Finding Mr Perfectly Fine, page 5
By the time my siblings and cousins have stuffed their faces (and I mean stuffed – they had to refill our platters twice), everyone can barely move. Kamal and Rashid undo their trouser buttons as they sit back with huge grins on their satisfied faces.
The speeches are lame as they always are. I don’t know why Bengalis bother with speeches. You can never hear a thing over the endless chatter of all the elders, the kids running riot and the servers clanging cutlery as though they’re playing steel pans. Half the people in the room don’t get the ‘English’ humour either and most of the jokes fall flat. When the bride and groom finally cut the cake, somehow, we all manage to find space in our stomachs to eat a slice or two.
When Mum and Nani drag me over to yet another table to meet yet another aunty I’ve never seen before, I’m well and truly ready to go home. My feet are hurting, my makeup’s melting and I’m tired of smiling. I’m tired of telling people I’m twenty-nine years old only to see instant judgement and pity in their eyes. I’m tired of no one understanding what I actually do for a living, and I’m bloody tired of this whole stupid wedding with its stupid forest theme and stupid perfect bride.
There is a flurry of activity in the hall and I look up to see that it’s the part of Bengali weddings that I hate – the ‘biddai’ – which literally translates to ‘farewell’.
This is always the most emotional part of the day. It’s when the girl officially leaves her parents’ house to join another family; when she’s no longer a daughter, but a wife and daughter-in-law; when she’s traditionally expected to prioritise her husband and her in-laws before her own family.
With all that looming ahead, it’s no wonder the entire bridal party is in tears. When the bride’s dad kisses her on the forehead and whispers something to her while she weeps, even I feel like crying.
There are more tears and finally the bride, with mascara-streaked cheeks and bloodshot eyes, climbs into the Rolls-Royce Phantom where the groom is sheepishly waiting. He’s supressing a massive grin in an attempt to be sympathetic, but he is clearly besotted and cannot wait to get out of here with his new wife. I mean, if he’s anything like Layla, then there’s a reason why he’s so eager to fast-forward to the wedding night.
As the car doors close, I see him hand her his white silk handkerchief and give her arm a gentle squeeze. She looks at him gratefully and her sadness slips away when he says something reassuring to her.
The moment is intimate and beautiful and I feel guilty for noticing it. A lump swells up in the back of my throat. Will I ever find a love like this? Actually, forget love, I’m not naïve enough to think that I’ll fall in love with my husband before we get married. Will I ever find a person who cares enough about me to hold me while I wipe my waterproof mascara all over his expensive white clothes? Will I ever find someone who will look at me as if I’m the most beautiful, precious thing in the whole world? Will I ever find someone who will look after me more than my parents?
And then, right there, in the crowd of people waving goodbye, I burst into tears.
Chapter 5
I feel a huge sense of relief when Monday rolls along. If I ever have to look at a saree again, I think I might strangle someone with it. On the way home from the wedding, Mum and Nani kept exchanging worried looks and then glancing over at me, as if they were afraid that I had officially lost my mind. I kept reassuring everyone that I was fine and when that didn’t work, resorted to the old PMT excuse. Even though I’m not due on for a while.
Monday mornings are usually pretty hectic at work. We have a cross-departmental meeting with Marketing and PR, followed by our own quick huddle setting out our priorities for the week. That doesn’t stop Adam, Francesca and me from sharing a packet of biscuits and having a long chat about our weekends, though. It’s become an important Monday tradition, almost as important as the meeting itself.
‘How was your weekend then?’ I ask Fran as Adam goes to refill our tea mugs.
‘Wild,’ she admits. ‘I think I slept about three hours in total. I feel like shit.’
She doesn’t look like shit. She never does. Everyone can tell when I haven’t slept by the grease in my hair and the circles under my eyes. Not Francesca Robinson, though. Her blonde mane is as glossy as if it’s been combed a thousand times with a brush made from unicorn fibres, and the only things that ever rim her baby blue eyes are expensive designer glasses, which I recently found out are purely for fashion purposes.
‘Mine was a mad one as well,’ Adam says, catching the last part of her story as he rejoins us, carefully balancing three mugs of steaming tea.
‘Why, what happened?’ I asked, dunking a Hobnob into mine.
‘It was my cousin Aygul’s thirtieth birthday party. It started off normal, you know, loads of food, the kids running around the house wrecking everything . . .’
‘And then?’ I probe, looking forward to hearing the rest. Adam always has the best stories.
‘Then, my bastard sixteen-year-old cousin Ahmet, spiked the mocktails, so when we thought we were taking a break from the alcohol, we weren’t. Everyone got completely smashed, even my mum. Even my gran! I haven’t seen her like that in years! She got up and started dancing like it was 1973, then knocked into the birthday cake and ruined the whole thing!’
Fran and I laugh as he pulls out his phone and shows us videos of destroyed cake, sitting on the floor in a heap of fresh cream and vanilla sponge.
When it’s my turn, I ’fess up about the wedding, how I burst into tears like a hormonal adolescent, and how people said I had put on weight and that my complexion was ‘moila’. I omit the bit about my cousin being chosen over me.
‘What does “moila” mean?’ Adam asks, confused.
‘It literally means “dirty,” bu—’ Before I can explain the meaning in this context, he interrupts me.
‘I can’t believe people came up to you and told you you’ve put on weight! And that you’re dirty!’ he exclaims indignantly. I expected him to laugh or take the mick, but he actually looks horrified.
‘Hang on a second,’ I cut in, before any rumours of my hygiene start circulating. ‘They didn’t call me dirty. They said my complexion is “moila”. In Bengali it doesn’t sound that bad.’
‘Well, it sounds bad in English,’ Fran looks perplexed in that way politically correct white people do when they don’t want to offend you or your culture. ‘You have a nice colouring. I pay good money and spend hours under sunbeds to look like you!’
‘And you’re not fat, either, so get that out of your head,’ Adam adds.
‘Er, OK.’ I’m not used to Adam saying anything nice to me or about me, so I’m not sure how to take it. I study his face, wondering if he’s winding me up, but he looks serious.
‘And you’re not old,’ he continues, clearly on a roll. ‘I’ve got loads of aunties in Turkey who are, like, in their forties and unmarried and childless—’
Spotting the startled look on my face, he hurriedly adds, ‘I meant, you’re not even old. You’re twenty-nine, big deal. Who wants to marry an immature kid who doesn’t have a clue about life, anyway?’
‘When did you become such a Zara fan?’ I tease, when he finally stops ranting.
‘Shut up,’ he grumbles, swivelling his chair around and opening up InDesign on his Mac. ‘Be thankful I’m looking out for you.’
‘And maybe you need to find a husband a different way?’ Francesca adds. ‘That wedding sounds like a complete circus!’
‘Don’t worry, I am. I’ve actually signed up to a Muslim marriage app,’ I admit before I can stop myself. As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I regret it. One nice moment doesn’t mean I can trust Adam with this sort of info about my personal life. He swivels back round again, his mouth agape.
‘You’re seriously going to date men online? You know they’re all after one thing, right?’
‘It’s not a dating app, it’s a marriage app,’ I say slowly, enunciating every word like I’m talking to someone thick. ‘The guys on there are looking for wives, not hook-ups.’ Well, most of them, I say in my head, remembering what Yasmin told me about her friends.
‘Give me a break,’ he snorts. ‘It’s horse shit dressed as manure.’
‘Pretty sure horse shit is manure, Adam.’
‘Speaking of which, I need the loo,’ he says, getting up and stretching dramatically before leaving the room. I roll my eyes and turn back to Francesca.
‘He’s got a point, Zara,’ she says. ‘You should see the guys I come across online. As soon as they get my number, boom! They feel the need to show me pics of their bits.’
Now it’s my jaw’s turn to drop. ‘That’s disgusting!’ I gasp. ‘Why would they do that?’
‘Oh, they do it all the time.’ She shrugs breezily. ‘All men are the same, babes. They’re all narcissists, gagging for positive affirmation. Haven’t you had any from that Muslim dating app you’re on?’
‘No! But then, I’ve only been on it once since I created the account and I’ve not checked out the profiles or anything.’
‘What? No way! Open it now!’
‘Right now?’ I look around the office to see if Kevin is nearby. It’s only been a week since I swore never to open the app at work. ‘What if Kevin comes in?’
‘So what? He doesn’t care what we do, so long as we get our work done.’
‘Oh, all right then.’ With one last furtive glance around the room, I open up the app and stare in shock at the thousands of ‘likes’ I have.
‘Ooooh, look at you, Miss Popular,’ Fran teases. ‘That’s a LOT of likes!’
‘But they can’t even see my photo,’ I tell her, completely confused. ‘Why would they like my profile if they haven’t even seen what I look like?’
Francesca shrugs. ‘I dunno, but you need to press the tick or cross, I think. If you press the cross, their profile vanishes and if you tick it, they probably get to message you.’
One thing that becomes increasingly clear as I sift through the profiles is that all these men who supposedly ‘like’ me haven’t even bothered to read my profile properly. The privacy is set so that men can’t see women’s pictures unless a woman ‘likes’ him back and then agrees to reveal the image, so I’m beginning to think that whenever a new female profile appears on the site, they all go wild and hit ‘like’ randomly in the hopes of receiving one back.
And you know what that means, right? More than half of them are way too old or young for me, most are shorter than me, and the ones that are the right age and height admit that they drink or don’t eat halal food. So now I’m inundated with profiles of unsuitable men that I have to manually check out one by one before I can hit ‘no’ and remove them from my sight. I do this for about ten minutes, getting more and more pissed off as I do, but there are still hundreds to go.
‘Bloody bastards,’ I mutter under my breath, my agitation increasing with every ‘x’.
‘Talk about slim pickings,’ Francesca muses, peering over my shoulder. ‘There’s not one decent prospect here.’
Adam returns from the toilet and he also joins in, making rude comments about every single man.
‘He looks like a serial killer,’ he says when the first half-decent profile comes up, of a clean-shaven guy from Uzbekistan with bright blue eyes and thin lips.
‘No, he doesn’t,’ I protest weakly, glancing up to check Fran’s opinion.
‘He does,’ she confirms. ‘He looks like the type that will smother you in your sleep.’
A good thirty minutes of declining later, just as I’m beginning to go cross-eyed, I stumble across a profile that looks interesting. Both Adam and Francesca have grown bored and gone off to do what we’re paid for. I’m relieved because if Adam says he looks like a drug addict, and if Fran agrees, I’m likely to throw my phone out of the window and become the Muslim equivalent of a nun. Not that there is one. Getting married is considered to be half of our faith.
I read the profile.
MrMoneyMaker. 31. London. 5’10”. Bengali. Sunni. Moderately practising. Always eats halal. Never drinks or smokes. Sometimes prays.
He’s not the best-looking guy on the planet but he’s definitely attractive in that sharp, brooding kind of way. I decide to read on.
I don’t care how beautiful you are, if your personality is ugly, you’re ugly simple!
Like banter. Not on here for time-wasters. Sleep is for tortoises. Into kickboxing and football. Shoots zombies in spare time. The word fun has been ruined. Films and food is life. Slightly smarter than a sophisticated root vegetable.
Erm. OK, then. I’m not really sure of what to make of that. The guy sounds like he’s had a bad experience, and is a bit unhinged. But he’s taller than me. The right age. Doesn’t drink. Eats halal food. All-right looking. And he doesn’t look like a murderer. After a moment’s hesitation, I decide I have nothing to lose, so I hit ‘like’.
I’ve had enough of this cesspit of a dating pool, but as I’m about to close the app, a notification comes through. It’s a message, from MrMoneyMaker. As much as I loathe to admit it, I feel a stirring of excitement, wondering what his opening line is going to be.
Hi, Zara, I’m Mo. You made the right choice in liking me. What are you up to? Can I see your picture?
OK, so he’s decided to get straight to the point then. I feel a bit put out that there’s no banter, no flirting, but I guess he doesn’t want to waste time.
‘Have you found a good profile?’ Francesca pipes up from across the room and I hush her, my eyes darting over to Kevin’s closed door. She casually comes up behind me and looks over my shoulder, pretending to look at some work. Adam glances at me with narrowed eyes, but doesn’t get up, and I’m glad.
‘Ooh, he’s a bit of an all right, isn’t he?’ she whispers. I show her his message, unsure of whether or not I should share my picture.
‘Do it!’ she hisses. ‘Why wouldn’t you?’
Sure, I reply back and then go through the options until I figure out how to ‘un-blur’ my image so he can see what I look like – in good lighting, with my spots and lines edited out.
MO: You’re gorgeous.
ME: Thanks
MO: Do you want to meet up?
ME: Um, can we talk a bit first? I don’t really know that much about you.
MO: Well you liked my profile . . .
ME: Mostly because you’re taller than me.
MO: Mostly?
ME: Well, you’re all-right looking as well, I suppose.
Oh my God! Have I flirted with a random stranger online? A blush creeps up my neck as I eagerly await his reply, completely forgetting that Francesca is standing right there.
MO: I’ll take that as a compliment.
‘Oooh, look at you!’ she teases, going back to her seat. ‘Our Zara has graduated to the first base of online dating,’ she tells Adam.
‘What the hell is first base?’ he demands, a look of disgust on his face.
‘Flirting via messages, duh,’ she responds, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. They start bickering and I ignore them and look back at my phone instead.
And that’s how I find myself drawn into a never-ending text conversation with a total stranger. Call me a late bloomer, but it’s the first time I’ve experienced anything like it. I was never the type to go on chatrooms as a teenager or speak to randoms over MSN Messenger, and boy, do I regret it or what? I was completely missing out.
We message each other throughout the rest of the work day. Not every second – I do some work and I think he does too – but every so often, my phone pings and my heart lifts just a little. We chat on the bus home, throughout dinner, and while I’m watching TV with Nani. She’s too engrossed in the Hindi drama she’s watching about an evil daughter-in-law trying to murder her mother-in-law, to realise that I’m paying more attention to my phone than the show.
Now, snuggled up under the covers in the middle of the night, I’m finding the whole experience oddly liberating and I wish I had done more of this during my youth. This guy doesn’t know me. He doesn’t have my number or my email address. The anonymity is refreshing and I find myself slipping into the romance and anticipation as I lose my inhibitions with each cheeky innuendo, anxiously awaiting the next message to come my way.
I find out that MrMoneyMaker is in fact called Mo, aka Mohammed. He’s thirty-one. An investment banker. Bengali. Lives in Cambridge with his mum, who’s a widow. But aside from all the important stuff, he also writes well, which surprises me given his badly written profile intro.
Adam texts me at some point that evening, asking me how it’s going with Mo, but I’m too engrossed to reply. At four in the morning I decide to call it a night.
ME: Mo. I need to sleep
MO: Can I join you?
ME: Er . . . – no!
MO: dream of me then, beautiful. Night x
Chapter 6
‘What base are we on now?’ Francesca asks as soon as she comes into the office the next day. I yawn in response and she laughs before heading off to the kitchen for a round of tea. Adam turns and stares at me and I shrug at him.
‘What?’
‘Been sexting all night, have you?’ he jibes and I narrow my eyes at him. There’s something in his expression – judgement maybe – which is making me feel defensive.
‘No, it’s not like that, thank you very much.’
‘If you say so.’
When Francesca returns with three steaming mugs on a tea-stained tray, I take one from her in relief and she deposits Adam’s one on his desk before coming back to my desk and hovering over me.
‘So? How’s it going? Met any more potentials?’
‘Nah, just been chatting to Mo,’ I admit, and she gasps in mock horror. ‘Well, Hamza texted this morning as well, asking me how I am, but that’s it.’
