MAYA: Sure. But you might have to watch me scrub the skirting boards.
DINA: What?
MAYA: I’ll explain when you get here.
DINA: Be right there!
Putting my phone down, I decided to carry on scrubbing because Dina’s ‘Be right there’ could be anything from appearing in ten minutes to rolling up after a couple of hours.
I was relieved that she had responded. We had never gone without talking to each other for this long before. Her absence had felt like a missing limb. There was so much I wanted to tell her about my life and hear about hers. But more than anything, I wanted to feel that our bond was stronger than the distance that was growing between us.
Once I was done with the skirting boards, I moved on to the windowsills and then the kitchen cabinets. I listened to my Cleaning Yo Crib playlist on Spotify as I worked, trying not to think too much about the fact that all this cleaning was a prelude to what married life was going to be like.
Damn. Married life. I was meeting a man for marriage purposes and all I knew about him was that he was a couple of years older than me, my uncle’s friend’s son and he worked in finance. Unfortunately there was no picture attached to his biodata which made me even more hesitant to meet him, but according to my chachi, my uncle’s wife, he was ‘very cute’. And this, they believed, was enough for me to go on before meeting him in the flesh. The thought made me nauseous, but a deal was a deal. I had agreed to it and I had to see it through. And if I was truly being honest with myself, this wasn’t solely to placate my parents. Somewhere, deep down, a part of me was interested in meeting a partner and settling down. Maybe I could hash the whole thing out with Dina. Lucy was great and all, but she didn’t get my context and my culture the way my childhood friend did.
Two hours later, the house was almost done but Dina still hadn’t arrived. I grabbed my phone to call her to find a message she had sent half an hour before:
DINA: I’m so sorry Maya, I fell asleep when I was putting Sami to sleep! I’m so exhausted. Rain check? Maybe at the weekend?
Something inside me clenched painfully.
Ignoring the prickle behind my eyes, I texted back a simple ‘OK, no problem’ even though I wasn’t available at the weekend and carried on scrubbing and scrubbing, until my hands were red and raw and there wasn’t a fingerprint or smudge in sight.
The next day, I was more than ready to tackle number six on the list: attend an art class. After a quick Google search, I found an adult art class that had a session with availability straight after work. Lucy wasn’t free, and although I was reluctant to go on my own, I forced myself to book a place before I could change my mind.
Ma was annoyed that I wasn’t coming home straight after work. She wanted me to help her iron all the curtains before Sunday after she had taken them down and washed them. Like anyone was going to be looking at the curtains! I wondered if male suitors had to go through this nonsense? Probably not, even though where they lived was more important, given that there was a big chance of the bride moving in with his family after the wedding. London house prices were so ridiculously high that most of the new brides I knew moved in with their in-laws while they saved up enough money for a house or flat deposit.
I was nervous as I walked up to the Victorian building near Old Street, flanked on either side by newer towers of glass and chrome. But that was London all over, wasn’t it? Old juxtaposed with new, the present nestled against the past. I hoped I didn’t stand out as an uncreative imposter who was only there because of a list written by a stranger.
Pushing open the heavy, wooden door, I entered a square foyer with a staircase in the centre. The old, panelled walls were dark and gloomy and the floorboards creaked as I took a nervous step forward and peered through the open door on my left.
‘Hello! Welcome!’ A petite, pretty woman with dark skin and coal-coloured curly hair called out as she hurried towards me.
‘Hi,’ I replied shyly, extending my hand, which she grabbed and pumped up and down vigorously. ‘My name’s Maya. I signed up for an adult art class?’
‘Yes! Of course. Hello, Maya, welcome, welcome! My name is Nandini. Do come in and get comfortable. May I offer you a drink?’
‘Thanks, water would be great.’ I followed Nandini through the doorway and into a dimly lit room, with candles and lamps casting interesting shadows and flickers on the wall. There were chairs set up in a half circle, with easels in front of them and Nandini gestured for me to take a seat. Not wanting to take centre stage, I chose a seat nearer the edge of the semi-circle and put my bag down before shrugging my coat off and draping it on the back of my seat. Nandini returned with a glass of water and she kindly took my coat from me before rushing off to the door to welcome someone else.
The seat next to me was empty, but the one after that was occupied by a small, milky-complexioned woman with bright red hair, rummaging through her handbag. She didn’t look over at me so after a few seconds of trying to make eye contact, I gave up. The pair next to her had come together and were chatting quietly and at the other end was a group of three. Maybe coming here without a friend wasn’t such a good idea after all. It would have been nice to have someone to talk to.
Getting up, I decided to go to the toilet before the session officially began, which would kill a few minutes and save me from having to sit there alone before the model arrived. In the bathroom, I stood in front of my reflection for a few minutes, killing time. I didn’t have a bad face. In fact, as faces went, it was pretty decent, varying in degrees of attraction depending on where in the world I was. In Bangladesh, I would have been considered pretty if it wasn’t for my dark skin. I had the typical big eyes, straight nose and small lips combination they loved out there. But my shade of brown was borderline offensive in Desh and my hair wasn’t straight enough, so I was far from being a beauty. Over here, I was more average. Small lips weren’t in fashion, nor were small boobs and flat bums. But Noah was interested in me. I think. As the days passed, my memory of him and our encounter on the Underground had faded, like a painting left out in the sun. Maybe I had got the whole thing wrong and all he wanted was someone to chat to, to liven up an otherwise boring journey to work.
But he had gestured for me to call him when he got off the carriage, right? Or did I imagine that? Maybe he was only being kind. If he really wanted to keep in touch, he would have asked to exchange numbers, not accidentally left behind an obscure notebook that contained zero information on how to reach him. Why was I bothering with his stupid list?
With a sigh, I washed my hands and went back to the studio. My head down, I skulked over to my seat, telling myself that I was there to try something new, experience something different. It wasn’t about finding Noah; it was about finding myself.
Sitting back down in my seat, I looked up to see that the model had arrived and so had another man, taking up the seat right next to me. He was brown and was also on his own. Our eyes met and I could tell that he was as surprised to see me as I was him. It wasn’t every day you ran into brown boys at art classes.
I looked away and focused on the model instead. He was a tall, blond, white guy and he was wearing a robe. Thinking nothing of it, I listened to Nandini start the class and tell us to pay attention to shadows and light, to try and see beyond what our eyes could see, whatever that meant. She talked about creating feelings and conveying emotions, about depth and symmetry. Then, she walked away and began playing soothing, classical music and the model stood up and let his robe fall to the floor. And he was completely and utterly butt naked.
My jaw dropped and I quickly averted my gaze as I felt heat creep up my cheeks. I discreetly darted my eyes around the room at the other ‘artists’ – they all looked completely at ease as they analysed the naked man before them and began to draw. Everyone except the brown guy. He looked as mortified as I did and once again, our eyes met. He smiled wryly at me but I didn’t smile back. I couldn’t! I didn’t want anyone to think I was there on purpose.
Feeling queasy, I tried to think of what I could say to get out of this situation. It wasn’t that I was a prude or I had an issue with the naked form. I didn’t want to look at a man’s wiggly bits for no reason! It wasn’t exactly attractive, was it? Let’s be real. It was gross.
‘Strange for you to be here,’ the brown guy said, startling me. Yes, it was, but it wasn’t his business, was it?
‘Why? Because I’m a brown woman?’ I snapped, narrowing my eyes.
‘Because you’re a Muslim woman,’ he corrected, nodding at the keffiyeh wrapped around my neck.
‘And I guess you’re a judgemental Muslim man,’ I retorted. ‘How original!’ Ten minutes before, I was desperate for someone to talk to me and now I was regretting it. If I had known that God was going to be answering prayers at that moment, I would have asked for something more meaningful, like Sheila being replaced by a manager who appreciated me.
