by Sara Jafari
“And he studies?”
Neda hesitated. “No.”
“Oh, he got a job here?” Up close Neda noticed the white spots on Mena’s teeth. It made her like the other woman more, with this evidence that she wasn’t quite perfect.
“Yes…he’s working in a restaurant at the minute. But he hopes to find something else. It’s hard here, you know, but I’m sure once we’re settled he’ll find something that suits him better.”
“Inshallah,” Mena said.
“Yes, inshallah,” Neda repeated.
And so began a blossoming friendship. They met in the library, often by chance.
Mena would bring various pieces of fruit with her, and Neda would bring a flask of coffee and two cups. She learnt that Mena’s family had wanted her to marry, but she applied for scholarships abroad in secret and narrowly missed marrying a man twenty years her senior. Her family couldn’t stop their daughter from going; the bragging rights of having a child studying in England were too great.
“The man I was meant to marry looked awful! His belly was like this!” She indicated with her hand a large rounded stomach. “And he had huge teeth.” She bared her own teeth and pulled faces.
Despite her loudness, which at times made Neda feel uncomfortable, Mena reminded her of home, and for that she was grateful. The dramatics of every conversation, every situation being high stakes, was typical of the way her family and friends spoke back home. English people, Neda thought, seemed calmer, less interested in storytelling and complaining, or observing the minute details of life. They did things and moved on, instead of talking about things long past.
The pair went to English evening classes the university put on for foreign students. They took trips to the cinema and found themselves watching romantic comedies, horror movies, whatever was playing, to master the all-important language.
They recommended their favorite romance novels to each other, beginning an informal book club where they would discuss what they had read each week. It began a couple of months into their friendship when Mena gingerly slid a book across the library desk to Neda, cover facedown. Mena had a look of glee on her face.
“What is it?” Neda said, turning it over. “Eh!”
The cover showed a woman and man in an embrace, her head thrown back in some kind of ecstasy, the cut of her dress exposing her décolletage. The cover alluded to scandal and drama, key ingredients of Neda’s favorite romances.
“It’s really good, Neda. I would recommend! Unlike anything I’ve read before…It made me realize how tame the books I had been reading were.”
“How could I bring this home to Hossein? He’d laugh at me!” Despite her words, Neda put the book in her bag quickly.
“When can I meet this mysterious husband of yours anyway?”
Neda hesitated. She hadn’t introduced them for a reason. Hossein was growing more and more irritated by the lack of decent job prospects for him. He had approached football clubs to help with coaching, but no one wanted him—not even for small children—and he’d offered to teach for free. In their coming to England his dreams had been shattered, rather than what he’d believed would happen, that he would be introduced to a world of new possibilities.
“He works long hours,” Neda lied seamlessly. “I barely see him myself.” This part, at least, was true.
* * *
—
Six months into her new life in Liverpool and Neda was deep into her master’s, the intensity of her work schedule catching up with her. During this time, Hossein gave up trying to find a job related to his field. Instead he worked in a restaurant during the week and at a taxi firm on the weekends. It was “cash in hand,” and though Neda didn’t quite know what that meant, he seemed to bring home wads of money.
One Sunday morning, while he was asleep after doing a late shift, she cleaned up after him. He had told her the money was good during night shifts, as English people coming home late didn’t question the high fares due to their intoxicated state. They also often tipped generously. His job as a taxi driver meant Neda was alone most evenings on the weekends, a fact she grew to accept. Mena would often go to discos and clubs, something Neda disapproved of.
Alcohol caused people to make mistakes, ruined lives. She couldn’t understand why, despite this, people continued drinking. She knew firsthand from her dad’s bad moods the morning after that it affected not only the drinker but also those around them.
Hossein had left his trousers on the floor, as though he had literally stepped out of them and gotten into bed. His socks were abandoned near the door, and on the kitchen table was a greasy takeaway box. When she went to pick up his trousers, seeing that there were mud stains on the legs, she decided to put them to soak in the bath. His clothes always smelt heavy with aftershave, something he hadn’t really worn in Tehran. She removed the belt from the loopholes and fingered inside the pockets to remove loose change. She checked his back pockets and felt something square and soft. She pulled it out.
A condom packet.
She sat on the wooden chair in the section of the studio flat they liked to call the “kitchen.” Her mind whirled, wondering what excuses, explanations there could be.
The room was deafeningly quiet. Her mind shook, her breathing almost stilled. She put the packet back in his pocket and returned the belt to the loops. She pocketed the change for herself, put the trousers in their original place on the floor, and left the flat.
She used the money to buy herself a coffee and a vegetarian fry-up from their local café. The smell of nonhalal sausages taunted her. The waitress was chatty, but Neda was in no mood for conversation. She stayed there for an hour, staring into space in between bites of food she couldn’t taste. She felt tired, drained of any joy she had had.
When she returned home Hossein was awake. His smile still, annoyingly, dazzled her. He was so beautiful, and perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps she should have married an ugly man, and then he might not have cheated on her.
“Where did you go? I missed you.” He gave her a suggestive look, and pulled her into a hug. His breath was minty fresh, and his hand lingered on her bottom.
She wiggled out of his grasp, unpinned her hijab, and folded it neatly into a square.
“How was work?” she asked.
“Good! Tiring, but you know I’d do anything for you.” Again, a suggestive look. Ordinarily, she would have been lulled by both a sense of obligation and an appreciation for this man who worked hard so she could follow her dreams. But something was off. Something had always been off. Hadn’t she always known?
She said nothing. Neda believed in obtaining proper evidence before drawing conclusions. This was no different from the experiments she conducted in the lab. She would never conclude something without solid evidence, without doing the proper tests and assessing all the variables. So, she decided to do just that.
She experimented on her husband.
Some people are radiators, and others are drains. Hossein Nazari was a drain. He sucked the life out of people. When he lashed out, those around him became shells of themselves. And Soraya was now empty. She hadn’t spoken to her dad. Or Parvin. But her mum sent daily WhatsApp messages asking how she was, followed by a plethora of emojis ranging from pink flowers to the kiss face. It pained Soraya to be pitied by her mum. But her mum was also stuck with her dad, had endured a lifetime of him.
She thought back to when she was a child and her mum described the first time her own husband had hit her.
It was a hard smack across the face during an argument; before that he had only broken things when emotions ran high. Her mum was so shocked she was rendered speechless, she’d told Soraya. He bought her flowers the next day, and her favorite chocolates, blaming his addiction for his actions.
Soraya had researched the link between drug addiction and violence, and didn’t know whether it was
a good enough excuse. Hadn’t he used it often enough by now?
Why won’t she leave him? Soraya asked herself, gripping her hair hard and pulling. It was the dead of night. Oliver was out in Soho, and she had avoided Magnus by saying she was back in Brighton. She hadn’t told him what had happened there.
In the solitude of her bedroom she allowed herself one small scream. Again, she felt like a caged animal, unable to escape. Even Parvin was on their dad’s side. She told Soraya that she needed to be more careful, that she was stupid for being so reckless. There was no sympathy in her texts, and talking to her sister made Soraya feel even more alone. She left Parvin’s most recent message unread; she didn’t have the energy to reply.
Despite the winter chill creeping into her bedroom with its single-glazed windows, she was warm in her bed, the back of her neck sticky. She wrapped her heavy hair in a bun, even considered chopping it off with the kitchen scissors. But wouldn’t that be cliché?
She walked over to her full-length mirror. She had lost weight, her cheekbones jutting out more, and no longer considered this a glamorous attribute. She looked unwell. The bruises on her face had faded into a slight yellow-green. MAC concealer and thick foundation covered them from the outside world. The only person who had seen her injuries was Oliver; they held no secrets from each other.
Sick of her own reflection, she turned off the lights and stared at her dark silhouette. On the bed, her phone vibrated. She grabbed it and answered the call without thinking. Then wished she had considered what she was doing.
“Hi,” Magnus said softly.
“Hi,” Soraya replied.
“How come you’re up?”
“How come you’re up?” Soraya was aware her voice was flat.
“What’s going on with you?” His harsh tone made her shut her eyes; they stung from tiredness. Silence lingered. Soraya’s throat tightened.
“Are you even in Brighton?” he asked.
Her eyes opened and she flicked the light switch on. “Why would you ask that?”
Magnus sighed. She had never heard him so down, so frustrated. And it’s because of me. Not for the first time, she wished she didn’t have the complications that came with her upbringing—or perhaps, rather, that he had the capacity to understand her situation.
“I’m just…”
“Just what?” Magnus asked, holding on to her words.
“I’m not feeling well.”
“Oh, come on. Is it us? Are you not into me anymore?”
“I need to go, I’m sorry.”
Soraya hung up and instantly regretted it. She hoped he’d ring back.
He didn’t.
The connection between Magnus and Soraya was different after her dad hit her. She knew he felt it too. Their texts to each other were less frequent. As well as Muslim guilt there was the danger of being caught again, of being disowned, of her dad’s power over them. It wasn’t just her safety she feared for; it was her mum’s. And even Magnus’s. What if her dad told Amir she was seeing a boy? What if they somehow came head-to-head with Magnus? What if they visited her flat unannounced, only to find him in her bed? The men in her family were unrestrained in both their emotions and their pride. She’d been stupid to think she could have a normal relationship.
Her family catching her with Magnus had become a recurring nightmare. In her dreams Magnus would be in her family house in Brighton. Soraya would try to sneak him out, down the two flights of stairs, without waking anyone. She never succeeded and often woke with a start as her dad’s hand came pounding down on her head.
Such thoughts continued for hours, her mind tormenting her with possibilities.
Her relationship with Magnus had gone from an experiment to real, and she’d never truly considered the potential fallout with her family before.
She attempted to write in her diary, but her words were jumbled, not full sentences, illegible in places. She looked at her pros and cons list about Magnus. It felt so long ago now since she had made it, she envied her past self for being so clueless as to what was to come. She tucked it under her pillow.
The shrill buzz of her doorbell startled her. It was 2:30 a.m. She tiptoed into the hallway. Despite not actually having been asleep, Soraya felt a twitch of irritation at Oliver.
She picked up the intercom receiver. “Hello?”
“Soraya?” It was Magnus.
If it hadn’t been the middle of the night, she would have hung up. She looked down at herself. She had stains on her white T-shirt, and despite the cold she wore shorts. Dark, thick hair covered her legs, stubborn and strong. He had never seen her like this.
Her finger hovered over the buzzer.
“Come on,” he said softly. She shut her eyes and pressed the door release.
The phone was still in her hand as she heard him climb the stairs. His heavy footsteps brought her out of her reverie. She opened the door to him.
The light from the corridor was bright, a contrast to the darkness of the flat. Her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, but it surprised Magnus and he had to squint to see inside. He lingered by the door.
His face was so soft, his lips perfectly plump and pink. She’d forgotten how beautiful he was. How attuned she was to his emotions, how she could feel concern radiating from him. But despite all this, seeing him again in her flat, she felt viscerally that he did not belong here. With her, in her world. His life was open, uncomplicated. Hers was not.
“What are you doing here?” Soraya asked, not meeting his eyes and focusing her gaze on his shoulder. He wore a navy ski jacket with a fur-trimmed hood. The one they had picked out together on their shopping date.
“Are you not going to let me in?” His lips curled slightly, about to smile, but upon seeing Soraya’s stony expression he stopped himself. She noticed him breathe in deeply.
She moved out of the way and signaled with her hand for him to come in. As he stepped farther into the flat, his scent invaded her senses. Musky and sweet, with a rush of the outside cold. She breathed it in at first then stopped herself. It would only make things harder.
He didn’t turn on the lights, and neither did she. Her focus was now on his beat-up trainers.
From the corner of her eye, she saw his hands move and then they were cupping her face, tilting it up, forcing her to look him in the eye. His hands were ice-cold.
“What’s going on?” he asked, barely above a whisper. His fingertips brushed the bruise around her right eye. She winced. He turned the light on then. “What happened to you?” he asked, his voice tight.
Tears began to well up and Soraya dug her nails into the palms of her hands in an attempt to distract herself.
“Please talk to me.”
“I can’t,” she said.
He bent forward and wrapped his arms around her. She let herself relax into him. One tear rolled down her cheek. She was thankful for his hood, which absorbed it before he could see.
“Do you want to sleep?” he asked. The question surprised her, but this was Magnus, and somehow he always understood. She knew that, she just didn’t want to admit it sometimes.
She nodded.
They went into her bedroom and she nestled herself back into bed, under the cool duvet. He removed his coat, trainers, jeans, and belt, so he was wearing only a T-shirt and boxers, and got into bed next to her. He spooned her, kissing her head gently. He put a protective arm around her waist.
She turned in his arms, so she was facing him, and raised herself higher so her lips could touch his. He kissed her back hesitantly, not deepening the kiss.
“I want you,” she whispered.
With those words he grew hard, but he continued with the chaste kisses.
She broke the kiss and felt bold enough to look him in his eyes. “Don’t you want me?”
He sighed deeply. “It’s not that, Sora
ya. I really want you. Just not like this, not when you’re upset.” He stroked her cheek gently with his rough fingertips.
“No, you don’t.” She turned away from him, uncomfortably aware of what she was doing, but doing it anyway.
His hand was on her shoulder, turning her over so she faced him. “Soraya, you don’t know how much I want to…” He trailed off, shook his head. “I need you to talk to me, tell me what’s going on. What happened to you?”
“And I need you inside me.”
The words surprised even her. She wasn’t sure she meant them but in that moment she needed the distraction, needed something, anything.
He groaned ever so slightly. “I want that too.” He cleared his throat. “But it wouldn’t be right. I want you to really want it. Do you understand?”
“You’re always trying to have sex with me, why is now different?”
Magnus flinched at her words. “I’m not…do you think that’s what I’m doing?”
“You always seem disappointed when we don’t end up having sex, and now I’m telling you I’m ready.”
He closed his eyes and held them shut for what felt like hours.
“I’m sorry if it’s come across like that.” He moved his body slightly away from her. “I didn’t mean—I never wanted you to think…I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to apologize, I just want you to…” She paused, unable to say the words again. “You know.”
“Can’t we just cuddle for now?” He moved closer, kissed her head again.
“Don’t you find me attractive?”
Another groan. “Obviously I do, Soraya. Do you know how many times I’ve gotten a hard-on in public just from you giving me a peck on the lips?” He let out a small laugh.
Unsure what possessed her, Soraya sat up straighter and positioned herself so she was straddling him. She could feel him and it both frightened and thrilled her.
He placed his hands on her lower back, holding her there.
She leant down to kiss him, and the kiss was surprisingly deep, his tongue stroking hers as she ground against him.