The Mismatch

by Sara Jafari

  And she still hadn’t heard from Magnus. It had been three days. She checked when he was last online on Facebook Messenger, and the time stamp confirmed it:he was ghosting her.

  “Parvin and I are going to Marks and Spencer today, get ready, we’re leaving in half an hour.” Her mum had a smile in her voice; she loved M&S.

  On the way there they passed Waterstones, and Neda saw the latest Jojo Moyes in the window. She ushered them inside to purchase it immediately.

  “Can I borrow that after you?” Soraya asked.

  “Of course, darling.”

  “Mum, don’t you want to read something a bit different?” Parvin said, picking up a book entitled The Happiness of Pursuit. Soraya rolled her eyes.

  “Ah, my books bring me happiness, but thank you anyway, azizam.”

  Soraya bought Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn. The film was tainted for her now since she’d been stood up by Magnus, but she supposed she could at least enjoy the novel instead, when she was feeling a little less burnt, that is.

  On the way to M&S Parvin explained how in The Happiness of Pursuit there was a link between quests, challenging yourself, and happiness. “It’s about taking control of your life,” Parvin continued. “Something we should all be aware of.” Despite her initial resistance, Soraya began to be intrigued by the sound of the book. But it also made her nervous; did she feel unhappy because no intellectual challenge lay ahead for her now? What quest did she have to follow?

  After browsing M&S for forty minutes, her mum had a huge pile of clothes in her arms. They were mainly gifts she was stockpiling for her family. Soraya was never sure if it was a universal custom, or if it was just her family, but every time her parents went back to Iran they had to bring gifts for each family member. Every single one. So whenever there was a sale they jumped on it.

  “They’re going to be very happy,” her mum said. “Everyone knows Marks and Spencer is good quality. And look, this top is only three pounds!”

  Parvin found some underwear on sale, and Soraya refrained from purchasing anything. They didn’t exactly stock items in her style, and even if she did find something, she couldn’t indulge. She was using Jobseeker’s Allowance now to get by, and had spent her overdraft to pay the rent this month.

  She was, however, looking forward to their customary afternoon tea in the café. Parvin and Soraya were aware that with its plastic chairs and harsh lighting the place was hardly classy, but afternoon tea as a threesome had become a tradition for them. There was also the fact that their mum always insisted on paying for it.

  Over two platters of mini vegetarian sandwiches, scones, and cakes, her mum began her usual tirade.

  “Parvin, darling, you need to think about getting married soon,” she said in between bites of scone that had a bit too much cream on it for her high cholesterol.

  Parvin was quiet for a moment. “It’s not that easy, you know, Mum.”

  “We’ve shown you many men and you’re not interested in any of them.” Her mum’s voice had a worrisome edge to it, which often annoyed Soraya. It was as though being single at twenty-eight years old was quite literally the end of the world.

  “You showed me a takeaway worker I have nothing in common with. And then Raoul, that weird fifty-year-old.”

  Soraya stifled a laugh.

  “It’s difficult. We don’t know many people here.” Her mum’s back was slightly hunched as she reached for a cheese and onion sandwich. “In Iran two men proposed to me before your dad.” Parvin rolled her eyes at Soraya. They’d heard the story so many times.

  “Well, how do you expect me to find someone if you don’t want me to date anyone? Men don’t just fall out of the sky and propose.”

  “Muslim men do.” Her mum smiled and nudged Soraya with her elbow. Soraya wasn’t quite sure why she did this but smiled anyway.

  “Yes, but would a proper Muslim want me?” Parvin said.

  “And why wouldn’t he?”

  “Well, there’s the obvious: I don’t wear a hijab. And I don’t want to wear one.” Parvin didn’t look her mum in the eye. Instead she ate the icing from one of the cupcakes.

  “Some men have open minds. You’re a good girl.”

  “Yes, but where are they?”

  Her mum paused, realizing she didn’t actually know where they were. Or how to find them. It had been different for her generation. It seemed she had not considered how her children would meet their future partners in England without dating beforehand.

  “Have you tried looking online?” she asked Parvin.

  Soraya stifled a laugh, almost spitting out her tea.

  “Online dating?” Parvin asked, no doubt imagining Tinder.

  “There must be some kind of Muslim dating site, or that one that is always advertised—e something…”

  “eHarmony?” Soraya said.

  “Yes, that one!”

  “I’m OK, Mum, I think I’ll pass,” Parvin said.

  “You’re not getting any younger, darling. You will regret not getting married soon. You want to have children, a family. You can’t do that anytime, you know.”

  Seeing her sister being backed into a corner, Soraya couldn’t resist intervening. “Lots of people don’t get married until they’re at least in their thirties. Times are different now. You forget, England is not like Iran, that isn’t how people get married here.”

  “But what about having children? Biologically women become less fertile in their thirties,” her mum said, turning to Soraya. “And I was going to ask you—you’re not talking to any boys, are you? You’re acting different lately.” Her eyes were fixed on Soraya’s.

  Soraya couldn’t even look away because that would make it seem like she was avoiding scrutiny, which she was. She knew she shouldn’t have piped up. Her mum had a sixth sense about these things; she could always tell when her children were hiding something. Even if the thing they were hiding was now in the past.

  “No,” Soraya said, forcing a puzzled expression onto her face that felt beyond farcical.

  “Are you sure?”

  Soraya broke eye contact, turning to Parvin while also reaching for a sandwich. “Mum, you’re being so dramatic. Obviously not.”

  “What’s going on with Amir’s girlfriend anyway?” Parvin asked, saving Soraya from the conversation from hell.

  “Oh, he says he likes her and that she’s a nice girl. Don’t ask him about her, though, he gets embarrassed.”

  “Why is he allowed a girlfriend?” Soraya said, before mentally scolding herself for her outburst. “I swear he’s cheating on her anyway.”

  Her mum sighed. “It’s different for boys.”

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

  “Boys can’t get pregnant. If one of you got pregnant before marriage…” She shook her head, her words sharp, a contrast from before. “It would ruin your life. That’s how it’s different.”

  Soraya said nothing. The silence felt heavy.

  She had long since given up arguing with her family about the hypocrisy in their logic. If Amir got a girl pregnant, what would happen then? Why was it any different for him? She knew if such a thing happened her family would accept the situation, and this knowledge infuriated her. Laleh had left the family to be with her boyfriend, and yet her brother was allowed to bring girls to the house. Such thoughts often left her red-faced and teary-eyed if she attempted to challenge her family. So she’d learnt to let the whole subject go.

  Parvin moved the conversation along by asking more questions about the girl. Soraya eventually joined in. Better to indulge in the injustice than have the injustice turned back on her.

  In the evening, back at the house, Parvin ran over to Soraya in the living room and whispered, “Can you hear that?”

  They were both silent for a few seconds, but it was long enough to hea
r quiet moaning. At first Soraya thought it was coming from her dad’s laptop, but he was usually so careful and wore headphones. Besides, he was upstairs.

  Parvin’s eyes widened. “Ewwww.”

  Soraya wanted to block her ears. The moaning became louder.

  Her mum came into the living room from the kitchen, blissfully unaware. Both girls looked at her, grimaces on their faces.

  “What?” she asked.

  Then she heard it.

  “Amir? Astaghfirullah.”

  She grabbed the TV remote and turned the volume up as high as was needed to drown out the sounds.

  The showiness of her brother, having exceptionally loud sex in the same house his sisters and mother occupied. Soraya couldn’t even imagine doing that—she’d be disowned, like Laleh. Or worse. Much worse.

  A potent feeling bubbled up within her. She felt shame on hearing them, finding the act of sex disgusting. This wasn’t the first time she’d regarded it this way, and she wondered how her family had managed to imprint their views on her so deeply that the most natural human act could repulse her. Perhaps it was years of being told sex was wrong and dirty by people like her brother who freely engaged in the activity themselves.

  It was different when she was with Magnus. He was the first person to somehow break through this wall and make her see things in a different way. It stung that now she still had no idea what had happened to make him stand her up and then ghost her. None of it made any sense.

  “This house is mad!” Parvin exclaimed.

  Soraya continued grimacing until her phone pinged with a message.

  It was from Magnus.

  Soraya had just gotten to the twist in the book she was reading, Gone Girl, which made her sit up in bed, book firmly in hand.

  “As if,” she muttered, turning the pages quickly, her eyes skimming over the words. She wasn’t ordinarily a fan of thrillers, but romances held little appeal for her now. They reminded her of how embarrassed she should be. A story about a psychotic wife attempting to ruin her cheating husband’s life suited her much better. Her phone rang. Another missed call from Magnus. It had been a week since he had texted her and he was becoming more persistent.

  Her hand twitched, but there was no point. No point in talking to him. She’d always known their time together had an expiry date. It was a game, and it finished with Soraya getting burnt.

  His excuse was exceptionally flimsy: he broke his phone. Apparently, he had not seen her messages. Even if she believed this, which she didn’t, the two of them were too different ever to be a real thing. She knew they could never be long-term, so really it had ended at the right time. Before anyone got too attached.

  And yet despite her logical rationale about why this was a blessing in disguise, burning within her was rage. She wanted to answer his calls and tell him quite frankly to fuck off and leave her alone, but she also wanted to question him about why he thought it was OK to simply ditch her, and not get back to her for days. They weren’t in the Stone Age, if his phone was broken he could have Facebook-messaged her—or even emailed her. And even if he somehow had no way to contact her, that didn’t explain why he didn’t meet her as planned. There was really no excuse. Priya’s words were imprinted in her mind. Respect yourself. And that she intended to do.

  Instead of replying to Magnus, she wrote a long, scathing diary entry about how disgusting he was. She didn’t even necessarily believe her own words, which annoyed her, but it felt good to get it out, to make him seem as small as he made her feel.

  After another five hours in bed, during which time she had finished reading the book in between refreshing Indeed for jobs, she got up, put on a pair of old gym shorts and a baggy T-shirt. She wasn’t quite sure who she was kidding dressing to go for a run but decided she needed to try. To clear her mind and move her body.

  She ran down the stairs of her flat, hoping to give herself some much-needed adrenaline. When she opened the main door to leave the building, she jumped in surprise.

  “What—”

  “You weren’t answering my calls,” Magnus said, his hand still in the air as though about to press the buzzer.

  She wanted to say, “So get the hint,” but the retort stuck in her throat. She couldn’t be that cutting in person, not with him standing in front of her, looking at her the way he was.

  She shut the door behind her and continued walking, pretending she hadn’t seen him. This whole situation had become too sticky. She hoped putting a little distance between them would prevent her from becoming stuck in it.

  “Soraya,” he called from behind her, grabbing her hand. She shut her eyes, wishing she was more normal. If she was they would have gone back to her flat to talk about this, rather than arguing in the street.

  She shrugged herself free and turned to look over her shoulder at him. “I don’t know why you keep calling me.”

  He sighed and put both hands in his hoodie pocket, pushing them down.

  “Why are you ignoring me?”

  “That’s rich.”

  In typical London fashion passersby remained unbothered by their public argument. She continued walking towards Telegraph Hill.

  “Would you just stop?” he said, matching her pace.

  “I have somewhere to be. So I can’t really talk.”

  He looked her up and down, and she remembered her tragic ensemble and makeup-free face, and realized this was the first time he’d seen her like this.

  “The gym?” he asked.

  She let out a frustrated sigh. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t get why you’re so mad at me. My phone broke, otherwise I would have texted you back. It was only a few days—”

  “Oh, come on, you stood me up at Peckham Plex! That’s not OK—”

  Realization dawned on his face. “Oh, shit! I totally forgot we were meant to meet…”

  Soraya began walking at an even brisker pace. He followed along effortlessly while she was struggling to breathe properly.

  “It doesn’t even matter.”

  “So you forgive me?”

  They walked up the steep street, the park where Soraya had planned to go for a run within sight.

  “I’m not annoyed with you. I mean, your whole ‘my phone broke’ excuse is complete bullshit but it’s fine. You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Soraya—”

  “We don’t need to have this conversation.” She was smiling, despite feeling anything but happy. “I’m not a fan of being stood up. But it’s not like we were going out or anything. So, really, it’s not a big deal.”

  He bit his bottom lip, studied her for a moment, his eyes pensive. “If I tell you the truth, will you listen to me?”

  She shrugged and together they walked through the gates to Telegraph Hill. Ahead was a picturesque view of the city, the Docklands buildings bright and shiny against the gray sky.

  They sat down on the cold grass.

  “I went back home,” he explained. “To Leeds.”

  “Right…”

  “I went because my dad was missing.” He spoke so quietly she wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “My mum was worried so I got the train up and we went looking for him together.”

  “Did you find him? Is he OK?”

  “Yeah, he’s fine. He went on a binge with one of his friends and didn’t want us to know. Left his phone in a pub, that’s why we couldn’t get hold of him.”

  “Does he normally go on binges?” Soraya wasn’t sure if she would have asked this question if she hadn’t heard what she had at graduation. What would she have said if she didn’t already know?

  She could tell Magnus was avoiding her eyes, staring out at the view.

  “Yeah, he drinks a lot. But he’d been sober for a few weeks, not that that ever lasts. That’s kind of why I don’t like going home
. I only ever go at Christmas.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, the words sounding feeble.

  His shoulders slumped, making her realize how tense he was.

  “I didn’t mean to, you know, upset you. It’s just once family stuff takes over, it really takes over. It probably sounds like another crap excuse…”

  “No, it doesn’t,” she said, putting her hand over his. His vulnerability was touching. She had never met anyone else whose parent had an addiction; it was often isolating, like she was alone in her pain and suffering. “I get it.”

  “You do?”

  She was given the opportunity to relate, unburden herself.

  Yes, because my dad is a methadone addict.

  Her dad had been addicted to drugs for the last twenty-eight years. It was the reason why he was barely aware of anything. Soraya had only ever known her father while he wore this mask; she had never met the man he was before. He occasionally attempted to quit, but managed to last only a week at most. She would be surprised to see him with healthy color in his cheeks, rather than permanently red-faced. He seemed sadder at these times, but at least it was a human emotion, it reminded her that her dad was just that: a human being.

  She didn’t know a great deal about how he became an addict. Her mum had once told her he began smoking opium with friends in the late eighties, when they lived in Liverpool, and then he couldn’t stop. Doctors had put him on small doses of methadone, and they had tried to wean him off by gradually lowering the dosage, until he was supposed to stop completely. His dependency meant that he could go only a few days without drugs before he had to start the process again, and so it continued that way.

  Generally, he was content with being on a low dose for the rest of his life. Sometimes he slept all day, taking a cocktail of sleeping pills, sacrificing a fix in order to have a blowout the next day with two days’ worth. Sometimes, he still bought drugs illegally, as well as taking his prescribed medication. He thought no one noticed his particularly high days, but they did.