The Wedding Countdown (11 page)

‘I am now! You have no idea how many circuits I’ve done of this supermarket. I’m Jag, by the way, short for Jagbir.’

Damn. That’s a Sikh name. What’s a Sikh doing in a halal supermarket? It’s impossible, this husband-finding lark, like playing snakes and ladders. I just thought I’d got to one hundred and now I’m sliding down the biggest snake right back to the start again. Then I silently berate myself for being so insensitive. Don’t I mostly shop in non-halal supermarkets like Asda?

‘You’ve
gulab jamuns
in your basket,’ smiles Jag. ‘So did I before you knocked me flying. You heard the DJ Kishii show, didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I say. That’s technically not a lie. I did hear it, just not on the radio.

‘Can I have your number?’ asks Jag, and now his cheeks are pink. ‘If that’s OK?’

‘I don’t normally give my number out.’

‘I understand,’ says Jag. ‘How about I give you mine, and then you can call me? If you want to, I mean?’

‘Oh. OK.’

‘Cool!’ Jag retrieves a receipt from his wallet and scribbles down a number. ‘There.’ He hands it to me. ‘I’ll be looking forward to your call.’

And off he goes, swinging his basket jauntily, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I feel guilty about him because he seems like a lovely guy but I can’t get involved, even though it’s no fault of his.

With a sigh I pick up my basket and walk up and down the aisles putting back my groceries, ending up at the delicacies counter to place the
gulab jamuns
back where they belong. I’ve got no more need for those. I’m through with shopping for men. All I want now is to go home and jump in the shower so I can rinse off the reek of chutney.

That’s funny. Where are the
gulab jamuns
? I can’t see them and I’m sure there were loads earlier. They’ve all gone! Our singles night must have been a success! Come to think of it, there are loads more shoppers around and there’s a real buzz in the air.

The supermarket must be teeming with lonely singles looking for love. Hopefully this means Nish and I will get lots of feedback to help us write a brilliant feature.

‘Excuse me,’ says a voice. ‘Are you returning those?’

A tall guy with long dark hair and a body corded with muscles and sinew like the outside of the Pompidou Centre is smiling nervously at me. Trendy glasses lend him an intellectual air.

‘I’ve just remembered I’m on a diet,’ I improvise. ‘I really don’t need them.’

He smiles. ‘I don’t think I need them either now.’

‘You don’t look like you need to be on a diet.’

‘And you certainly don’t need to be denying yourself. You’ve got a great figure, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘Err… thanks.’

‘Sorry,’ he says, grinning at me. ‘That was really forward, but I couldn’t resist. You’ve been listening to HuM SaB too. I don’t need the
gulab jamuns
any more, do I? I’m Dawud, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.’

I ‘phew’ mentally because Dawud’s a Muslim name. ‘I’m Mills.’

‘Can I take your number?’ Dawud asks. ‘I’d love to take you out for dinner and get to know you better. I feel a real connection between us!’

I can’t say I feel anything much apart from relief I’ve finally met a Muslim guy. And he’s only being so flattering because he’s delighted to meet a single Muslim girl. But deciding it’s time to take a chance, I give Dawud one of the business cards Nish printed for me.

‘Thanks.’ He tucks it into his wallet. ‘Here, take mine.’

Dawud’s card is expensive thick cream paper embossed with gold writing.

‘Architect,’ I read. That ticks one of my boxes, I suppose. ‘I love architecture.’

‘See!’ smiles Dawud. ‘Instant connection. I knew it! Can I call you?’

He’s attractive. He’s Muslim. He’s single. He’s solvent. I guess that means he can call me.

‘That would be lovely,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

We say goodbye and I finally leave the supermarket, but not before I’ve noticed all the young people wandering around with baskets and surreptitiously checking each other out over the groceries. Success!

Once I’ve called Eve I sit on the wall outside the store and enjoy the warmth of the evening sun. The sky above the rooftops is streaked with pink; the clouds are all golden and rosy. Is it just my imagination, or does everything suddenly look really romantic?

I pull Dawud’s card from my bag and study it thoughtfully.

A great story for
GupShup
and the telephone number of a suitable man.

Even though I’ll have to leave my name off the article so my parents don’t die of shame I feel a delicious ripple of excitement. My life is moving in exactly the direction that I’d hoped it would.

I am so glad I moved to London.

Chapter 13

‘Amelia Ali in my office, now!’

Nina’s order is followed by a hacking cough, which spoils the effect somewhat.

‘Oh dear,’ says Raj, who is sitting next to me and playing around with page layouts for my latest article on, you’ve guessed it, dating. ‘Sounds as though the boss is coming down with the office flu. Maybe you should put a mask on before you go in there?’

I grab a pen and notebook. ‘I’ll take my chances.’

‘Your choice, angel.’ Raj returns to Photoshopping a picture, amusing himself by stretching the subject’s nose to elephantine proportions. ‘We’ll paint a red cross on the door once you’re inside.’

Ignoring him, I make my way to my boss’s office. Normally the newsroom is so crowded I have to shove my way through, so it’s an indication of just how bad this flu is that my path is unhindered. In the corner Kareena sniffles into a hankie; Nish is mainlining Lemsip at home and even the two senior reporters have called in sick. The place is decimated.

‘Enter.’ Nina splutters when I knock on the door.

After a month of working at
GupShup
I’m no longer terrified of Nina but I still have a very healthy respect for my boss. Fortunately I’m in her good books because of the success of our supermarket-dating feature. Circulation was up over twenty-five percent, so Nina wasn’t at all put out we’d rashly promised a mini break as a prize. The entire
desi
community is talking about supermarket dating and even the big radio stations like Heart FM and Capital Radio have been discussing our article. Nina’s made appearances on
Loose Women
and
This Morning
to discuss the pitfalls of Asian dating, which has raised her profile no end and made her a very happy bunny. I think I even saw her lips twitch.

I’m just pleased to have got a good story from it, even if the story has turned out to be a hilarious collage of close encounters of the supermarket kind rather than a serious reportage about Asian dating. I wish I could have written more about my own involvement but I couldn’t risk it. Mummy-
ji
would have had to buy every copy in Yorkshire and burn them in order to preserve our
izzat.
Going incognito might save the Ali family name but it isn’t doing much for getting me noticed.

Sheesh!
I bet Julie Burchill never has this problem.

I’m expecting Nina to talk about the follow-on piece from the supermarket-dating feature. There are a few romances in the making as a result and it would be kind of fun to do something on them. One of them could even be mine, though it’s early days yet. I’ve chatted to Dawud on the phone and although we’ve yet to meet we text most days. Who knows, I may even dial his number and he’ll turn out to be the love of my life, and we’ll tell our children all about how we met...

Calm down
saheli
! You’ve only met the guy once.

‘Right.’ Nina’s brisk tone snaps me back to the present. ‘As you know I’ve been impressed with your work but it’s all been lightweight stuff so far. Do you think you could handle something more sensitive?’

‘Of course!’

‘I agree,’ says Nina. ‘Irfan and Sunny are off sick and you’re the only reporter in the office so I’m giving you this assignment. Enter!’ She barks when there’s a knock on the door. ‘About time, Darwish, thank goodness
OK!
could spare you.’

Wish ignores her sarcasm.

‘Thanks,’ he sits down next to me. ‘Hi, Mills.’

‘Hi, Wish.’

Nina starts to smoke, coughs and stubs her cigarette out in rage. ‘You’ve heard about Aisha Khan?’

‘The missing schoolgirl?’

Seventeen-year-old Aisha vanished from college six days ago and her image has been on the news constantly. 

‘She’s not missing any more,’ Nina says. ‘She called
GupShup
an hour ago. She’s run away from an arranged marriage and is in hiding. Apparently she’s been having a relationship with another man and her brothers have found out. They’ve threatened to kill her and him unless she complies.’

Wish and I are silent. This is serious stuff but not unheard of. When
izzat
’s
at stake things can get really nasty.

‘The police have found her a safe house,’ Nina continues. ‘The poor girl’s terrified.’ Her eyes take on a faraway look. ‘She wants to put her side of the story across.’

‘She wants to talk to the magazine?’ I ask.

Nina nods. ‘Amelia, this is a story you can handle really well. You’re young and you understand where she’s coming from. It’s impossible to say how many other girls there are in the same position but this story could really help them. It will also raise
GupShup
’s profile with the mainstream media.’

‘Where are we going?’ Wish asks. ‘I’ve got my motorbike but–’ He glances at me and raises his eyebrows. ‘I don’t think riding pillion is the most respectable thing for a single girl to do.’

‘Aisha’s in Southampton. You may be a keen biker but I think that’s a jaunt too far even for you.’ Nina fishes into her bag and pulls out a set of keys. ‘Take my Merc. I’ll take a cab back to Notting Hill and die in peace. Just don’t prang it.’

My mouth dries. Nina’s Mercedes is nothing like Daddy-
ji
’s sensible family-sized model. It’s a scarlet convertible and goes like a rocket.

Wish jangles the keys, his green eyes glittering with excitement.

‘Let’s go!’ he says.

And I don’t need asking twice.

We’re reaching Southampton in record and probably totally illegal time. Wish pops the hood down and plugs his iPod into the car’s impressive sound system, guiding the Mercedes along with one hand on the wheel and looping the other casually over the gear stick. Very conscious his hand’s only inches from my thigh I move my leg away, the fabric of my skirt sliding easily over the cream leather.

I’m in a car with cream leather seats!
Whoah
!

Feeling like a film star I put on my fake Chanel shades (cut a girl some slack, I’m biding time until my first promotion) and drape an arm over the glossy side of the car, loving the warmth of the sun on my cheeks and the way the wind whispers through my hair. Once on the motorway though my hair starts to whip itself into a bouffant and my eyes start to stream. I glance in the vanity mirror and moan in dismay. Alice Cooper is so not a good look!

Laughing, Wish presses a button and as though by magic the hood glides soundlessly back up and we’re cocooned in our own little world of cream leather and Corrine Bailey Rae.

I delve into my bag for a hairbrush and spend the next ten minutes trying to untangle the knots. So not cool. I bet if Minty had been Wish’s passenger she’d have insisted on having the hood up since Canary Wharf, or at the very least have covered her tresses in an elegant Hermès scarf. I have a lot to learn about gracious living.

Since I started at
GupShup
I’ve heard a great deal about the famous model even though I’ve yet to meet her in the well-toned flesh. She’s constantly on the phone to Wish or leaving complicated messages with Kareena, and once she was even – wait for it – seen in the lobby meeting Wish from work, which caused a real stir because lots of tourists wanted autographs.

While Wish floors it, Basingstoke and Winchester whizzing by in a blur, I run through the mental list of things I know about Minty Vane, top model and IT girl.

1. She is five eleven, size six and with a total BMI of less than one of my thighs.

2. She is the face of countless products and rumoured to be the next face of Marks & Spencer.

3. She is twenty-four.

4. Her family is absolutely loaded and aristocratic. According to the Internet, the family seat, Eldred House, is one of England’s finest houses.

I sneak a peek at Wish, who’s humming along to the music, and decide it’s just as well he’s off my list of possibilities. I mean, as lovely as our family home is, I don’t think a semi in Saltaire compares to a genuine stately home, does it? Not that I’d ever say that to Mummy-
ji
! Our house is her pride and joy.

But even so, a genuine mansion, a stunning figure and a perfect boyfriend?

Some girls really do get all the luck.

‘That’s a big sigh,’ Wish says, flicking a knob on the dashboard and instantly lowering the music’s volume. ‘Thinking about Aisha?’

Err, no actually. Doesn’t that make me a selfish, trivial moo? Here’s me worrying about not being able to compete with a model while
bechari
Aisha is in hiding for her life. That puts things into perspective, doesn’t it?

‘Kind of,’ I say, shoving the hairbrush into my bag. ‘I was thinking about relationships and stuff. How complicated they make everything.’

That’s not a lie, is it?

Wish tucks the car into the fast lane and flicks to cruise control.

‘They sure do,’ he agrees, ‘but wouldn’t life be dull without them?’

‘Maybe,’ I look out of the window. A service station goes by in a blur and the road seems to be racing up to meet me really fast. This is not a good time to remember that I get car sick. ‘But they also cause a lot of problems. I mean take Aisha for example. She’s thrown her entire life up in the air; gone against everything her family believes in and for what? An emotion? A dream?’