by Ayisha Malik
‘Bloody hell,’ said Maars. ‘That woman really needs to get married.’
Sunday 7 July
2.50 p.m. I was attempting to make a stir-fry as Foz was coming over to stay when my phone rang. I didn’t recognise the number.
‘Hey, Sofia?’
It was the voice – they sound so alike I don’t know why my heart plummeted to my ankles.
‘How are you?’ asked Sean.
‘Fine,’ I said, sitting on the kitchen floor, urging my heart to get back to where it belonged.
‘I’m sorry. The whole thing’s just . . . well, you know.’
I reached up to switch the hob off before I was splattered with hot oil. I’d already got sweaty enough.
‘Life,’ I said. ‘I guess your mum’s happy.’ I added.
‘No . . .’ he said, not very convincingly.
‘How’s Eamonn?’
‘He was looking better yesterday.’
Why are there so many facets to missing someone? It’s never just the person, it’s everything around them that becomes important because it’s linked to them. It’s not about cutting a cord; it’s discovering that the cord has roots and you need better shears.
‘He’s such a great kid.’ Sean paused. ‘Christ, I hope he gets better.’
‘Me too,’ I said.
‘Have you spoken to Conall?’
‘No.’
He paused. ‘Think you might?’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘He’s having a tough time. If he heard from you –’
‘I can’t.’
‘No. Of course not.’
I waited for him to say something else.
‘Is that it?’ I asked.
‘No, yeah, well . . . Yeah.’
‘What?’
‘How’s . . . doesn’t matter. Forget it. Do you need anything?’
Yes. Your brother. ‘No, thanks. I’m really fine.’
I sounded rather more sprightly than I felt. I don’t want Conall to think I’m fine. I am the opposite of fine. I heaved myself off the floor, switching the hob back on. The vegetables were looking very limp.
‘Right.’
It was the first time Sean’s voice had ever been curt. I wanted to explain that I was lying, actually, but by that time tears had sprouted from my eyes as if from nowhere, falling into the hot oil. My cooking is literally made of sweat and tears.
Wiping the tears from my face, steadying my voice, I said: ‘Is there anything else?’
He paused again. ‘No. I guess there isn’t.’
10.10 p.m. Welcomed Foz home with my veggie stir-fry.
‘I could get used to this,’ she said.
‘Well, why don’t you just move in with me?’
She looked at me and hesitated. ‘Really?’
‘Of course,’ I exclaimed.
Hurrah! My best friend’s moving in with me!
‘It’ll be like old times,’ she said. ‘When you used to stay with me and we’d smoke out on the outside step.’ Just then she looked into the dish. ‘Although perhaps we should go to your mum’s for dinner.’
Hmph. When we got there, Auntie Reena was around. She’s come up with a life plan: budgies. Fozia glanced at me.
‘Don’t you worry about your husband leaving you,’ Auntie said, smiling at me and grabbing my arm. ‘When your mama leaves we will be single girls together.’
1.40 a.m. I shook Fozia awake. She turned over, peeling back her blindfold a fraction and taking an earplug out.
‘Am I just a few budgies short of being Auntie Reena?’ I said.
She lifted her duvet. I slipped into her bed as she handed me another pair of blindfolds.
‘We’re all only a few budgies short of being Auntie Reena.’
Tuesday 9 July
3 a.m. A month of fasting has begun. We all went to the mosque last night and the sermon followed by Taraweeh prayers was about perfecting the self – using the month to become a better version of yourself. Pfft. What if there’s only one version and that’s the one you’ve become? What if this is me in my entirety? I wondered what would Conall have thought of the sermon?
‘It’s a decent aim, isn’t it, Sofe?’ he might’ve said. Then he’d have smiled in that annoyingly amused way he has, looked at me, and added, ‘You’ve done a pretty shoddy job all these years with yourself. Maybe this time you’ll actually achieve it.’
First step towards separation recovery: stop having fictitious convos with the person you’re separated from.
Perhaps Ramadan has come at the right time. It’ll make me think of higher, spiritual things as opposed to the empty side of my bed.
God, I could do with his arms round me.
Friday 19 July
12.40 a.m. The girls came over for iftari – to break fast. Asked Suj and Katie to come over as well to partake in fast-breaking ritual of stuffing gob. We tried to keep the convo strictly spiritual in honour of the month, but apparently worldly relationships are too much at the forefront of everyone’s thoughts.
‘Being married’s hard work, you know,’ said Katie. She was putting the plates out with Suj while the rest of us came back from praying.
‘You don’t have to make me feel better,’ I said.
‘It’s true,’ Katie said, in a higher pitch than usual, which of course meant it wasn’t true at all. Not for her anyway.
‘How were you sure?’ Foz asked Katie. She picked out a piece of limp lettuce from the salad I’d made.
Katie paused and thought for a moment. ‘I wasn’t.’
‘Katie’s such an unromantic twerp sometimes,’ I said, cutting in. It’s Ramadan, so I’m curbing my enthusiasm for swearing.
She replied: ‘Fine. I was sure. But that’s because he’s basically my best friend – after you, obviously, Sweetu,’ she said turning to me. ‘Anyway, we spend too much time thinking about this kind of thing. There’s life beyond marriage.’
There’s life beyond everything – doesn’t make it any less sad.
Foz picked out another piece of limp lettuce. ‘The one thing we told this girl to make,’ she said, contemplating the lettuce for rather a long time.
‘Obviously you’d rather be with them than not,’ I said. ‘I mean, what other reason makes sense?’
Suj was checking her phone and Hannah snatched it from her, putting it on the table.
‘Shrivelling ovaries,’ offered Hannah.
‘Not wanting to die alone,’ said Foz.
‘Being bored,’ added Suj.
‘If you’re bored then take up a hobby,’ I said.
Katie rolled her eyes. I looked at Hannah. ‘Not much you can do about shrivelling ovaries, I’m afraid.’
‘Shrivelled, more like,’ she said. ‘By the time the adoption agency’s processed our paperwork, I’ll be a shrivelled human being. But if my last relationship taught me anything, it’s to be with someone who’ll be enough. Babies or not. Rich or poor. That kind of thing.’
It’s nice to know that good marriages do exist. That people can be content with one another, despite wider adversity. Suj looked agitated, not touching the food on her plate. And not just my salad.
I filled my glass with water. ‘ “It might be that you love a thing which is bad for you, or hate a thing which is good for you.” ’ I thought a quotation from the Qur’an was fitting for the occasion. Everyone seemed to be lost in their respective thoughts on this.
‘Yeah,’ said Suj, taking her phone back from Hannah. ‘But how are you meant to work out which one is which?’
Thursday 25 July
10.05 a.m. Things I thought of when I woke up this morning: it’s been forty-five days since Conall left; is he waking up in the middle of the night to keep fast? Why do I care? I need to do laundry.
I’m going back to sleep.
1.55 p.m. I went in to work to have lunch with Katie since I started my period (God is considerate and gives women a break from fasting and praying once a month). I asked that we
go to the café round the corner from work in case Sakib sees me.
‘Why?’ she said.
‘I don’t need him to know my menstrual cycle,’ I replied.
Outside the building I gulped my coffee before going to throw it in the bin, and sod’s bloody law, Sakib walked past me.
‘Worked from home this morning. Late-night Taraweeh prayers are taking their toll.’ He rubbed his eyes and looked towards the bin. ‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.’
Ugh.
We went in and got into the lift. When the doors closed I smelled his aftershave and feelings started going on in places they had no business to be. Bloody separation and bloody periods. Plus, it’s Ramadan. Plus, it’s Sakib. I observed his profile; the wavy hair, Romanesque nose, tan skin. I looked down at his shoes to divert my attention. What is wrong with me??
‘No colourful socks?’ I asked, noticing the black pair he was wearing.
He pointed a shoe upwards, but didn’t reply. I tried not to breathe for the rest of the journey to the fifth floor.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
I pursed my lips. ‘Mhmm.’
‘Your face looks strained.’
I had to breathe. ‘That’s just my face.’
But he ignored me as we came out of the lift.
I walked up to Katie’s desk as he was about to go into his office when he said, ‘Don’t go hiding away for lunch.’ He looked at me and something seems to have changed about him. ‘We’re all adults here.’
6.55 p.m. The desk opposite Katie was vacant so I’ve ended up staying and reading. Most people have left (Katie had spin class), but Sakib’s still in his office, his door ajar.
‘You should go home,’ I called out from my desk. ‘Have a nap. God, I feel tired for you.’
Ah, Suj calling.
11.40 p.m. Bloody hell. Soon as I picked up, she said: ‘I told my whole family about him. Dealt with all kinds of shit; people saying how Mum’s looking down on me, disappointed – but I thought fuck ’em. She’s going to be happy because I’m happy and now the man who’s meant to be making me happy has fucked off somewhere.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
Apparently he received a message from an ex.
‘I swear if he’s fucking around I’ll go mental and slash his tyres.’
‘Stay away from sharp objects, Suj. Do not slash another man’s tyres. I mean it.’
When she said OK and put the phone down, I was pretty convinced she wasn’t listening. Sakib, however, was listening. I turned round and he was standing there with his eyebrows raised.
‘Just . . . offering some advice to a friend.’ I put the phone in my pocket, observing his pallor and the rather grumpy edge to him. ‘Are you getting enough nutrients? You should eat protein at suhur. Things like avocados.’
‘Are you eating avocados?’ he asked.
‘I’m a hijabi. I’m meant to look sullen and severe. Hungry?’ I asked.
He shrugged, pulling up a chair opposite me. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes. I don’t mean to sound prudish but why do men insist on spreading their legs as wide as humanly possible? Especially when some women are trying to keep certain feelings at bay. Stop flashing me your balls, for God’s sake. It’s Ramadan.
‘Never really feel hungry,’ he said. ‘Just the lack of sleep.’
My pad really did need changing. I picked up my bag when he opened his eyes.
‘You should come over for iftari one day,’ he said.
I replied that that sounded lovely.
‘Actually come over today.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I drove into the office. It’s already almost seven o’clock.’
‘Oh, I don’t know, maybe a weekend would be better.’
‘No, no. I’ll drop you home, don’t worry.’
I don’t mean to be anti-people but the last thing I wanted was to spend an evening with my boss. Especially one who wears aftershave that smells so nice. Ramadan is a time for community and kindness and blah blah bleugh. All I wanted was to go home and scream into my pillow. Plus, I should call Suj back and get the full story. It’s probably fine – I’m sure Charles hasn’t pissed off anywhere. He’s mad about Suj.
Sakib was already standing up and waving his hand about. ‘Come on. I could do with the company.’
He parked his Mercedes in the garage outside his detached house. I surveyed the wilted flowers that looked like they’d once been beautifully arranged in baskets.
‘The wife took a flower-arranging class. Only she’s no longer here to tend to them.’
‘Ah.’
He opened the front door.
‘Should I . . .’ I pointed to my shoes, wondering whether I should take them off, the flooring was so pristine.
‘Oh, great, if you don’t mind.’
Sigh. This is why preparation is key. Feet are meant to be in socks or shoes, not flashed about in your boss’s face.
Just then his phone rang and he answered. Turns out it was the flower-arranging wife.
‘Hi. Fine. You?’ He looked over at me, smiling apologetically as he led me through a rather grand passage, into an even grander living room. He closed the door behind him, through which I could hear muffled voices.
‘How’s Dubai?’ I heard him ask. ‘Not my choice. Yours. I asked you to stay.’
Oh Lord. Domestics. Who’d have ’em, eh? Not me. I stopped listening because a) it’s rude and b) I was nosing about the room with its French windows overlooking a green lawn and what looked like a pond. There were pictures of Sakib and his wife, which I leaned in to inspect. They looked like such a good couple. Never can trust what’s on the outside.
Sakib walked into the room and switched on the spotlights as he closed the blinds. ‘Sorry about that.’ He rubbed his forehead.
‘She’s in Dubai?’ I asked.
He nodded. ‘Her family has a home there and she decided to go for a break. Or I wouldn’t be living in this house.’
He looked around at it, as if wondering what he was even doing here. ‘Her parents bought this home for us,’ he explained.
‘Ah.’ I mean, it was clear she was basically loaded. ‘What will happen?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘All the small things – the windows, the flooring, the paint . . . we picked it out together. Built it to become what it is. I love it. I don’t know what will happen. But she’s not vindictive. And I hope I’m not either. I guess as with everything else we’ll come to an agreement.’
‘Gosh. How amicable.’
He gave a sad smile. ‘Yes. Amicable.’
I wasn’t sure what to say. The silence around us became louder than my big mouth. And I felt sorry for him – almost walked up to him and gave him a hug. It was all rather perturbing. ‘If you want, we can make a plan for another day?’
‘What? Nonsense. Stay put.’
The discomfort must’ve shown on my face. He raised his eyebrows. ‘What would the aunties say, right? Plenty of wagging tongues if anyone found out.’
‘I love that this month of forgiveness and reflection isn’t lost on them.’
He looked thoughtful when he replied, ‘Probably lost on all of us.’
Sakib took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, revealing his tan arms. ‘Let the tongues wag. I’m going to cook up an iftari you won’t forget.’
Get your shit together, Sofia. You do not need to be close to a person. The further you are from things, the better. I shook my head vigorously as I followed him into the kitchen.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Hmm?’
‘You were shaking your head.’
‘Oh, nothing. Thought I was getting a headache.’
‘You thought you were getting a headache?’
‘It’s gone. It’s fine.’
I stopped short at the door and looked at the kitchen, which was basically the size of our living room. Or what used to be ‘our’ living room . . . whose exactly is it now? Look
ing at the steel island in the middle of the kitchen, it rather felt like a place where you’d put an animal to slaughter.
‘I like kitchen islands,’ I said.
Sakib opened up a cupboard and asked, ‘Do you cook a lot?’
I practically chortled on my own spit. ‘Er, no,’ I replied. ‘But it’d be nice to pour cereal into a bowl on a kitchen island,’ I added. ‘I’m not about to go to Ikea and pick one up, though.’
He took out a jar of sauce and a few other bits and pieces, which looked rather foreign to me – item-wise that is.
‘This kitchen definitely isn’t Ikea,’ he replied.
All right, mate, I wanted to say. I didn’t, though, it being Ramadan and all.
‘Chicken stir-fry?’ he asked.
‘Sure. Can I help?’
He went over to the humungous fridge and took out a bunch of vegetables. ‘Put together a salad?’ He handed me an onion.
I held it in my hand. ‘What do you want me to do with this?’ I asked.
He paused, his eyebrows contracting. ‘Are . . . are you joking?’
I laughed, which could’ve meant either yes or no. He seemed to think it meant yes as he handed me a knife. ‘Careful with that. State-of-the-art knife. One cut and it’ll bleed you to death.’
I looked at its fine blade. ‘Bloody hell.’ I was going to retort with some witticism about money literally bleeding someone dry, but was rather engrossed in the mechanism of peeling the onion. So to speak. I realised Sakib was looking at me, concerned.
‘Why don’t you slice the top of the onion first?’
‘Hmm? Oh. Yes, exactly.’
He tied on an apron, still looking concerned. Conall never tied on an apron when he cooked. His shirts were always splattered with some kind of ingredient.
‘How has a Pakistani girl made it through life without peeling an onion?’
I rested the onion on the chopping board. ‘Excuse me, I’ve peeled an onion before. Anyway, I didn’t realise it was such an imperative.’
‘It’s just not very . . . usual,’ he replied.
‘Your point?’
He began chopping the mushrooms. ‘Didn’t Conall think it was odd?’