by Ayisha Malik
Such characteristic silence.
‘I fucked up, Sofe. Badly. I don’t know why I couldn’t tell you the truth earlier, and I’m not making excuses, but I barely wanted to tell it to myself. I was going to come clean, though. After the wedding. Because I knew it was time to make things right – the parents I’d ignored for so long because they were just a reminder of my own failing; my son; Claire – I just didn’t know where to start.’
He ran his hand through his hair. I loved his hair.
‘You think you can escape a thing. Or say sorry enough to make up for the huge fuck-up – God knows I tried with Claire . . . but it served me right for being so reckless in the first place.’
What was he talking about? He looked like Conall but why did I feel like this was happening to someone else? As if I was watching it all on a TV screen? I looked around the house, his voice drowned out by my own incomprehension. The home that’s meant to be ours, but never has felt permanent. For some reason my dad came to mind. What would he have thought? The things I did and the shit I had to hear from everyone and it was nothing to me – I’d do it all again . . . until this moment. The light flickered. Conall looked at the floor again, placing his hand on his forehead. A shooting pain ran through my head.
‘You lied?’ I said.
A question, because none of it made sense and I had to ask him to make sure.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘But you lied?’
It was no use having my voice crack, along with my heart, but it couldn’t be helped. Everything in me felt like it had lost support, as if I was just made of blood and flesh. I took in his face, the broadness of his shoulders, the shades of tattoos on his arms, which I hate because I don’t like tattoos, but thought I loved because they’re his.
I have a son.
He has cancer.
There’s a certain injustice in being told about another’s misfortune while your own is unfolding. You’ve barely had time to absorb any pain before being asked to feel sorry for another’s. Tragedy can quell anger – dispel the roots of rage and replace it with a detached kind of sympathy. I hugged him. It wasn’t benevolence. He still gives me comfort: the person who unpicked the seams of our relationship in one confession.
When he left Claire he didn’t go back for five years. He spent his time travelling – thought he was in some kind of Hollywood film, finding himself. My husband, the cliché. But when he went back, Claire wanted nothing to do with him. Last year, the days I spent in his home, writing my book, he was finalising his divorce.
‘I was relieved,’ he said.
I imagine it was cathartic, being able to let go of that guilt. But not to Mary. I can picture her, in her quiet, firm way: come back home. Be a husband to your wife and a father to your child.
‘But that loss. Not being able to see my son . . . not wanting to ask because what would he think of me? What right did I have?’
He looked at me, while I couldn’t meet his eye. Every feeling had bundled itself up and wedged itself in my throat. I don’t know how breath made its way out. But here should’ve been the pleasing part. The redemption song. The happy conclusion to his laden story.
‘When I converted, I thought it was the answer. That you were the answer.’
The note to the song felt all wrong. And he didn’t even realise it. His conversion wasn’t a testament to his affection for me – it was an attempt at absolution.
Conall’s penance hasn’t ended. It’s only just begun.
Tuesday 2 April
9.45 p.m. Mum emptied the pilau in a dish, laughing at something Auntie Scot had said in the living room, as Uncle Mouch walked into the kitchen. In a low voice he said: ‘See? Most people are happy for us. Forget about the ones who will gossip.’
‘I don’t forget anything,’ she replied. ‘But today I will try.’
I watched Mum with Uncle Mouch – this strange man bringing about a warmth in my mum that I can’t remember ever witnessing. Auntie Reena stared into her teacup, her mouth bulging with paan masala, glancing over at Mum and Uncle Mouch now and then. I tried not to look at Conall, pushing him as far away from my visual periphery as possible. Even though he was all that was in my head.
‘Maybe some people thought you could wait more than nine months before remarrying,’ I said to Mum.
The words tumbled out and I didn’t even realise until Mum just stared at me. Her colour rose as she stuck the spatula into the dish again, without taking her eyes off me.
‘Forty years and nine months I waited.’
I looked at the ground and walked out of the kitchen, regretting the words as soon as they’d come out. Of course she waited. Life is context, isn’t it? But no one lives in your head.
‘You will come and visit us, haina?’
Uncle Mouch took his seat next to me. Everyone was chatting away and I only heard the vague sounds of Maars and Tahir discussing Adam not eating enough solids.
‘Are you OK, Beta?’ he asked.
I tried to smile.
‘You’ll come and see your mama and me in Karachi, haina?’
Once they’re married they’ll spend their winters in Karachi and summers in London: Mum’s stitching her life together while mine is unravelling. I looked at Auntie Reena watching Mum, her eyes full of something like loss and I had to make sure I didn’t look like that. Judgement is better than pity.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Of course.’
‘Your mother-in-law reached Ireland OK? Oh,’ he said, looking at his phone. ‘Hamida.’
She went to see her friends because she leaves for Karachi soon. All this time I was worried about her – why didn’t I revel in the small dissatisfactions of life and be grateful there weren’t huge ones? He read her message and then said: ‘Beta, for reuniting me with her, I will keep our conversation on the plane a secret?’
I managed to muster a grateful smile.
‘She is a good girl. A little stubborn; takes after her father. Why else doesn’t he speak to his daughter? But . . . some things are too much for parents.’
I glanced over at Conall, talking to Uncle Scot.
‘Soffoo – why aren’t you eating anything?’ said Auntie Reena, looking at my untouched plate of rice.
‘She is keeping slim for her husband,’ said Auntie Scot, laughing.
Tahir was playing with Adam and I noticed Conall stare at them. Uncle Scot slapped Conall on the leg and said, ‘When you have your own, then you will know what it is to be a man. But let me tell you, doesn’t matter how much you do. These wives will never be grateful.’
Conall’s gaze rested on me. I’m sorry; it’s what he said with every look. The worst part was that I couldn’t even muster the courage to hate him. I thought I had rage in me. I wonder: were all those years of emotional celibacy worth the trauma of actually being in love if this is what you’re reduced to? If I’d built my emotional immune system more before I married Conall, would this hurt less?
‘What will you do now?’ Auntie Scot asked Conall. ‘Back to Pakistan or will you come and see us in Scotland?’
His hands were clutched together, his eyes tired. Ironic thing is he’s shit at fake smiles or lies. Everyone waited for him to answer. I waited for him to answer. The words weren’t coming to him, though.
‘My book’s coming out this month,’ I said. ‘So, we’re here for a little while.’
He looked at me again. I’m so sorry.
‘Acha,’ said Uncle Scot. ‘But have you learned to cook? Your husband can’t eat a book.’
My husband can eat shit.
Conall looked up. ‘That’s not why I married her.’
‘Thanks to God,’ replied Auntie Scot, laughing.
Mum stood up to serve the tea and I noticed a chain tucked into her kameez. As she bent forward it fell out and there it was; the engagement ring Dad had given her, dangling around her neck. I caught Maars’ eye.
‘Bhai,’ said Mum, ‘you don’t think a woman wants
anything else in life? Her baba would’ve preferred to read what she writes than taste what she cooks.’
Tahir cleared his throat as Adam began to whimper. ‘I think I’ll go and change his nappy.’
The room went quiet. I felt tears surface – Dad isn’t here; I’ve been horrible to Mum; she is still here; but she’s marrying someone else. Everything seemed to tumble around my head; a cacophony of fact and feeling I couldn’t shake off. Conall isn’t who I think he is.
‘Shall we go home?’ Conall asked me.
‘You go. I’ll come home later.’
When he looked at me I was torn between wanting to hurl something at him and hug him. He has a child and the child has cancer.
What a mess. What a God-awful mess.
11.10 p.m. When I came home he was sitting on the sofa. I put my purse on the table.
‘You understand that I have to go,’ he said. Unmoved. Resolute. Same old.
Forty-eight hours I went without tears and they weren’t about to start now. I nodded.
‘I’m not leaving, Sofe,’ he added, as if to make clear that we were still husband and wife – that nothing had changed. What a joke.
I looked at him. ‘As if I give a fuck.’
Cancer, mistakes, apologies – they have nothing on spite. He took a moment.
‘OK,’ he said, getting up. ‘I’ll go tomorrow.’ He went to leave the room. ‘I’ll fix this, Sofe.’ Just as he was about to close the door, he added, ‘Just please . . . give me the chance.’
Wednesday 3 April
9.10 a.m. ‘Sweetu!’
I was barely awake when Katie called.
‘Hot Bikram Yoga, I tell you. It’s the answer to life. Now, release date in two weeks – have you seen the publicity schedule? I haven’t heard from you. I know the whole newlywed thing is very exciting – is Hamster out of your face now?’
‘Hmm? Oh, yeah.’
‘Praise God. Sorry, Allah. Anyway, you must focus now. Are you still in bed? Sex can wait. Also, we have to talk about Sakib and his wife. I mean talk about tension. Anyway, publicity schedule, Sweetu. Chop-chop.’
Katie had to go and I mumbled something incoherent. I sat up and saw bags packed by the door. My instinct was to grab my scarf, keys and leave until I could come home to an empty space. Life would be substantially easier if only I could learn to be more vindictive. But I thought about his son – even the thought jars in my mind, stumbling over the facts of my own life.
‘Hi,’ said Conall, walking in with two cups of coffee. He handed me one.
‘Hi.’
‘You didn’t have to sleep here.’
I shrugged. ‘Have you . . .’ I watched the steam of the coffee swirl and rise in front of me. I concentrated on making sure it came out as fluidly as possible. ‘Have you spoken to her?’
He paused.
‘Mmm.’
‘She’s forgiven you?’ I asked.
Another pause.
‘I hope she will; one day,’ he replied.
I took a sip of the coffee.
‘I fucked up, Sofe.’
‘You know . . .’ I looked up at him.
‘What?’
I felt the familiar lump in my throat. ‘You’re not who I thought you were.’
I couldn’t help it. Tears streamed down my face. ‘You were meant to be . . .’
He kneeled in front of me as I wiped the tears away.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said as his phone buzzed. ‘Your taxi’s here.’
He didn’t move until I forced myself to get up.
‘Go,’ I said, walking into the passage.
He followed me out and stood at the door.
‘I hope he gets better,’ I said. And I meant it.
‘Be here when I get back,’ he said.
I should leave, just to spite him. Maybe I will. And I won’t leave a note either.
As he got in the car, Mum came out of her house, the recycling piled in her arms, before she threw it in the recycling box.
‘Where is Conall going?’ she asked as the car drove away.
I watched it turn the corner, the side of Conall’s profile visible for a second before both disappeared from view.
Mum was assessing the state of the front gate. I watched her, so preoccupied with the fact that the gate had come off its hinge she didn’t quite see her daughter coming off hers.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘He’s going home.’
It was only at that moment that I wondered whether he’d ever come back.
10.05 p.m. Conall called. I was going to ignore it, but every time I wanted to punish him I wondered if he was being punished enough.
‘We’ve got a hospital appointment tomorrow,’ he said. ‘They’ll give an update on what course of treatment we should take.’
‘Sean’s OK still staying at his friend’s?’ I asked. ‘We’ll have to give him money back on his rent.’
‘Yeah, I know. He’s fine.’
Quiet.
‘You OK?’ he asked.
‘Yeah.’
Pause. I wanted to ask if she was there. If her partner was there – were they still together? What was it like for Conall – to see his child after so many years? What feelings were bubbling inside him?
‘Well, I’d better go,’ I said.
Another pause.
‘Sure. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘Mhmm.’
When misery can’t find company it finds nostalgia. I flicked through the girls’ emails from years ago: paragraphs dotted with exclamation marks, question marks, sighs and LOLs.
That time when Foz accidentally fell on top of her date on the Tube.
The one where Suj went to the Cayman Islands for her second date.
That week Hannah decided to go into spiritual retreat because she was in a flux about whether she should keep going out with a married man.
That’s how it used to be. Now each life’s loose end has been tied up so neatly that I can’t quite be the one to fray the edges.
Friday 5 April
12.05 p.m. Whatever else Claire might be, a pushover wasn’t it – she never took him back. Had to admire her for that. I opened my laptop and went to Sean’s Facebook page, scanning through his list of seven hundred-plus friends. None of the Claires were from Kilkee, so I went through Mary’s more modest list and found her. My arrow hovered over the name: a picture of her with a boy who looked about eight or nine years old. I clicked on the profile but it was set to private. The annoying thing was she looked kind. Her blonde wavy hair blowing in the wind. Her son’s arms wrapped round her, squeezing her with one arm, the other arm waving in the air. I couldn’t read any of the comments. I didn’t need to. The picture was depressing enough.
I lay down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling: what was the need to lie? That’s the real question. If he’d just told me before we got married, I might’ve been shocked – perhaps disappointed that he of all people had made such a huge mistake – but I’d have got over it.
Note for book: It’s secrecy that breeds mistrust, not mistakes.
9.10 p.m. ‘Sweetu! You can’t spend the days following your wedding alone,’ said Katie, marching into the house.
She’d messaged me and I’d told her that Conall had to visit his dad in Ireland because he was ill. I didn’t have the energy to argue when she insisted on coming over to make supper.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. Fine.’
‘So, I’ve organised an interview for you with The Women,’ she began, putting the Waitrose bag on the kitchen counter. ‘She lapped up the Muslim/Irish combo.’
‘Right.’
I looked out into the garden, the acid churning in my stomach. I wanted to lie down again.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
Better get your acting up to scratch, Sofia Khan.
‘Still hungover from the wedding,’ I said.
‘Imagine if you actually drank? Such a sen
sible Muslim. Anyway, she’ll want to discuss the book and your relationship and, you know, the usual,’ said Katie, pouring pea soup into a pan. ‘Wooden spoon, please,’ she said.
I took one out of the drawer and handed it to her.
‘Oh, get the baguette – it’s in my bag.’
I brought the baguette and got bowls out of the cupboard as Katie went through other interviews she’d lined up for me. When Conall found the vodka and had a go at Sean, was it because of all the lies? Was it the stress of keeping secrets? Why didn’t I ask him more questions? Was I scared of what he’d say?
‘What is wrong with you?’
I stared at her as I picked up the knife again.
‘I mean, seriously,’ she added.
Taking a deep breath, I said: ‘Turns out my husband has another family in Ireland. Walked out on them. Including a son who, by the way, has cancer.’ I turned round to slice the bread. Just then my phone rang.
‘I want you to come over tomorrow for lunch.’
It was Mum.
‘I’m not really feeling very well,’ I replied.
‘I don’t want to hear anything. Maria is coming and Wasim will be there, so no excuses.’
‘OK, Mum.’
As I hung up Katie was staring at me. ‘I suppose we’d better sit down.’
It was all very soap opera-esque when I filled her in with the details.
‘But he hasn’t seen her all these years?’ she asked. ‘Or his son?’
I shook my head. ‘She didn’t want him to.’
‘And the thing with his parents . . .’
‘He and his dad never really got on, but I think it was more that they kept trying to get him to come back to Ireland. Reminded him of what he’d done.’
She munched on a piece of bread, deep in thought. ‘It doesn’t sound like Conall.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I replied.
‘Is he . . .’ She paused. ‘Is he staying in Ireland?’
Pushing the bowl back, I replied that he wasn’t. ‘He said he’d be back in a few weeks once things were settled.’
She seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. ‘OK. Good. He’s not leaving.’