The Other Half of Happiness

by Ayisha Malik

  I looked at her. ‘No. He said he’ll be back; that he’s sorry; that he’ll fix this. God knows how.’

  Katie leaned forward. ‘Listen to me. Are you listening?’

  I looked up at her.

  ‘I know this is absolutely awful. He’s lied to you and he’s broken trust and all the things that he wasn’t meant to. But . . .’

  I put my hands out.

  ‘But,’ she continued. ‘People fuck up. This is his thing that he has to mend. It can’t be easy for him, but it’s not meant to be. He did bad things: first he left his wife and child and then he lied to you about it.’

  My eyes must have glazed over.

  ‘You believe in God, right?’ She took another deep breath. ‘I wish I did in the same way. Or at all.’

  ‘Thought you were a Catholic in your past life with the spirit of a Muslim?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Sweetu – just because you wish something, doesn’t mean it’s true.’

  Some pea soup dropped on her blouse, which she wiped as she added: ‘This is how it was meant to be. It’s not easy, but you always say that you shouldn’t trust anything that’s too easy.’

  I felt tears well up. ‘God, I can talk a load of bullshit.’

  ‘This is your chance.’

  ‘To what? Drive off a cliff? Push him off one?’

  She tutted. ‘To show what forgiveness looks like.’

  Ugh. Fucking theory and fucking practice.

  Saturday 6 April

  3.50 p.m. ‘I told your Auntie Reena to stay but she packed her bags and left. Tells me she feels she’s in the way. Le, so what if Wasim comes to visit? But if you ask me it is good in case she gives me the evil eye.’

  Maars was already sitting with Adam in the living room, Tahir flicking through TV channels.

  ‘Acha, Tahir, you take Adam to the park for half an hour,’ Mum said to him.

  He looked round the room. ‘Auntie, I’m kind of tired –’

  ‘Young man like you is tired? I am fifty-seven and do I say I’m tired?’

  Tahir sighed and left the room. Before Maars could ask why her husband had been kicked out, Mum sat down and glared at us. A bit like when we were younger and had broken something.

  ‘What do I look like to you?’ said Mum.

  Maars and I glanced at each other.

  ‘Am I a servant?’ She looked at both of us expectantly.

  ‘Er, no,’ said Maars.

  ‘A nanny?’

  ‘No . . .’ I replied.

  ‘A fool?’

  Perhaps Mum needs to be put on some kind of medication. I could steal some of her pills.

  ‘Don’t look at each other, look at me,’ she said.

  She took a deep breath. ‘Wasim asked me how my daughters would take the news of me getting married. You know what I said? I said they are good girls – their minds are open and they will understand.’

  Oh dear.

  ‘Maria, at the wedding you didn’t once ask if he was OK. You didn’t sit to talk to him or tell Tahir to.’

  ‘Mu—’

  ‘Maria, you are married with a baby; Soffoo, you are now married and will have babies too, and what will my life be? Have you thought of that?’

  How was I ever going to tell her what’s happened with Conall? But maybe having a life that’s not fully about us will soften the blow.

  ‘I was expecting gossip from people, but it’s my daughters who have surprised me, making me feel I am doing something haram. If Allah doesn’t stop me, then why should anyone else?’

  I looked at my wedding band, twisting it on my finger.

  She hesitated. ‘And if there is a problem then . . . then think twice before speaking to me.’

  Pause.

  ‘OK?’ she said.

  We both nodded.

  As Mum got up to go to the kitchen, Maars said: ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  Mum nodded at her.

  ‘Me too,’ I said. And I think this time I meant it.

  ‘Chalo, doesn’t matter. Get the onions out.’

  Well, at least I could cry and blame it on the onions.

  When I opened the door to Uncle Mouch, Hamida was with him.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  She knew. She knew everything.

  ‘Show me the garden,’ she said to me.

  As we went out she didn’t wait two seconds to say something.

  ‘I love Con but God, he’s frustrating.’ She looked at me as if in disapproval. ‘Listen, I know you don’t like me, but you should know that he’s made a mistake and I hope . . . I hope you can forgive him.’

  ‘I don’t think you should be telling me what to do.’

  I went to go back into the house.

  ‘You weren’t meant to happen,’ she said. ‘But how much longer before he broke the veneer of being so together. Travelling around the world, trying to fix things, when he can’t even fix himself.’

  I paused at the patio door. ‘Is that what you’d both talk about then?’

  ‘He told me when we were in Afghanistan together – before he came to London for you. When he married you he said to me, “I’ve never felt so ashamed of my past as I do when I’m with Sofia. But she’s the only thing that seems to make it better.’”

  I don’t know why that brought tears to my eyes but it did.

  ‘I should be the one he can say anything to.’

  ‘I know. I told him that. I said she followed you all the way to Karachi, living a lifestyle she hates. You think she’ll care. She will only care if you don’t tell her. But he’s Con, you know. That guy has serious issues.’

  No shit.

  ‘So all this time you were on my side?’ I said.

  She gave a wry smile. ‘I was on his side. Still am. He drives me crazy but despite everything, he is still one of the best people I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Best people don’t leave their wife and child without a note.’

  She stepped towards me, as if sizing me up. ‘OK. Ya. I see why he didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Don’t turn this on me,’ I said.

  The fucking audacity. She raised her hands in the air as if she wasn’t here to pick a fight. ‘You think you know him –’

  ‘No. I don’t,’ I interrupted.

  She paused.

  ‘I bet you love this,’ I said. ‘Pretending to give a shit while my marriage falls apart, waiting for Conall to come to you instead of his wife, with all this sorrow.’

  She laughed so hard it caught me off-guard. I mean, she went into hysterics. This is Hammy, who never laughs at anything. I looked at her in alarm.

  ‘God,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘Every day Con makes me wonder why he chose you.’ She laughed again. ‘I mean, you’re crazy.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ I said.

  Here was the rage and everyone would know it as I whipped round to go back into the house and tell her to get the fuck out. But she grabbed my arm and looked me in the eye.

  ‘Sofia,’ she said, her expression implacable, ‘I’m gay.’

  It took a moment to register what she’d said. Was she joking? ‘What?’

  ‘No longer Mama and Papa’s darling,’ she added, that wry smile appearing again. ‘You think it’s because I don’t care about their bullshit money and social status that they’ve disowned me? Please.’

  ‘I . . . I’m . . . what?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘So next time you want to make assumptions about me and Con, think again.’

  ‘Conall knows?’

  ‘Of course he knows.’

  ‘He never –’

  ‘No. I asked him not to. I didn’t need speeches of morality from a hijabi.’

  Speeches of morality?

  ‘He saved my life in a hundred different ways last year,’ she said. ‘I wanted to do the same for him. In case he needed me.’

  ‘Does Uncle Was—’

  ‘I don’t know. I think he’s guessed it because he says he will look after me no matter what. I t
old him I’m a grown woman now. I don’t need looking after.’

  ‘I guess that’s not the point,’ I said.

  ‘No.’ She paused. ‘This is it, Sofia. Con’s going to have to deal with it all. I’m going to carry on with the documentary project without him while he finally faces up to his past.’

  Who can tell the difference any more between passion and distraction? Before I could say anything else to her she’d already gone back into the house. Did I know anything at all? How much of what I see is just my own misinformation? I went back into the house too, while Hamida carried on as normal and I tried to hide my state of shock.

  ‘Hamida’s going back to Karachi next week,’ said Uncle Mouch. ‘I will miss her.’

  When they left she gave me a final look before saying goodbye and I was left with the feeling that somehow I’d wronged her.

  I watched Maars with Adam later and asked her: ‘What’s it like. Having a baby?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ she replied. ‘If you don’t like sleep.’ She picked Adam up, pressing her nose into the base of his neck.

  ‘What would you do if something happened to him?’ I asked Maars.

  ‘Sofe, don’t say stuff like that. It’s bad luck.’ Just then Adam waved a chubby hand at her face. ‘Naughty! You do not hit Mama.’ She wagged her finger at him. ‘You hit the people Mama tells you to hit,’ she whispered, glancing at Tahir.

  A few minutes later she said: ‘You don’t understand it until you have one of your own.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What it feels like to worry every second of every day. Constantly: are they healthy, what’s that rash, are they happy, will they be bullied . . . on and on, like a washing machine.’

  Is that why Conall rarely smiles? Because he’s worrying about the son he’d hardly seen? And then the worst happened. All that worry combined with so much guilt and so much failure.

  I felt it begin: the shedding of spite.

  10.10 p.m. ‘Hi,’ I said as he picked up the phone.

  ‘Hi. How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine. How’s . . .’ And I realised I didn’t even know his son’s name.

  ‘Eamonn,’ he said. He paused for a while. ‘It’s extraordinary – kids don’t give a shit about anything as long as they have an iPad or something.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Shy. A little geeky.’ He lowered his voice. ‘He doesn’t quite understand where I’ve been. There’s a lot of explaining to do.’ He paused. ‘He’ll come out with something random. This morning we must’ve had some rotten mugs on us, because he looked at us and said: “Cheer up, everyone. It might never happen.”’

  And then his voice cracked.

  ‘He’ll be OK,’ I said.

  Quiet.

  ‘God, I’m sorry, Sofe.’

  I nodded. Not that he could see.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

  Was he rubbing his eyes? Leaning against the wall? Sitting with his head in his hands?

  ‘OK.’

  Pause.

  ‘Your parents OK?’ I asked.

  ‘The same. I’ll come home soon.’

  Another pause.

  ‘Sofe?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  Pause.

  ‘Pray for him, please.’

  What else, after all, was there left to do?

  Thursday 18 April

  9.10 a.m.

  From: Sakib Awaan

  To: Sofia Khan

  Subject: Congratulations

  Happy publication day, Sofia.

  I hope married life isn’t overshadowing your new life as a published author. Lots of dinner parties, I’m sure. Sorry you’re not able to have lunch but what about next week? Friday? Katie says you have an interview with The Women, so before that?

  You should be really proud of yourself. I think I’ve mentioned that before.

  Sakib

  P.S. I’m still very disappointed at not being able to show my dance moves at your wedding.

  9.12 a.m.

  From: Sofia Khan

  To: Sakib Awaan

  Subject: Re: Congratulations

  Thank you. Congrats to us both, I guess.

  Friday is good.

  P.S. Maybe you can show them at my next wedding. Failing that, there’s always my mum’s to look forward to.

  Argh! Why did I say that?? I slammed my head on my desk.

  Maybe I’ll get a concussion and go into a coma. At least then I’d get some sleep.

  10.10 a.m.

  From Suj: What do you mean you’re not having a launch party? We have to celebrate! We’re coming over. Don’t worry about food – Hannah and Foz are sorting that, and I’m bringing drinks. Make a salad or something. I’m so fat, but NOT AS FAT AS YOUR BRAIN! Love you xxxx

  10.35 a.m. Went to answer the door and it was a delivery of flowers with a note:

  Two flowers for each pair of pants I’ve bought you. You did good. Love, Conall

  10.37 a.m.

  To Conall: I’m about to mark this day in the diary. Thanks for the flowers.

  3.50 p.m.

  From Conall: Sorry for late reply, was at hospital. Today can be our new anniversary. We can decorate the house with pants and flowers.

  3.52 p.m.

  To Conall: How’s Eamonn?

  4.05 p.m.

  From Conall: Responding well to treatment. It’s stage one so they’re able to prevent it from spreading. I’ll call you tonight.

  4.07 p.m.

  From Conall: Thank you, Sofe.

  11 p.m. ‘There she is, published author extraordinaire!’

  Hannah and Foz were at the door throwing party poppers in the air (and almost in my face).

  I laughed, taking bits of string out of my hair. ‘Where’s Suj?’

  ‘Had to move some stuff into Charles’s place,’ said Han. ‘She’ll be over in a bit.’

  ‘So where’s this salad?’ Foz scanned the table. ‘It’s OK,’ she added, grabbing my arms. ‘You don’t need to make salads because you’re an author!’

  ‘I thought you guys had forgotten,’ I said.

  ‘Aren’t you too busy shagging to think about us?’ asked Han.

  I heard Foz slam the microwave shut before she walked in with plates of food, when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Toffeeeee. Sorry I’m late.’ Suj turned round and locked her black BMW before she stepped in and took off her four-inch heels.

  ‘Fucking traffic.’

  She looked in the hallway mirror and seemed to remember something.

  ‘Shit. The drinks,’ she said. ‘Right, I’ll go out and get some.’

  Foz said they’d already brought them because they knew she’d forget. She kissed the girls and looked at the table. The doorbell rang again. Maria stood at the doorstep, her face blocked by a huge hump of foil set on an oven tray.

  ‘I’ve left Adam at Mum’s. So, what are the odds that you actually made this salad?’

  Once talk of the book had dwindled I couldn’t quite believe how much talk there was of nappies and Tupperware.

  ‘When did you all turn into middle-aged women?’ I said.

  Foz paused and stared at me. ‘Have we become boring?’

  ‘You just spent thirty-five minutes discussing Maria’s roast recipe.’

  ‘How’s Conall’s dad?’ asked Suj.

  This was the moment. It was time to come clean.

  At first they seemed to think I was joking. Once it was clear I wasn’t, the rage on my behalf ensued. I’d had enough of rage, though. Negative emotions are such a bore.

  ‘How are you so calm?’ said Suj. ‘I want to rip someone’s eyes out.’

  Maria looked like she might be on board with that.

  ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ said Han. ‘My God, I’d have been on the radio within half an hour.’

  ‘Goes to show you, doesn’t it?’ said Maars. ‘You can’t trust anyone.’

  ‘Yes, thanks, that’s very useful,’ I said.
r />   She looked round the room. ‘Well, it’s true.’

  ‘Maybe we should concentrate on what she’s going to do,’ said Foz.

  ‘She’s going to kill him, that’s what she’s going to do,’ said Suj.

  I began clearing up the plates. ‘No.’ I stood up. ‘I’m going to let him deal with the mistakes that he’s made. In the meantime, I have to make sure I don’t make any of my own.’

  Friday 19 April

  9.20 a.m. Maars called me.

  ‘I might’ve reacted badly last night. Well, like a sister. Then I went in to check on Adam before I went to bed; his chubby face so peaceful that I thought I’d do anything to make sure he always had that look. I mean, I’d die for it. You know, without sounding dramatic.’

  ‘What would you do if you were me?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Sofe. I really don’t know. But I do know that when it’s a child; when it’s your child – it’d be like living a daily nightmare. And for that you need people.’

  ‘I thought you were mad at Conall.’

  ‘I’m livid,’ she exclaimed. ‘But no one should have to go through that. No one.’

  Friday 26 April

  3.05 p.m. ‘Are you nervous?’

  ‘Hmm?’ I looked up from my phone.

  ‘About the interview? You seem distracted,’ said Sakib, dumping a manuscript on the table as the waiters took our jackets.

  I’d been checking for Conall’s call. Maybe the next phone conversation he’d tell me when he’s coming home. Maybe then I’d be able to muster the courage to tell Mum.

  ‘No,’ I replied. I looked up from my phone. We were at a Turkish restaurant in Shoreditch.

  ‘I love this place. Getting my wife to come here isn’t easy.’

  ‘Doesn’t she like it?’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘Thinks it’s too hippie. Can we get some sparkling water?’ he asked the waiter.

  Just as we were looking through our menus his phone rang.

  ‘I’m really sorry but I have to take this. Order whatever you like. I’ll be as quick as I can.’