The Wedding Countdown (16 page)

As they start to bicker I return to my work. Gradually the newsroom empties and before long there’s only me, Nish and Wish left. I’m just thinking about wandering over and offering him half a
Crunchie when the door flies open and a whirlwind spins through.

A blonde whirlwind wearing the celeb-about-town uniform of skinny jeans, Uggs, smock top and massive sunglasses that make her look like an insect.

I’ve visited Google and flicked through
Heat
for long enough now to know exactly who this is.

Araminta Vane is in the building.

‘Wish!’ she shrieks, in a voice that could shatter steel. ‘Turn that bloody computer off! We’re meeting Kate for drinks.’

Wish looks up from his work. I try to pretend I’m not watching but it would be easier to turn a blind eye to a T-rex marauding through the office. Ignoring Nish, Raj and me, Minty sashays past and drapes herself over Wish’s desk.

He sighs. ‘I’ve got to finish this. We’re putting Friday’s issue to bed.’

Minty flips her blonde mane.

‘The only thing you need to be taking to bed is me,’ she hollers, winding a skinny arm around his neck.

Wish patiently uncoils her. ‘Ten minutes,’ he promises. ‘I must finish this.’

The bee-stung lips – last seen advertising lipstick – pout. ‘But the others are already there!’

‘Ten minutes,’ says Wish. ‘I promise. Why don’t you get to know Mills and Nish while you wait?’ He looks up and his eyes, the green irises brighter than ever against the tired blood-shot whites, meet mine pleadingly. ‘You, remember Mills, Minty? She did the article on Aisha Khan.’

‘The dating girl?’

‘The girl who had her article on dating published in the
Mail
,’ says Wish firmly. ‘Come on Mints, I’ve told you all about Mills.’

He has?

‘Have you?’ Minty looks blank. ‘I don’t remember.’

What a cow. Only the fact
bechara
Wish looks so exhausted stops me from bopping her on the nose.

‘Would you like a coffee?’ I ask, holding up my tub of Nescafé.

‘Coffee?’ echoes Minty. From the look of horror on her face you’d think that I’d offered her a cup of hemlock.

Actually…

‘Have you any idea what’s in that crap?’

Call me stupid, but I’d always presumed the prime ingredient of coffee was, in fact, coffee.

‘It’s full of toxins!’ screeches Minty. ‘And toxins play havoc with your skin. That’s going to be fine for someone like you, but my face is my fortune.’

‘Just as well it’s not your personality,’ mutters Nish.

‘Mints!’ says Wish, appalled.

‘Sorry.’ Minty looks anything but. ‘That came out wrong. What I meant was it doesn’t matter what journalists look like, does it? I mean, look at Janet Street-Porter and Carol Thatcher.’

‘Mills just had twenty-three guys from Muslim Matrimonials all frantic to go on dates with her.’ Nish leaps to my defence.

Minty studies her nails. ‘I’ve never met somebody who’s used speed dating before. I can’t imagine having to do that myself but it takes all sorts.’ She fixes a bright white smile on me. ‘What’s next? The small ads? Or the Internet? I hear that’s very popular with girls who can’t get partners.’

Up until now the excitement of holding Muslim Matrimonials’ record for responses and the hope that Mr Right is just around the corner has been fizzing through my blood stream like Coca-Cola bubbles. But Minty’s sharp tongue pops them neatly while she bares her pseudo smile at me. Suddenly I feel really conscious of my shiny face and the slightly greasy hair I’ve pulled back from my forehead with an elastic band.

Wish leaps out of his seat. ‘I’m done!’

That has to be the quickest ten minutes in the history of magazine journalism.

‘Thank God,’ says Minty. ‘I was starting to think I was stuck here forever.’

‘See you later, girls,’ Wish says, slinging an arm around Minty’s narrow shoulders. ‘Have a good night.’

‘Blimey,’ breathes Nish, as we stare after their retreating backs. ‘What an absolute bitch! Wish must be crazy!’

And I don’t think I could have put it better myself.

‘What’s this film about then?’ Eve picks up the DVD case and scrutinises the copy. ‘
Office Hours
? Who chose this shit?’

‘Me,’ says Nish innocently from the sofa where she’s lurking under a bright yellow face mask. ‘It’s supposed to be really good. It’s all about this girl who hates her boss but doesn’t really. In fact they get it on.’

‘Sounds like bollocks to me.’ Eve slam-dunks the case onto the coffee table.

‘It’s got George Clooney in it,’ says Nish.

‘I hate George Clooney.’

I look up in surprise. ‘I thought you loved him.’

‘No.’ Eve stomps into the kitchen. Moments later we hear the fridge door open and the glug of wine splashing into a glass.

‘What’s upsetting her?’ I ask.

‘Damien Oxley,’ Nish grins.

‘She has got to get over her problem with him. He can’t be that bad.’

‘I don’t think he’s that bad at all,’ Nish says. ‘In fact I think–’

But what Nish thinks I never discover because my phone beeps and I jump as though someone has zapped me with electricity. I’ve been waiting for this ever since I gave Ayoob the go-ahead. Even if Minty thinks I’m the saddest thing since Romeo died, I’ve got to press on with this now. My three admirers have been busy sending introductory messages and I’ve been texting back like crazy.

My thumb is starting to ache but it’s a small price to pay for finding the love of my life.

This first response is from Aadam, asking if he can call me in an hour.

I text back:

Sure!

Eve settles back onto the sofa and picks up the phone. ‘Shall I order?’

‘Mmm, please.’ I don’t look up from my mobile because now Basim has texted requesting a chat.

Talk tomorrow? am working now

I fib, wanting to perpetuate the myth of the busy journalist. If Minty believes it then Basim certainly will.

‘Cheese Feast and extra garlic bread,’ demands Nish.

Beep! Here’s Basim. It’s sweet that he’s so keen. Maybe he’s the one?

No problem. Will contact you in the next few days.

‘Hello?’ Eve waggles the menu under my nose. ‘I know you’re the most eligible woman in London but could you give it a break long enough to order some food?’

‘Sorry. Veggie Feast, please.’

Beep! Beep!

‘Bloody Hell!’ says Eve.

I dive for the phone. ‘This is the last time, I promise.’

It’s Mikhail. He’s at the airport, about to jet off on business but wondering if he can contact me on his return.

‘This is cute,’ I tell the girls. ‘He’s really worried he’s blown it by going away and that he can’t wait to see me.’

‘Cancel that pizza, Eve,’ groans Nish. ‘I’m feeling sick!’

‘Enough already!’ Eve grabs my phone. ‘I’m through with these text pests, Mills. Not another beep until I’ve ordered.’

‘Fine.’ I relinquish my mobile. ‘Order away. We’ve got fifty-two minutes until Aadam calls!’

Actually, that was a joke but sure enough I’m only two slices into my pizza and thirty minutes into watching George Clooney and J-Lo pretending to hate each other when my mobile buzzes.

‘Aadam,’ I read. ‘Bang on time too. Do you mind if I take this, Nish?’

Nish is chomping pizza and just shakes her head, so I creep into the hallway

‘Hi, Mills?’ Aadam asks nervously, or I think he does because he’s so quiet I have to raise the hearing volume on my phone.

‘I can’t hear you,’ I say. ‘Is it the line?’

‘I can be too quiet at times,’ he sighs.

‘Not like me,’ I tease. ‘I’ll probably deafen you. Ha ha!’

But Aadam doesn’t laugh. ‘I love the sound of your voice already!’

Err. Right.

‘Your voice is like music,’ he continues. ‘I could listen to it forever, no matter what you say.’

Music?

‘Every word is a symphony,’ he continues. ‘Every nuance a note of purest clarity.’

‘I’m tone deaf,’ I quip. ‘You’d better get some ear plugs!’

‘I’ll do no such thing!’ Aadam sounds offended. ‘Everything about you is perfect.’

‘Right,’ I say. What’s going on here? I know I want a guy who worships me but after two minutes? Surely that’s not normal?

I’m not sure where this is going so I pick up Eve’s mobile from the fruit bowl and dial our flat number.

‘Oh dear!’ I say. ‘That’s the land line!’

This is the point where he’ll say
I’ll call another day,
right?

No. Totally wrong.

‘Oh no,’ Aadam wails. ‘Just when we were really connecting! Can I call you back later?’

‘Sure, if you’re still awake,’ I tell him. ‘Got to go, bye!’

Sheesh
. How intense was that?

By bedtime, with a stomach full of pizza and a mind full of gorgeous George, I’ve practically forgotten Aadam. I’m just giving my teeth a good going over with Pearl Drops
(paranoid after seeing Minty’s gnashes?
Moi
?) when my phone beeps.

The caller ID reads
Aadam
and not wanting to appear rude I answer with a mouth still full of toothpaste. I quickly spit it out and rinse my mouth. Then I put the phone back to my ear and laugh.

‘Sorry!’ Surely after hearing me gargle and spit he must be a bit put off? ‘You don’t want to hear me cleaning my teeth.’

‘I adore all the sounds you make,’ he says.

There speaks a man who’s never heard me play burp tennis with Qas.

‘I was just getting ready for bed,’ I hint.

But Aadam doesn’t get hints and he rabbits on for over an hour. I know this because I’ve also got an eye on the television and am flipping through some notes for Nina while he witters on. In all this conversational time Aadam won’t let me say a bad word about myself, which gets very tedious very quickly. Although I don’t mind others singing my praises sometimes a girl is entitled to take the piss out of herself, and I’m bored with the conversation after five minutes.

This isn’t going to go anywhere so why time-waste? 

I’ll wait a day or two before telling him firmly but gently it isn’t going to work out. I’ll say there’s no point in pursuing matters because there’s no spark between us and really I’m not that great anyway. Just ask Minty Vane.

By the time I come to this conclusion I’m desperate to end the call. My bladder’s absolutely bursting too and even though Aadam claims to adore every noise I make I have no way reached the familiarity status where I can just joke about it and tell him upfront that I need to pee! And he won’t care anyway and will probably give me permission to carry on with what I have to do because hey, he wouldn’t at all mind me peeing when still on the phone to him.

And anyway, even my peeing sounds wonderful.

‘Aadam,’ I say, crossing my legs, ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Already?’ says Aadam, as though we haven’t been talking for what feels like aeons.

‘I need my beauty sleep.’

‘You’re so beautiful already you could stay awake for the rest of your life and remain an outstandingly stunning girl.’

I’m cringing so much I’m tempted to tell him there and then this is going to have to be a final
Allah hafiz
. Then I yawn and decide I can’t face breaking the bad news. I’ll do the deed when I’m a bit more alert.

And when I have an hour or six to spare.

‘I’ll be dreaming of you all night,’ he adds.

I bloody well hope not.

Aadam is doing himself no favours with this ridiculous flattery. I’m actually starting to get freaked out. Haven’t I seen a film that starts a bit like this? And doesn’t the heroine end up getting stalked? Time to get rid of Aadam! I say nothing now though but a final ‘Night!’ and cut him off, just at the point where he’s whispering ‘Sweet dreams and–’

I don’t stick around to hear what he has to say after the ‘and’ part because I’m not fussed if I don’t hear the rest of it.

Just my luck to pick a weirdo.

I’m nodding off when Aadam sends a text reiterating how great it was to chat and how he hopes to chat again, the sooner the better. I really can’t be bothered to reply because I have a feeling we’ll be playing text tennis until dawn and I don’t have the energy or the inclination.

The next morning it’s a different story.

The first thing I always do upon opening my eyes is to switch the alarm off, fumble for my mobile and the check call register and my texts. Ever since Roma’s frantic late-night call I’ve been paranoid about something happening at home. Being so far away is a lot harder than I ever thought it would be. I love my job but I miss my family so much.

Can you imagine how I’d feel if I had to live in Pakistan?

I get my first shock of the day when the phone display reports three text messages and one missed call. At first I dread the worst, thinking that Mummy-
ji
’s been trying to contact me because something bad’s happened at home. When I read the sender’s details, I’m relieved it’s not a home number.

But this relief doesn’t last very long.

Aadam is the culprit.

Hesitantly I read the messages. They all communicate the same sentiments: how great I am and how great it was to meet me and how great it was to chat to me and how great it is going to be to meet me again. Oh, and by the way, when can he meet me again?

This doesn’t look too great to me!

And it doesn’t sound any better either. The voicemail is Aadam’s, sent at four bloody a.m., vocalising my greatness again and informing me that he’s just had a great dream about me and can’t wait till the morning to share it.

I sit bolt upright. This is not normal behaviour.

The guy has only known me for a maximum of two hours and he’s dreaming about me already? Every girl wants to be the stuff of a guy’s fantasy but it’s got to be the right kind of guy not some obsessed stranger.

My phone vibrates in my hand. Shit! A new text message. I really, really do not want to read it. I don’t have to be a clairvoyant to know the identity of the sender.

Warily I open the message.

Hi Mills! It’s a great morning and I hope you have a great day! A x

Bloody great.