The Wedding Countdown (17 page)

Things don’t get better. By lunchtime I can’t bear reading more
great
things about myself. I’m a nervous wreck, leaping six inches off my seat every time the phone bleeps or someone else’s rings. If I chew my nails any more I’ll be up to my elbows.

As I write up a review of a new foundation especially for Asian skin (really nice in case you’re wondering) I resolve to contact Aadam after work and let him down as best I can. Maybe I could tell him that my parents have arranged my marriage? A good Pakistani boy wouldn’t dream of arguing with my olds.

Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Throughout the rest of the day my phone vibrates continually, so much so that I end up turning it off. Thank goodness Aadam doesn’t know my email address. Can you imagine the amount of spam?

At six o’clock I head home, my mobile tucked away in my bag. As I stand at the elevator, mentally composing
Dear John
texts, Wish joins me.

‘Are you annoyed with me?’

‘Should I be?’

‘I thought maybe Minty upset you yesterday?’

It’s a strange old thing but having a stalker has done wonders for taking my mind off her bitchy comments.

‘She was out of order.’ Wish looks awkward. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It wasn’t your fault. Was she having a bad day?’

‘Maybe,’ says Wish. ‘She’s just... Oh I don’t know; it doesn’t matter.’ He smiles but his eyes are troubled. ‘Anyway, if you’re not mad how come you stood me up for lunch?’

I wrack my brains. ‘Did we make plans?’

‘I called you quite a few times, but no response so I sent a text. I was in the middle of a shoot so I asked you to meet me.’

‘Wish! I’m so sorry! I didn’t check my phone all day.’

‘Phew,’ says Wish. ‘That explains it. And there’s me thinking you deliberately ignored my text messages.’

‘Actually there’s a story about me avoiding my phone.’

The lift door pings open.

‘Haven’t paid your bill?’

I slosh him on the arm. ‘Of course I have! No, nothing like that. Promise me you won’t laugh?’

‘I promise so long as it’s not funny.’

‘I don’t find it funny at all but not everyone sees it that way. When I told Nish she cracked up.’

‘Try me.’

‘You know the matrimonials thing I went to?’

‘The one where everybody wanted your details?’

‘You heard that?’ I’m surprised, because I hadn’t thought he was interested when we were all discussing it yesterday. ‘To cut a long story short one of the guys won’t leave me alone. He’s been texting and calling non-stop. That’s why I turned my mobile off. I seem to have got myself a stalker.’

I wait for the laugh.

But Wish doesn’t laugh. In fact he looks really worried.

‘He sounds like a freak. I’d get rid of him.’

‘Yeah, I’m working on that,’ I say, as we step out of the lift.
‘Oh crap
, to think I was going to agree to meet him later this week. He’d probably handcuff me, drag me to the registrar’s office and push a ring onto my bound hands.’

‘Mills! Surely you’re not thinking of meeting up with him? Don’t be so bloody stupid!’

‘Not now! No way! I’ve no intention of risking life and limb just to hear a guy worship my greatness. I’m not perfect and I know it.’

‘You want a guy to say you’re imperfect? OK, I’ll tell you that. How can you be perfect if you’d consider going off alone to meet some nutter? You’d have to be crazy!’

We’re glaring at one another when Nish joins us and the subject is hastily dropped. Wish accompanies us to the station, and just before I follow Nish down the steps – she always runs because she’s convinced every rumbling tube has to be ours even if it’s going in the opposite direction – he grabs my elbow.

‘Mills,’ he says urgently, ‘please be careful. If this guy won’t stop harassing you, then promise you’ll call me? Maybe I can talk some sense into him? And if he still doesn’t get it then I’ll put my kickboxing skills into action. But tell me you won’t see him on you own. Please?’

I’m touched Wish is willing to risk being charged with GBH for me. I should have got myself a stalker earlier if this is the reaction I get.

‘Chill,’ I say. ‘It’s sorted. But thanks anyway. It’s sweet of you to care.’

‘It’s not sweet, Mills! Don’t you realise–’

‘Bloody Hell, Mills,’ puffs Nish, coming full speed back up the steps, and looking none too pleased. ‘Are we catching this train, or what?’

Practically pulling my arm out of its socket she drags me after her, leaving Wish a solitary figure framed against the blue sky. I roll my eyes and give him a grateful smile. As he smiles back something stirs in the pit of my tummy. Ripping my gaze away I follow Nish into the throng of commuters all itching to get home.

It’s all in my imagination that he stands there staring long after I’ve vanished from sight. But it’s a nice thought.

Much nicer than the thought of contacting Aadam.

By the time we reach home I’ve turned my phone on and listened to it beep a dozen more times.

‘For God’s sake!’ says Nish in exasperation. ‘You’re a nervous wreck. Tell this fruitcake to sod off, or smash your phone.’

‘Smash my phone?’ I echo, looking at my iPhone 5. ‘I’m not smashing my gorgeous phone just to get rid of Aadam the Great.’

The more I think about it, the more infuriated I become. Why should a weirdo mobile-boiler make me lose out on several hundred pounds? That’s what I’d have to shell out to replace my phone or to pay for the counselling I may well need soon if I continue to allow Aadam to harass me.

There’s only one non-violent option left.

I’m through with this.

Seizing the moment I call Ayoob. I’ve a mammoth’s skeleton worth of bones to pick with him, this so-called events organiser who’s responsible for misjudging the strict ‘sane’ criteria. Has he even bothered to do a thorough background check-up of previous Hannibal Lecter-style convictions?

Actually, I don’t want to think about that.

When I eventually get through to Ayoob I waste no time giving him a full version of my phone events since Aadam got his mitts on my mobile number. Just to add further weight to my displeasure I threaten to write up the whole sorry affair in
GupShup
unless Aadam’s nonsense stops this very minute.

‘I can’t apologise enough,’ grovels Ayoob. ‘His behaviour’s totally unacceptable. I’ll take immediate action and have a severe word with Aadam and tell him this organisation does not tolerate such conduct. I’ll tell him we’ll be forced to warn all the other females he’s requested contact details from to block his advances, unless he desists.’

I say nothing. Cutting out Aadam’s tongue is more what I’d like to hear.

‘And let me assure you that I’ll also threaten to put his name on the black list where he will not be welcome to attend any more matrimonial events,’ finishes Ayoob. ‘I’m sure that’ll do the trick.’

Temporarily comforted I ring off, feeling as though a tonne of concrete has just been lifted off my head. About an hour later my phone vibrates so, saying a silent prayer, I scan the message.

Sorry. Thought u were the one. How wrong was I? A

For a fleeting second I suffer a very slight guilt complex. Have I been a tad harsh? Maybe I should have called him instead and been the personal bearer of not so great news?

But as I delete all the messages sent by Aadam I shudder. It’s for the best. I’ve no desire to be another victim of an obsessed lover who ends up in the Thames.

Eve returns for dinner and as we eat I tell her the tragic story of my telephone stalking experience. It’s actually quite amusing in the retelling and pretty soon we’re all rolling around uncontrollably on the floor. Eve finds it so hilarious that she has to run to the bathroom in order to empty her bladder.

‘Watch it,’ I warn, on her still laughing return, ‘or I’ll forward your number to Aadam, and you can literally be his Eve! And as for you,’ I add, turning to Nish, ‘if you don’t let this go I may be forced to email that photo of you sitting on the bog to everyone in the office!’

This stops them in their tracks and we go on to have a really nice evening. I wanted to watch the rest of
Office Hours
but strangely it’s gone missing, so it’s back to re-runs of
X Factor
instead.

Later in the stillness of the night I suffer a silent panic attack.

What on earth am I playing at trying to sort out my own love life? Why couldn’t I just have taken a backseat and gone ahead with my parents’ wishes? I trust them to have done all the hard work of vetoing and screening my suitors for potential obsessive tendencies, because they love me and have an interest in my well-being – not like Muslim-flipping-Matrimonials, who only want my money. Do I really want to risk encountering another stalker? Is it really worth it, searching on my lonesome for a future life partner?

Do soul mates really exist?

I pummel my pillow. Thinking about my parents makes me feel unbearable pangs of homesickness and suddenly I want more than anything to be back in my safe bedroom in Bradford. I miss Fizz's arguments and Roma’s thoughtful company. I miss Qas’s teasing and my dad’s laughter.

But most of all I miss Mummy-
ji
...

For a moment I’m tempted to call home just to hear her voice but I don’t trust myself to sound upbeat. Mum will detect my melancholy and quiz me again and again about what’s troubling me. My tongue might slip and I’ll end up confessing all about Aadam the nutter. Then the worst will happen. My parents will demand I pack right now and I’ll be flying off to Pakistan before I know it.

I’m not beaten yet. One down, two to go. There are still two wonderful guys who can’t wait to meet me. Maybe one of them is my soul mate? The odds have to be stacked in my favour.

Don’t they?

Chapter 18

OK
saheli
, relax! You’re going for a coffee, not to meet a firing squad. It’s a very respectable meeting at a café in Covent Garden, not some full-blown Jackie Collins fest with black silk sheets and leopard-print underwear.

Surely this is supposed to be fun, or am I missing something?

It’s one of those perfect winter days when the sun remembers what it’s actually for and the British people throw caution to the wind by taking off their jackets. Crowds of tourists throng the pavements, clapping the human robot man and peering excitedly into the shops. On the piazza there’s a Mediterranean atmosphere as people loll at café tables enjoying the warmth of the sun on their pale skin. A gaggle of French exchange students sit on the steps of the Royal Opera House, munching on baguettes and scattering crumbs for the pigeons.

See? If Auntie Bee herself strolled by she’d not find one little thing to moan about. Basim has been nothing but respectable on the telephone and I’m sure he’ll be the perfect gentleman. And if he’s not sane then I’m under strict instructions to call Wish immediately. Without fail, Wish told me. Bless!

I check my watch. There’s still ten minutes before my second eligible bachelor is due, so I decide to pop into Lush and bruise the plastic for a bit. As I rummage through scented rows of soaps and play Jenga with bath bombs I think again about the several phone conversations that we’ve had. Basim seems to have a sense of humour, taking the pee out of us both for going speed dating, and no comments about how great I am or how fantastic my voice is. Hurrah! I have a really good feeling about him!

Filling my basket with wonderful smellies, including a strawberry shortcake one I could almost wolf down on the spot, I meander to the till, collecting a lip balm and some shampoo on my way. Spending horrendous amounts of money is doing wonders for my nerves so, deciding to carry on this approach, I nip into Monsoon and browse the sale rails. As I do so, I keep checking my appearance in the mirrors, smoothing my hair and hoping that I look suitable for my coffee date.

‘It’s not a “date” date,’ Eve said firmly, fully engrossed in her role as Trinny to Nish’s Susannah. ‘It’s a coffee with a nice guy.’

‘You have coffee every day with Wish and Raj,’ added Nish.

‘It’s not the same,’ I muttered, watching my friends pile the contents of our combined wardrobes onto my bed.

After endless dressing and undressing (I now have the greatest of respect for strippers because, believe me, taking your clothes off this often is hard work) the girls have decided upon my wearing a pair of grey skinny jeans worn with Eve’s tight-fitting Miu Miu cashmere turtleneck sweater. I won’t dare eat any cake but Eve assures me the effect is worth it. Even my feet are glam in Eve’s Chloé boots.

I check my reflection again. Hardly any skin showing at all. Excellent!

After a good few make-up trials, I’d finally settled upon a subtle daylight au naturel face, my make-up limited to a glossy lip shine and a bit of a smoky-eyed look. I’ve worn my hair in loose curls and when I did my final twirl in front of Eve’s full-length mirror both of my friends gave me the thumbs up.

I check my watch again and am horrified to see I’m twenty minutes late. Crap! How did that happen? Hoping Basim will think I’m fashionably late rather than just plain old-fashioned rude, I dash across the piazza to the café. Sure enough, there he is waiting by the entrance just as we agreed.

‘Mills?’ cries Basim and before I have any time to object he embraces me.

At least I know he smells as good as he looks but I pull away a little taken aback.

‘You look sensational,’ Basim smiles.

‘Err, thanks.’ I really must get used to this compliments business. Maybe I should buy a book off Amazon,
Flattery for Dummies
or something?

He motions to the waiter. ‘What kind of coffee would you like?’

What I’d like is a latte. What I’ll ask for is an espresso because I can’t risk having a frothy coffee ’tache. Not cool.

‘Espresso, it is,’ says Basim. ‘Although I’m not convinced you need all that caffeine. You seem pretty jittery as it is.’

He’s not wrong. Because of the unexpected hug I’m starting to experience a severe paranoia attack. I’m a dating novice and I’m terrified.

I can’t help imagining a rogue family member spying undercover from the rooftops of the tall buildings opposite the café, which offer a great view of where we’re seated. Auntie Bee could easily be up there with her binoculars taking note of my indiscreet actions so she can report straight back to my parents and tell them what a bad girl I’ve been, seen in plain view chatting animatedly to a male and hugging him.