The Other Half of Happiness

by Ayisha Malik

  He took his glasses off and nodded. ‘I get it. But sometimes you have to think beyond the present. You don’t want to decide on something now that might be a mistake. Feelings pass. Give it some time. If it helps, then think of the book as fiction.’

  I looked at his gold watch glinting in the light.

  ‘Forget everything that’s happened for a moment, and everything that might happen. This is your opportunity,’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To do and be something outside of your marriage. It’s not just an escape for your readers. It’s for you too. Isn’t it?’

  I told him I’d think about it. As I was about to walk out of the office he said: ‘You know you’re not really alone, don’t you?’

  I tried to give him a convincing smile.

  ‘Katie’s been coming in every day for the past week, asking me if I’ve spoken to you. Now I know why.’

  This time my smile wasn’t so forced. ‘She’s tenacity personified,’ I said.

  ‘She is.’ He got some papers out of a file and added. ‘Aside from that, if you do ever want to talk about things . . . anyway, I’m sure you have your people.’

  ‘I do.’ For the first time since Ireland the tears that came to the surface were ones of gratitude.

  ‘It’s just.’ He paused, seeming to struggle with whether he should continue or not. ‘I know what it’s like to have a failed marriage.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were both –’

  ‘Incredibly different. After being married for eight years. Anyway. Just so you know.’

  You’d never have guessed it to look at him. It was only a few months ago he and his wife were at my wedding. I glanced at his hand and noticed he was still wearing his wedding band. I turned mine around on my finger. It’s time to take it off now and return it to the man who gave it to me. One of my last acts of closure.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said to him.

  ‘No need to thank me, Ms Khan. Just write me a book.’

  6.45 p.m. When I got home, I thought, this is it: one last goodbye. As I entered the house and put my bag down in the living room I noticed that everything was immaculate – an empty vase on the coffee table. There’s nothing more depressing than an empty vase. Apart from an empty soul. Conall’s old papers and magazines seemed to have been cleared out. I went into the kitchen and dishes were washed, counters spotless. I ran up the stairs, into the guest bedroom, and it was empty. No bag or sign that he’d slept in there. When I went into our bedroom and opened our wardrobe all his clothes were gone. I sat on the bed, staring at the empty side of the rail and shelves.

  I went back downstairs – maybe he was in the garden. He wasn’t. As I walked back into the living room I noticed that the picture of Conall and me in Karachi had gone. Looking on the floor, I wondered if it’d fallen off the hanging. I opened the cabinet drawer and saw the frame there; empty. Just like the last goodbye.

  Saturday 22 June

  11.55 a.m. ‘Soffoo, Soffoo.’

  Mum was chasing me, waving my red thong, crying out for me to stop as I sprinted towards a ferry.

  ‘Soffoooo.’

  I’m looking back and running faster, but she picks up speed and is only metres behind me, her face screwed up in rage, trying to hit me with my thong.

  ‘Hai hai, Soffoo, is this a time to be asleep!’

  I started awake and saw the curved figure of my mother looming over me. ‘Huh? What?’ I mumbled.

  She’d already whipped the curtains open and I squinted against the bright light. Looking round the room she took a whiff and, thankfully, decided to ignore the stale smell of tobacco and the ashtray of cigarette butts on my bedroom floor.

  ‘You should come and live with me,’ she said.

  Not sure what’s worse, marital breakdown or living with Mum again. ‘No, Mum.’

  ‘You left the kitchen door unlocked.’

  I asked where Foz was and she said she wasn’t home because she’d already looked in her room.

  ‘How did you get in?’ I asked, rather alarmed.

  ‘Conall gave me keys before he left.’

  Amazing that Mum hadn’t shared this piece of vital information earlier. What did he say? Did he mention me? Why did he leave without saying goodbye? This is what he does, though. Why should I be surprised?

  ‘That was good of him,’ I said, sticking my head back under the covers.

  ‘Soffoo, shall I ask you a question?’

  I grunted.

  ‘How many days did I spend in bed when your baba died?’

  I paused. Zero. It was straight from the hospital to organising the funeral, informing relatives, sorting paperwork – the paraphernalia of death.

  ‘You think I didn’t feel it? Haan, I know, he was difficult – but you think there was nothing there?’

  I felt a tear pass over the bridge of my nose. ‘Maybe I’m not as tough as you,’ I said, peering over the covers.

  ‘I am very strong, I know,’ she replied.

  ‘And modest.’

  She stood and began clearing up the glasses, then she picked up the ashtray.

  ‘After your baba, I would go in the garden when everyone was asleep, light one of his cigarettes and sit and listen to his favourite songs. You think you can afford to smoke?’ she added, waving the ashtray at me. ‘How expensive cigarettes are. And look at your face. You are young, Soffoo. Don’t waste your youth in mourning.’

  Sunday 23 June

  1.15 p.m. Why are there no biscuits in the house?? My appetite seems to have reappeared and all I want is to stuff my gob with five chocolate digestives at a time.

  ‘That’s a lot of banging,’ said Foz, appearing at the kitchen door.

  It looks like she’s moved in here permanently, but I’m not entirely sure.

  ‘Is one fucking biscuit too much to fucking ask?’ I exclaimed, opening the cupboard by the door for the tenth time.

  ‘We could go out and get some.’

  ‘Ugh.’

  She’d turned round and gone back into the living room.

  I opened the smallest cupboard with the spices and began taking them all out to search for anything that might be hidden in the back. And there was a packet. But sellotaped to the packet was a piece of paper. I took it out and it was an envelope with my name on it. In Conall’s handwriting. I went into my bedroom and stared at it for I don’t know how long before I conjured the courage to open it.

  Sofe,

  I’m not sure when you’ll find this letter, but I’m guessing if you were rummaging through the cupboards long enough it means you’re ready to read it. I never have met a woman with such perseverance when it comes to looking for biscuits. If you found it any sooner I’m pretty sure you’d have burnt the letter in a fit of rage. And I wouldn’t have blamed you.

  I’m sorry for many things, Sofe, but nothing more than not having told you the truth in the first place. Especially because you’re the most honest person I know. I thought I was done with cowardice. I wasn’t.

  If I’d stayed to say goodbye I know you’d have given me that ring back and I can’t have it. You can throw it in the bin or bury it in a pile of cigarette ash, but I hope you keep it because it’s yours.

  Always has been. Always will be.

  Yours,

  Conall.

  P.S. Look in the cubbyhole, behind all the boxing gear.

  I wiped my eyes and ran down the stairs, opened the cubby hole and took out the punching bag and mismatched old gloves. There, in a box, was what looked like a year’s supply of biscuits.

  JULY

  With or Without You

  Monday 1 July

  8.40 a.m. I don’t know whether having to tell people about the end of your marriage is exhausting or a distraction. Maybe when I say it out loud it’ll still feel like someone else’s narrative. It’s only when I’m alone that I remember it’s mine.

  Which is shit, because I’m alone.

  Thursday 4 July

&nbs
p; 10.15 a.m. ‘Thanks for coming in,’ said Sakib.

  I sat down and looked at the piles of manuscripts, stacked against the glass wall. Each pile had a letter labelled above it.

  ‘Are those in alphabetical order?’ I asked.

  Sakib sprang up from his chair when he saw one of the letters had fallen off. ‘There’s no such thing as organised chaos,’ he said. ‘You’re either organised or chaotic.’

  Conall was all organised chaos. Or perhaps he was just chaos. Even though he seemed to bring the opposite of that to my life. Until he told me about his secret family, of course. Sakib sat at his desk and leaned forward, clasping his hands together.

  ‘So, have you thought about the book?’

  I’ve not thought about anything for the past two weeks. But why do something you don’t want to do? Something you barely have the energy for – that’s so completely the opposite of what your life’s become.

  ‘I’ll be honest,’ he said. ‘This is selfish. I want you to do it because I think it’ll be great. Even if it’s painful.’

  ‘You don’t mind inflicting pain on me?’

  He gave me a smile. ‘It’s not optimum, but whatever doesn’t kill you . . .’

  ‘. . . slowly destroys your soul.’

  ‘No. If I thought it’d do that . . . well, I’m not that selfish.’

  I considered it for a moment. Apart from reading manuscripts for Sakib, what else will I do, except sit at home and wonder where it all went wrong? Plus, the last thing a person wants to do is appear feeble to their editor. But wasn’t this like lying? How can I write it without being completely disingenuous?

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘But maybe . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Maybe it can’t be like the first one – all happy and light. It can’t be a guide.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shrugged. ‘Perhaps something more honest than it has been so far.’

  Sakib paused. ‘Yes. Yes, I see what you mean. I think that’s a good thing.’

  ‘Honesty then,’ I said.

  He leaned back, giving me a big smile. ‘Honesty. Good. I’m so pleased.’

  ‘I’m glad someone is.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’

  I shook my head as I took out the manuscript I’d read for him.

  ‘This was really good,’ I said.

  ‘You think we should publish it?’ he asked.

  I paused. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh. Because it’s really good?’

  ‘I’ll need specifics,’ he said.

  ‘Do we have to disassemble everything?’

  He clasped his hands together. ‘If I’m giving someone money then I want to know why.’

  I gave him all the reasons I loved the book. ‘It’s the universal struggle of trying to find happiness and then realising it’s not what you have in life, but what you make of it that matters,’ I added.

  I’d made my choice --– what was I going to make of it now that I was without Conall?

  ‘Exactly.’ He considered me for a while before speaking. ‘We don’t get to make many choices, though, when we’re Asian.’

  ‘Please. What decade are you living in? Things have changed.’

  ‘Not enough,’ he said. ‘Change isn’t just about what you can and can’t do. It’s about mindset.’

  This was all rather philosophical territory to be honest. I just wanted a good book to be published.

  ‘Thanks, Sofia,’ he said, getting up.

  ‘No worries.’ I noticed a flash of hot pink socks. ‘Socks say a lot about a person,’ I added.

  He laughed and picked up his trouser leg for a better look. ‘What’s that then?’

  I picked up my bag. ‘That you read all the fashion mags.’

  ‘Is it that obvious?’

  I considered him for a moment. ‘Completely. Did you used to get all the girls? There’s a certain brand of Asian girl for whom you are prime target.’

  He rested his hand on the handle. ‘What type’s that?’

  ‘She has very straight hair. And she’s quite beautiful, naturally. But, you know, in that prosaic way.’

  ‘That’s good news. I think. I can take prosaic.’

  ‘You know what Oscar Wilde said? Let us leave pretty women to men with no imagination.’

  ‘That was Proust.’

  ‘Was it?’

  I got out my phone and googled to check. ‘Oh, you’re right.’

  ‘I know. And thanks for telling me I’ve no imagination.’

  I paused. ‘You know sometimes I don’t –’

  ‘Think before you speak?’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Your wife’s very pretty . . . I mean, was. Well, I’m sure she still is. And not in a prosaic way. Sorry.’

  I waited for him to open the door. As he did I paused. ‘I don’t mean to be nosy – but what was it? You know, that changed things with your wife?’

  He cleared his throat and seemed to be experiencing physical pain, searching for the words.

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. It’s just – we grew apart. To be honest it was probably more me than it was her. Some people stay the same their whole life; consistent. And then some people just evolve a little later. I went from this weird, geeky kid to, I don’t know. This.’ He opened up his arms. ‘And now that I’m here I think we both realised we didn’t work any more.’ He looked at the ground. ‘She said she loved that geeky kid.’

  That was it, wasn’t it? Conall was still evolving. Perhaps I was too.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

  I nodded. ‘Fine. Grand.’ I’ve never said grand in my life. As if speaking like Conall would make up for him not being here.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, yeah. Yeah, fine.’

  I think we both knew this wasn’t true, no matter how much he seemed to want it to be.

  ‘You know you can come into the office whenever you want. For your reading. Katie would love it.’

  ‘But that would mean having to get out of my pyjamas.’

  There it was. The one look I wanted never to see on anyone’s face. Pity.

  ‘I’m joking,’ I added.

  ‘Listen, some things are too late to salvage,’ he said. ‘But for you, this could only be temporary.’

  ‘Nothing temporary about an ex-wife and child I never knew about.’

  He looked a little taken aback.

  ‘Bet you never had that problem with your wife.’

  Sakib pressed his lips together and cleared his throat. ‘Right. No. Anyway, thanks for your thoughts on the manuscript and oh . . . do you mind not mentioning it to anyone?’

  For a moment I wanted to ask why, but who cared? ‘Sure. Of course.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re going ahead with the book,’ he added as he opened the office door. I noticed him glance at the wedding band still on my hand. ‘I’d have been wrong about you otherwise.’

  5.50 p.m. Walked across the Embankment today, looking out into the murky River Thames, set against the blue sky. What was Conall doing this very moment? Bought a Snickers at a newspaper stand and read the headline: EDL Plan Protest March Against Islamisation of UK.

  I know what Conall would’ve said if he read that. A lot of swearing, actually. Thunderous face. Slamming things. So much rage, helping to diminish mine somewhat.

  ‘Sad state of affairs, isn’t it, love?’ said the man at the stand as he handed me my change.

  I nodded.

  Isn’t it just.

  9.35 p.m. I had cheese on toast for dinner, which was only marginally depressing because I couldn’t be bothered to switch the light on once I’d sat down. So, I ate in the dark, with nothing for company but the sound of my own munching.

  Friday 5 July

  7.25 a.m. Bills are never more depressing than when they come in the name of y
our husband who no longer lives with you. On top of which the bathroom tap wasn’t working properly. The water’s either freezing or boiling. Nothing and no one believes in moderation any more.

  8.15 p.m. I’d gone into Sakib’s office to read today and came home to find Mum with a feather duster in hand, cleaning the top of the blinds.

  ‘Soffoo, when was the last time you cleaned your home?’

  I was too distracted by the bathroom sink on the dining table. She told me she’d got someone called Uncle Salim to come and fix my tap for free and now she was fixing my entire house.

  ‘There’s so much to do. Ramadan is next week and I have to make koftay and spring rolls . . . Salim Bhai,’ she exclaimed into her phone as it rang. ‘Not the kitchen tap, the bathroom tap. Crack,’ she said when she put the phone down.

  ‘So, in the process of fixing the bathroom tap he broke the sink,’ I said.

  ‘You think about your broken marriage, Soffoo.’

  I threw my bag on the sofa, trying my best to ignore my broken marriage, actually. ‘When are you and Uncle Wasim booking your flight to Pakistan?’

  Mum said they’d decided to cancel a wedding event in London even though I told her not to for my sake.

  ‘And who will look after everything here? Uff, look at all this dust. I’ll go after Eid. If your baba was here, what would he say? He spoiled you and then he died. Men only think of themselves. And what are these overdue bills? I didn’t raise you and Maria to be so un-responsible.’ She paused, which felt pretty remarkable. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll give you money.’

  ‘Mum, I don’t need money, honestly. It’s going to be fine.’

  ‘Don’t argue. Your baba and me didn’t work so hard so you could struggle.’

  I felt a lump form in my throat.

  ‘Chalo, chalo. It will be OK.’

  The doorbell rang and it was Maria, armed with food.

  ‘Why’s there a bathroom sink here?’ she asked, putting the dish of biryani on the already over-occupied dining table.

  ‘What do you girls think? Everything happens like magic?’ exclaimed Mum, shaking her feather duster at us. She then stormed out of the room and into the kitchen.