Finding Mr Perfectly Fine, page 23
‘Don’t ever speak to my wife again,’ he growls, and then draws his arm back and punches Tariq right in the face with all his strength. There’s a cracking noise and a river of blood trickles down Tariq’s face, over his lips, merging with the orange. The girl starts screaming and people rush towards us.
‘Let’s go before he calls the police,’ I implore, pulling Adam away as the security guard bursts into the restaurant. Thank God it’s his bouncer friend, because all he does is shake his head and usher us out, saying something incomprehensible into his walkie-talkie.
‘Bro, is this what I get for getting you a last-second table?’ he moans as he pretends to escort us out of the restaurant.
‘Sorry, but that’s been five years coming,’ Adam replies, rubbing his sore hand.
The barriers between us torn down forever; I take his bruised hand and kiss it gently right there in the lift and in front of his friend, and bring it to my chest where I hold on to it. I know what happened upstairs started as acting, but I feel closer to him than I’ve ever felt to anyone. I feel as though I’ve known him forever, as though he’s mine. A blush creeps up his neck and I wonder if it’s with embarrassment or because he feels the same.
‘Thank you.’ I whisper, tears filling my eyes again.
‘Anytime, aşkım,’ he replies with a sad smile, slowly taking his hand back and stuffing it into his pocket. ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’
Chapter 22
The journey home is painfully quiet, with neither of us knowing what to say. I keep wondering how to break the silence, but the atmosphere is so charged that I’m too scared to. What if he kisses me again, this time for real? Then I’ll be forced to make a decision on whether or not to let Hamza go.
Adam says nothing either, and every time I sneak a look at him, I see him staring straight ahead with a grim expression.
When we finally pull up outside my house, I’m relieved to see that my dad’s car isn’t parked in its usual spot, and all the lights are off. I bid Adam a hasty goodbye and clamber out of the car as quickly as I can, given the fact that I’m wearing skyscrapers on my feet. The car speeds away before I get to the front door.
Around three I finally give up on sleep and take a long, hot shower. For the first time since Ramadan, I’m awake for Salaatul Fajr – the dawn prayer – so I wrap a pashmina around my head and seek solace in pressing my forehead on the prayer mat. The repetitive and rhythmic Arabic words manage to calm me down, and when the prayer is over, I continue to sit there for a while, beseeching God to help me and guide me towards what’s right for me.
When I collapse into bed, I glance at my phone for the first time in hours to find three missed calls from Hamza and a few messages to go with them, asking if I still wanted to meet up. I stare blankly at the screen for a moment, trying to pull up the memory of Hamza with all his kindness, stability, decency, from the depths of my Adam-induced stupor.
All this time I’ve known that something’s missing in the relationship, but I’ve struggled to articulate what it is, beyond ‘chemistry’. Now that I’ve kissed Adam, I know exactly what’s absent. Fire.
I type out as my eyelids begin to droop with sleep:
Hey, Hamza, Sorry for missing your calls and messages. Got home just before 12 so wouldn’t have made sense for you to meet us. Been in bed, just got up for fajr. Hope you’re OK. x
When I finally awake around eleven, still emotionally and physically exhausted from the previous night’s action, I find his response, reminding me that we’re meeting his sister at one thirty.
Shit! His sister. How could I have forgotten?
Every single part of me wants to back out, but instead, I reply ‘Of course, let me know where,’ to erase some of the guilt I’m experiencing. It doesn’t work, though. I keep reminding myself that not only did I NOT initiate the kiss, it wasn’t even real. It was acting. Actors do it all the time. It means nothing. Except Brad did fall in love with Angelina after all their ‘acting’. Shit! How am I supposed to face Hamza AND his sister when I look like death and feel like a two-timing bitch?
As I get ready, I realise that my features reek of betrayal; from my sunken sockets, to my glassy pupils and my swollen lips. I get to work concealing the bags under my eyes and brushing some colour onto my sallow complexion, whilst trying not to look overdone. It works, sort of. If only I could brush away what was going on inside me as well.
I pick up my phone at least twenty times to back out of the meeting, but each time I start writing the text out, I imagine Hamza’s crestfallen face and how embarrassed he would feel in front of his sister, and I delete the whole message. I can’t let him down like this. Plus, he knows I was out with Adam last night and I can’t do anything that will make him suspect that something went awry.
An hour later, I’m sitting on the Westbound Piccadilly Line train in sensible pale denim jeans and a simple white cotton blouse. I look like the picture of serenity, but my insides feel like scrambled eggs. What Hamza’s super-successful and intelligent doctor sister thinks of me is way down on my list of things to stress about, though. The first ten pages of the list revolve around Adam. Is he as torn up over the kiss as I am? Could he sleep last night, or was he up most of it, thinking about me? Is he beginning to see me as more than a friend? Does he view me differently now that he knows about Tariq? I hope he doesn’t pity me.
The fact that I haven’t heard a whisper from him makes me inclined to believe that the kiss meant nothing, even though he said I was different from all the other girls. He kisses people every weekend. Snogging comes as naturally to him as eating comes to me. It’s a good thing, I tell myself. Fancying me is one thing. He fancies everyone. But Adam actually liking me will complicate things further.
As the stuffy carriage gets closer and closer to my destination, the Adam-inspired worries merge into full-blown nerves about meeting Hamza’s sister. Whose name I can’t for the life of me recall.
I keep reminding myself that he had the guts to meet both my sisters at the same time, and he did it beautifully. I only have to meet one of his siblings (he has a younger brother, too), so how hard can that be? I get along with most people anyway.
But what if she takes one look at me and can tell that, a mere thirteen hours ago, I was in another man’s arms? OK, the chances of her being Mystic Meg are slim, but what if she’s good at sussing people out and she can tell that my heart isn’t 100 per cent in this? What if it’s Hamza who can tell that something’s up with me? What if he can smell the unintentional betrayal on me?
When I get off the train at Rayners Lane, I want to throw up. How am I supposed to keep it together in front of him AND his sister? All I want is to cross the platform and go back in the direction I came from, and I’m about to do so when I see Hamza hurrying towards me, beaming from ear to ear.
‘Zara! Ahlan wa sahlan, habibti! Welcome to my neck of the woods!’
Now that he’s seen me, there’s no going back. My stomach twisting and flipping over and over again, I lick my dry lips and smile a wobbly smile back as I make my way over to him. He hugs me, I stiffen, and then he grabs my hand and pulls me towards his car. Which, I’m surprised to see, is a massive BMW 4×4. I remember Adam’s brother’s Porsche and guilt swishes inside my belly like a gone-off seafood pasta, ready to come out at any moment.
‘Nice car,’ I croak as he opens the passenger door, waits for me to climb in and then closes it firmly behind me, almost as though he knows I want to make a run for it.
‘Thanks, I bought it last year with my bonus.’ His response is casual, and not boastful in the slightest, but even so, I find myself sinking lower into my seat. Bonus? Seriously? I have no idea how much these things cost but I’m pretty sure it’s more than my entire yearly salary.
Hamza puts the car into gear and starts driving through leafy suburban streets and I stare out the window longingly, wishing I could throw myself out of it. I don’t know where he’s taking me and where we’re meeting his sister, and I don’t ask because I’m scared that if I open my mouth I’ll throw up all over the beautiful leather interior. Instead, I let him ramble on about his work event last night, and ‘mmm’ in what I think are the right places.
After about ten minutes which feels more like ten hours, he pulls up outside a large, single-fronted detached Edwardian-style house with a front garden that could do with a bit of a weeding. I presume this is where we’re picking his sister up, but instead of waiting for her to come out, he kills the engine and turns to look at me with a guilty expression.
‘Er, so . . .’ he begins, shamefaced. ‘So, uh, this is where we’re going to meet my sister. At my house.’
‘Mmm,’ I reply absentmindedly. ‘OK.’ And then my breath catches in my throat as I realise what he’s said. ‘Did you say at your house?’
‘Uh . . .’
‘She’s there alone, right?’ I demand. ‘No one else is home? You haven’t ambushed me, have you?’ My voice rises to a shriek as the weight of the bombshell he’s dropped on me threatens to crush me.
‘Not exactly,’ he confesses, looking more and more fearful by the second. ‘You see, when my parents found out that Hiba was going to meet you, they wanted to meet you too and they wouldn’t take no for an answer, and then my aunt—’
The bomb explodes.
‘Hamza! I swear down I’m gonna kill you!’ I cry, covering my sweaty face with my clammy hands. ‘How could you do this to me? I’m not going in! Take me back to the station!’
‘I can’t! I already texted them and told them we’re on the way. They’re waiting for you!’
‘Hamza!!!!!’
‘I’m sorry! It was my sister’s fault! She told my mom she was meeting you, and then my mom insisted she got to meet you too!’
With one last wail, I give Hamza my fiercest glower before hastily rummaging around in my bag for things to help me look more presentable. In about thirty seconds flat, I manage to dab away most of the sweat, touch up my powder and lipstick, run a brush through my hair and spritz on some more perfume. And I don’t finish a second too soon because as I’m about to get my deodorant out, the front door swings open and a cheery girl in jeans, flowery blouse and pink headscarf bounds out and peers into the car before knocking on the window and waving frantically.
This, quite clearly, is Hamza’s sister; a smaller, female version of him.
I take a deep breath, plaster a shaky smile on my face, open the door and climb out of the car as elegantly as possible, my legs wobbling with nerves.
‘Hi! Assalaamu Alaikum, I’m Zara,’ I manage to say with realistic-sounding enthusiasm, extending my hand as she comes towards me. She pushes it out of the way and instead grabs me in a massive bear hug, before planting three alternating smackers on my cheeks.
‘Zara! ‘Alaikom Salaam! I’m Hiba! Oh, you don’t know how thrilled I am to finally meet you!’
Hiba has the same American-ish accent as Hamza and it suits her. She’s too full of life to be British. Then, grabbing the hand she pushed away only a moment earlier, she half ushers, half drags me towards The Front Door of Fear. I look back at Hamza in a panic, but he shrugs sheepishly and follows us into the house.
Oh Allah give me the strength to get through the next hour with dignity, grace, intelligence and sanity, I pray desperately as I misjudge the two steps leading up to the door and trip, nearly pulling Hiba down with me. Allah, please get Adam out of my head and show me whether Hamza is suited to me. Thankfully she’s nice and sturdy and helps steady me before giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.
‘Look, don’t worry, everyone is dying to meet you. You have nothing to worry about,’ she stage whispers as we enter the hallway.
‘Everyone?’ I croak. Who’s everyone?
I soon find out because a second later, we walk into the sitting room. The hum of voices stops abruptly and about ten people all stare at me with a mixture of curiosity and excitement.
‘Everyone, this is Zara!’ Hiba announces proudly, as if we’re old friends.
‘Zara! Habibti! Ahlan wa sahlan!’ A round woman in a white headscarf comes up to me first and engulfs me into her ample bosom. She feels warm and smells like honey and hand cream, and I know immediately that this is Hamza’s mum. OMIGOD I’m trapped in Hamza’s mum’s arms!
‘Assalaamu Alaikum, Aunty,’ I reply timidly as she takes hold of my shoulders, pushes me back and looks at me intensely. ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’
‘Haraam, look at you,’ she says in a strong Egyptian accent, frowning deeply as she takes in my startled expression, my clothes, my everything. Haraam? What does she mean by that? Is it because I’m not wearing a hijab? I feel my face heat up with humiliation.
‘Haraam, you are so small, so skinny! We will have to feed you today. But still, Masha’allah, helou.’ Then, as if she realises that I don’t understand Arabic, repeats, ‘Helou! Beautiful! Masha’allah!’
I let out a breath. OK, maybe she wasn’t insulting me, although I still don’t know why I’m haraam. I make a mental note to ask Hamza later. But now I’m being shoved towards somebody else as Hamza’s mum says something in Arabic, and judging by the wrinkles, I’m guessing it’s his grandma.
And it goes on and on. I meet his granny. His aunt. Two cousins. His brother. Some kid his aunt’s looking after. His mum’s best friend. And then, finally, his dad, who greets me quickly with a reserved smile and firm handshake, welcomes me to his home, and then swiftly leaves the room with the brother. I’m offered a seat on a sofa so soft that it practically swallows me whole and when I think I’ve got my balance, Hamza sits down next to me which makes the whole thing lean in his direction and I fall onto him. I try to shuffle away to the far end, but it’s difficult when I’m that sunken into it.
‘Ah, don’t worry, everyone gets confused by that sofa,’ one of Hamza’s cousins says with a shy smile when I finally manage to drag myself to the safer end, cursing it in my head. I swear to God, if I end up being part of this family, this is the first thing that’s going into the skip. ‘Our grandfather bought it before he passed and so it’s too sentimental to throw away. It’s become the lucky sofa now.’
Oh.
I smile back, embarrassed. ‘It’s OK, it’s comfy,’ I lie, giving Hamza a subtle glower when I hear him suppress a chuckle.
As the women continue to analyse me, I try my best to pretend that firstly, I haven’t noticed, and secondly, that I’m not furious at being duped like this.
I remember Francesca asking me weeks ago if Hamza had ever pushed me into things and I tried to defend him. But he’s done it again. He could have told me earlier what had happened with his family and then left it to me to decide if I still wanted to go ahead. Instead, he waited until it was too late for me to back out without looking like a complete cow and essentially taking the choice away from me.
In an attempt to distract myself from what Hamza has done, I surreptitiously glance around the room instead to try and get a feel for the place. As sitting rooms go, it’s pretty big, with high ceilings and what looks like an original Edwardian fireplace complete with coal and poker. And it reminds me of my own living room, only slightly bigger. The furniture is a bit too ostentatious for my taste, all curvy, engraved wood and floral upholstery that matches the maroon floral curtains. There’s a dusty chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and a faded proper Persian rug – not the fake Persian patterned ones you get, but a real, silk one.
And there are lace doilies everywhere. There’s one on the mother-of-pearl encrusted coffee table in front of me, spoiling its beauty. About three along the mantelpiece, one on each of the nesting tables, and I can see one on every shelf of the glass cabinet housing fine china and crystal ware. There is also an overabundance of ornaments; candles, vases, bowls with potpourri in them, fake flowers. It’s like being thrown straight into Cairo, circa 1979.
Hamza’s mum and Hiba walk back into the room carrying two ornate-looking silver trays weighed down with cold drinks and some sort of savoury pastries, which they place on the coffee table in front of me.
‘You must be thirsty after the long journey,’ Hamza’s mum says, handing me the drink. ‘Lunch won’t be for another half an hour, so please, have some snacks while you wait.’
‘Lunch? Oh no, I couldn’t—’
‘What? Of course, you must! I’m making koshary, it’s Hamza’s favourite! It’s not something I would make for a special guest really, but Hamza asked for it. Anyway, it’s nearly ready, habibti.’
With that, she bustles back to the kitchen and Hiba loads up a plate with three different pastries and forces it into my hands. I’m too nervous to eat, but at the same time, I don’t want to offend anyone, so after a long swig of juice, I take a couple of dainty bites of the lamb mince one. It’s deliciously subtle with very few spices, and different to the Bengali samosas we make at home. I polish off the rest of it and wonder if I would have to change my style of cooking (well, eating, since I barely cook) if I married Hamza.
All this time I’ve been getting to know Hamza, I haven’t given much thought to the fact that he’s Egyptian, and I’m Bengali. I’ve been too preoccupied with the whole attraction thing to really ponder what it would mean to marry outside my culture. But now, as I sit here in this ostentatious sitting room eating food I’ve never had before, feeling confused about Arabic terms being thrown at me, I wonder how easy it would be to slot into the chaos. Would I be expected to change my ways and conform to theirs? Will it be a problem if I don’t? No matter how different our cultures may be, I know for a fact that it would be easier to mesh with Hamza’s family than Adam’s. As lovely as Adam is, he’s not a practising Muslim and doesn’t pretend to be. If I went to visit his family, I’d feel uncomfortable about the drinking, unsure if the meat is halal and constantly worried that they’d think I was an extremist.
