The Wedding Countdown (15 page)

‘Do you see your son a lot?’

Dawud looks at me as though I’ve asked him to explain the theory of relativity.

‘He lives with his mother. I’ve seen him a few times though.’

A
FEW
TIMES! HIS OWN SON!!!

I goggle at him. Dawud mistakes my horror at his irresponsibility, for horror that he has a child.

‘It won’t affect us, Mills. I send money but only what the CSA have decided I have to pay. It isn’t a big deal. My ex is talking about going back to Portugal anyway, so he won’t get in our way.’

Gobsmacked, I sip my Diet Coke and listen while he babbles on and works his way through a second bottle of wine.

‘Are you sure you don’t want a glass?’

I’m so awash with Diet Coke I’m starting to feel sick. At least I think it’s the Diet Coke.

‘Come on,’ insists Dawud, holding the bottle over my empty Coke glass. ‘It’ll lighten you up a bit. You haven’t lived until you’ve had a drink.’

I put my hand over the top, fuming at his insensitivity. ‘I’ve already told you how I feel about that. If you don’t respect my wishes then I’m leaving right now.’

‘Oh be prim and proper then,’ he says. ‘Only kidding!’

But it doesn’t feel like kidding and pretty soon afterwards I call Eve and fume all the way back to Chelsea, determined not to waste another minute on Dawud.

So that’s it as far as supermarket dating goes. I’m right back to square one, with the countdown to my arranged marriage getting closer every day. I hope I have more luck with Muslim Matrimonials.
I may be only days away from meeting my soul mate, which is so exciting!

I really hope Ayoob calls soon.

Friday turns out to be one of the best days of my professional life.
GupShup
comes out on Fridays and it’s become my habit to get to work early and read the finished product cover to cover before snipping out the articles that I’ve written and pasting them carefully into a scrapbook. But this Friday is extra special because my article on Aisha Khan is splashed across the front cover and I’m basking in the sunshine of success. All day long my colleagues congratulate me and even Nina Singh tells me I’ve done a really good job. Wish’s pictures are achingly sad, the profile shot of Aisha capturing her fragile beauty and loneliness, and compliment my words perfectly. We make such a good team!

As I sit on the train whizzing up to Bradford I flick through the article again and feel a glow of pride. This is why I want to be a journalist. I want to tell the truth and give people like Aisha a voice. It’s never been about writing lightweight articles on dating. The
Daily Mail
has even contacted Nina and asked to use the feature on Monday. This could be the start of bigger things,
insha’Allah
!

And I’m also delighted that at long last I’ve written something I can show my parents. OK, it won’t make them as proud as finding that perfect husband, but I’m doing my best.

The weekend gets off to a flying start. It’s great to see my family again and after our
Jummah Salat
I tuck into one of Mummy-
ji
’s
homemade curries and it’s like there’s a party going on in my taste buds. After second helpings I admit defeat and slump on the sofa while my mother and sisters pour over
GupShup
.

‘
Southall schoolgirl Aisha Khan knew she would have hard choices to make when she fell in love with 18-year-old fellow student Jake Hamilton...
’ reads Roma. ‘“
My brothers have sworn that no female member of the family will harm our
izzat
and live. I’m in fear for my life.” As Aisha speaks, a car backfires and she jumps visibly. According to Aisha her family will not rest until honour is satisfied. As she waits in the safe-house, her terror is palpable.
’

‘Poor cow,’ says Fizz. ‘Her family sound like a bunch of thugs.’

Mummy-
ji
’s brow is furrowed. ‘They’re upset,
beti
, but still,
what a reaction. Surely they should sort it out?’

Fizz snorts. ‘Yeah right, like you and Dad sorted it out with Aunt Seema and now Qas?’

‘Fizz!’ Roma says. ‘That’s totally different!’

‘How? Different because Daddy-
ji
and our uncles haven’t beaten the crap out of them?’

‘It just is, isn’t it, Mum?’

‘Hmm?’ My mother tears her gaze back from
GupShup.
Her eyes are troubled. ‘I don’t know,
beti.
I’m starting to wonder. What sort of people put pride before their
becharay
children?’

I’m just about to try and answer when the sitting-room door bursts open and Auntie Bee waddles in, closely followed by Sanaubar. Fan-flipping-tastic. I’m shattered and looking forward to a quiet night in with my family and now I’ll be subjected to the type of questioning that would make the Spanish Inquisition look sloppy.

‘Amelia
beti,’
cries Bee, crushing me against her bulk. ‘
Chi chi,
Hamida! She’s thin and peaky!’

I am not!

‘Bilqees
bhabhi
,’ says Mummy-
ji
, quickly trying to not look horrified. ‘I didn’t know you were coming.’

‘We had to come and see Amelia.’ Bee plonks her enormous bum onto the sofa. ‘
Chai
would be nice, Fizz.’

Fizz opens her mouth to protest but a stern look from Mum sends her scuttling to the kitchen.

‘Ooh!
GupShup!’
Sanaubar’s stubby fingers clutch the magazine. ‘Everyone’s talking about your piece, Mills.’

‘Great!’ I say.

Bee clicks her tongue against her teeth. ‘
Chi chi,
that Khan girl has no shame. How could she shame her
becharay
parents so?’

‘She’s not a criminal; she’s in love,’ I point out. ‘She’s actually really brave.’

Bee’s pebble eyes harden behind her thick glasses. ‘Hamida, listen to her
goray
ideas! Love
schmuve!
What about our
izzat,
my girl?’

Oh bollocks to your
izzat,
I say.

Actually, I don’t say this but I’d like to. Instead I mutter something about life being really hard for Aisha.

‘I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised that you sympathise with her,’ pipes up Sanaubar. ‘What with Qas dating a
gori
. It must be a family trait.’

‘Yes indeed, Hamida,’ Bee nods. ‘You need to take a firmer hand with your errant children.’

And she’s off, elaborating on the shame that Qas has brought to the family
izzat
blah blah blah while Mum grits her teeth and pours the
chai,
no doubt wishing she could pour it over her sister-in-law’s head. Roma valiantly tries to steer the conversation in other directions but Bee boings back to the same subject, loving every minute of rubbing poor Mummy-
ji’s
face in it.

‘The
Daily Mail
want to run my article,’ I blurt out in desperation. ‘And
London Tonight
have contacted the office too.’

‘See how successful my
beti
is,’ says Mummy-
ji
staunchly
.
‘She’s doing so well in London.’

‘Mmm,’ says Bee. ‘But what else is she getting up to in London, eh Hamida? What does she get up to when she is on her own? Is she respectable?’

Those beady eyes meet mine and for a hideous second I think she can read my mind and knows all about Dawud and Muslim Matrimonials.
I’m dead!

‘Mills works really hard!’ cries Roma. ‘She’s going to be a top journalist!’

‘Journalist schmernalist!’ Bee plops three sugar lumps into her
chai
. ‘What about her marriage, Hamida? Subhi won’t want a journalist: he’ll want a good wife. Is she still making square
chapattis
?’

I haven’t made a
chapatti
since August. My shorthand’s improving though.

‘Subhi’s happy to wait,’ says Mum. ‘He’s looking forward to seeing Amelia next year.’

‘The sooner the better,’ says Bee. ‘I’m so blessed with my
children, two grandchildren now,
mashallah
, and Kabir in communications.’

I don’t dare catch Fizz’s eye. Communications my bum! He’s working for a telephone call centre.

‘Still,’ she continues, ‘I dare say one day your children will cease to be an embarrassment, Hamida. I pray for you and Ahmed everyday.’

‘I’m proud of my children.’ Mummy-
ji
puts her arm around my shoulders. ‘
All
of them.’

‘And Mills is going to make her super proud,’ says Roma.

I think of Muslim Matrimonals and the race against time to find my own suitable soul mate. I’m not reckless enough to emulate my Aunt Seema; nor am I as brave as Aisha Khan. But with the weight of family honour
placed firmly on my shoulders and Auntie Bee longing to gloat, I’m starting to feel the strain.

I hope Muslim Matrimonials
come up with the goods soon.

Chapter 17

It’s nearing the end of a long Tuesday and I’m frantically trying to finish editing an article when my mobile rings for the third time in as many minutes.

I tuck the phone under my chin and continue to type. ‘Mills Ali.’

‘Hello, Miss Ali,’ chirps a male voice. ‘It’s Ayoob Bhutto here, from Muslim Matrimonials.’

I nearly shoot into orbit. ‘Thanks for calling back!’

Ayoob chuckles. ‘That’s no problem. In fact we ought to be thanking you.”

‘Me? Why?’

‘Because you’ve sparked an amazing response. In fact I’m delighted to say you’ve had a phenomenal response! You topped the response ratings!’

‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously! This has never happened before! That’s why I’ve called you first.’

‘Are you sure you’ve got it right?’ I’m glad I’m sitting down otherwise I’d be an amazed splat on the
GupShup
carpet.

‘I promise I’m not joking,’ Ayoob reassures me. ‘Listen to this.’ I hear the rustle of paper. ‘You’re the only female who’s ever aroused such an interest sparked by her personal appearance! In fact according to my figures you now hold the record number one position. This has never happened in all my experience of previous events and I’ve been doing this for years. You must be thrilled!’

I think gobsmacked describes it better.

‘It’s amazing,’ says Ayoob. ‘You’ve got twenty-three attendees all eagerly requesting contact. Shall I give you their details?’

‘
Sheesh,
I don’t know!’ I’m stunned. ‘I’ll be there forever, won’t I? Shall I just give you the names of the three guys that caught my attention?”

‘Only three?’

‘I’m looking for the right person,’ I explain. ‘I’ve got to at least have a connection with someone, I think, if he’s my soul mate.’

‘Of course,’ Ayoob says quickly. ‘I totally agree. How about you tell me the names of the guys you’d like to get in touch with and we’ll see if they’ve requested a meeting too?’

‘Give me a second.’ I rummage in my bag, pulling out tissues, a fluffy Tampax and several lipsticks before locating the screwed-up list from last week. ‘OK. I really got on well with Aadam, Mikhail and Basim. Any luck?’

‘Good news. All three gentlemen are mutually interested in pursuing dialogues with you too.’

‘Really?’ My heart rises up like a helium balloon released by careless fingers.

‘Absolutely,’ laughs Ayoob. ‘May I pass your details to them?’

‘Of course,’ I say. This could be it! One of those three guys could be the one to save me from the hairy goat-herder!

‘And if it doesn’t work out with these gentlemen,’ Ayoob adds, ‘we’d be honoured to invite you free of charge to our next event!’

‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘but I’m hoping that one of these guys could be the one.’

‘I hope so too,’ says Ayoob, ‘and I’d like to thank you for choosing Muslim Matrimonials.
Our success rate is seventy-four percent of meetings end in
shaadi
and I so hope you’ll be one of those happy statistics!’

Me too, I think once he’s rung off. Me too.

I snap my mobile shut and try to get my head around it all. All those guys were really interested in short little northern old me! That’s… incredible!

‘You look smug,’ says Raj, passing by on one of his many meanders around the office. ‘Have you got another scoop in the
Mail
?’

‘Better than that,’ I say, going on to share my popularity ratings with him.

Before long a small crowd has gathered to hear my latest networking saga and everyone has an opinion – except Wish, who remains at his Mac messing around with Photoshop.

‘Twenty-three divine men,’ sighs Raj. ‘Darling, you utter bitch! Give me that list immediately!’

‘I’m not surprised at all.’ Nish sniffles from beneath a tissue. ‘Any man with eyes in his head would snap you up in a second.’

‘That’s an exaggeration,’ I smile, ‘but a very nice one. Hey guys, how about a mini celebration? Pizza on
moi
?’

Suddenly I have an urge to celebrate. I know these guys all want to find their own wives before their olds drag them off to Pakistan but, even so, I can’t help being really flattered. Twenty-three attractive, solvent and eligible Muslims that any girl would be delighted to date were interested in me! My mood is lifebuoy buoyant. I want all my friends to share in my good news.

‘Wish,’ I call. ‘Fancy coming for a pizza?’

He doesn’t even look up. ‘I’ve got plans.’

‘Me too, I’m afraid, darling,’ sighs Raj. ‘It’s time I saw the rellies.’

This is Raj shorthand for going to tap his parents for cash.

‘I’ve got my waxing girl coming over,’ says Kareena.

‘Just you and me then,’ says Nish, sneezing. ‘Could we make it a takeaway and face packs? I feel crap.’

I feel a bit deflated. It’s not every day a girl gets twenty-three guys dying to get hold of her number and I would have liked to celebrate this ego boost even in my own low-key and non-alcoholic way.

‘If you’re doing face packs I could always put my olds off,’ offers Raj. ‘Provided I get the Clinique one.’

‘God,’ says Kareena. ‘You really are gay, aren’t you?’