Finding Mr Perfectly Fine, page 18
Until suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore.
He became a different man that night, as he pulled at my clothes, pawed at my flesh, held me down with his hands and knees so that I was trapped beneath his weight. I was petrified and kept struggling, but I could barely breathe, let alone move. The windows and doors were locked, and I remember taking huge gulps of air, trying to stop the bile from rising up my throat. He kept laughing and whispering that he knew I wanted it, how beautiful I was, how I was his and no one else’s, to stop playing games. He acted like we were having a laugh together, even though I was sobbing. To this day, I just have to catch a whiff of Versace’s Blue Jeans and I begin to retch.
‘Did he . . . ?’ Hamza’s voice trails off into a whisper, his face ashen.
‘No,’ I reply shakily. ‘He very nearly did, but then someone suddenly knocked on the window. It was a policeman – we were parked in the wrong place. That seemed to break the daze that he was in. We went home in silence.’
The tears are pouring freely down my cheeks now, and I can’t wipe them away fast enough, so I give up and let them flow.
‘He called me the next day but I didn’t answer,’ I croak, my throat hurting too much to speak any louder. ‘I couldn’t. I felt disgusted with myself, and so, so ashamed. I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened. Who would believe me? They’d think I was asking for it, somehow. And maybe I was. Maybe I gave off the wrong vibes?’
‘Don’t ever blame yourself!’ Hamza slams his fist on the table, and his ferociousness makes me look up in surprise. He’s furious but concerned at the same time, and the relief I feel at not seeing disgust in his eyes is palpable. I begin to cry more, loud, wracking sobs, but this time because I feel so relieved to have finally told someone and have them empathise instead of blaming me. I’m vaguely aware that we’re in public and people are probably wondering what the hell is going on, and to Hamza’s credit, what others might think about him right now is the last thing on his mind.
‘It’s not your fault,’ he continues vehemently. ‘You said no. That’s enough. He had no right to force you. And I know you, Zara. There’s no way in hell you implied that you wanted it. And even if you did – you’re allowed to change your mind.’
‘I should never have got into the back seat,’ I whisper, wiping my nose with my sleeve.
Hamza looks so angry that I’m worried he’ll suddenly knock over all the plates on the table. He runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head in disbelief as I continue the story; of how, after a couple of days of ignoring his calls, Tariq stopped calling altogether. And exactly two weeks later, we heard he got engaged to his cousin.
I never told my parents what had really happened between us. Only Yasmin knows the truth. Everyone else thinks he cheated on me . . . and I suppose he did, kind of. I mean, we never actually broke up. I thought that he would try and call me again, and then we’d talk about what happened, he would apologise, and I would persuade myself that it was a mistake, that there was no malice involved. We’d get married and that would be that. That night would turn into a distant memory, a hiccup in what would eventually be a lifetime together.
But he never apologised. In fact, we never saw each other again. He chucked me aside like a used, dirty old rag, and I had to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart and crushed soul, with only Yasmin by my side. All it was for him was one moment of pleasure – something he could have had with anyone – yet a moment was all it took for him to strip me of my dignity, my self-respect, my self-worth, my strength.
For over a year, I barely left the house. I pretended I was busy with work, but the reality was I couldn’t face my friends. They had no idea what had happened and thought I was nursing an ordinary broken heart. I stopped going to weddings or events where his family might be present. And not only because of them, but because the rumour mill was spinning fast. As people speculated about what happened between us; gossip turned to rumours, rumours turned to lies, my reputation and honour was questioned.
I stopped wearing clothes that would make me attractive, and I gave away everything that was slightly revealing. I started putting on weight. Someone asked if I was pregnant.
My mum was livid and fell out with his mum over the deceit and all the gossip. My sisters were heartbroken for me. They tried their best to cheer me up and then gave up when they could see that I wasn’t responding to their attempts. My nani was practical, telling me that I would find someone better, it was his loss and Abbu was . . . Abbu. He didn’t say much at all.
And me? I’ve spent the last five years making sure that I never give off the wrong impression again. That any guy I speak to knows his place and my limits. I’ve built walls so high around me that you’d need more than a ladder to climb over them, you’d need military intervention. And since I have first-hand experience of how vicious some people in my community can be, I’m more careful about my reputation than ever. Yes, we live in London, but sometimes it feels like we never left Sylhet . . .
‘I’m sorry for not telling you any of this sooner,’ I say, rubbing my eyes. I’m pretty sure I look like a raccoon right now, with black rivers all the way down my face, but I get the feeling that Hamza doesn’t care. I look around the restaurant and there are a few people giving me curious sidelong glances, in that very British ‘let’s pretend we haven’t noticed’ kind of way. But there’s nothing I can do about that. It’s too late; it’s all out now. And I feel oddly lighter.
‘You don’t have to apologise. It was never my business to know. But I’m glad you felt you could tell me. I can’t believe you’ve kept this all to yourself all this time. You should have got help. Justice.’
‘Justice? For what? He didn’t get to finish the job he started. I would have been a fool to tell anyone the rest. Can you imagine what people would have said about me if it got out? They chatted crap about me when they didn’t know anything! No one would have blamed him. They all would have said that I was asking for it, or that I led him on, or worse, that I’m lying, that I made it up because he ended it with me. It would have broken my parents and they would have had to deal with the rumours and whispers for the rest of their lives. I couldn’t do that to everyone, or even myself. It wasn’t worth it.’
‘Our society is f***ed up isn’t it?’ Hamza says with a grimace. I smile a small smile back at him because it’s the first time I’ve heard him swear, and it doesn’t sound as out of place as I thought it would.
‘It is what it is. So yeah. Now you know why I don’t let anyone near me.’
Hamza insists on walking me home afterwards, although my house is only five minutes away.
‘Zara,’ he begins gently when we get to the bottom of my road, ‘I get why you don’t like physical contact now, and why you’ve been reserved with me. I even understand why you needed to cast a wide net. Sort of . . .’
We carry on walking, me examining the cracks and gum on the pavement while he continues to talk.
‘. . . But what you said about not being attracted to me is still true. If this isn’t going anywhere and you only want to be friends, you need to tell me. I need to know so I can move on. I want to get married and have kids. You’re not the only one getting older, you know. I’m going to be thirty-three soon, and my parents are pressuring me. But I want to marry someone who wants me as much as I want them. Not someone who’s settling for me.’
We stop walking and, as I look up at his earnest face, I feel a pang in my heart at the thought of never seeing him again. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, a lump forms in my throat and it hurts to swallow.
‘You don’t have to decide today, but you need to decide soon, OK? Please don’t leave me hanging forever.’ He draws me close to him and gives me another gentle kiss on the top of my head. This time I don’t recoil. In fact, I tentatively return the hug. We stand there for a few seconds, our hearts pounding away in unison, while he softly strokes the top of my head. Then he brushes away the last tear trickling down my cheek and walks away.
Chapter 18
A week later, my sisters and I are outside the Alexandra Palace ice rink, waiting for Hamza to arrive. I’ve taken Layla’s advice on board and decided that in order to gain some clarity on my situation, I need my sisters’ perspective.
I’m thankful that coming up here doesn’t make me feel nervous anymore. It took a good few years, but I managed to overcome my anxiety. This place holds so many positive childhood memories for me; skating at the rink, rowing on the lake, fireworks, picnics, weddings . . . I couldn’t let Tariq taint all those special moments for me. I’d already lost nearly a year of my life because of him; all the weddings and parties I was too afraid to attend, all the nights I stayed at home locked in my room, too broken to go out. And as I stand by the wall and look down at magnificent London spread out before me, I’m glad this beautiful piece of my history – and perhaps future – isn’t forever lost to me.
‘Salaam Alaykom!’ Hamza’s booming voice startles me out of my morose thoughts. I smile back and wave shyly, my insides a bundle of nerves, like my dad’s cable drawer with its countless phone chargers, laptop chargers, USB cables and other wires, all tangled up beyond redemption.
‘Wa Alaikum Salaam,’ I reply when he gets closer, unsure of how to greet him in front of my sisters. Hamza seems to sense my dilemma and gives my arm a quick squeeze before extending his hand to Amina first, and then Yasmin.
‘Ah, the formidable Choudhury sisters. I’ve heard a lot about you! It’s so nice to finally meet you!’
He shakes hands with them enthusiastically, pumping their hands up and down as if the harder he shakes them, the more they’ll be inclined to like him. I see that Yasmin is trying to supress a smile, whereas Amina’s expression is more difficult to read.
We make our way around the building to the ice rink entrance, where Hamza insists on buying our tickets, all the while keeping up a steady stream of conversation with my sisters. Well, with Yas anyway. Amina looks more uncomfortable than I imagined. He tries to engage with her but she responds with closed answers, which makes it challenging for him to continue the conversation.
When we finally get onto the ice, Yasmin whizzes away like she always does, gliding and spinning like a pro. She used to take lessons when we were kids and likes to show off her skills to anyone willing to watch. Hamza looks at me in awe.
‘Can you skate like that, too?’
‘No,’ I mutter, carefully stepping onto the ice and promptly falling down hard on my backside. Whose stupid idea was this? Probably Yasmin’s. She’s always stealing the bloody show. Today is supposed to be about me. I stare at her as she pirouettes at the centre of the rink, in her leggings that show off her legs for days and her slouchy sweatshirt casually rolled up to her elbows, her perfect hair swishing about in time to the music. The pang of envy hits me hard in my gut, and I feel bad straight away. She’s my sister. What kind of lowlife feels jealous of her younger, sexier sister? Hamza laughs, though, takes my hand into his gigantic paw and pulls me back onto my feet as if I’m no heavier than a feather.
‘Well, it’s nice to see that there’s something you’re not perfect at.’ He smiles, before letting go of my hand and also gliding away. ‘Catch me if you can! You’re it!’
‘Hey, I wasn’t ready!’
It doesn’t take me long to find my footing on the ice and when I do, I start having fun as we play a lively game of ‘It’. Amina also seems to be enjoying herself, despite her aversion to most things physically challenging, as she desperately scuttles across the ice like a cockroach. I catch her straight away, colliding into her hard and sending both of us sprawling.
‘You’re “It”,’ I groan, rubbing my hip as I try to stand again. Hamza appears like a guardian angel, pulls me back up and I smile gratefully at him.
After our painful but exhilarating skating session, we go for lunch to one of my usual Turkish hotspots nearby. I know that Hamza will insist on footing the bill so I don’t want to take advantage by going somewhere expensive. By this point, Amina has warmed up and they’re bantering away like old friends. He’s surprisingly good at manoeuvring his way around conversations with my sisters and has this uncanny ability to read between the lines and quickly but subtly switch topics he can sense are contentious. They talk politics, finance, international affairs and policy, and all sorts of other stuff, half of which goes over my head and the other half . . .? Well, I lean back and let them talk. Today is about them getting to know each other.
At one point, as I watch them talk about the British occupation of Egypt and Bangladesh, Hamza suddenly starts to look quite handsome. His green eyes sparkle as he gently teases Yasmin about her lack of knowledge of British history, his smile bright, straight and friendly. And it’s at that moment, that I realise that knowledge, intellect and good manners are almost as attractive as good looks and sex appeal.
When he books an Uber for us to go home in because, ‘Taking the bus after all that ice skating will be too tiring,’ both my sisters seem to be won over.
‘Omigod, Z, he is perfect,’ Amina gushes on the ride home, as we sit back exhausted, bruised and stuffed from the day’s activities. I can’t help but raise an eyebrow as I take in her elated expression. I’m not used to Amina gushing about anyone or anything. ‘What? Don’t look at me like that! He is!’
‘Really? How so?’ I lean back against the seat and rest my head on Yas’s shoulders.
‘He ticks all the boxes, sis. He’s tall. Striking. Highly educated. Good job. Intelligent – emotionally and intellectually. Friendly. Everyone’s going to love him and he’s crazy about you. What more do you want?’
‘Erm . . . A bit of a spark?’
Yasmin remains worryingly quiet throughout the ride and it’s only when we get back home and we’re in the safety of my bedroom that she tells me what she really thinks.
‘Look, Z, I can’t tell you what to do,’ she begins, plonking herself on my bed and kicking all my decorative cushions to the floor as she tries to get comfortable.
‘But . . . you’re going to anyway?’
‘Is he a nice guy? Yes. Does he tick most of the boxes? Definitely. But you need to be attracted to him.’
I sigh and look away, unable to bear her worried stare any longer. She’s right. I know she’s right. But what about that spark I felt today when I saw how engaging and smart and interesting he is? I confess this to my sister, but instead of understanding where I’m coming from, she rolls her eyes.
‘This is so typically you, Zara. You’re clutching on to straws now. How long has it taken for you to feel this spark? Six months?’
‘It’s not the first time, though. I’m slowly seeing different sides of him that I’m attracted to.’
‘Look, you asked for my opinion and I gave it. It’s up to you to make the choice.’ Then, when I don’t respond, she softens and adds gently, ‘Why don’t you ask to meet his sister? Seeing his family might help you make up your mind?’
That night I struggle to fall asleep as the day’s events roll around in my head like a chicken on a rotisserie. I thought Hamza meeting my sisters would help clear up this cloud of doubt, and maybe it has a little. Seeing that dynamic side of him has shifted my perspective and it’s good to know that Amina at least has my back if we decide to go ahead with things. But still, it’s not enough, is it?
Chapter 19
It’s Friday night and, although it’s been a quiet week at work, I’m feeling really drained. I’ve been out nearly every evening this week despite my half-hearted efforts to chill at home: gym, cinema with Layla and Ezra, who I haven’t seen much of lately because she has some fancy new job that has her working all hours. I’ve seen Hamza twice. I had to; we went for dinner on Wednesday and he mentioned that he was planning on buying his sister a blender for her birthday. A blender! So I made him meet me in Selfridges on Thursday and picked out a pretty silver bangle instead.
Mo, by the way, unblocked me long enough to send me another text before blocking me again.
I can’t believe I wasted so much time on you, you giant freak. You’ll never find anyone as good as me. Bitch.
I still feel pretty shaken by the whole thing, to be honest. But I also feel as though I deserve it for speaking to him behind Hamza’s back. I don’t reply.
Tonight, I want nothing more than to curl up in bed with a film and a tube of Pringles and give my mind and body a chance to recover, but I can’t. My eldest cousin Sabina is here from Dubai for four days and if I bail on a night that’s been in the diary for months, she’s going to murder me. Or worse, tell my mum about the dodgy things we got up to as teenagers.
I put the final touches on my makeup and then spray myself generously with all sorts of chemicals; fix spray, setting spray, hair spray and perfume, before stepping back and checking out my reflection in the mirror. Sabina is a famous makeup artist in Dubai, so I’m extra conscious of my face today. After Mo’s ‘giant’ comment, I’m tempted to give heels a miss. I know Sabs will be in at least four inches; she’s almost as tall as me and she always wears heels with confidence, so why do I let the fact that I’m the tallest Bengali girl in London bother me? It’s better than being the shortest. Pushing Mo and his parting words out of my head, I slip them on and then complete my look with a rich red lippy. For the first time in a long time I feel good about myself.
The roar of a powerful engine, together with pounding bass, indicates the arrival of my cousin. I peer out of my bedroom window and, sure enough, there’s a shiny white Range Rover struggling to fit into the space right outside our house. It goes forwards and backwards about ten times at various angles and I smile to myself, excited nerves brewing in my belly numbing the pain from earlier. I’m in dire need of some fun – and judging by the loud hip-hop that’s causing our entire street to vibrate, it looks like she’s ready to party too.
