by Ayisha Malik
Being well acquainted with myself, I thought anger would’ve been the predominant emotion. It begs the question whether we ever do know ourselves. Or maybe sometimes someone comes along and they bring out the unknown parts of who you are. And right then I felt such a cascade of disbelief I could hardly believe in myself.
‘Right.’
Then he met my gaze and I wondered how you could want to turn away from the same thing you want to clutch on to for the rest of your life.
‘Honestly,’ he added. ‘I’m sorry.’
He looked back down and walked away, the two bags in his hands. There was nothing I could say to him, other than to whisper, ‘So am I.’
Monday 30 September
9.05 a.m. Not sure how I got into work since my body felt like it was in an iron cast. Mum asked what he wanted. When I told her I thought she’d ask more questions, but she just hugged me. So it is better to be home than alone.
‘How’d it go?’ asked Sakib as soon as he opened the door for me.
‘Rather not talk about it.’ I glanced over at him, rubbing his forehead as he answered an email. ‘Doesn’t look like you slept very well,’ I said.
‘That makes two of us.’
‘What’d you think of the Saloni submission?’ I asked.
He sighed again. ‘Haven’t finished it yet.’ Then he stood up and opened a window, gazing out at the fir tree in his garden. ‘I’m not used to being alone.’
I looked up. The sheer honesty of the statement unnerved me. You’re not meant to say these things out loud.
‘Your little encounter had me reaching for the phone to my wife.’
‘And?’
He had his hands in his pockets as he looked at me. ‘And . . . I realised I’m still the same geeky guy now as I was over fifteen years ago. Only not enough for my wife to be happy with me.’
I wanted to ask if he fancied a fag, but I suspect he’s not the smoking type – there are the people who are frayed and there are people with neat, tailored lines.
‘Can’t help change.’
He smiled, as if to himself. ‘I thought I’d grown out of longing – hankering after the popular girl.’
I looked out into the garden with him. ‘The more I think about it, the more I realise we don’t grow out of anything – we grow over it.’
The office phone rang. Sakib picked it up, answered the queries and put the phone down again.
‘Well,’ he said, about to leave for the day. ‘Time to carry on growing over.’
I wouldn’t admit it to him, but he was right. It was time to grow over.
OCTOBER
Big Girls Don’t Cry
Tuesday 1 October
8.25 p.m. ‘Oh meri bachi,’ said Mum as she grabbed my face and kissed my cheek.
‘Mum, really. It’s fine.’
Maars and Tahir exchanged a look.
‘Honestly, you guys. It’s the sensible thing to do.’
It was hardly a surprise that I was officially going to get a divorce. Just then the doorbell rang, Mum answered it and we heard Auntie Reena howl: ‘Hai hai!’ She heaved into the living room like a wave and looked at me, Maars and Tahir. ‘They’ve gone!’ she said.
‘What’s gone?’ Tahir and Maars asked in unison.
I was still slightly taken aback by Auntie’s doughy form, blocking Mum from entering the room.
‘Meri chirdiyan,’ she said, clutching her chest. ‘My budgies have flown away.’
‘Reena, my daughter is losing her husband and you are worried about your budgies.’
Auntie Reena looked at me, aghast, and scurried up to me. ‘Beta, are you sure?’
Despite her separation, her devotion to husbands doesn’t seem to have waned. Anyway, this wasn’t about me being sure, it was about there not exactly being any other choice.
‘She is doing the right thing,’ said Mum. ‘Why the hell she should wait and wait her whole life?’
I glanced at Mum as Tahir shifted in his seat. Now I can tell Hammy and she can get in touch with Uncle Mouch. Katie was right; the only impediment to Mum’s happiness has been me.
Maars nodded. ‘Exactly, Auntie. Mum’s right.’
Tahir flung his arms into the air. ‘You’re telling her to break up her own marriage?’
Auntie Reena shook her head.
‘What marriage?’ said Maria.
‘Don’t you think he deserves to know what you’re planning?’ he said. ‘Don’t you think you should give him a chance? Let him tell you what he’s thinking?’
‘Who is he to tell her anything?’ replied Maria.
‘God forbid anyone tell any of the Khan women what to do,’ said Tahir.
My brain was beginning to hurt.
‘Beta,’ said Auntie Reena, ‘marriage is about compromise and understanding. He made a mistake. He’s a man.’
I guess the mistake wouldn’t be quite so forgivable if he was a woman.
‘Auntie,’ said Tahir, laughing, ‘as a man, even I don’t think that’s right. I mean, what he did was messed up – but two wrongs don’t make a right.’
Tahir picked up Adam and stood. ‘I’m taking him into the other room,’ he whispered to Maars. ‘I don’t want my son to end up feeling emancipated with all this talk.’
‘Do you mean emasculated?’ I said.
‘See?’ he said. ‘It’s like men don’t matter in this family.’ With which he held Adam’s head to his shoulder and marched out of the room.
‘Le,’ said Mum, looking at Tahir in the other room. ‘What’s happened to him?’
‘Mawlvi at his mosque’s started saying how the world’s gone mad because women are man-controlling,’ said Maars.
‘That’s just what we need,’ I said, thinking of exactly how I’m going to ask Conall for a divorce. ‘Mawlvis telling men how dangerous we are. Better get T out of that shit,’ I added.
‘Hid his car keys last night.’
‘Good, because the kind of guy that can’t tell between emancipated and emasculated is prime fundo material.’
And just then I thought of Sean’s worried face when he came to my house, Conall’s long beard and rolled-up jeans. I had to shake the stupid notion out of my head. Muslims are meant to be immune to this kind of propaganda.
To Hamida: Hi. Have you had a chance to speak to Uncle Wasim? It’s time everyone moved on. I’m emailing Conall, to say as much.
I don’t want to be someone who reconciles themselves to a future, I want to be someone who forges it.
Wednesday 2 October
10.10 a.m.
To: Conall O’Flynn
From: Sofia Khan
Subject: Us
Hi,
I don’t think it’ll come as much of a surprise that I think the right thing to do now is get a divorce. It’s only an Islamic one so I just need you to get in touch with an imam and we can do it over the phone. No need to even speak – I could tell how little you wanted to do that last time I saw you. There are no legal complications so that’s one less thing you need to worry about.
The sooner we can arrange this, the better for everyone.
S
That was it. The emotional finishing line in this marathon of a marriage. Me, coming in last and losing spectacularly.
Friday 4 October
7.15 a.m. Have been checking emails incessantly the past few days and nothing. From Conall or Hamida. Tried to call Hamida but her phone was switched off.
5.20 p.m.
To Sean: Hey. How are you? Listen, I need to speak with Conall, but he’s not answering his email. Could you check if he’s received it, please? Hope you’re well. x
Saturday 5 October
2.50 p.m. Tried to call Sean but it went straight to voicemail. Why is no one answering their phones or emails??
Sunday 6 October
10.45 a.m.
To Sean: Hi, don’t mean to keep bugging you but I really do need to know whether Conall received this email. Get back to me ASAP please. Thanks S
x
Monday 7 October
8.30 p.m. I lunged for the phone as soon as it rang.
‘Sean,’ I said. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Do you know how much time we waste on phones and social media?’ he said.
‘Sean?’ It was his voice but it didn’t sound like him, if you know what I mean.
He sighed. ‘Just trying to get some balance.’
‘Oh.’
‘Seeing your nephew go through that shit makes you think.’
‘How is he?’
He paused. I think I must’ve held my breath.
‘In remission.’
I raised my head to God and had to say a silent thanks.
‘Beating me at chess too, the little bastard,’ Sean added.
I counted that it was only ten days ago I’d seen Conall looking so . . . well, browbeaten.
‘How long’s it been?’ I asked.
‘A few weeks. Anyway, what can I do you for, Sofe?’
I told him I’d emailed Conall and hadn’t heard back from him.
‘What kind of email?’ he asked, a tinge of suspicion in his voice.
‘Think it’s best I first hear from him.’
He paused again. ‘Sofia, don’t take this the wrong way, but when I asked you to contact him you didn’t and now . . .’
‘It’s time to move things forward,’ I said. ‘For everyone.’
‘Right. I get it.’ He sighed again. ‘Well, he’s away for a few weeks. Gone to Kashmir with Hamida.’
Kashmir? I put my head in my hands. That man has a death wish.
‘What is he doing there?’ I said, perhaps in a rather higher-pitched voice than normal. ‘Eamonn’s barely made it into remission.’
‘Claire’s mum contacted her and they’re going to stay with her for a while. Claire said she needed some space.’
I heard a shuffle in the background. ‘Why does it matter to you?’ he asked. There wasn’t animosity in his voice, just perhaps the type of exasperation only a brother can feel.
‘Well . . . I suppose it doesn’t.’
‘You’ll have to wait to hear from him. Where do you think I got the idea for a phone and social media detox?’
I had to laugh. ‘He was born in the wrong era, wasn’t he?’
Sean paused again. ‘He’ll be back. I’ll tell him you called.’
‘Just the email,’ I said. ‘No call needed.’
‘Right. Fine.’
‘Thanks, Sean.’
‘Sure.’
There was more I wanted to say to him, but I wasn’t sure what. ‘Sean?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Be a bit weird if we stayed friends, wouldn’t it?’
I waited a few moments before he spoke. ‘Yeah. It would be.’
Thursday 10 October
8.55 a.m. ‘Congratulations, Ms Khan,’ said Sakib as he opened the door to me.
For a moment I wondered whether he knew I was getting a divorce.
‘I think we’ve found the first book we need to publish,’ he added as I came in and he grabbed his keys. ‘Manuscript’s on your desk. Read it today. I’ll try to come home early.’
6 p.m. ‘Oh my God, you’re right,’ I exclaimed as he walked through the door. ‘I love it.’
He smiled at me before he sneezed. ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’
I nodded eagerly as we both dived into all the reasons we loved it when he sneezed again. ‘Think I’m getting a cold. Must be all the excitement.’
‘We have a first book!’ I exclaimed.
He sat in his chair, barely able to suppress his joy. ‘We do, Sofia. We do.’
Friday 11 October
8.05 a.m. Came over early as so much to do. Sakib answered the door in his dressing gown, face pale as he blew his nose. He went straight to bed.
10.05 a.m. Crept up the stairs, with Lemsip and a big bottle of water in hand, to see if he was awake. I didn’t actually know which was his bedroom, and there was another flight of stairs going up. Lightly knocked on each door on first floor when I heard a moan coming from the room at the end of the passage.
Opening the door slightly, I said hello. Then I took in the four-poster bed and almost laughed out loud. What kind of a person has a four-poster bed?? I waited for a few moments to compose myself.
‘Made you some Lemsip,’ I said.
The bed was a crumpled mass of covers and strewn pillows; the curtains drawn, a faint smell of vanilla and sweat.
‘Husna?’ he mumbled.
‘Sofia.’
‘Ogh,’ he said. Putting his head under the duvet, coughing.
‘It’s man-flu then.’ I stepped up to the bed and put the mug down. ‘You should drink that.’
‘I hate it,’ he murmured from under the duvet.
I went and opened the window a bit, keeping the curtains drawn. ‘Just drink it,’ I said, and left the room.
1 p.m. Give someone soup and more Lemsip and all you get is tantrums. Honestly.
1.15 p.m. ‘Really sorry, but what budget did we agree for book jackets?’
‘Five hundred and fifty,’ came the answer.
‘Right. Sorry. Thanks.’
5 p.m. Went up again with more water and he hadn’t touched the soup.
‘Don’t blame me if you get a stomach ulcer from all this medication and no food.’
‘I’m cold.’ His head peeped out from the covers as I went to close the window.
‘What do you want for dinner apart from all this lovely fresh air?’ I asked. When he didn’t respond I added, ‘I can get you soup? Dry toast?’
‘Khichri.’
Khichri?? Where was I meant to get that type of rice from? I certainly wasn’t going to cook it.
‘Dry toast it is then,’ I said.
9.15 p.m. Just got home after an evening of ensuring the toast was eaten, the water bottle was full, the medication was all to hand.
‘Sofia,’ he said, the dimmed lighting shading his face, ‘these are the times you miss the person you were married to.’
‘You have a temperature,’ I said. ‘Not a tumour.’
When I went to get up he held my wrist, his hands clammy, and I noticed that his fingers were tapered at the tips. So unlike Conall’s. He let go and went back to sleep after I promised that I’d come and see him tomorrow.
Monday 14 October
6.20 p.m. Bloody, bloody hell. I was packing up to leave when Sakib came home, throwing his keys on the desk.
‘Listen, I wanted to say thanks,’ he said. ‘For last week.’
Picking up my bag, I replied, ‘Don’t worry about it. Consider us even now.’
‘I mean it,’ he said.
I told him I’d have done the same if he were a dog so it was nothing.
‘Are you equating me to a dog?’
‘You share many dog-like qualities.’ (Sometimes, it’s too easy.)
But then he stepped towards me, partially blocking the doorway. I patted his arms and told him I’d see him tomorrow.
‘Wait,’ he said, putting both his hands on my arms. His nose was still red, and I noticed a small cut from when he must’ve shaved this morning. He took a deep breath.
‘Do you need an asthma pump?’ I asked, because his breathing sounded a little shallow.
Why were his hands still on my arms? He seemed to notice me fidget as he removed them, and I realised that actually the weight of a man’s arms on my shoulders was something I’d missed.
No, no, no. This was no time to feel those things again. I muttered a prayer under my breath at the sheer impropriety of A) having those feelings when I’m still, technically, married and B) having them in the presence of a man who was also married, which became a lot more oppressive.
‘I need to be honest, Sofia.’
Don’t say it. Don’t even think it.
‘Oh shit,’ I exclaimed. ‘Is that the time? I really have to go,’ I said, pushing past him while looking back, waving, and almost tripping over the kitche
n step.
‘Hang on, wait.’
‘Can’t,’ I called out from the passage.
‘Sofia,’ he called, running into the passage, but I’d already closed the door behind me and, for the first time in a really long time, I ran towards the Tube station.
Oh God, I need a toilet bowl.
Tuesday 15 October
8.20 a.m. Couldn’t face it. Texted in sick. Realise this is cowardly and I’m probably being paranoid, but what if I’m not? Between being horrified at a declaration of some kind of feeling and realising how long it’s been since, you know, being close to someone, what would I do? I mean, I wouldn’t do anything, but, you know.
8.25 a.m. Mum just came into my room and said: ‘How will you run a business if you take the day off with such small, small illness?’
Sigh. What happened? When did my mum become right about things?
Wednesday 16 October
9.10 a.m. When he answered the door I smiled really widely. He looked at the floor and let me in. In fact, he looked at the floor, the ceiling, the windows, his tea; anything but me.
‘Feeling better?’ he asked, staring at his computer screen.
‘Yes. Weird migraine thingy.’
He pushed his hair back, usually wavy and in place, a little dishevelled today. He tilted the computer screen back. ‘About the other day –’
‘Don’t mention it,’ I said. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Right. Yes.’
To be honest, I don’t know what he was going to say but better not to risk it.
I am done risking things.
Saturday 26 October
10.20 a.m. Sakib went out to get milk so I called Sean. He picked up after my third attempt. When I asked him whether Conall was back, he said he thought he was but hadn’t heard from him.
‘Well, is Hamida back?’
He paused. ‘Listen, there’s probably just a delay. You know how it is.’
‘Even so. Why don’t you ask . . .’ It took some effort to heave the name ‘Claire’ out of my mouth. ‘It’s just . . . Sean, it’s important. Or I wouldn’t ask.’