowed down to a walk as she approached us and took the seat next to Farah. When I was a child I used to pretend that Farah and Bubblee were the two ugly step-sisters (except they weren’t ugly, obvs) and Fatti was my fairy godmother.

  ‘You came,’ said Farah. Not like she sounded grateful or anything – just surprised.

  Bubblee gave a tight kind of smile. Smiling never did come naturally to her.

  ‘What do the doctors say?’ Bubblee asked.

  ‘Severe head trauma,’ replied Farah, pressing her hand to her forehead.

  I couldn’t help it. I had to get my phone out again. I put it on video and then tucked it into my shirt pocket so it recorded everything without anyone going, Mae, turn it off. Mae, stop it. Maeeeeeee.

  ‘But what does that mean?’ asked Bubblee.

  Farah looked at her. ‘It means they don’t know if he’ll make it.’