by Ayisha Malik
‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Tea or coffee?’ he asked as he left me alone in the room.
‘Oh. No, I’m fine thanks,’ I called out after him. ‘If I’m interrupting I could always come back later?’
He appeared at the door, ‘What?’
‘If you’re busy I could come back another time?’
‘You’re here to work.’
He stood in the doorway, and I don’t mean to be a prude or anything but it was as if it was perfectly natural to be shirtless, tattoo-armed in your boxers in front of, hello, a hijabi. I mean, it would’ve been inappropriate with anyone really. I couldn’t look directly at him, so kept on searching for interesting places I could focus on.
‘I just didn’t want to disturb you,’ I said clearing my throat and putting my bag on the table.
‘It’s fine.’
He then walked up the stairs. Thanks to God.
Before he left, he gave me the spare keys to lock up and said I could use them when he’s not there to answer the door, which is a little trusting of him. I had a snoop of his bookshelves, obviously. He had most of the classics, books on philosophy, politics (those are books I clearly need to borrow), lots of Karen Armstrong, Dalai Lama, Simone de Beauvoir (hmmm, interesting), Steve McCurry, Sabastio Salgado, Henri Cartier – photography types. Made me feel terribly uncultured that I hadn’t heard of any of these names.
Such productivity. I think Naim would be very impressed with my professionalism.
Friday 13 January
11.05 a.m.
From Naim: Honey, I’m home.
Thanks to God we’re both in the same country again, but what am I going to doooooooo??
10.30 p.m. NAIM CALLING!
Saturday 14 January
12 p.m. Have come a bit late to Conall’s, but at least he’s not here. Slept through my alarm for morning prayer. I wish missing fajr didn’t form part of Naim’s return. I thought it might be a little weird that we’ve not spoken for weeks. I began wondering whether our conversations were as funny as I remembered them to be or if it was just a figment of my stretched imagination. It so wasn’t. Apart from when he mentioned partying most nights. Not sure how much time you get to pray when you’re partying and then I realised I sounded like a boring old cow. Maybe because I am a boring old cow.
2 p.m. I want a fag. Is it unethical to smoke in neighbour’s home?
2.10 p.m. I’ve just tried to unlock the door to the garden and the damn thing won’t open. It’s just not meant to be.
2.45 p.m. Ha! Huge window in toilet. I had to stand on the toilet seat to lean out of the window with my cigarette, but I can’t have his house smelling of smoke. That would be rude. I kept thinking about this partying business with Naim. But then what’s a relationship without a few hurdles?
3 p.m. Oh my God, my eyes keep closing involuntarily as if a small person is tugging at my eyelids. Maybe I’ll have a short nap. To rejuvenate. Conall’s sofa does look comfortable. His washing is drying on it, though. Bit weird touching any boxers that might be there. Maybe will just have a peek.
3.02 p.m. Only T-shirts and jumpers mostly. Surely that’s fine. Few minutes will have my writerly ideas flowing.
7 p.m. Balls! A few minutes turned into three sodding hours. I was awoken by keys rattling in the door. Leaped off the sofa, whipped on my hijab and ran to sit in front of my laptop as if I’d been writing all day. Conall came in and stared at me.
‘Hello,’ I said as brightly as I could to disguise the fact that I felt I was having an out-of-body experience. ‘I was just finishing this sentence.’
He didn’t say anything. Then something felt odd on my head – not inside it, rather more around it. It felt as if my scarf had shrunk. I could see an odd bit dangling from the corner of my eye. I put my hand on my head and then caught a glimpse of my scarf draped over the arm of the sofa: what the hell is it doing there when it’s on my head? There was a three-second window where I was perplexed at the improbability of such a thing. Then I realised; if my scarf was on the sofa, then it definitely wasn’t on my head.
Conall’s mouth twitched. ‘I’ve had girls wear my T-shirt before, but never quite like that . . .’
Argh!! I straightened up and tried to look as dignified as a person can when they have someone’s T-shirt on their head. ‘It’s the only place it would ever fit.’
The two short sleeves flapped at the sides. He walked over, got my scarf and handed it to me. Then he just stood there, looking at me and the stupid T-shirt. I fiddled with the scarf, thinking, shit, what do I do? (And also wishing I could glance in a mirror just to see how ridiculous I must look. One gets the idea, though.) Do I act worthy and ask him to turn around so I can make the switch as if I’m about to expose my bra rather than my hair (which hadn’t been washed in five days – the hair, that is, not the bra), or leave the room casually, which would of course involve walking past him. The longer I thought about it, the longer the T-shirt remained on my head, which wasn’t very good for my sense of self.
I’m not sure how long these thoughts lasted because the moment had drifted into uncomfortable silence when Conall cleared his throat. Just before I was about to stand up and announce that I needed the loo, he helpfully turned around to remove his coat and hang it up in the passage.
He came back into the room and I handed him his item of clothing.
‘Thanks for that.’ I closed my laptop, wishing he’d go into the kitchen or something. ‘There’s some biryani in the fridge for you, by the way.’
‘Oh. Thanks.’
‘Mum made it. Not me. If I made it you would not be thanking me. You’d be making your way to the hospital.’
I got up, packed my stuff away and left as fast as humanly possible.
Thursday 19 January
10 a.m. I’ve just sent Brammers the first four chapters! Not one, but four. Ha! I should’ve made some tweaks, but had to give therapy to my out-of–honeymoon-phase-worryingly-soon sister.
‘I come home from work and if I don’t step into the kitchen to help right away, his mum’s all “Mother-in-law’s cooking and daughter-in-law’s resting – world has changed.” And I want to say, “Yes, you fat cow, the world has changed – you didn’t have to work 9–5 when you got married, did you?” ’
It did send a shiver down my spine, cementing my conviction that I made the right decision not marrying HITW Imran.
‘And Tahir just sits there and increases the volume of the TV, pretending he hasn’t heard. He could at least tell her to calm down.’
To me, it didn’t sound very different to how Tahir has always seemed. But what’s a person to say?
Note for book: After a person’s married they will not suddenly do things in the complete opposite way. People might change, like Zzzz Zulfi pulling his finger out and marrying Hannah, but they don’t get new personalities.
I always feel so much wiser than my years.
Monday 23 January
9.50 a.m.
From: Bramley, Dorothy
To: Khan, Sofia
Subject: Chapters
I’ve attached with a few suggestions, can you tweak? Generally looking fine, though. Good work. Carry on, keeping my suggestions in mind, and let’s show Lucinda something solid in the next month or so.
Tweak? Any excuse for Brammers to use Track Changes.
Saturday 28 January
8.30 a.m. I’m seeing Naim tomorrow. Not sure how I feel about this. On one hand I might end up jumping on him (obviously I won’t, I’ll settle for the halal handshake), on the other hand what does it all mean?
Suj believes because we’re ‘brown’ there’s no shame in bringing up the ‘M’ word. (Do I need to put money in the jar?) I want to climb under a rock. Times like this, a person appreciates a reliance on alcohol. Don’t suppose Chachu left any behind when he went back home. Focus. Hannah (who I can now confirm is definitely a romantic), said it all makes sense – Naim has come along at the
very moment I decided to be alone. It’s a sign from God. ‘Be brave!’ she said. ‘Fuck it!’ said Suj. ‘Where is the John Lewis catalogue?’ asked Dad.
‘What?’ I said, being brought out of my reverie. He wanted me to distract Mum with it so he could cook without her interfering about what he should or shouldn’t put in the chickpeas. I think Mum’s missing Chachu – at least he kept Dad distracted. Sigh.
Sunday 29 January
12.45 p.m. The deal is that I use the key if Conall’s not home, but I didn’t expect him to answer the doorbell at this time in the afternoon. At least he was fully dressed.
‘Top of the mornin’ to ya,’ I said in, might I add, an admirable Irish accent.
‘You know that no one in Ireland speaks like that?’
Hmm, this was news to me. I stared at him for a moment, before he sighed and then sprinted up the stairs.
2.30 p.m. He’s been pacing up and down his room for the past hour and a half, speaking to someone on the phone. Can’t really hear anything. Not that it’s any of my business. Obviously.
2.45 p.m. He just walked in, grabbed his coat and said he was going. Have realised that he’s run out of peppermint teabags. Will get him some more, I think.
5.50 p.m. Fozia called asking if she can borrow my black suede shoes for a date she has tonight. I was too busy wondering about how to act in front of Naim. Normal? (Whatever that means.) Jaunty? Ungh – jaunty is a euphemism for bubbly, and everyone knows bubbly people are fat. When I said to Foz that I will just be myself, she said, ‘Yes, OK, but maybe a little less “fuck-off” face.’
Hmph.
‘But what do I say? Do I say anything? The person who invented just friends is an annoying bastard.’
‘Darling, you can’t say anything. Where’s your pride?’
‘Just behind me. Before I fell.’
‘No, no. You want to wait for him to say something.’
‘Hmm, yes, you’re right. And I’m sure he’ll say something. Because so many calls and so much of seeing him – it can’t all mean nothing, can it?’
‘Exactly,’ she replied. ‘Exactly.’
Conall,
There are peppermint teabags in the kitchen again. A person should never be without these.
S
PS There’s a documentary on tonight about Helmand. BBC2 at 9 p.m.
Helmand, Kashmir. Surely it’s all the same war-torn stuff.
10 p.m. When I saw Naim walking towards me, he hadn’t noticed me. My nerves seemed to evaporate at the sight of him – I was about to practically skip up to him. He looked a bit sombre so I thought one-sided excitement might look desperate. When we sat down it appeared the same, but something was odd. A weird kind of heaviness I wasn’t sure how to shake off.
‘You missing home?’ I asked.
‘Not really.’ He looked at me and seemed to be thinking of something. ‘My friend, Haroon, asked about you by the way.’
‘Oh?’
Nerves, nerves, nerves! I thought this was it; this is where the conversation begins about what this really is. The waiter came and put our coffees down. ‘Since we’re constantly saying shit on each other’s Facebook.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, “That’s my Daisypuffs.” ’ My Daisypuffs. He was looking at me, but I couldn’t for the life of me decide what kind of look it was. Scrutiny? Indifference? Affection/affliction?
‘Can I have more milk (and oxygen?), please?’ I asked the waiter.
‘He said you’re pretty.’
‘Oh, right.’ I turned the little vase on the table that had a flower in it: must remain calm.
He sighed and leaned back. ‘Man, all my friends were like, when are you getting married?’
My heart began pumping significantly faster than usual. He looked at the table as the waiter brought more milk.
‘And?’
‘Aaand . . .’ he said, leaning forward and moving the vase to one side. He put his hand on my knee, and I didn’t have the heart or inclination to move it. I waited for more words to fill this weird silence when his phone beeped. It took a second before we both looked at the screen. There was a message from someone called Zainab. Why did that name seem familiar? I only read the first line before he snatched the phone. Something like: Don’t forget to call me early tonight . . .
And then I remembered. Zainab is his ex-girlfriend from New York . . . And if she’s his ex then why the hell was she messaging him to call her . . . early? What did she mean? What did he mean when he leaned forward and put his hand on my leg? What did he mean, driving to my house in the middle of the night in the snow? He read the message and put the phone in his jacket pocket. The moment – that window of time where my heart thumped with such anticipation I thought he might see it beating through my chest – was gone. I moved the vase back to the middle.
‘Where were we?’ he said.
I broke a petal off the flower.
‘Will you leave that damn thing alone?’
‘Marriage,’ I said.
He tapped his fingers on the table, looking at me, seeming to contemplate something.
‘Ever have something that’s like, perfect. You know, not like boring or anything but pretty much all anyone could ask for?’ he asked.
Why was he looking at me like that?? I kept thinking about the message, but then there was that look, and I was in the process of stilling my heart.
‘I’m suspicious of perfect things,’ I said.
‘You’re a pain in the ass.’
But I couldn’t still my heart. Or my mouth it seemed.
‘Yes, but just imagine spending the rest of your life with me,’ I said.
For a moment he looked serious before that ever-present suggestive look in his eye emerged.
‘Daisypuffs, I imagine it all the time.’
But I needed more than playful words. Something had gathered my nerves, consolidating them into a little ball, which I held in that place where our instincts apparently live.
‘Why’s Zainab messaging you, Naim?’
He sighed and waved his hand as if he were getting rid of an annoying fly. ‘I dunno. We hooked up in New York. Talked about getting back together.’
The little ball burst inside me. I didn’t quite understand. I tried to search for any conversation we’d had, which made me think we were ever more than friends.
‘You know, Haroon asked if you and I were getting married.’ He causally put two cubes of sugar in his coffee. ‘And I was like, are you kidding me? Me and my Daisypuffs? We belong on a stage together, or on the road, but in a house?’
Thwack. Which strand of offence was I meant to tackle first? The idea of life with me only being imaginable if it involved a road trip or pantomime of some kind, or the fact that just a moment ago he’d leaned forward and I thought he was going to say something. When did it shift into nothing?
‘We’d be a complete disaster,’ he continued. ‘Can you imagine?’
I shook my head.
‘I don’t know about Zainab,’ he continued. ‘I don’t know what’s right.’ He picked up the fallen petal. ‘You’re the one writing a book, you tell me.’
A book full of silly stories – not a life guide. And all I was thinking about was this story. How with each new page was a revelation that I just didn’t see coming.
‘There’s always Poopy Poo,’ I said, my mouth dry.
‘Oh, God.’ He dropped the petal on the floor.
I wanted him to reply, There’s always you. I lifted my cup in the air – make sure your hands don’t shake. Make sure you don’t spill your drink – and certainly any more of your stupid heart.
‘May you both live happily ever after.’
FEBRUARY 2012
Forget You and Forget Her Too
Muslim Dating Book
You don’t know what you’re doing. You’ve never been here before. You wanted something different to what your parents had, but no one gave you a guide. You are undeci
ded, caught between wanting something and knowing you might never have it. You are Generation have-it-all (that’s why your parents immigrated, after all) but you just don’t know how to have it all.
Come on, Sofe. Keep the catharsis for your diary and leave any heavy(ish) stuff to the real authors. This is a job like any other – get it done, and get on with it.
Yes, we are devout, but don’t we have the same struggles as most other girls? (With the additional pressure of keeping God on side for the afterlife.) We smoke behind closed doors, don’t always tell our families who we’re seeing that evening, but never forget to set the alarm clock to wake up for morning prayers. We fast during Ramadan whilst working full time, we pray on our lunch breaks, go out on dates with men who we meet on the Internet and marry married men. We love our God and our city. We’re confused, assertive and romantic, and most of the time don’t know how we feel about skinny jeans or beardies. Faithful, flawed, trying to learn the true meaning of jihad as we teach it, we’re also girls who wouldn’t have it any other way.
Argh. That last line makes me want to VOM.
Thursday 2 February
11 p.m.
From Naim: Why aren’t you picking up your damn phone?
To Naim: Sorry, busy. Will call you back.
In another lifetime.
If points were to go to who’s the biggest fool, no guesses on who’d win. Fozia got a packet of cigarettes out and handed me one.
‘Toffee, that’s filth,’ said Suj, looking at me as I stuck the cigarette in my mouth and lit a match.