“Shut up, Clara. Haven’t gone furniture shopping yet, I see. I think that bench is going to split down the middle soon.”
“Shut up, Ashi Apa.”
“Rob said you were in a mood.”
Clara sighed. “It’s nothing. It’s the same thing. I don’t want to talk about it.” Clara and Rob had lived together for the past three years. She had been dropping hints about a wedding, but so far he remained clueless, or was choosing to ignore her.
“You know, Prophet Muhammad’s wife Khadijah proposed to him,” Ayesha said.
“Among us atheists, it’s still the man’s job to drop to his knees.”
Ayesha’s hands were clasped in her lap. “Maybe he’s happy with the way things are. Maybe he doesn’t want to rock the boat because he’s afraid that something new will ruin all the good momentum.”
Clara leaned close to Ayesha. “Sometimes the only way to move forward is to rock the boat. Otherwise you risk losing everything. That’s why you went to teachers’ college, right?” Ayesha had worked for three years at an insurance company before returning to school.
“I guess,” Ayesha said. “Teaching is a good, stable job. I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”
“You should write copy for the teachers’ union,” Clara said. “‘Be a teacher—it’s a boring job, but you’ll eventually learn to like it,’” she mocked.
Ayesha sighed. “You want me to be an artist and travel, my family wants me to be a teacher and settle down. Do you ever wonder what I want?”
“You don’t know what you want. That’s why you should listen to me.” Clara picked her laptop up from the coffee table and pulled it close. “Okay, let’s strategize. You need to stop this substitute teaching thing and get hired permanently.”
“I didn’t come here to talk about my job! What about my crazy family?”
Clara ignored her, opening a new document on her laptop and saving it with the file name “Save Ayesha from Herself.” “I think you need to coach a sports team. Or maybe put together a fundraiser. Also, kiss the principal’s butt. Bake him some cookies. Trust me, benign bribery always helps. I’m the regional manager of HR for a very important company. I know these things.”
Ayesha smiled. “So now you think I should be a teacher.”
“I think you should always have a plan. While you’re working, you can spend evenings and weekends writing poetry until you make it big. One of Rob’s friends helps organize that arts festival in August. You should audition. You were really great at Bella’s.” Clara stopped typing. “I’m sorry about Khalid. He’s a good guy, just a bit awkward around women.”
“He’s a freak.”
“You sound like Sheila. He’s a good person. If he trimmed his beard and got some new clothes, he might even be a hottie.”
Ayesha laughed out loud at the thought of Khalid in tight jeans and a mesh tank, with his hair slicked back and a hipster beard. “He would look even more ridiculous than he does now. I don’t think he cares what people think.”
Clara’s typing slowed and she looked sidelong at her friend. “That can be quite sexy in a man,” she said.
“Khalid has no interest in me, and the feeling is mutual.”
“You deserve to be happy, Ayesha.”
“What I really want is to be happy and free. I don’t think I’m going to be either of those things.”
NANA was still in the living room when Ayesha returned a few hours later. He was watching TV with Idris and ignoring the clatter from the kitchen. Nani was upset about Hafsa’s rishta visit, and she was taking it out on her pots and pans.
Ayesha approached her grandmother carefully. “Nani, I’m sorry I was rude, but they started it. And I meant what I said. You’re the best cook in the whole neighbourhood. So what if I can’t boil water? I’m never moving out anyway.”
“You made me look bad in front of those horrible women,” Nani said in Urdu. “They’re going to think we didn’t do a good job raising you. I’m going to teach you how to cook, right now. Grab some onions and garlic-ginger paste.”
Ayesha looked alarmed. From the living room came Nana’s voice. “Beti, you promised to take me to Tim Hortons.”
“But Nana, you just had tea,” Idris said, his lips twitching. Unlike his older sister, he got a kick out of causing trouble.
“I wish to purchase an apple fritter,” Nana said with dignity. “I shall be waiting in the automobile.”
“You can teach me to cook when I come back. Or maybe tomorrow,” Ayesha said. She kissed her grandmother on the cheek and hurried outside.
Nana didn’t say a word until they got into the car and were driving toward the main street. “Your time will come,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” Ayesha turned into the Tim Hortons’ drive-thru.
Nana’s expression was serious. “Sometimes I worry you have been scared off by Saleha and Syed.”
Ayesha’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. Nana never talked about her mother and father. But she was not in the mood to hear about failed relationships or might-have-beens.
“Welcome to Tim Hortons, can I take your order?”
Ayesha turned to the drive-thru window and spoke quickly. “Two steeped teas double-double, and one apple fritter please.”
“Beti—” Nana started again.
“I’m fine. Really. My life is unfolding exactly as planned. I’m happy, I promise.”
Chapter Eleven
Khalid was even more silent than usual at breakfast the next morning, but Farzana didn’t notice. She placed two overcooked paratha flatbreads on his plate and busied herself with the dishes, talking the whole time.
“The mosque executive board is meeting this morning and I plan to be there. I will get rid of this silly youth conference idea once and for all. Imagine, Khalid—boys and girls mixing at the mosque. They should all stay home and listen to their parents. If they just stopped being so besharam and texting each other all the time, they wouldn’t have all these mental health issues or wear leggings. It’s disgraceful.” His mother had recently joined the mosque’s governing council. On the one hand, Khalid was happy that Farzana had something to occupy her time. On the other hand, he worried she would get caught up in petty political in-fighting.
Khalid silently mopped up his spicy tomato and egg curry with the second paratha and washed it all down with the watery chai his mother had made.
He hadn’t slept well last night, and he’d almost missed getting up for Fajr prayer. His head was pounding, so he got up to go in search of pain medication.
“Khalid where are you going?” Farzana asked him. “You haven’t eaten the kheer I made.”
His stomach flipped over at the thought of spooning down too-sweet gelatinous rice pudding. “I should leave now if I want to catch the bus.”
“Imam Abdul Bari thinks the conference is a good idea, and the treasurer, Sister Jo, agrees. I have to get President Aziz on my side. That shouldn’t be a problem. He’s easy to persuade.”
“Ammi, the imam knows what he’s doing. The conference will be good for the community, and the mosque can use the money. Please don’t try to take over everything.”
Farzana narrowed her eyes and looked at her son with suspicion. “The mosque doesn’t need money. Everybody knows the Shamsi family makes a big donation every year to cover all the expenses. Did you know there are four daughters? The eldest is Hafsa. She is very beautiful and modest.”
Khalid froze. His mother must have heard about the conference meeting from one of her friends, maybe Aliyah. “I have to go,” he said, and he made his way to the foyer.
Farzana followed him to the front door. “The family is quite prominent and wealthy too,” she said. “They have almost as much money and property as we do. Make sure you say salam next time you see them.”
“Yes, Ammi,” Khalid said. He hated it when his mother talked about the family fortune; he was very aware that the money belonged to his mother, inherited when her own father h
ad died and left a vast estate in India for his children. Khalid didn’t really think about money very often, so long as he had enough to send to his sister and pay his few expenses.
Farzana beamed at her only son. “You’re such a good boy. I’ve never had any problems with you.”
WHEN Khalid arrived at work, Sheila was waiting at his desk. “You’re late,” she snapped. “I asked you to be here at seven thirty for a very important meeting. Don’t you check your email? Or do you think you can ignore me?”
Khalid looked at her blankly. He had checked his work email that morning after he’d prayed Fajr, at five thirty. He must have missed her message.
Sheila sighed loudly. “Well, thanks to your lack of response, we had to move the meeting to eight thirty. Don’t be late again.” She stalked out, her stiletto heels stabbing the tile floor.
Khalid scrolled through his inbox. “She never sent me an email,” he said out loud.
Amir rose like a costumed Egyptian mummy from the sofa, enveloped in a blue blanket. “K-Man, she’s snapping you.”
“What?”
“She’s snapping pics of you to paint a picture. You know, like the politicians do. Take a photo of a guy shaking hands with the wrong person, and then run it in every attack campaign.”
“What do I do?”
Amir shrugged. “Make powerful allies. Boast about your success. Buy some dress shirts. Throw someone else under the bus.”
Khalid sat down at his desk. “They promoted me to manager. The last director said I was the most diligent and hard-working employee he had ever hired.”
“None of that matters if the Shark is out for blood.”
Khalid walked to the meeting in the conference room like a condemned man. The room was filled with middle-aged women in colourful pantsuits. They turned to face him when he entered.
“How nice of you to join us, Khalid,” Sheila said in a nasty tone. “Better late than never.”
Khalid checked his phone. It was 8:25 exactly.
“I’d like to introduce you to your new client, WomenFirst Design. You’ve read my emails and the report I attached, so you’re familiar with their portfolio.”
He looked around, bewildered. “Sheila, what email? I manage e-commerce. I’m not the right person for client-facing meetings.”
“Don’t be so modest.” Sheila smiled at him. “Your resumé clearly states that you are proficient in numerous programming languages, including Java, Python and Urdu.”
“That last one is actually not a coding lang—” he began, but Sheila interrupted.
“At Livetech, everyone must be comfortable wearing different hats and working in flexible roles. I’ll leave you to it.” She walked out of the room, smiling grimly.
The suited ladies turned to look at him.
“Oh, honey,” a heavy-set white woman with blond hair and red glasses said. “Now you’re in for it.”
The ladies laughed, and Khalid considered running after Sheila. “I assure you, I have done nothing wrong.”
That set them off again, into more gales of laughter. After they calmed down, the blond introduced herself. “I’m Lorraine. This is Vanessa.” She nodded at a black woman who was smiling at him. “You don’t know who we are, do you?”
“Umm,” Khalid stammered.
“I never liked that woman,” Lorraine said to Vanessa. “Never trust a skinny woman in stilettos.” She turned back to Khalid. “Honey, we’re your clients, WomenFirst Design. We design and sell lingerie for plus-size women, and you’ve just been put in charge of setting up our entire online sales structure.”
CLARA reminded herself to breathe when she knocked on Sheila’s office door at nine that morning. Her boss had called her upstairs for an update on the “Khalid situation.” Clara rehearsed what she wanted to say in her head again.
Sheila, I think you would benefit from some sensitivity and diversity training. Have you considered visiting a mosque or maybe talking to other Muslims? Clara frowned. She doubted Sheila would take kindly to that suggestion, especially since she had lived in Saudi Arabia, a majority-Muslim country, for a few months. Though it sounded as if she had lived in some sort of sheltered compound full of expats.
Maybe she should tell Sheila that Khalid went to a bar last weekend. That might help. She knocked and opened the door, pasting a friendly smile on her face as she approached Sheila’s massive shiny desk.
“Good morning!” she singsonged. Sheila looked up from her monitor, frowning.
Dial it back, Clara told herself. Sheila needs to see you as an ally, not a scolding teacher. Working in HR meant constantly navigating a tightrope of competing interests. Her clients were management as well as employees, which often led to uncomfortable conversations. Ultimately, she knew that her role was advisory at best; her boss didn’t have to listen to her.
“That’s a lovely pin,” Clara said, indicating a bright-red jewelled scorpion pinned to Sheila’s shoulder, matching her red-and-white dress.
Sheila gave her a thin-lipped smile. “I have a collection of them. Snakes, spiders, scorpions, sharks. I like to give people fair warning.”
Clara laughed uneasily, but Sheila’s face remained impassive.
“You wanted to see me?” Clara said.
“I wanted to give you an update on our little problem. Khalid showed up late for a meeting this morning. They’re not terribly important clients, but he showed a lack of professionalism and was completely unprepared. Is that enough of a reason to fire him?”
Clara sighed and opened her laptop. “Who were the clients?” she asked, taking notes in the document she had created.
“WomenFirst Design. They make lingerie for . . . larger women.” Sheila stopped and bit her bottom lip, smiling. “I guess everyone can dream, right?”
“I’m sorry?” Clara hoped she had misheard.
Sheila’s smile was wide-mouthed, teeth tiny points of white behind red lipstick. “Can you imagine? Saggy flesh encased in lace.” She shuddered delicately. “They wouldn’t leave me alone. They want a new website and they kept calling and calling, even when I told my assistant to get rid of them. So I’ve set them up with Khalid. I’ll be killing two birds with one stone.”
Clara’s typing slowed. “I’m sorry?” she said again.
Sheila looked up, eyes sharp. “This is business, Clara. There is no room for squeamishness. Livetech is ready to take the global stage. We need to be associated with young, edgy, popular clients. Not someone like the Large Ladies Lingerie company.” Her laughter rang out, and all the colour drained from Clara’s face.
Sheila didn’t need sensitivity training. She needed to be muzzled.
“That’s not very . . . You shouldn’t be speaking about women like . . . Khalid isn’t . . .” Clara floundered for something to say.
Sheila’s laughter cut off abruptly and she leaned forward. “I’m giving him a chance to prove himself,” she said to Clara. “They’re a small company, barely worth our time. If he can’t handle them, he can’t handle anything.”
“But Khalid is the e-commerce manager. He doesn’t design websites.”
Sheila shrugged. “He can quit if he doesn’t like it. He can go back to the Middle East where he belongs.”
“He’s Canadian, Sheila. He belongs here.”
There was a knock at the door, and Dev Kanduwallah, the CEO of Livetech, walked into the office. Sheila immediately stood up and strode over to give her boss a friendly hug.
“Dev!” she cooed. “What are you doing here? I thought you were still in Seattle.”
Clara joined them, curious to meet him. Dev was originally from Bangalore, the tech capital of India. He was a tall man in his late fifties, well groomed in an expensive grey suit and Italian loafers, his skin a warm russet. His intelligent brown eyes missed nothing, and he nodded politely at Clara. “I was in town and thought I would drop by and see how you were settling in. I hear you had an important client meeting scheduled for this morning.”
Sheil
a looked puzzled. “All of our clients are important.”
Dev laughed, his voice a rich tenor. “You always know what to say. But then, some are a bit more important than others,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “WomenFirst Design for instance. I’m sure you are aware they cleared twelve million dollars last year in revenue. The plus-size lingerie market is ripe for the taking, and with their new online business, they’ll probably make over twenty million this year. Congratulations on setting up the meeting.”
Sheila had an excellent poker face, Clara had to admit. Her body froze only for a moment before she laughed merrily alongside Dev. “You know me! Always on the lookout for emerging markets. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ve got my very best resource on it.”
Dev squeezed Sheila’s shoulder, hand brushing the jewelled scorpion. “I expect nothing but the best from you. Keep me updated on this one. It might open up a whole new design platform for us.” He smiled again at Clara and left.
Clara’s hands gripped her laptop. “I should get back to my office,” she said, edging toward the door.
Sheila’s eyes narrowed. “Not a word of this to anyone,” she hissed. “Unless you want your life to become very uncomfortable.”
Clara nodded quickly and closed the door behind her with a gentle click.
KHALID had never blushed so much in his life. He felt grateful for his long beard—at least it covered up part of his face.
“I’m really not the right person for this,” he kept saying to the ladies—clients—from WomenFirst Design. “I manage e-business contracts and take care of the server and virtual machines. I need to talk to Sheila. She’s doing you a disservice by assigning me to your project.”
But the women insisted on showing him pictures of scantily clad plus-size models in teddies, bikinis and edible thongs, as they continued to talk about “accessibility openings” and their large array of fasteners.
“Please,” he said firmly. “I need to speak to Sheila.”
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