Finding Mr Perfectly Fine, page 24
Hiba and the cousins start making small talk with me; what I do, my family background, how many siblings, what my parents do, etc., and as I start to open up, I slowly become more comfortable in their presence. They’re really friendly and personable, just like Hamza, and I’m relieved that they don’t ask anything too intrusive.
It’s obvious from the way they talk to each other, even when taking the mick, that Hiba and Hamza are close, and have a lot of love and respect for each other. It’s nice to see but it’s a bit unnerving as well, if I’m being honest. I mean, yeah, she’s acting all nice and stuff now, but what if she’s unnaturally protective over her brother and no other woman can live up to her expectations? Or what if they’re the type that tell each other everything and she ends up becoming the third wheel in our relationship?
And then a sickening thought crosses my mind. What if he’s revealed my secret to her? What if, right now, she’s actually disgusted by me, and is pretending to be nice to spare her brother’s feelings? The thought makes me nauseous and for a good few minutes, I’m lost in a maze of ‘what ifs’ created entirely by my paranoia.
‘Yallah, kids, lunch is ready,’ Hamza’s mum announces with a flourish as her tomato-red face appears from behind the door. ‘Come through to the dining room.’
We go back into the hallway and then into the room next door. Immediately, I’m hit with the scent of cumin, tomatoes, chillies and onions and my stomach growls in response, as if I hadn’t gobbled up all those pastries.
Hamza’s dining room is a similar size to the sitting room, and has the same high ceiling, fireplace and old-school furniture. The dining table is a glossy mahogany and the matching chairs have oval-shaped backrests engraved with intricate designs. There’s a sideboard full of gold frames containing photographs of Hamza, Hiba and their younger brother, Hussain, when they were kids, and by the patio doors there are a couple of fancy two-seater sofas. The room is completely different to my own family’s dining room, and then I notice the plastic sheet over the table and suppress a giggle. Maybe it’s not that different, after all.
‘Tfaddil, take a seat, habibti,’ Hamza’s mum says as she ushers me into the chair next to Hamza.
As everyone starts to pull out chairs and sit down, Hamza’s dad reappears and takes his place at the head of the table and then there’s a flurry of activity as Hamza’s mum and Hiba start serving everyone the koshary, salad and kibbeh, which is a deep-fried bulgur wheat thing stuffed with mince and pine nuts that I’ve tried before in a Lebanese restaurant. I stare at my plate with interest. I’ve never seen this koshary stuff before, let alone eaten it, and it looks fascinating.
‘Koshary is traditionally a Cairo street food,’ Hamza’s mum explains once everyone has been served. ‘I wouldn’t usually make it for a guest, but, as I said before, Hamza loves this dish and he wanted you to try it.’ She looks a bit embarrassed and I smile reassuringly at her and try and put her out of her misery. She was obviously reluctant to serve this, and I’m guessing it’s the Bengali equivalent of serving up daal and rice to a guest.
‘It looks and smells amazing, Aunty,’ I say genuinely.
‘Hold on, let me get a picture,’ Hiba says, taking out her phone. ‘Sorry, Zara, I have a food Instagram. Do you mind if I take one of you as well?’
‘Sure, go ahead,’ I say, because it’s not as if I can decline. I smile brightly as Hiba takes a picture of me holding up my spoon with the dish of koshary in front of me, and I spot Hamza rolling his eyes good naturedly.
‘Don’t mind her,’ he groans. ‘She always does this.’
Once she’s done, I take a big spoonful of the concoction and stuff it straight into my mouth to experience what I can only describe as an explosion of flavour and texture. The red sauce is spicy and garlicky, the onions are perfectly crispy, and I think the lentils and rice have been cooked in some sort of stock because it’s bursting with flavour. There’s also pasta and chickpeas in it. I never thought that such a carb overload could be so tasty. I glance over at Hamza and he’s too busy eating to notice me watching him. He looks like he’s in heaven.
‘This is absolutely delicious, I can see why it’s Hamza’s favourite.’ I look around the table and based on Hamza’s mum’s pleased expression, it’s obviously the right thing to say.
‘Saha wa afia,’ she replies with warmth and promptly loads my plate up with another massive spoonful. I have no idea what she said to me, but I’m pretty sure it was something nice.
‘So, Zara, Hamza told me you work for the council?’ This is the first time Hamza’s dad has properly looked at me and spoken to me apart from the brief ‘salaam’ earlier, and he chooses the moment my mouth is full of food to do so.
I don’t want to keep him waiting so I try and swallow everything that’s in my mouth, but I end up choking and coughing manically, so much so that I’m petrified I’m going to throw up. Hamza frantically hands me a glass of water which I guzzle down as quickly as a thirsty horse in a desert oasis. My eyes brimming with tears and my face flushed from the exertion, I determinedly manage to croak out an explanation of what I do, and everyone listens with pained expressions. I try not to crumple in shame.
‘Hamza said your father is an accountant?’ Dr Hegazi continues kindly, as if I haven’t just made an utter arse out of myself. I smile gratefully at him.
‘Yes. He’s the director of finance for a housing associating in North London.’
‘When did he come to the UK?’
‘Oh, in the early seventies. And my mum came here when she was a child, so all my maternal family live in the UK, but my dad’s family is more spread out. When did you come over?’
‘I came in the seventies myself to continue my studies, but Om Hamza arrived after we married in the eighties. We moved immediately to the States for more than a decade and came back to London in the late nineties.’
‘Yes, and I hated it,’ Hamza’s mum adds with a laugh. ‘It was so cold and so grey and boring. But to be fair, I felt the same when we moved to the States. I missed Cairo’s heat, the vibrancy, the food, the nightlife. Here, unless you went to the pub, there was no life after five o’clock.’
We carry on talking and I put my fork down, not wanting to risk being caught with a mouth full of food again. Now that my coughing fit has subsided and I’m getting over the embarrassment of it all, I’m actually feeling rather relaxed. His family is so much more peaceful than mine. There’s no Amina getting offended every five minutes, no Mum being condescending, no Dad tuning out and not contributing. The only thing that remains exactly the same is a lost grandmother trying – but not quite managing – to keep up with the conversation.
As the afternoon progresses, I almost forget about Adam and all those mixed emotions I was struggling with. There’s too much happening in front of me, and while the guilt is still there, the rawness and intensity of the kiss has started to diminish.
After lunch we move back to the sitting room and enjoy some fresh watermelon with our tea, followed by a big tray of baklawa and little cups of Arabic coffee. I make the mistake of calling it Turkish coffee which they’re all extremely affronted by, and I’m promptly given a lesson on how the Turks and Greeks are always trying to take credit for Arab inventions, like hummus and stuffed vine leaves and baklawa and coffee.
‘Shakespeare is Arab as well,’ Hamza’s dad says with a completely straight face. ‘Sheikh Zubeir. Shakespeare. You get it?’
And then, as the coffee runs out and the tray of sweets gets barer, the day winds to a close. I thank everyone for their hospitality and kindness, lavish more praise on them as they hug me tight and kiss my cheeks over and over again and I’m told that their door is always open and to come and visit them whenever I like.
They all come to the driveway to see us off, like we’re newlyweds about to embark on our honeymoon, waving and blowing kisses until we disappear from sight. It’s only when we’ve turned the corner that I dare to exhale and lean back into the seat. I think I must have a weird look on my face because Hamza keeps glancing at me, his own expression a mixture of pride and nervous anticipation.
‘Well? What did you think?’ he asks, when the silence becomes too much for him to bear. I let him stew for a moment to get back at him for springing all this on me.
‘Firstly. How could you do that to me? That was really out of order, Hamza! You completely deceived me and lured me here on false pretences!’
Hamza looks abashed. ‘I’m sorry. But if I had told you, you would have refused to come! And say by some miracle you agreed, how stressed would you have been all week? You were a wreck when you thought it was only my sister!’
‘All week? So you’ve known about this for a week?’
Shamefaced, Hamza nods.
‘I should have been given a choice,’ I continue. ‘Meeting your whole family is a massive deal and one I should have made an informed decision about. You completely took that choice out of my hands. That wasn’t fair.’
‘I’m really sorry. I didn’t think of it like that.’
Turning my face away, I stare out of the window, pissed off. I can’t believe he hid this from me for a whole week. It makes me wonder what else he’s capable of hiding to get his own way.
‘Hey, you’re passing the station,’ I say when Rayner’s Lane passes by.
‘I want to drop you home.’
‘But it’s over an hour’s drive!’
‘So?’
‘Er, OK. Thanks.’ I’m still too annoyed with Hamza to talk much more. I continue to stare out the window and I can feel him looking at me from time to time. I check my phone to see that Hiba’s added me on Instagram and has tagged me in the picture she took of me eating. I accept the request and repost the image to my stories, busying myself with my phone so I don’t have to engage with Hamza. The silence goes on for a while before he finally breaks it.
‘I’m really sorry, Zara. What I did was out of order. Can you forgive me please?’ He sounds so despondent that I sigh and nod.
‘Fine. But only because your family were so nice. But why did your mum keep calling me “haraam”?’ I remember to ask, still puzzled. ‘Is it because I don’t wear hijab?’
‘Huh?’ Hamza looks as confused as I am, then starts to chuckle.
‘What is it?’ I groan, covering my face. ‘What did I do?’
‘Nothing, habibti. It’s an expression in Arabic, it doesn’t literally mean “haraam” as in forbidden. It’s more like the equivalent of “oh dear”, or “oh my goodness”.’
‘Phew,’ I sigh, leaning back in my seat. ‘That had me worried for a moment.’
‘Anyway.’ Hamza gives me a sidelong glance as he continues to drive down roads I’ve never seen before. ‘Did you honestly like my family?’
‘I really did. They were so warm and genuine and welcoming. And it’s really easy to talk to your sister and cousin, too.’
‘They liked you too.’
‘Really? Even though I choked and nearly died because I don’t know how to eat properly?’
‘Ha ha, Baba and Hiba are doctors, they’ve seen a lot worse than a coughing fit. But yes, they think you’re amazing. And beautiful.’ Hamza stops at a red light and turns to look at me, his eyes bright with happiness. ‘I knew they would love you.’
A sudden shyness comes over me and I look away. Hamza doesn’t say anything further, but he reaches over and takes my right hand into his left. We stay like that for the rest of the journey, holding hands in silence. And all the while I feel like a complete and utter bitch because the previous day I was in someone else’s arms . . .
Chapter 23
It’s gone noon on Sunday and I’m still in bed, the weekend’s events playing in slow motion in my head. I’ve been checking my phone every ten minutes or so, to see if there’s been any contact from Adam, but it’s still radio silence. I keep telling myself that there’s no reason why I should have heard from him. It’s not as though that kiss was real, was it? But it felt bloody real. It was the most real thing I’ve experienced in years. It made me see colours I didn’t know existed, gave me strength I didn’t know I possessed. Surely he felt some of that? It couldn’t have all been in my head.
But then, this is Adam. Adam who sleeps with women like he’s training for the Sex Olympics. Maybe it meant absolutely nothing to him and, for all I know, he hasn’t given me, Tariq, or our kiss, a second thought since he dropped me home on Friday night.
Ah yes, Tariq. A smile spreads across my face and I get out of bed and stretch as if I’ve woken from a five-year slumber. I’ve finally done it, I’ve faced him. And I did more than face him, I emptied an unknown, orange-coloured drink over his head and Adam punched him. The invisible chokehold he had over me all these years has finally been broken.
And then there’s Hamza and his lovely, welcoming and completely sane and functional family. I prayed hard on Friday night, for God to steer me towards the right path and almost immediately he took me to Hamza’s house. That must be a sign, right?
I call Layla and give her the lowdown. She doesn’t know the extent of my issues with Tariq but she’s still as furious as Adam was, and screams when I get to the kissing part.
‘I can’t believe Adam kissed you! What was it like? Tell the truth.’
‘Bloody amazing,’ I admit.
‘So what? Do you like him now? Because you know it will never work, right?’
I sigh. ‘Because he’s irreligious?’
‘Partly, but also because he’s a player and he’s not exactly successful, is he? I mean, you manage him! How would that work?’
‘You know I don’t care about stuff like that!’ I reply, annoyed. I get that she’s a fancy lawyer married to another fancy lawyer, but not everyone cares about world domination. So what if we both work for local government? So what if I manage him?
‘You’re saying you don’t care now, but you will, when you’re on maternity leave and you can’t afford all those nice things you like to buy yourself! Don’t act like you’re simple and ghetto just because you tell everyone you grew up in Finsbury Park. You and I both know it’s really Stroud Green. You’re as boujie as they come, with your expensive shoes and bags living in your fat house. It’s all well and good now that you don’t have to contribute financially, but is Adam really going to be able to support you and your lifestyle?’
‘All right, I get it,’ I say from between clenched teeth.
‘Hamza is a much better catch,’ she concludes decidedly. ‘He’s successful and nice and has a decent family. Don’t you want your kids to be brought up with a stable extended family?’
I hang up, feeling worse than I did before I called. I love Layla, I really do, like a sister, but sometimes she’s too much like a real sister, with no filters and boundaries. She has a point, though. Not about Adam being less successful than Hamza, but about the type of upbringing I want my future children to have.
There’s a knock on my door and Yasmin peeks her head around. I nod for her to enter, and not only does she come into my room, she climbs into my bed next to me and pulls the covers around her. She looks uncomfortable and I wait for her to tell me what’s going on.
‘What’s up?’ I ask when she still doesn’t say anything. ‘You OK?’
‘Yeah. Don’t flip out though, OK?’
‘Why would I flip out? What’s going on?’
‘Well . . .’ She stalls, biting on a fingernail. I swat her hand away from her mouth.
‘Don’t do that. It’s a terrible habit.’
‘I saw Samia and Suto Mama in Green Street,’ she blurts out.
‘So?’
‘They were looking at wedding gold. They didn’t see me.’
‘Oh.’
I ponder what she says and laugh a fake, high-pitched laugh. ‘Not all gold is wedding gold, you know,’ I say, my voice tight.
‘I guess,’ Yasmin says dubiously. ‘Even big, fancy sets with tiklis and everything?’
Samia has been acting shady lately, but would she really be buying wedding gold without mentioning anything to me? I pick up my phone and decide to call her and sort this out once and for all. All this speculation is ruining our relationship and it could be nothing. The phone rings and rings until it goes through to voicemail.
Yasmin gets up and pads towards the door. ‘Let me know what she says when she calls back.’
While I wait for Sam to call back, I check Adam’s various social media to see if he has updated anything but there isn’t even a new story, let alone a post.
I try to spend the rest of the day lazing around in bed, waiting for Sam to call me back and Adam to update his social media, but my plan is short-lived when my mum phones me – yes, phones me from downstairs – and tells me to get my butt in the kitchen and learn how to make a Bengali fish curry.
‘Mum,’ I groan. ‘I’m tired and I don’t want to stink of fish! I’ll have to have another shower!’
‘You’re happy to eat it though, aren’t you? Come down right now. Who’s going to marry a woman who can’t cook basic curries?’
I want to tell her that Hamza isn’t fussed about Bengali curries in the slightest, but I obviously can’t since she doesn’t even know that he exists. When I drag myself downstairs, I find a huge scaly fish resting on a tray by the sink. I stare at it queasily and the one eye that’s facing me stares back.
‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ I ask her, swallowing nervously.
‘Scale it,’ she says. ‘Like, this, look.’ She grabs the fish and a knife and starts scraping it so the scales fall off, and then hands me the knife and waits for me to do the same.
‘Right. OK,’ I say bravely and tentatively reach out to stop the slimy fish from sliding off the tray while I attempt scaling it with the other hand, all the while trying to conceal my shudders.
‘I have another biodata,’ Mum begins casually, deftly dicing up onions into tiny pieces like she’s Jamie Oliver.
‘No thanks,’ I respond lightly.
There’s a pause and for a second I’m fooled into believing that the silence indicates the end of the conversation.
