Austenistan

by Laaleen Sukhera

  I thought being married once would kind of take the pressure off but it turns out dating after divorce is hard. At thirty-two, you’re neither young nor old, you’re caught between crazy coked-up night outs and quiet nights in with friends. Of course, it would help if my friends weren’t all married and in the thick of reproducing.

  I know everyone feels like this, but my dates have been total weirdos. There’d been the also-divorced British Born Confused Desi ex from college who had relocated to Dubai. After a torrid e-romance, his gori girlfriend messaged me to say ‘sorry, but we’re in love and just waiting for his parents to approve the marriage’. And then there had been the 40-year-old Single Man, who’d seemed wonderful – bright and sophisticated. Just when I was wondering why he hadn’t been snapped up yet, I made some completely innocuous comment about how he may want to rethink wearing vintage band t-shirts since it only really suited Zayn Malik, and he went so nuclear, I thought he was going to explode. Last I heard, they’re exploring his potential as a WMD.

  My phone pings and it hurts my sore muscles to pick it up, though it’s actually lying on my chest. It’s an iMessage from Saba, the only married friend who still pays me any attention. I’m already so tense about her trying to fix me up with someone tonight. She was pretty wild back in the day but I gently nudged her towards her Sindhi feudal vadera hubby. She swore up and down that he wasn’t her type but they’ve been bonking each other senseless ever since. She’s just had a baby so I hope it’s not a picture of his poo. AGAIN.

  SABA 8:01 PM

  What you wearing tonight??! Please wear heels and not your weird bargain Uzma Market sandals. I know you have some Gina strappy heels from our Bicester Village trip. See you at 9:30 at the latest! DON’T DITCH!

  EMAAN

  IDK! It’s just a dinner, right? White shirt and distressed jeans? Uff, please. You say 9:30 and are still standing in your closet wearing just your Spanx at 11 PM.

  SABA

  HA HA HA! Bitch. I swear I’ll be on time, you know how anal those two are and I really need to get out. ANYWAYS are you excited to meet Mr. Right?

  EMAAN

  No

  SABA

  Come ON! He’s supposed to be fabulous! Well dressed, educated, right background…

  EMAAN

  He sounds like a total loser.

  SABA

  SHUT UP! GO get ready! See you in an HOUR!

  I’ve met Saba’s ideas of ‘Mr Right’ for me before, and let’s just say, they’re not worth one’s good lingerie. Nonetheless, I fish out a silky top with a low neckline in, what I hope, is an alluring shade of oyster. I’m going to kill Saba if he’s as bad as the last one.

  Four hours later and I’m waiting to kill Saba. I haven’t even met the guy yet because she’s yet to show up and introduce us. I arrived as promised at 9:30 and now it’s 11 and there’s no sign of her. Meanwhile, I’m trapped in a conversation about CPEC and how the influx of Chinese immigrants will affect housing prices. I can process the information, not for nothing did I ace my degree in spite of going out drinking every night, but it’s not necessarily what you want to talk about when you’ve spent an hour blow-drying your hair and contouring your cheeks. If Saba hadn’t pressured me into wearing a tight pencil skirt and incredibly uncomfortable if beautiful strappy champagne heels, I’d have been able to slip away far quicker. I’m sipping at my Merlot as fast as possible so I can excuse myself to get a refill, even though it goes straight to my head. The drinks table is a gorgeous slab of raw wood that’s been treated to maintain its original beauty. The hosts have exquisite taste — dinner is laid out in the most gorgeous tableware that has been carefully bubble-wrapped and transported, a few dishes at a time, in suitcases from trips abroad. Scented tea lights twinkle around strategically placed vases of lilies and white roses. The chandelier above the table features exposed light bulbs and hanging wires. For a moment I feel like I’m not in Karachi at all and then the post-hair transplant, self-important man who’s been droning on about the GDP turns to me and says, ‘what do you think?’, and I remember that I am very much here. Just as I’m about to slip into a coma from boredom, I smell the possibility of salvation. I hear a deep voice calling someone a chutiya and I know Haroon has arrived.

  Haroon genuinely falls into the #friendslikefamily hashtag that every social climber is using these days to tag rich people they met two days earlier. Our parents are old Karachi University friends and we’ve been taking beach trips and club lunches together since I was in my mother’s belly. Haroon has a few years on me and is considered good-looking by the marriage mart with his tousled salt and pepper hair, defined cheekbones, Scandinavian height, and the gift for finance with which he converted his family millions into gazillions. For me, his best feature is his sharp and slightly perverse sense of humour. Women from 18 to 48 all squeeze into their tightest midriff-baring blouses for a function if there’s a hint of him attending. Yes, yes, people always ask me why I haven’t tried my luck with him—the answer to which is that I know him far too well and I can think of smarter ways of spending my time than having my heart dashed on the cliffs on my bestie’s compulsive womanising, that is, if I was attracted to him, which I’m not. Haroon isn’t even a regular womaniser, by the way. He’s so commitment-phobic that he prefers cavorting with married women. I love Haroon but the man needs a therapist more than a girlfriend. For all his toxicity in relationships though, he’s the steadiest friend a girl could ask for. He’s my happy place.

  I’m delighted he’s been invited tonight since his last affair caused the end of a rather popular marriage, the soon-to-be ex-wife apparently turning up at his door with a full set of LV luggage and being politely turned away.

  I feel him crouch behind me and whisper theatrically, ‘You filthy little girl. Are you trying to find a sugar daddy now? I’d tell Uncle, but he’d probably be pleased with the business connections.’

  I suppress a giggle and whisper back, ‘How many whiskey paanis have you had? Your breath could kill a dog.’

  Haroon grins and pulls me to a seat in a corner without so much as an ‘excuse me’. Taking out a pack of Marlboros, he offers me one.

  ‘It’s very uncool to smoke you know, it’s all about vaping now,’ I pronounce loftily, taking a cigarette.

  He’s wearing a tailored white shirt, tucked into slightly frayed khakis with his beloved retro Adidas Kicks, sleeves rolled up. He lights both of our cigs, takes a deep puff and exhales.

  ‘Do you even know what vaping is? Now stop being a brat and tell me why you’re at this geriatric party and not downing cocktails and conquering hearts somewhere way cooler?’

  Grabbing the nearest glass, he flicks ash into someone’s black market wine.

  I glance around the room, taking in the guests and reply, ‘Hardly geriatric, well maybe pushing fifty. Why are you here? Have you finally run out of women in your own age group? Anyways, I’m supposed to meet some guy from London tonight so either I’ll be conquering a heart or downing my sorrows in cocktails.’

  Even though we’ve discussed my doomed love life before and Haroon was a principal dancer at my mehndi, he’s never been completely comfortable about me meeting men. I’ve always chalked it up to his Big Brother role and being wary of yet another new guy breaking my heart. Frowning into his cigarette, Haroon grimaces and snarks at me, ‘expecting to get lucky tonight? That’ll be a first’. I’m composing a stinging rebuttal, when I hear a flurry of ‘sorry, sorry, I’m so sorry’ and turn around.

  Saba has finally made her entrance in a Sana Safinaz cocktail dress, bearing a Bottega knot clutch and enveloped in a cloud of Miss Dior. She’s apologising loudly between air-kisses, ‘Uff, I’m SO late! My night nurse had some last-minute crisis and I got stuck waiting for my MIL to come babysit!’ She surveys the room and spots us sitting alone on the table, ‘Emaan! You’re here! Eww, why are you smoking? And why are you sitting alone with Haroon?’ she says, making crazy eyeballs at me.

  ‘We’re sitting
together because I’m trying to persuade Emaan to finally allow me to make love to her, in mind-blowingly filthy ways,’ he says, with a straight face, to which Saba, who’s met him often, rolls her eyes. ‘Wait, why are you so late? Where’s that degenerate husband of yours?’

  He heads off to speak to him. Saba starts smoothing the crinkles out of my top like a monkey grooming its young. I bat her hands way before she starts checking for lice. ‘Saba, for God’s sake,’ I say, ‘I’m not your baby!’

  ‘You certainly eat like him!’ she says, rubbing at what seems to be a food stain. ‘So, did you meet Mustafa?’ she said, her voice dropping. ‘Isn’t he just so yummy? I love that accent and I heard he’s bought a lovely house in Clifton! Not bad, eh?’

  Saba’s eyes dart around the room sizing up the situation.

  Suddenly feeling tired and wanting my bed, I crankily tell her, ‘What guy? Honestly Saba, what a waste of time! I can’t believe how late you are. There’s no one here under forty and I’ve been listening to people discuss the Panama Papers all night. I really hate you.’

  Unperturbed, she grabs the remains of my smoke and takes a deep drag.

  ‘There! He’s right there!’ she says, pointing and waving enthusiastically at someone in a smoky corner. ‘He’s divine. Go marry him immediately so I have an excuse to buy some killer outfits!’

  I can see the man in question coming towards us now and I squint, trying to get better visuals through the mood lighting and puffs of smoke.

  I find myself studying an immaculately groomed individual of average brown man height, wearing a dark single-breasted suit with a dark shirt, topped with a perfectly gelled coiffure. The decreasing distance shows a face that has smaller pores than mine and the accompanying features are soft and amiable. Not bad, but giving off a metrosexual vibe which I don’t know how I feel about.

  Seeing Saba, he saunters over, and out comes the Black Amex of accents – British boarding school.

  ‘Saba, darling, you made it! You look yummy.’

  ‘I’m Mustafa,’ he says, turning to me, ‘but everyone calls me Musti. So, you’re the famous Emaan? I’ve been promised some witty banter! This one talks about you a great deal.’ I blush, thinking about Saba’s attempts at palming me off on this man, on any man really.

  I smile awkwardly and reply, ‘Oh! Well I hope the real thing doesn’t disappoint!’, tugging at my shirt now and feeling like a bug under a microscope.

  Musti laughs. I see his eyes roaming over me appraisingly and catching the food stain on my top that Saba was picking at earlier. Reaching over, he stabs at it with a finger and says, ‘Had a misunderstanding with the fricassee? I had some personal issues as well but looks like you took a beating.’

  I realise Saba has nicely sauntered off, leaving us to awkwardly flirt alone in a semi-private corner of the room. ‘Everyone knows that chickens play dirty. You should see me at the local sushi joint. I’m deadly with chopsticks.’

  I’m rewarded with a laugh. While he isn’t my type, the needy side of me hums with pleasure at his appreciation. He slides close enough for me to smell his aftershave and admire his gleaming white teeth. I press my lips together to make sure my food and cig breath doesn’t hit him.

  ‘Then we should go to dinner to see these chopstick martial art skills.’

  He rests his hand lightly on my lower back now, something I hate since it makes me self-conscious about my love handles. I hold my breath. I’m enjoying his attention and the light banter typically missing in Karachi hook-ups, which tend to start with small talk and end with a hastily booked Sindh Club room after sufficient alcohol has been consumed. Musti may be coming on too strong. but it’s been so long since I’ve felt desired by someone who isn’t a freak show, I’m willing to be less cautious than usual.

  I look around the room and see Haroon speaking to and quite possibly chatting up some pretty young thing and Saba standing with her husband, giggling. Sick of being a third wheel, I galvanise myself with a large slug of vodka tonic.

  ‘Are we talking date night or a friendly dinner? Because I need to know if I’m performing ninja moves post sushi.’

  If that doesn’t get his attention, nothing will. Sure enough, he blinks and a slow smile spreads. He comes close enough to whisper in my ear.

  ‘Sounds dangerous, let’s make it dinner and drinks at my place then. Actually, if you’re free right now, shall we go for a nightcap?’

  Here is the dating decision every single girl over a certain age has to make. You can’t keep up the virginal ingénue pretence post thirty (particularly post-divorce), but there’s a fine line between sophisticated and slutty. I’ve been good for long enough to cross it tonight. I lean in further, allowing enough body contact to make my agreement clear and whisper my response.

  ‘No, I’m done drinking for the night, but I can be tempted with something sweet. Sadly, the cake didn’t do it for me.’

  Musti smiles against my neck, and then full-on kisses me. More forward than romantic, I am taken aback by this sudden PDA. Musti pulls away. I think I can hear titters, though maybe that’s just my paranoia. The last time I had no-strings-attached-sex was the previous December season, when a nice American wedding guest allowed me an anonymous physical release. With someone local, wondering if the town will find out about your one-night stand can really kill your orgasm. I take a deep breath and throw my izzat to the wind. He takes my hand to lead me out.

  Before we even reach the front door we hear a discreet cough and I feel someone grab my shoulder. Haroon’s voice booms out.

  ‘Musti! Fantastic to see you again, I see you’ve met my sister from another mister, Emaan.’

  This stops Musti and me in our hormonal tracks.

  ‘Err, yes. How are you, mate? Didn’t know you two were friendly,’ Musti says, letting go of my hand.

  He steps back discreetly, allowing Haroon the alpha male position. I scowl at him and try to gain some control of the hook-up I can feel crumbling around me. I catch Haroon’s eye.

  ‘Heyyy, we were just leaving! Let’s catch up tomorrow?’ I link my arm through Musti’s again and try to pull him towards the door.

  Nope. My silent protest has zero effect. ‘I told your dad I’d drop you home tonight. I’m sure Musti understands. Come on, let’s go now.’

  Musti frowns but doesn’t push it, he gently pulls his arm away and bids us adieu, ‘Yes, I’m sure. Emaan, it was lovely to meet you, I’ll ping you about dinner. We can pick up where we left off.’

  He gives me a chaste peck on the cheek and a subtle squeeze of the hand. With a wink, he walks back into the room, presumably to find a woman who doesn’t come with her own personal bodyguard.

  Haroon grabs me and roughly pulls me out of the house. My mood has gone from lightly buzzed to full-on sulky. He stops when we get to the main entrance, a circular driveway in front, dotted with various Land Cruisers and Mercs.

  ‘What the hell! That was really embarrassing, Haroon! I can make my own decisions and you are hardly one to pull some Moral Police shit on me. You’re always sabotaging me! There hasn’t been a single romantic possibility that you haven’t shot down since my ex-husband. What is your problem?’

  I realise I sound rather more petulant than righteous, but really, of all the things Haroon is, a puritanical hypocrite has never before been one of them. For a society filled with secret swinger clubs and multiple dating apps, it’s still unseemly for a woman to publicly swipe right.

  ‘Shut up, Emaan. I can’t believe how stupid you are sometimes. That guy is such a dick! He thinks he’s God’s gift to women, he talks about them like they’re shit and he would have blabbed to the entire town about your hook-up! I felt sick watching you kiss that bastard. I’m just looking out for you! Like I always have. I do want you to be happy but you definitely wouldn’t be as another notch on his bedpost.’

  I feel a slow blush come over me. What he’s saying sounds totally plausible. But I can’t say anything to him now that he’s in the m
iddle of shouting me down to size. We’ve had our disagreements, but they’ve never resulted in him raising his voice. The drivers and armed guards are openly gawking and enjoying some entertainment while waiting for their charges to finally leave.

  ‘Haroon’, I say, ‘you’re my friend, not my keeper.’ I speak slowly, trying to keep my voice steady, embarrassed to find that I can feel a lump forming in my throat, which I frantically clear, ‘I don’t see how my happiness lies in sitting around like Ms Havisham while you’re bonking everyone like Christian Grey! Just because you want to be alone for the rest of your life doesn’t mean that I want the same.’

  Haroon looks aghast. ‘Is that what you think of me?’

  I shrug non-committedly. I am expecting him to be angry but this is something else, he looks…disappointed. I turn away before he can see that I’m on the verge of tears. ‘I’m going back in’, I say.

  ‘OK, Emaan,’ he says, ‘you do what you want.’

  He heads to his car. I return to the party, by now a sad, extinguished affair, which is how I feel about most parties without Haroon being around to liven them up. Musti comes up to me, looking for Haroon over my shoulder and smiling hopefully. I ignore him. On second viewing, he looks like the sleaze Haroon said he was. I ask Saba if her driver will drop me home, she’s about to insist as usual that I stay, but she sees the look on my face and knows that I mean business. I sit in the backseat of their plush car driving through a still-bustling, late-night Karachi, crying as quietly as I can.

  Two days later, I’m still in my PJs though it’s almost dinnertime. I’ve spent most of the weekend lying in bed staring vacantly at my laptop scrolling through mindless clickbait. On Instagram, I spotted a picture of Musti canoodling with a twenty-something at some seedy party the night after we met. I shudder at the enormity of the mistake I could have made. I’ve had no word yet from Haroon in spite of sending him a string of friendly emojis.

  My phone pings, it’s my father, ‘Emaan! Yusuf Uncle, Bubbly Aunty, and Haroon called to say they’re on their way.’