The Mismatch

by Sara Jafari

  She didn’t want to say the words, aware of how doing so would make her seem, even to Oliver. But then all ties will be broken. She felt ridiculous comparing her relationship with Magnus to other people’s breakups because they had only dated briefly, and it hadn’t even been real.

  “I’ll think about it,” she said instead.

  Soon afterwards, she downloaded Tinder. “You need to be here while I do it. It’s scary,” she said.

  “I thought you didn’t like Tinder. Didn’t you say it was only for superficial people?” He raised a judgmental eyebrow at her.

  “You’re allowed to change your opinion.”

  Tinder was downloading.

  “Sure, whatever,” Oliver said, monotone as always.

  “You’re cranky.”

  He exhaled, puffing out his lips, before slowly looking up at Soraya. “I don’t want to complain about my life right now, not when you’re…you know.”

  His comment stung. She picked up one of the nail varnishes from the vanity next to her and lifted it to the light to distract herself from the hurt that was no doubt showing on her face. The varnish was a coppery color, but in the strong light she could see flecks of lilac and pink. Oliver owned the nicest nail colors in the varnish he sporadically wore.

  “It’s all relative. What’s up?” she asked.

  “Nothing massive, you know, apart from my love life being a hot mess, as usual. And work—I don’t know…I always wanted to work in publishing and I thought once I got in, it would be a certain way, you know? But I don’t fit in at all.”

  This surprised her because Oliver fitted in everywhere; everyone loved him.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t really be myself at work. Everyone is so posh and, I guess, white. Which is fine, but I feel like I’m expected to be like them, and if I disagree with them, I’m the difficult one, the loud one.”

  She understood. Wasn’t this the problem they’d both had while growing up, in varying degrees? Wasn’t this precisely why they wanted to create their own publication, so their otherness could be at the forefront, celebrated, instead of something to be ashamed of and hidden away?

  “I just feel like the token black guy in the room. Whenever they talk about diversity they automatically look at me, as though because I’m black I can speak for every ethnic minority.” He paused. “And you know what? It’s not my job to make their company more ‘diverse,’ it’s their mess.” He sighed. “Take it from me, having your dream job isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Focus your energies on our lit journal,” she said. “It’s our thing. And change will happen, it’ll get better, it has to. You just have to be patient.”

  “Right back at you.”

  * * *

  —

  One thing Soraya could safely say she’d gained from dating Magnus was the new sense of confidence he’d instilled in her—when it came to her looks anyway. He had made her feel unique, with her large dark eyes, high cheekbones, and petite frame. So when she uploaded photos to Tinder she was confident they would be taken seriously, whereas pre-Magnus no one from the opposite sex, apart from Oliver, had ever complimented her on her appearance.

  With this thought running through her mind, she swiped right to a plethora of guys she was aware she was never going to talk to, and felt satisfaction when “It’s a match!” appeared on the screen.

  These small highs were fleeting.

  Days after her talk with Oliver, when she was sitting in bed, coffee cup in one hand, Tinder open on her phone, she found the first guy she had seen on the app that she actually considered attractive. And he looked nothing like Magnus. His black hair was cut short and he had a full fringe. He was slender, well dressed in muted colors.

  He had also been at Goldsmiths while she was there, and she thought she might have seen him in the library.

  She swiped right.

  It’s a match!

  Her eyes widened. She locked her phone and tucked it under her duvet. Contemplating why she felt so excited, but also terrified, she took a long sip of her now lukewarm drink.

  Oliver was at work so she couldn’t run to his room to discuss it with him. Not being able to do so made her feel as though she was matching with this guy secretly. The compulsion to tell someone, anyone, was enormous.

  Her phone pinged.

  Jacob has sent you a message.

  Soraya sat opposite Jacob in a quaint Italian restaurant in Peckham. When she had suggested going for a drink, he’d said he didn’t drink alcohol. At this, she felt embarrassed. As the Muslim surely she should be the one to say that. Except, if she followed the rules, she wouldn’t be on Tinder talking to, and subsequently meeting, a boy.

  “How come you’re on Tinder then?” he asked once the customary small talk had passed.

  “You know, to meet new people.” As soon as she said the words, she wished she could swallow them. Did “people” make it sound like she was dating multiple men? And if that’s what it sounded like, was that a good or a bad thing? “What about you?” she asked.

  He smiled, his teeth almost too white and straight, the candlelight casting shadows on his face.

  “Honestly? I want to meet someone, for something serious.” He shrugged. “I know that’s not really what you’re meant to say, but whatever.”

  Her mouth was suddenly dry. With soft music, dim lights, and traditional gingham tablecloths, the restaurant was a perfect date spot. Perfect perhaps for the characters in the books she read. They would have swooned.

  She pinched her thigh under the table, squeezed the flesh hard. Her nails over the past weeks had become so soft and stumpy from being bitten that she was giving them a break today. Had to because she was scared about what was happening to them.

  “I mean it’s good to be honest,” she said. “I feel like there’s this weird stigma around just saying you want a relationship.”

  “Exactly,” he said, his blue eyes glittering. “That said, I’m more than happy to have fun in the meantime.”

  The waitress brought them their drinks and he took a sip of his sparkling water.

  “How come you don’t drink alcohol anyway?”

  “I like to keep a clear head.”

  “How come?”

  He laughed. “You say that like wanting to keep a clear head isn’t normal.”

  “It’s just you seem like you’d want to drink.” As the words came out of her mouth she regretted them, again. “I mean you’re a…young man.” More regret. “You know what I mean.”

  “Please expand.” He folded his small but well-defined arms and looked at her. He had freckles all the way down to his wrists. She had never seen anyone with that many before. They gave him a boyish quality.

  “I don’t want to.” Soraya was smiling, despite herself.

  He leant forward. “Why not?”

  “I was stereotyping. It’s something I do a lot, I’ve realized.”

  “And what would you stereotype me as?”

  She couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

  “A bit of a hipster, I guess.”

  He laughed loudly. “What was that?”

  “Never mind. I think I’m talking rubbish to be honest.” She chuckled again.

  “Come on.” He reached over, touched the inside of one of her wrists, ever so lightly. It caused a shiver to run through her. She stopped laughing and her mouth openly slightly.

  At that moment their food arrived. She had ordered four-cheese gnocchi and he had chosen chicken breast with aubergine tomato sauce.

  When he cut into it, she watched the flesh part. Somewhere along the way she had become more militant in her vegetarianism. She wasn’t even sure when or how she had grown so sensitive to other people’s eating habits, but watching him eat meat made her feel nauseous. The smell was pungent. He
ate it with relish, clueless as to what she was thinking.

  “So, what have you been doing since we graduated?” he asked.

  “I’m working in a shop while I apply for jobs,” she said eventually. She had nothing more to offer. Had she always been this boring? “How about you?”

  “I work in film production, which sounds way cooler than it is.” He laughed.

  For a long time they spoke about their favorite films. He, too, was a Studio Ghibli fan, had even been to the museum in Tokyo. She had always wanted to go to Japan, and decided she’d make it her goal to visit the country in the next five years. Her reservations about Jacob gradually eased. It was comfortable talking to him, like talking to a friend you hadn’t seen in years.

  He told her about his parents’ relationship. How they had lived next door to each other in their twenties. One time his mum knocked on his dad’s door at 3:00 a.m. to complain about the noise he was making, and then their eyes met. The rest was history.

  Soraya couldn’t help but feel slightly resentful towards him for that. For his parents having a meet-cute story that ended in a happy marriage.

  “Do you want to come back to mine?” he asked later as they walked towards the bus stop.

  Soraya hesitated. She wanted to make out with him, yes, but anything more she wasn’t sure of. She was under no illusions; she was using him to erase thoughts of Magnus. But she certainly didn’t want to have sex with him, to lose her virginity to him.

  “Completely up to you,” he added quickly.

  Her hands were shoved into her pockets for warmth. London in January was brutal.

  “Why not? We could watch a film or something.”

  He gave her a sidelong smile.

  Once they arrived at his surprisingly clean house, they went up to his loft room.

  His bedroom was huge, with a sofa at one end and a large TV opposite. Everything was in order, which made her wonder if that was why he didn’t drink alcohol—because he relished control over every aspect of his life, which was no bad thing.

  After a fifteen-minute debate about what to watch on Netflix, they decided on a comedy. And within thirty seconds of it being on, he leant in to kiss her. Time slowed then. She seemed to have forgotten how to kiss. But soon his lips were on hers, and then his hands were on her breasts. She shut her eyes tight, pushed out of her mind any thought of who this was. It was in this moment that she sincerely wished he drank alcohol, or that she’d had something at dinner.

  Jacob was a surprisingly good kisser. His lips were soft, and when his tongue touched hers she felt a shiver of desire. And then somehow his T-shirt was removed, and she touched his chest, his neck, his back. His body was the complete opposite of Magnus’s, his chest covered in dark hair, which she hadn’t expected.

  He pinned her to the bed and hastily removed her jumper.

  “I thought we were watching a film,” she said, wrapping her legs around his waist.

  “You want it back on?” He looked briefly to her discarded jumper, then back at her.

  Soraya kissed him, silencing him. She didn’t want to answer that, to talk anymore.

  And then the familiar feeling of guilt washed through her. Stronger than before because he wasn’t Magnus. And she wished he was.

  She stopped kissing him, slackened her legs, sank lower on the bed. At first he didn’t seem to notice. He pushed her bra away. She raised a hand. “No, stop.”

  His brows knitted together. “What?” he said, almost sharply.

  “I—I need to go home.” Soraya scrambled off the bed, put her jumper back on, and looked around for her bag and coat.

  “You were totally into it.” Jacob’s tone was accusatory, as though she was implying something.

  “I know and I’m sorry, I just don’t feel comfortable—”

  “You act like you’re really innocent, but what did you think was going to happen when we went back to mine?”

  She sighed and put more space between them. How could she explain the unexplainable?

  “It doesn’t make sense to me either. I just don’t feel comfortable right now.”

  “Why? You were with that guy for months, and there were rumors going round that you…”

  Soraya’s heart skipped a beat. The words acted like a heavy weight deep inside her stomach. “What?”

  “Oh, come on. He’s a man slut.” Jacob laughed. “You guys were fuck buddies or something, right? What, you’ll fuck him but not me?”

  She couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth.

  “Stop acting like a child.”

  “Tell me, did you drop to your knees on the first date with him? Or were you frigid with him too? Was alcohol a must to loosen you up?”

  She was speechless. There was a long silence. When she felt steady enough she picked up her bag and went to walk down the stairs.

  “Listen, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…I don’t know, forget it,” Jacob mumbled.

  She was halfway down the stairs when rage fired up inside her. She stomped back up to his room and looked him in the eye. “What the fuck? ‘Forget it’? I’m so sick of men like you treating me like dirt. So fucking sick of it. I changed my mind and I didn’t want to have sex with you—it’s not hard to understand.” She ran back down the stairs.

  It was only when she was outside his house, in the quiet street, that she realized she was crying.

  * * *

  —

  The next day she didn’t go into detail with Oliver about why the date was bad. She felt ashamed on too many levels and wanted to forget the whole evening. It seemed she was losing her faith piece by piece, and didn’t know how to get it back. The only thing she was doing right, she felt, was to believe in God. Everything else she did was wrong, so wrong.

  If she tried to talk about her guilt in being a nonpracticing Muslim to Oliver, he’d say she was the most moral person he knew, and that it didn’t matter she wasn’t practicing, so long as she was a good person. That point of view comforted her but also gave her nothing. If the person she was talking to was an atheist, of course to them it wouldn’t seem a big deal.

  If she tried to talk about it to her mum, her mother would encourage her to pray, marry a nice Muslim man, wear a hijab, and insinuate, because she pretended not to know, that Soraya should stop drinking and wearing revealing clothes. And Soraya didn’t want to do that. She wanted a middle ground that didn’t exist, would never exist. She wanted to feel connected to God, be reassured that everything was happening for a reason, and be given guidance on how to be a better person. But did that mean she had to be told how to dress? And who did her romantic relationships affect, other than herself? Perhaps, she realized, that was the point. Perhaps she needed to acknowledge that she mattered and didn’t deserve any more pain. She needed to protect herself because no one else could.

  Soraya deleted Tinder.

  Without Hossein the house was clean, homey even, though Neda felt bad for thinking that. The cushions on the sofa were in place and the floor was clear of pistachio shells. The house smelt of nothing in particular, a pleasant change from the BO that followed her husband around.

  While her children seemed to cope with his absence, Tyzer appeared to struggle the most without him. He sat by the patio door, waiting for hours at a time, until hunger or tiredness took over and he momentarily forgot who his owner was at the lure of a sachet of Whiskas or a warm bed.

  Now that the secret was out in the open Neda reached out to Laleh and suggested she come to the house for the first time in over fifteen years.

  I’d love it if you came, she had written.

  I’ll think about it, Laleh replied.

  Neda couldn’t blame her daughter for her reluctance to come back to the family who had rejected her when she needed them the most, but how else was she meant to make it up to her da
ughter? Her optimistic nature meant she couldn’t believe it was too late. She had to try, even if she knew she didn’t deserve a second chance.

  “What’s really wrong, Soraya?” she asked her youngest daughter.

  They were at the M&S café. It was that time of year when the excitement of Christmas was over and everyone was waiting for the arrival of spring and sunlight.

  Despite Soraya being bundled up in multiple layers and a faux-fur coat, her teeth chattered as they walked from the car park to the store. It worried Neda—it was cold, but it wasn’t that cold. She noticed how gaunt her daughter’s face had become, how her stomach had flattened out, how thin and frail her wrists looked.

  So after an hour of browsing she suggested going to the café, where she bought Soraya a large hot chocolate, insisting on adding whipped cream.

  “You look unwell,” she told her daughter. “Is it because of what happened with your dad and Laleh?”

  “No, it’s nothing, I’m fine,” Soraya said, eating some of the whipped cream with her forefinger. Neda wished she would use the teaspoon instead, but thought better of saying so.

  Neda’s gaze was steely. “Oh, come on. You’re so skinny now—what’s going on?”

  Around them were various groups of elderly people. No one Soraya’s age. Neda saw the way she looked around, noted this fact, the way her face looked ever-more sad. Something in her daughter’s expression reminded her of Hossein’s when they first moved to England, when he first told her he felt he didn’t belong, that he felt like a loser.

  “It’s nothing to do with Dad or Laleh.”

  Neda sighed. She searched for something to say, something to help, but struggled. She always seemed to struggle to help her family and she was sick of it.

  “He is sorry, you know,” she said finally.

  Soraya’s head shot up. “What?”

  “I know I always talk badly about him and…” Here Neda paused, the word stuck in her throat. “I’m sorry.”

  “What do you mean?” Soraya’s brows were furrowed.