Finding Mr Perfectly Fine, page 2
I honestly never thought I would find myself in this predicament. According to Mum it’s because my expectations are too high. Well, excuse me for wanting someone who respects me, makes me laugh, challenges me, looks after me – and who I happen to fancy. Is that really too much to ask? Is it my fault that the few proposals that have passed my mum and nani’s stringent criteria have been a foot shorter than me, fifteen years older than me, or still living with their parents and ten siblings?
As I sat there, pondering where the hell I went wrong, I suddenly had a vision of me still living with my parents and grandmother at forty, while my younger sisters’ kids wreaked havoc around me. I imagined my mum moaning at me for shopping too much and wasting my money. I heard her hypothetical voice screech, ‘You’ve got no husband to look out for you so you can’t afford to throw your money around!’ I saw my dad looking pityingly at me and my bedridden nani wailing to God to have mercy on her and find me a husband. Any husband. Even a divorced, balding father of six would have been fine.
I worked myself up into a bit of a tizzy, looking into the future like that.
I can’t become the moral of a ‘look what happens if you reject all your proposals’ cautionary tale. I can’t become the spinster aunt who dedicates her life to her nieces and nephews because her eggs have dried up. I can’t live with my overbearing parents forever. I won’t!
I’m not going to rely on my mum and her limited network of aunties and uncles from a certain part of Sylhet to find me a husband. I’m twenty-nine, not sixty-nine. I have an entire year to find someone and if I put enough energy into finding a husband as I did in finding the latest celebrity lipstick, I’m sure I can be engaged in six months and married in twelve. I’m taking matters into my own hands: I’ve already signed up to MuslimMate, I’ll attend a bunch of Islamic conferences, attend a speed-marriage event or two, and basically walk around with a MARRY ME henna tattoo on my forehead, if that’s what it takes.
Chapter 2
It’s Monday; I’m back in the office and apart from joining MuslimMate, putting together the biodata, and wearing more makeup than I usually would to work, I’ve done little else to find Mr Right. Judging from the calibre of candidates I’ve seen so far, though, I should probably lower my standards and settle for Mr All Right.
My department, Community Engagement, has the best corner in the open-plan office space on the third floor. There are only three of us at the moment; me, Adam the graphic designer and Francesca the events coordinator, and we sit facing each other right by the window, with Adam’s posters and hand-drawn sketches covering the wall next to us.
My desk, like my bedroom, screams my personality. There are Polaroids of my friends and family stuck everywhere and all my stationery is stuff I’ve bought myself, not nicked from the supply cupboard. I’m one of those saddos who has a thing for stationery. I can spend hours stroking pens, checking out highlighters and eyeing up notebooks.
I absolutely love my job. I have a fantastic team, my manager, Kevin, is supportive, and all day I get to do things I enjoy; like writing articles for the community newspaper, contributing to the website, and coming up with events and ideas on how to bring the local community together. I get to meet new people all the time, which is one of my favourite things, and boss my little team around. Admittedly it’s not the most glamorous of jobs, and my ‘team’ comprises only two other people, but the hours are decent, the salary is OK, the benefits are amazing and I can even walk to work if I want to.
My best friend Layla doesn’t get it, though. She’s constantly on at me to aim higher and either go completely corporate to earn loads of money, or go into the non-profit sector and use my brains for the greater good. But I’m honestly well and truly happy here. She’s always ranting about her crappy boss and how her workplace isn’t diverse enough, how all the old white men don’t take her seriously because she’s a young woman of colour. I don’t have that problem. I’m respected here, I feel challenged and I genuinely enjoy what I do. OK, it’s comfortable and safe, but what’s wrong with that? Not everyone wants to save the world like her. Some of us are still trying to save ourselves.
The only downside is the lack of potential suitors. All the guys are either too old or (no offence) too white. When I first joined three years ago and learnt that Adam was Turkish, for a fleeting moment I thought he might have been a possibility. He’s actually quite attractive in that North London ‘rough around the edges’ way. As I got to know him better, I realised that he’s not really what I’m looking for in a life partner. For starters, he’s a not-very-practising Muslim. I know I have a long way to go myself, but I do want to become more God-fearing. I want my kids to grow up in a household that prays regularly. The only thing he does five times a day is smoke those cheap fags you have to roll up yourself.
Adam’s religiousness (or lack thereof) isn’t the only thing that has prevented me from considering him. He’s also a year younger than me, which isn’t that big a deal, but he’s pretty immature and looks quite young. The last thing I want when I turn forty is a husband that still looks thirty and thinks farting in public is funny. There’s also the fact that I’m his line manager, which would make things super-awkward if things ever went wrong.
‘What did you get up to over the weekend?’ he asks a couple of hours into the workday.
‘I put together a marriage CV,’ I reply blithely, continuing to edit the community newsletter.
‘You what?’ he splutters, spinning his swivel chair around to stare at me. ‘Why?’
Francesca, who, despite the Italian name is actually from Essex, also turns around.
‘Because I need my family to hurry up and find me a husband, that’s why.’ I answer without looking at either of them, already regretting being so forthcoming. Adam is completely unpredictable and part of his boyish charm is that you never know what’s going to come out of his mouth.
‘Isn’t actively “finding” a husband a bit contrived? Aren’t you supposed to meet someone, fall in love and then get married?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Don’t get all coconut on me. You’re Turkish. You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
‘Yeah, but that hardly happens in our community any more.’
‘Whatever.’ I turn to look at him. ‘Most women at some point start actively looking to settle down. She might call it looking for a boyfriend. Or dating. But what she really hopes is that it will one day lead to a life partner. All I’m doing is cutting out the time-wasting stages that happen before.’
Adam turns to Francesca for backup and she shrugs. ‘Sorry, Adam, I’m with Zara on this one. It gets tiring, not knowing who’s serious and who’s messing about. I think it’s pretty cool that you can cut out the bullshit and get to the point.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile at Fran. She smiles back and I relish this moment of sisterhood and experiences that transcend culture and religion.
‘Well, it sounds unnatural to me,’ he says, giving me a haughty look that I don’t care for.
‘Good thing I don’t really care about what you think, then,’ I retort.
‘Good thing I don’t care that you don’t care.’ See what I mean about him being immature?
I turn my back to him pointedly and take out my phone to act like I’m busy but I don’t really have anything new to check. Except . . . I haven’t logged into MuslimMate since yesterday. I’m quite curious to see if I’ve managed to get through the verification process despite the not-entirely-accurate picture I submitted, so I open it up and sure enough, I’ve passed. And not only have I passed, I have over 300 new ‘likes’!
I stare at the screen in shock. How can that possibly be true? My profile has only been live for a few hours. There are no messages and I deduce that only people I ‘like’ in return will be able to have that privilege.
‘Zara, do you have a minute?’
My boss, Kevin, appears in front of me like an apparition and I stuff my phone into my pocket nervously, hoping he hasn’t seen what I’ve been doing. I always think the worst when he asks to see me.
‘Sure!’ I reply with faux cheeriness, getting up to follow him to his office. As we walk across the room, all the possible worst-case scenarios play out in my mind; from being put on a performance management programme to getting fired. I force MuslimMate to the back of my mind. The 300 men all waiting to hear back from me are going to have to wait a little longer.
*
It turns out that Kevin only wanted an update on our upcoming community event. We usually have cross-departmental meetings on a Monday, but a few of the senior managers were off sick or in meetings, so it was cancelled today. Still, I decide not to open MuslimMate again during work hours, since ‘Finding a husband’ isn’t a part of my job description.
After my satisfying lunch of yesterday’s leftover chicken pulao that Nani kindly packed for me, Layla emails me asking if I want to attend a swanky Muslim networking event in the City. She hasn’t told me much, just that I need to be in London Bridge by six thirty and I need to look ‘hot’.
In an effort to do her proud, I nip off to Boots straight after work and pile on even more makeup. I also buy a cheap pair of earrings and a necklace from Primark to jazz up my dark jeans and jumper. Not exactly Vogue but I decide I will have to do.
Emerging from the Underground at London Bridge, I start walking down Tooley Street, where I am surrounded by imposing glass towers juxtaposed against classic English architecture. People who look as if they’ve jumped straight out of a fashion shoot, with their cashmere coats and monogrammed briefcases, hurry past me. It’s a far cry from Wood Green High Road, I can tell you that.
As I wait for Layla outside the PwC offices – a really cool, modern glass building that curves in the middle like it’s come from the future – I begin to wonder if I was too hasty in accepting her invitation. This morning I thought I looked pretty decent but now, at dusk, at the heart of the City surrounded by glass and lights, I wish I was wearing heels. And silk. And diamonds.
‘Assalaamu Alaikum!’ Layla calls out to me, her arms outstretched.
‘Wa Alaikum Salaam,’ I respond with a smile. We hug and, as always, I feel better by her energetic presence. She’s always hopping around, laughing or cracking a joke. We were introduced by a mutual friend, Ezra, in Wood Green Library during our first year of A Levels, where we would go to ‘study’ every weekend. By ‘study’ I mean gossip, check out boys and generally mess around. We bonded over our love for Garage music and playing pranks and have been best friends ever since.
‘You look so hot,’ Layla says with a wide grin. ‘I bet at least one guy asks for your number tonight.’
‘It’s not about numbers though, is it?’ I reply as we sit on a nearby bench to kill the ten minutes before the event starts.
‘What is it about then?’ she asks, adjusting her loosely tied headscarf. ‘I mean, I know your mum threatened you, but is it really about that?’
I think for a moment. I’ve been asking myself the same question and although I’ve been a bit difficult about the whole biodata thing, the truth is, I want to get married.
‘Not really,’ I admit. ‘It’s been so long since you-know-who. He was a piece of shit, I know, but apart from that, I enjoyed being in a relationship. The feeling of having someone there for you, no matter what, the companionship. Right now, I feel so . . .’ My voice begins to wobble slightly. ‘. . . Lonely.’
‘Ah, sis, don’t say that! You have me, and Ezra, and your sisters. You’re definitely not alone.’
‘I know. But I still need more, you know? I want what you have with Hasan.’
Layla scoffs at this and rolls her eyes. ‘Are you serious? I want to kill him half the time.’
‘Yeah, but the other half of the time you can enjoy the fact that you married your first love. He has your back, no matter what. You never go to sleep alone.’
‘Honestly, Zara, going to sleep alone is the best thing! No duvet-hogging, no snoring, no dribble on your pillowcases. I don’t go on about it, but I often wonder if I married Hasan too soon. We were only twenty-four . . . Well, I was twenty-four and he was twenty-three, for God’s sake. Who the hell gets married that young these days?’
‘So? You got to grow together!’ I insist, beginning to feel a bit panicky. In my eyes, Layla and Hasan are the perfect couple and the image I have of them is currently teetering on the edge of a precarious cliff, about to topple over and shatter into a million shards.
‘More like grow apart,’ she mutters. ‘Look, Zara, all I’m saying is that things aren’t as rosy as they seem. I wish I’d waited, but I was desperate to flippin’ shag him, wasn’t I?’
What? I stare at her and the shock is quickly replaced by giggles. ‘Are y-you telling me that you were in such a hurry to marry him because you wanted to sleep with him?’ I manage to choke out in between fits of laughter.
‘I wanted to make it halal, didn’t I!’ she wails, covering her face with her hands.
I lean over and give her a hug, still chuckling. ‘You’re such a horny cow. He’s a lucky man.’
‘But that’s the thing: now I can’t be arsed most of the time. He feels like I lured him into marriage under false pretences.’ She looks both embarrassed and pissed off as she admits this but one look at me struggling to contain my laughter and she lets it all out. We’re still laughing as we wobble into the building like a pair of drunks.
‘What exactly is tonight about, other than networking?’ I ask once the giggles subside and we are assaulted by more glass, chrome and marble. For a moment I wish I worked in Finance so I could wear high heels and a power suit every day. Then I remember that I rarely wear heels because I’m already tall and they hurt my feet.
‘It’s a chocolate-making night!’ Layla squeals as we head towards the lifts. She’s one of those people who can rarely conceal her emotions, be it excitement, anger or pain. I feel my spirits begin to lift. You can’t go wrong with chocolate.
We walk into a spacious conference room with glass walls and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. Layla spots a noticeboard at the entrance of the room with our names and table numbers on it.
‘Damn,’ she whispers, her hazel eyes wide, ‘we’re on different tables! I didn’t think they’d do that.’ So much for having a wingwoman. She is at the other end of the room and will be of no use to me.
There are five men and four other women on my table and, despite the odd wing person, it’s painfully obvious why we’re here. ‘Networking’ my arse. I can smell the desperation in the air as the women casually play with their hair or their headscarves and the men try to look indifferent.
Everyone looks so high-class in their tailored suits and expensive shoes and I’m the only one in jeans and Primark accessories. I shrink into myself as I wonder what to say when I reach my table.
I opt for a simple, ‘Assalaamu Alaikum,’ with a bright smile. There is a chorus of ‘Wa Alaikum Salaam’s as everyone turns to smile back at me. I can feel all of them, men and women, sizing me up. They’re probably wondering how I got past security.
I write my name on a label and stick it onto my jumper. On my right is a tall, OK-looking guy with trendy geek-chic glasses and a quirky tie. On my left is a petite woman in hijab. Sitting opposite me is a really tall hench-guy with brown hair and green eyes, who, according to his name label, is Hamza. He’s so big he looks like a tree, and I feel even smaller than I already did.
I can feel Hamza appraising me as I make small talk with Wahida on my left. Maybe I don’t look that bad after all. Feeling a bit more confident, I pretend not to notice.
‘What do you do?’ Wahida asks me with a bored expression. The way she has wrapped her plain black headscarf tightly around her bare face makes her look quite severe and I doubt she’ll be successful tonight. I notice that she’s wearing what looks like a designer watch, so I don’t feel too sorry for her.
‘I work in Community Engagement for my local authority,’ I reply.
‘Oh,’ she says with – hang on, is that a sneer on her face? ‘That sounds . . . relaxing. I’m an auditor for E & Y.’
Before I can control myself, I retort, ‘That sounds . . . boring.’
I’m relieved when the facilitator finally starts talking and I can turn away from Wahida. When we’re told to get into pairs and introduce ourselves, I hesitate. I don’t feel like talking to either of the people closest to me. I decide that the guy on the right is the more appealing option, so I turn towards him. Except I’m too late and he’s partnered with a tall, skinny girl on his right.
Feeling deflated, I turn to my left and find that Wahida has been replaced by Hamza. How he managed to shuffle over here without me noticing is beyond me.
‘Hey, I’m Hamza,’ he says with a strong American accent. Up close he’s all-right looking, with his clear, fair complexion, flushed cheeks, light-brown hair and green eyes. He looks a bit too clean-cut and fresh for my taste and his cheeks are smoother than mine. I tend to go for the tanned and dark-hair type with facial hair.
‘Salaams, I’m Zara,’ I respond with a friendly smile. I’m not interested in him but we’re stuck together for at least an hour so I might as well enjoy myself.
‘So, what brings you here, Zara? Making new friends? Networking? The possibility of finding “the one”?’ He says this with a cheeky grin.
‘Actually, it was the chocolate,’ I reply flippantly, looking him straight in the eye. He lets out a hearty laugh and I can’t help but giggle along with him.
‘A woman after my own stomach,’ he guffaws, clutching his belly. He makes so much noise that despite the hum of voices around the room, people turn to look at us. I spot Layla grinning at me. She gives me a thumbs up and I glare at her and try to shake my head subtly. She carries on smiling so I look away before Hamza notices.
