The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters

by Nadiya Hussain

  ‘I don’t know what’s worse,’ he said. ‘A woman who knows how beautiful she is or one who doesn’t.’

  I paused, not sure what to say, but still annoyed just at him. He looked faintly embarrassed.

  ‘As if it matters,’ I said. ‘It’s hers to guard or show, as she pleases.’

  I waited for the usual tropes about modesty and expectations and was ready for an argument, because God knows I could do with some kind of vent.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, looking up. ‘You’re right.’

  I paused.

  ‘But?’ I asked, folding my arms.

  ‘But what?’ he replied.

  ‘There’s always a but.’

  He smiled at me as if I’d said something amusing before he looked over my shoulder.

  ‘Sorry, I was in the shower,’ said Farah, coming into the kitchen.

  He stood up and said hello, before sitting down again. ‘I wanted to let you know that I’ve spoken to Fatima and she’s coming home in the next few days.’

  ‘Oh, thank God,’ said Farah, putting her hands to her face.

  I breathed an internal sigh of relief but it was annoying that he should be the one to bring us news of our sister. She might be his sister by blood, but that doesn’t make them family.

  ‘You could’ve told us over the phone,’ I said.

  ‘Bubblee …’ said Farah.

  ‘But then I would not have been here for our charming exchange,’ he replied.

  I glanced at Farah who was suppressing a smile.

  ‘How did she sound?’ she asked.

  He paused. ‘Okay, I think. It was hard to tell. The connection wasn’t very good. She sounded a lot better than I thought she would; considering.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Farah.

  He ran his hands through his hair, as if searching for the right thing to say. ‘My parents … sometimes they don’t know the things they say.’

  ‘That’s hardly a surprise,’ I spouted.

  They both stared at me.

  ‘I meant that aren’t all parents like that? Some of the stuff that Mum and Dad come out with …’ I added, looking at Farah.

  ‘They’re always fine whenever I’ve spoken to them,’ she replied to him, ignoring my comment.

  He looked at me briefly before looking at Farah. ‘Yes, well, knowing someone through speaking on Skype and living with them your whole life are different. Anyway, parents are human. We love them anyway.’

  Farah smiled and nodded.

  ‘I’ll collect Fatti from the airport,’ I said.

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ replied Malik. ‘She said someone’s already collecting her.’

  ‘Who?’ said Farah and I in unison with perhaps a little too much force, because Malik looked taken aback.

  ‘I don’t know. A friend, she said. I think the same one she stayed with.’

  ‘You know? Who was it?’ I asked.

  ‘You probably don’t think patience is important,’ he said, looking at me, ‘but you’ll have to wait and ask her yourself.’

  There’s nothing more presumptuous than someone claiming to know something about you. Perhaps the look of disdain showed on my face because Farah interrupted what I was about to say by asking how Malik got here. He apparently took the bus. When he said he’d be on his way and that he’d see us at the hospital later, she insisted he stay. He looked at me as if to ask for permission.

  ‘It’s not my house,’ I replied. ‘Stay. Leave. It’s up to you.’

  Farah hit the back of my head and smiled at him. ‘You’ll have to get used to her.’

  ‘Would you wish that on a person?’ he replied, leaning back into his chair.

  I went to put the kettle on – as if I was the type of person to find that faux reverse-psychology flirtation charming.

  ‘Can I help you with anything here?’ he asked, looking at the papers we’d left on the floor the night before.

  ‘Not unless you can tell us how to pay off all your brother’s debts,’ Farah said, her mouth tightening.

  Malik sighed. ‘I’m sorry. This isn’t what a husband is meant to do.’

  I had to scoff. ‘That’s the problem.’

  ‘Oh, Bubblee, give it a rest,’ said Farah.

  ‘It’s true. Assigning expectation to gender is part of the problem.’

  Malik held up his hands. ‘Your sister likes to argue about everything,’ he said to Farah.

  ‘Her sister is standing right here,’ I replied.

  He stood up and came into the kitchen area as Farah went to tidy the papers.

  ‘You are right. Again.’

  I wasn’t sure what was worse – saying stupid things or giving in so easily.

  Lowering his voice, he added: ‘But isn’t honesty all that matters between husband and wife?’

  I had to lean back. I smelt the fresh scent of his aftershave and noticed how long his fingers were. He was far too close for my liking and I wasn’t the kind of girl that quivered at the sound of a man lowering his voice.

  ‘All that matters,’ I said, looking pointedly at the lack of distance between us, ‘is space.’

  This time, I didn’t care that he looked embarrassed. He stepped back and nodded, taking his seat at the table again. Just because a person’s good-looking, it doesn’t mean they have the right to expect you to respond to their vacuous banter, no matter how nice they smell. The doorbell rang again and when Farah came back in, her neighbour John was also in tow.

  ‘You really don’t have to do this,’ she said as he made his way to the garden.

  ‘You’re doing me a favour,’ he replied. ‘Get out of that damned house.’

  He fiddled with the patio door until he managed to unlock it.

  ‘Are you going to help?’ he shouted.

  We weren’t sure who he was speaking to because he was looking at the lawn. A few moments later he turned around and looked at Malik who put down his paper and joined John outside.

  ‘Are we women incapable of mowing a lawn?’ I said.

  ‘Be my guest,’ Farah replied, opening her arm up towards the garden where it seemed Malik had been instructed to weed the flower beds.

  ‘Your neighbour seems charming.’

  He was battling with the lawnmower and I’m quite sure he emitted more than a few expletives. Farah laughed as she looked at him.

  ‘I know. I found him terrifying when I met him. Thought he hated us because we’re brown. Turns out he just hates everyone, equally. But you know Mustafa,’ she said. ‘He wins people over when he puts his mind to it.’

  She must’ve seen me look away.

  ‘Well, most of the time anyway,’ she added.

  She looked out into the garden again. ‘John’s a bit rough around the edges, but I don’t know what I’d do without him or Alice. And anyway, you’re one to talk about being charming. The hard time you give Malik, it’s a wonder he hasn’t pushed you into my begonias. You really should give him a break.’

  I watched her as she got some bread out and put it in the toaster.

  ‘He tries so hard, though. It’s nauseating. I just don’t like the way he’s turned up and shaken everything around. You’ve got to admit, that was such an unnecessary scene he made at the hospital. And the way he goes on about Fatti as if she’s more his sister than ours. I mean, it’s intrusive at best.’

  ‘Well, at least she has a brother who’s alive and well and who doesn’t swindle people for their money either.’

  I gave a low laugh. ‘I don’t know. He rubs me up the wrong way, looking at me with his puppy-dog eyes. I’m not interested – get the picture?’

  ‘Carry on like that and no doubt he will,’ replied Farah, watching him in the garden.

  ‘Would you both like some breakfast?’ she called out.

  They just wanted tea.

  ‘We have cereal as well,’ she said to me.

  ‘Why do you even need to know your neighbours, anyway?’ I said. ‘Your family just lives a five-
minute drive away. Isn’t it a bore having to deal with so many people ringing your doorbell all the time?’

  She shook her head at me. ‘I never understood why you didn’t like people.’

  ‘I like people.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Who?

  I paused. ‘You guys.’

  ‘You have to; we’re family.’

  ‘Well, you know, there’s Sasha. And Edgar,’ I added. ‘Mila. Juan.’

  ‘Apart from Sasha I don’t recognise any of those names. And I actually listen to what goes on.’

  ‘You’re just trying to prove a point,’ I said.

  ‘The family isn’t going to make sure no-one burgles me when I’m out with them at a wedding or something. Or call the police when there’s a racist attack.’

  ‘Which must be really helpful when the police themselves are racist.’

  She rested her hands on the kitchen counter. ‘Bubs, I love you, but aren’t you exhausted?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of always seeing the worst in people and circumstances? Don’t you, for once, just want to see the good in people?’

  I poured the boiling water into four mugs. It’s not that I see the worst in people, it’s just that generally people tend to show their worst sides when it comes down to it. And if you expect the worst, then at least you’re not disappointed further down the line. If Farah had been a little more discerning about her husband, then this whole situation might at least not have come as such a shock.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘Fine, maybe I turned too much of a blind eye to what Mustafa did. Maybe I should’ve been a bit more like you, but Bubs, if you could be just a little bit like me too, I’d like to see you be as happy as I’ve been. Whatever the outcome is now – I have been happy. Don’t you want that?’

  ‘I don’t want to be made a fool, Far.’

  ‘Is that what I am to you?’

  I took her hand, because I didn’t want to argue, especially after last night, but she had to understand. ‘That’s what most people are.’

  ‘You know it catches up with you,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Foolishness. There’s not enough cynicism in the world to prevent it.’ She looked out into the garden, Malik wiping his brow already. ‘But first of all, why don’t you go and put on a robe.’

  I gave her an exasperated look.

  ‘You’re not in London any more, Bubblee.’

  I took out the teabags from each mug, glancing outside, and replied, ‘We’re not in Bangladesh, either.’

  *

  We got to the hospital and Mum and Dad arrived half an hour after us, Mae dragging her feet behind them. Farah sat in the room with Mustafa as I told the rest of the family that we should give them space.

  ‘Er, yeah, because he really needs it,’ said Mae as we all exited and went into the waiting room.

  Malik smiled and ruffled her hair, which – I don’t know why – annoyed me. Especially since Mae didn’t do her usual disgusted face, but instead laughed, while telling him to get off. I took her by the arm and told her we could go and find her a kale smoothie from somewhere.

  ‘Please,’ she replied. ‘Do you know how much sugar and preservatives they put in those drinks?’

  She took one out that she’d made at home, and another for Malik. When did this unlikely friendship take place? There were still curt nods exchanged between Malik and Mum and Dad, but according to Mae he’d apologised to them. I guess it might take a while for them to forgive him. Quite right too. As I watched Mae telling Malik about the latest docu-film she’d watched, I decided to leave them to it and see how Farah was doing. I stopped at the door and saw her holding Mustafa’s hand.

  ‘I’m still so angry with you,’ I heard her say. ‘And I will sell an organ of yours.’ She lowered her head so her forehead was resting on his hand. ‘I’ll just make sure it’s not one you can’t live without.’

  I had to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat. She then started telling him about the kind of casserole that Alice had brought, and how John was fixing the garden, and the cards they’d received. I suppose this was the life they’d built together, with Mum, Dad, Fatti and Mae and all these friends and neighbours – all these commonalities they shared. If I had a pencil and paper at hand in that moment I think I’d have drawn a picture of the way Mustafa’s wires pressed into his skin, and the way Farah’s fingers were interlocked with his. In that moment I prayed, for the first time, that Jay would somehow at least be able to save their home for them. Then I turned around and decided to phone Sasha.

  ‘If I was in a coma, do you think people would send me cards?’ I asked.

  ‘But you’d be in a coma, so what would be the point?’

  ‘It’s hypothetical,’ I said.

  ‘Even hypotheticals need grounding in some form of reality.’

  I gave an exasperated sigh. ‘For God’s sake, Sash.’

  ‘You know I’m right,’ she replied. ‘What’s wrong? You’re not having an existential crisis, are you? Small towns can do that to a person.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good, because the one thing I rely on you for is clarity.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course. Are you missing home? It’s so dull here without you.’

  I thought of my little flat, around the corner and the coffee I was missing, getting the papers in the morning and walking around London, finding the newest exhibition.

  ‘I’ve been able to catch up with the family,’ I said.

  ‘Hmm. That doesn’t answer my question.’

  I wasn’t sure what home even meant any more. Perhaps I had spent too long here. I told Sasha that Fatti was returning in a few days, about Malik’s unwanted attention but his inextricable link to us now – a cousin we could’ve ignored, even if he was our sister’s brother-in-law, but we can’t ignore as Fatti’s brother.

  ‘I miss you,’ I said.

  ‘I could be there tomorrow if you want?’ she answered.

  ‘Sash,’ I began. ‘Do you ever get … lonely?’

  She laughed so hard, I had to move the phone away from my ear.

  ‘Bubs,’ she exclaimed, still sounding amused. ‘I’m dying of it, obviously. We all are. And don’t let anyone fool you into believing otherwise,’ she added.

  In all the years I’d known her, I don’t know why we’d never had this conversation before. We talked about all sorts of things: the world, art, social disparities, the patriarchy, but never that one thing that can drive you into a metaphorical hole, shut you up inside a room like it did Fatti, linger in your bones even when you’re in a crowded place. Sasha just always seemed so together and in charge of who she was and what she did. She and loneliness didn’t make sense. I suppose you can never know how someone feels until you ask them. Maybe that’s what Farah meant by me never calling – it showed too much of how little I cared.

  ‘You’re lonely? Really?’

  ‘Of course I am. Aren’t you?’ she asked, shocked at the notion that I might not be.

  I turned around and looked into the room at Mustafa and Farah, Dad in front of the vending machine in the corridor, Mum, Malik and Mae probably inside the waiting room – all these people who’d sent Farah those cards. Sasha was right, obviously – loneliness is par for the course. I just couldn’t help but think that some of us are less alone than others.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Farah

  It’s the not knowing that’s the worst part. When Mustafa and I were trying for a baby and it just wasn’t happening, there was a time when we were both in denial, refusing to believe there could be something wrong with either one of us. The minute we came out of the denial and decided to have tests to find out, that period of waiting almost felt as difficult as the previous two years of attempting to make a baby. We only had to wait a week. It’s been almost a month since Mustafa’s accident and there’s no obvious improvement, no more information as to whether
he’ll come out of it, except that the longer he’s in a coma, the less likely it is that he will. This thought sends me into such a panic that I stay glued to the spot because I’m not sure I wouldn’t fly into a frenzy. I can feel myself on the brink of falling apart when Bubblee might ask what a certain invoice was for, or a neighbour might come over with more casserole, or Mum will need help in the kitchen. It sounds selfish but in some ways Fatti’s absence has been good, because Mum and Dad are both so worried that I’m too busy calming them down to have time to be concerned about my own problems. Even though their problems are my problems. That’s just the way it works.

  I came home from the hospital and Bubblee insisted she come with me again, but I wanted to be on my own. Perhaps she was offended – I don’t know, but as helpful as she’d been lately, I needed to not have to speak, or listen, or argue, or get my point across. I’d just lain down on the sofa for a moment when the doorbell rang several times. I looked at my watch and it was almost eleven o’clock at night. I crossed into the front room to peer out of the window and see who it was. A tall, dark figure loomed outside – the person had their back to me and my heart began to race. I dropped the curtain as he turned around. Should I call the police? There was urgent knocking on the door as I ran into the kitchen, grabbed a knife and came back out into the passage.

  ‘Who is it?’ I asked, briskly.

  There was no answer. I got my phone out, ready to dial 999.

  ‘Open the door,’ came a voice.

  ‘Who is it?’ I repeated.

  ‘Far,’ said the voice. ‘It’s me.’

  Surely it couldn’t be. I must’ve been hearing things.

  ‘Jay?’ I said.

  When he didn’t respond I opened the door and there he was: my little brother – the reason my husband was in a coma and I might lose the very house I lived in.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, his brown eyes lacking the sparkle they usually had.

  I wasn’t sure whether I was dreaming or not when he added: ‘Can I come in?’

  Something in me hardened. This was the boy I’d protected my whole life, whose faults I hid from my parents, my sisters and even my husband. If I’d not always covered for him, would Mustafa have trusted him with the company accounts the way he had?