‘Seeing each other? Courting? Talking? Getting to know one another?’
‘Whatever you want to call it, Islamic or otherwise, we weren’t doing any of that. Therefore, it was hardly a break-up text.’
‘Have you sent a break-up text before?’ His sudden change of tone surprised me. I raised an eyebrow and looked at him again. His gaze was straight ahead at the road, but he was smirking.
‘Too many to count,’ I lied, folding my arms across my chest. He looked at me quizzically, unable to determine whether I was winding him up or being serious.
We continued sparring as he drove up to Marylebone but somehow, by the time we got to Camden, we’d started having a normal conversation. By Holloway, we were talking about work and I ended up telling him about my list (omitting the whole ‘Noah’ part of it) and how I wanted to go back to further education. To my surprise, he seemed to understand where I was coming from and agreed that I should do whatever I needed to do to feel content. He told me about an Arabic class he was taking, because a job opportunity had come up for him to work in Dubai for a year. Like me, he was also feeling like life had become stagnant and he needed to shake things up.
‘You know you don’t need Arabic to work in the Gulf,’ I told him. ‘They speak English everywhere.’
‘I know,’ he replied with a shrug. ‘But I don’t want to be one of those expats who don’t evolve or learn anything about their host country’s culture. I want to make the most of it.’
I found it strange that he was planning to move abroad in the middle of trying to get married. If this was his intention, why had he put me through all the drama of meeting him? Forget the fact that my mum made me scrub every inch of the house until my hands almost bled, forget the fact that I was paraded around in front of him like a concubine, what was worse was how my parents had behaved with me since. I was the family pariah because I exercised my God-given right to say no.
Before I could persuade myself not to pry, I blurted the question out.
‘Why did you meet me if you’re planning to move abroad?’
We were passing Finsbury Park now, so we didn’t have a lot of time before we arrived at Turnpike Lane, maybe ten minutes or so. If I didn’t ask now, I would never find out.
‘My parents aren’t happy that I’m moving abroad,’ he said, looking as pained as I felt. ‘They’re scared I’m going to meet the daughter of a Russian oligarch out there and their dreams of having a Bengali bahu would be dashed forever.’
‘Wow. So they made you agree to meet prospective partners if you wanted their blessing? Hoped you would meet someone and take a wife with you?’
‘Basically, yes. How did you know?’
I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony of it all. I knew it wasn’t as hilarious as I was making it out to be, but once the giggles started, they wouldn’t stop. Zakariya continued driving but kept glancing at me in bewilderment as I snorted until tears filled my eyes. The look on his face only made me laugh harder.
‘OK then,’ he said when I finally stopped, minutes before we reached my house. ‘I don’t know if I want to know what has you in hysterics right now.’
‘Our lives are a lot more similar than you would think,’ I managed to say in between hiccups. ‘My parents cut a similar deal with me when I told them I wanted to go back to uni.’
Zakariya laughed and shook his head. ‘What a pair we are, agreeing to marriage so we can do what we want to do in life.’
‘Pretty tragic really,’ I replied. ‘I’m glad I’m not the only one dealing with this.’
Zakariya pulled into my street and double parked outside my house. The rain had stopped a while before, but I felt the urge to stay in the car for longer. He was so easy to talk to, almost like a different person from the one who came to the marriage meeting. But obviously I couldn’t. He had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in marrying me or anyone. He was keeping his parents happy. Mistaking his good manners for anything more would be foolish and naive.
‘Thank you so much for the ride,’ I said, as he put the hazard lights on and began climbing out of the car. I stared at the door in surprise, wondering why he was getting out. Surely, he didn’t think it would be appropriate to come inside the house and chat with my parents? This wasn’t an American teen movie. My dad wouldn’t pretend to be overprotective and tell us that we could hang out in my room if the door was open. My parents would kill me if they knew I was risking my reputation by accepting a lift from not just any man, but one who knew people in my extended family. I got the impression that they would be less concerned if there was a smaller chance of the grapevine finding out about my shenanigans.
I didn’t have to worry though, because all Zakariya did was come over to the passenger side and open the door for me, before getting all my bags out of the boot and backseat and handing them to me carefully, so I didn’t drop any of my precious new wardrobe into a puddle.
‘I forgot to say that your new hair looks really nice,’ he said as I thanked him again and began to walk towards the house. I turned back to gape at him, but he was already climbing back into the car.
Unable to stop the smile spreading across my face, I trudged up the path and let myself into the house. As soon as I got to my room, I dropped all my bags to the floor and collapsed onto the bed. What had happened? Were we friends now? Would I ever see him again? Was I reading into it too much? Probably. He seemed to be the sort of person who said whatever was on his mind, offensive or otherwise. Whatever it was, I hadn’t felt this good in a long time. And the best part was, most of it was nothing to do with Zakariya, but everything to do with the amazing day I’d had with Lucy.
Chapter Seventeen
Christmas was quiet, more so than usual. Malik went away with his ‘friends’, but I was certain he was with a woman – one I was still waiting for him to tell me about.
I decided to spend Christmas with Dina. Lucy was away on holiday and so were the twins. Mohammed was working through most of the holidays so I went to Dina’s on Christmas Eve for a sleepover and the following day I helped her make an epic meal of Palestinian-style slow-roasted lamb shoulder on a bed of buttery cracked wheat, with stuffed aubergines and cabbage leaves on the side. We made a halal, Middle Eastern version of pigs in blankets as well – beef sausages and medjool dates marinated in honey and spices and wrapped with Turkey bacon, which Dina jokingly re-named ‘cows in dupattas’. This had us cracking up over how funny we thought we were, so much so that Dina was afraid that her waters were going to break four months early. When I say that I ‘helped’, really all I did was provide banter and childcare services while she did the bulk of the cooking.
We carried on talking throughout lunch and then, when Dina went to put Sami down for a nap, I cleared everything up and put the homemade kunafeh in the oven for dessert. I nearly burnt it of course, as I completely forgot about it while I was busy scrubbing the pans and baking trays. Luckily, Dina came down in time to save it. I watched as she poured rose syrup over the top of the shredded kataifi and inhaled the beautiful fragrance of sweet cheese, buttery pastry, nuts and rose water. No wonder Mohammed was obsessed with her. The girl had mad cooking skills.
‘You think that’s the secret to a happy marriage?’ Dina laughed as I told her my theory, while she brewed Arabic-style tea. ‘What’s for dinner is the last thing on his mind. He’s more interested in “dessert”, if you catch my drift.’
I didn’t immediately, but when the realisation hit, I burst into laughter. ‘Ew, shut up, it’s like picturing my parents together,’ I complained.
‘Speaking of marriage,’ Dina said as she carried an ornate silver tea tray over to the coffee table in the living room and I followed her with two massive portions of kunafeh with vanilla ice cream. ‘What’s happening with you? Have your parents made you meet anyone else?’
‘No,’ I replied, settling into her comfy sofa and putting my plate on my lap. ‘My mum thinks I have a secret boyfriend.’
‘Poor aunty,’ she said, taking a bite of the dessert. ‘I bet she wishes you had someone.’
‘I think she does,’ I admitted. ‘Oh my God, this kunafeh is amazing. It’s so much better than the restaurant ones.’
‘Thanks, habibti. Now, tell me more about Zakariya,’ Dina brushed off the compliment. ‘Is he a potential then? Your post-makeover encounter sounded romantic.’
‘Not really,’ I admitted. ‘He told me he’s not interested in getting married. He only agreed to meet me to placate his parents and he’s planning to move to Dubai next year. His parents were giving him a hard time about it, hence meeting me.’
‘Wow. I bet he’s unsure now that you’re in the picture.’
‘I’m not in the “picture”. It was one car ride and besides, I rejected him remember?’
‘Oh yeah. That complicates things a bit.’
‘A LOT, you mean.’