by Ayisha Malik
Another cockroach scurried into the bathroom.
‘Quite a story,’ said Sakib. Was that judgement in his tone? ‘Here’s the thing: we want you to write a guide to marriage,’ he said.
Hain?
Sakib looked at Brammers and Katie. ‘Not quite the reaction we were hoping for.’
‘I’m not a professional married person,’ I said.
I mean, I barely know anything about it myself.
‘Muslim marriage,’ said Brammers. ‘Cultural conflicts, fish out of water – that type of thing.’
‘The religious aspect,’ added Sakib. ‘I think readers will be fascinated about Conall. There are so many negative stereotypes about converts to Islam –’
‘Just this morning the front page in the papers was about a group of British Muslims flying to Syria,’ added Brammers. ‘Three were converts.’
‘It’s all very personal, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘No more personal than the dating book you’ve written,’ he replied.
Typical to have past mistakes thrown in your face. The point is that I didn’t really think that one through. I’ve decided to consider things more now that I’m older, wiser, etc.
‘Although,’ he added, ‘I was slightly concerned at the portrayal of Muslim men in your book.’ He smiled. ‘We’re not all like that.’
I paused. ‘When a good one comes along, I’ll make sure to write a book about him.’
Brammers gave Sakib a weak smile. Something, somewhere, began leaking into my mind. It felt like a ridiculous idea, but was it?
‘I don’t think my husband would like it.’
They paused.
‘A continuation of your story would be something readers will be interested in.’ Sakib looked at Brammers again. ‘I really think it’ll work.’
It wasn’t the same reluctance I’d felt when I’d been asked to write the first book. This wasn’t – oh my God, how the hell am I meant to do that panic. Thoughts of Conall’s reaction dissipated, giving way to possibility. Because you can take possibilities for granted until you get stuck in a place that doesn’t seem to offer any. I looked at Katie.
‘I think it’d be aces,’ she said.
Sakib cleared his throat. I let the suggestion penetrate my Karachi-fogged brain. It wasn’t the worst idea, and right now, it felt like the only idea in which I could do something other than wait for my philanthropic husband to come home. Maybe this would bring some meaning? I was already thinking about the opening gambit: the mortifying prospect of having sex for the first time in your thirties.
‘Sofia?’
‘Sorry?’ I said, looking up at Sakib, Brammers and Katie.
‘I understand you’re busy there,’ he said.
Ha! Yeah, watching bleach dry.
‘But how about coming to London?’ he added. ‘The book’s coming out in April. It’d be good to sit down and brainstorm ideas for the second book.’
Katie was beaming.
‘Come back to London. Now?’
Her beam quickly changed to eye-rolling.
‘If your husband doesn’t mind.’
My heart somersaulted at the mention of London. Was it a sign? Perhaps I could persuade Conall now that there’s an actual reason to go back home? This could be divine intervention.
‘Unless it’s not what you want,’ added Sakib.
I could beg Mum’s forgiveness in person. She couldn’t ignore me then.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It is something I want.’
Now all I have to do is convince my husband.
8.10 p.m. Which is no mean feat when said husband comes home, exclaiming, ‘Why’s no one fixed those feckin’ wires?’
He slammed the front door, walking in without Hammy and co. I was on my hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with bleach.
‘Chri— Sorry. Just leave the floor alone.’
I sat up. ‘Hello to you too, apple of my eye.’
He collapsed on the sofa, putting his arm over his face as I went and sat next to him. He sniffed.
‘I thought you might like to smell bleach after a day of smelling dung,’ I said. I lifted his arm and puckered my lips. ‘Go on, gi’s a kiss.’
He laughed and flattened his palm on my face. Then he put his arm round me. We sat in silence for a while, each lost in our respective thoughts. How might I say: Oh, I’m going to write a book about our marriage, and let’s go to London? He was still looking into the distance when he said: ‘Tell me something . . . Islamic.’ He really is very odd sometimes.
‘Like?’
‘Anything,’ he said, taking my hand and resting his head on the back of the sofa. ‘Tell me about repentance. I’ve heard it’s good for you.’
The nice thing is how well my hand fits into his.
‘Extremely,’ I replied. ‘As an ex-Catholic you should know all about it.’
He’d closed his eyes. ‘There are a lot of things I didn’t pay attention to when I was younger.’ He opened them again. ‘Oddly, I think AA’s the first place I began to really feel that God-connection.’
Sometimes he makes me want to just protect him from all the badness in the world, which is ridiculous because he’s a grown man; but you can’t help how you feel.
‘Plus, I married you for your perspective on things like life,’ he added.
I nudged him. You don’t need to be married for long to pick up on irony. ‘Well, my soul feels very cleansed afterwards.’
He turned his head towards me. ‘Your mucky soul?’
‘I know. Imagine. Anyway, you already know not to worry. You’ve converted so all past sins are forgiven. Lucky bastard.’
‘All sounds too easy to be true,’ he said.
His face looked as foreign to me in that moment as this setting. Then Hammy and the crew flooded in.
‘Come on, yaar,’ she said to a crew member. ‘Things aren’t going to change by sitting on your prayer mat and asking Allah for it.’
Must remember that kindness is the best virtue.
‘Why don’t we just get the mullahs to run the country? Women will walk around in niqabs and get beaten for opening their mouths,’ she added.
How offensive would it be to smash a plate over her head? There’s something about her accent that makes me violent. Each word is pumped with drawling arrogance. Oh my Gooood. How cuuuuuute. What are you talking about, yaaaaar. Conall says that I sound elitist, which is ridiculous because you can’t be elitist when you’re from Tooting.
‘Oh,’ she said, spotting us.
She was wearing an oversized jumper with a pair of Timberlands and a knitted scarf, her hair up in a scruffy bun, and still managed to look attractive. Me? Well, I smelled of bleach.
‘What do you think, Sofe?’ Conall asked.
I paused, not sure to which part he was referring.
‘Sofia wants the mullahs to take over?’ said Hammy.
‘She’d sooner put a gun to their head. But she won’t believe for a second that anything’s stronger than prayer,’ he added.
Hammy leaned against the glass table, taking off her scarf.
‘Well, yes,’ I said. ‘As long as you get off your arse and also do something.’
I live with cockroaches, not fairies. Just then Jawad came in, wearing purple earmuffs, which momentarily distracted me. I wanted to take a picture to send to the girls.
‘Chai?’ he asked us.
The lights flickered and we all looked up before they went out again.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I said to Jawad. ‘I’ll make my own tea.’
Hammy grinned. ‘Jawad, she’s from London. They do things themselves there.’
‘Baji,’ he said, turning to me. ‘I am here to serve you.’ He looked straight at me, and to be honest I was a little unnerved by the intensity of his gaze. ‘And your husband.’
My eyes flickered between Jawad and Hammy. I was so bored with feeling this way: out of place even with Conall around.
‘Can we talk?’ I said to hi
m.
He nodded as we made our way into our room.
‘Baji,’ Jawad called out.
I turned back and he was holding out my phone. Hammy was on the sofa, flicking through her notebook.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’
He bowed low before he walked past me, out of the room.
‘He’s . . . helpful.’ I said to Hammy.
Without looking up, she said: ‘These servants . . . they love the smell of foreign money.’
Why couldn’t Conall have heard that?
8.50 p.m.
From Katie: Sweetu! Have you told Conall? Crazy busy here. My world’s falling apart without you. Obvs. Love you xxx
11.25 p.m. When I went into the room Conall had gone into the shower. He came out in his towel and stood in front of the electric heater, which was a bit diverting. Taking a deep breath, he rubbed his eyes.
‘So,’ he began. My heart was thudding rather faster than usual. ‘We –’
‘Let’s go back to London,’ I interrupted.
‘What?’
I began blabbering about the meeting and the book, and that it would only be for a few months.
‘Sofe, slow down,’ he said.
I closed my mouth and tried to read his expression, which, as usual, was unreadable. It took a few moments before he spoke.
‘I didn’t realise you wanted to go back.’
Which wasn’t very intuitive of him. He was so still that if I didn’t know better I’d say he’d fallen asleep. He clenched his jaw. I went into the bathroom, keeping the door open, to wash off the smell of bleach. Best way to cut tension is with movement.
‘We weren’t meant to stay forever,’ I said.
I scrubbed the skin off my hands as my face-wash fell into the sink, because people can’t even seem to fix a shelf properly around here.
‘I didn’t think we’d be here this long,’ I added, walking back into the room.
‘It’s not exactly an overnight project,’ he replied.
In the haze of getting on the plane and eloping we didn’t quite discuss a timeline. I hadn’t thought we needed to. Happiness felt infinite – practicalities were unwanted parameters.
‘How much longer do you expect we’ll stay?’ I asked. ‘Let’s use a measure of days. For the sake of clarity.’
‘Sofe, I don’t know. How long’s a piece of string? You knew this when you came.’
I sat down on our bed. ‘No, actually, I didn’t.’
He leaned his hand against the wall and looked at the ground. Conall’s a ground-looker – and it’s got nothing to do with lowering-your-gaze-modesty.
‘We didn’t really talk that bit through, I guess,’ he said, coming to sit next to me.
‘No, too busy getting hitched,’ I responded. ‘It’s just that I don’t do anything here all day. It’s, I don’t know – depressing.’
He looked so serious I had to add, ‘I didn’t say you’re depressing.’
‘You know we can’t go.’
Whyyyyyy? I tried to think of reasons we absolutely had to go but these tended to be more Sofia-specific than Conall-specific.
‘But,’ I began, ‘don’t you think that if we went back to London you could get some crappy wedding photography jobs and make money to, you know, help the cause?’
I looked so desperate that if anything was a cause, it was probably me. He paused; looked at me; scratched his beard. He was thinking about it! Finally, I’d made a good point!
‘It’d be helpful, right? For the project?’
‘Your concern for it is touching, Sofe.’
‘And us,’ I added.
He clasped his hands and stared at the ground again.
‘Listen, it’ll only be for a few months,’ I said. ‘I’d do my book stuff and then we’d come back and you could finish what you’ve started.’
It was perfect. I’d get my London fix and we’d come back with me ready to live the remaining Karachi days without wanting to kill myself.
‘Hmmm,’ he said thoughtfully.
I put my arms round him, making a mental note to appreciate my husband more. Also, love the way he smells.
‘What’s this book about exactly?’ he asked, taking my hand.
Oh dear. I sat back, thinking of how to form the words carefully so they didn’t sound worse than they were. You know, this and that. Marriage. Our marriage.
‘Sofe?’ he said, with that tone of warning he seems to use so often when saying my name.
So I told him.
‘Are you kidding?’ He let go of my hand. ‘A book about our marriage.’
‘General Muslim marriage. It’ll be funny. I mean, if I didn’t laugh, I’d cry,’ I said, looking round the room.
He didn’t even pretend to acknowledge my grievance, which was rather poor form.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Excuse me?’
‘It’s not happening.’
‘That’s funny because I’ve already agreed it is,’ I replied.
He stood up. ‘Without asking me?’
‘Asking you?’
‘Talking to me.’
‘Think of the money,’ I said. ‘And, you know, he’s brown.’
‘What?’
‘My editor. I mean, he’s British, but, you know, Indian.’ I thought the diversity of it would give Conall cause for positivity.
‘I couldn’t give a fuck.’
Apparently not.
He opened the dresser drawer, took out his comb, then slammed it shut again. ‘This is the problem with society,’ he said. ‘Lives are exhibitions. Everyone wants to be feckin’ seen. Meanwhile the world’s falling apart.’
He threw the comb on the dresser table. ‘Why you’d want to do it is beyond me.’
We both stood feet apart; my heart seemed to be pumping in my throat.
‘You didn’t seem to have such a problem with the first book,’ I said.
‘That was your life then.’
‘It’s my life now,’ I retorted.
He paused. ‘Funny. I thought it was our life.’
‘This doesn’t feel like our life,’ I replied, spreading my arms out. I grabbed my pyjamas and took them to the bathroom to get changed.
‘I’ve seen you naked. I don’t know why you still get changed in there.’
‘And anyway,’ I said, coming out in my PJs, ‘we need to be practical. We’ve no discernible income. This money’s for both of us.’
‘Every time you say things like discernible I know you’re pissed off.’ He paused. ‘But I’d never do something you disagreed with.’
‘So let’s go to London. I disagree with being here.’
Silence. It was too late. His face was obstinate. Which goes well with his personality so I should give him points for consistency.
‘You know, your principles are all very nice but they won’t keep a roof over our head.’
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ he said.
We? Just because he was getting his boxers in a twist, who said my knickers should put up with it? Couples don’t have to do everything together, surely? And why should all my decisions be based on what Conall can and can’t do?
‘What’s stopping me?’ I said.
He clenched his jaw. ‘You want to go?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘To write this book about our personal lives? Without me?’
No. I wanted us to go to London together.
‘What’s the other option?’ I wanted to ask what was the harm in being personal, anyway? To explain that I can’t not do this. Because I don’t want to just be his wife. I want to do something.
‘Well, who am I to stop you then.’
My heart felt like it’d lodged itself in my throat. This was not how the conversation was meant to go. ‘OK,’ I said, my voice wavering on account of the lodged heart. I got into bed. ‘I guess that settles that.’
The pauses seemed to be getting longer and longer. ‘I don’t like this, Sofe,’
he said.
I waited for him to come into bed because if there’s one thing that’s a bore it’s arguing with Conall.
‘And I don’t like that you put the toilet roll on the wrong side of the toilet seat. Or are never too far from a potential bomb exploding. But everything’s a compromise, right?’
‘I told you, Sofe,’ he said, walking towards the bedroom door. ‘I don’t like it.’ With which he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Sunday 6 January
10.10 p.m. I went to the rooftop to get some air. As I opened the door I saw Conall and Hamida, standing side by side, engaged in some kind of serious conversation. The door creaked and they turned round. Hammy put her hand on his arm and walked past without looking my way. The only thought that came to mind was: I’m leaving my husband alone with this woman.
Note for book: An unforeseen consequence of taking the emotional plunge into marriage can be neurosis.
‘What was that about?’ I asked as he turned to look back into the night. Dark skies to match his dark thoughts.
‘Nothing,’ he replied.
The cold air emanating from his mouth looked like smoke. God, I could’ve done with a fag. I suspect he felt the same, but since Dad’s death I’m being sensible.
‘Looked very serious for “nothing”,’ I replied, wrapping my shawl around me. I waited for his answer. Resolve in the face of chronic silence isn’t easy.
‘She doesn’t find it easy. Being alone,’ he finally said, looking at me.
Aside from his look of disappointment, which made my insides curdle (if such a thing’s possible), it didn’t sit very well that Conall didn’t share everything with me. It’s perfectly reasonable, obviously, but that logic wasn’t helpful. I tried to reason with my internal commotion: you can’t be territorial over someone’s confidence.
‘I still don’t get why her husband’s in Dubai and she’s here,’ I said, scratching the concrete wall.
I noticed his eyebrows contract.
‘That’s not fair. I’m going for a few months, not permanently,’ I said. ‘Anyway, what was their problem?’
He paused. ‘Differences.’