Oof. The thought of Noah with someone when I was this close to meeting him again, when he was finally within my reach, was a tough pill to swallow. Like one of those huge Omega 3, 6 and 9 ones that always got lodged in my throat.
While there was nothing from the object of my desire, there were, however, hundreds of other men who had matched me.
I began scrolling through matches one by one. At first, I took the time to read the profiles properly, even when they were clean-shaven with weak jawlines. This took forever and I soon learnt to scan the profile and details quickly and only bother to read the bio if the rest was decent. It was almost like being in Yo Sushi; plates of maki flying by and I had three seconds to decide if I wanted to grab one or not:
Bashir. 28. 5’5. Indian. London. Blurry photo. Swipe left.
Alan. 38. 5’11. White English. Milton Keynes. Photo of a blond, stout man with skin that reminded me of mayonnaise. Swipe left.
Rayan. 32. 5’9. Pakistani. Southampton. OK-looking with a buzz cut.
Interesting. I clicked to read his bio, curious to know how he would introduce himself. Lookin for ma wifey n tingz. Been locked up but a changed man. Living with mumsy is a must.
I re-read the bio three times, trying to decipher what it meant. Was he trying to say that he was a criminal who had been locked up in jail? And after failing his DBS check, he still wanted a woman who would be happy to live with his mum? Was he serious?
Going on a dating app, I soon realised, was a bit like going on TikTok. You could get sucked into spending hours of your life mindlessly scrolling and in the end, you were no better off in life. Whenever I came across a profile that I thought was promising, the bio soon revealed that it was another wasteman looking for a quick hook-up or a stay-at-home ‘wifey’ to look after his elderly parents. And the ones in-between were the wrong age, wrong height or in the wrong geographical location. It was hopeless. Was this it? Was this what was available in the UK’s Muslim dating scene right now? I felt as though I had shown up to the buffet too late and all the good stuff had already been taken.
As I continued mindlessly scrolling, a message pinged through. Probably from some forty-three-year-old who had his own ‘business’ (code for unemployed), still lived with his parents in an overcrowded flat and couldn’t put a sentence together without three spelling mistakes.
Opening it half-heartedly, I didn’t bother to check the profile of the person who sent it and read the message itself:
NOAH: Hey Maya, Love your profile – we seem to be interested in the same things! Are you free to grab a coffee/drink sometime this week? Noah x.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘I knew he was going to match you!’ Lucy squealed when I showed her Noah’s message on Monday morning. My stomach had been churning non-stop since he got in touch and I had barely slept all night. I had waited for this moment for so long and now that it was almost here and I was on the cusp of finally seeing him again, I felt sick with anticipation. So much so that I hadn’t replied to him because whenever I tried, my mind either went completely blank or filled itself with nonsense.
‘How shall I respond?’ I whispered, my eyes darting around the office until they landed on Sheila, who was walking across the open space with a mug in her hands and her earphones in her ears. Still, for all we knew, she was pretending to be on a call and was secretly listening in to our conversations.
‘Let’s chat later,’ Lucy murmured nervously as Sheila got closer to our desks. I needed to talk to her about my working hours, but I had been putting it off for days because the thought of approaching her and asking for something was too frightening a task. It was scarier than the prospect of seeing Noah again, but until I did, I wouldn’t be able to decide whether to do the degree full-time or part-time.
‘Sheila, do you have a moment?’ I said, getting up and following her across the room, trying to keep up with her long strides. She stopped abruptly and spun around to face me, her eyes narrowing.
‘Make it quick,’ she snapped and continued to stalk towards her office with me trailing behind like a toddler.
Sheila’s office was a lot like her: cold and functional. Everything was steel or chrome, or whatever that silver-coloured metal was and what wasn’t silver was a brilliant white. There were no plants, no pictures, nothing personal at all. Closing the door behind me, I waited for her to tell me to take a seat and when she didn’t, I stood awkwardly, shifting my weight from one foot to another.
‘Well? What is it?’ she said, raising an eyebrow expectantly. It didn’t lift much and I wondered if it was because she’d had Botox. That would explain her lack of expression most of the time.
‘I wanted to talk to you about my working hours,’ I said, trying my best not to stammer and to look her in the eye. ‘I’m starting an LLM in September and I want to do it full-time so I can finish it quicker.’
‘Right. So how are you planning to work here at the same time?’
‘It’s in the evenings,’ I said quickly, my throat dry. ‘If I do it full-time, it would be two evenings a week. The classes start at six, so it means that I would have to leave at five to get there on time. But I’d make sure to come in at nine on those days, so I won’t be doing fewer hours than I’m contracted to do or anything.’
Sheila sighed and looked away while I waited for her to respond. For someone who was in a hurry and didn’t have time to talk, she was taking a long time to reply.
‘Well, Maya,’ she sighed. ‘You do know that this isn’t a nine-to-five sort of job. What am I supposed to do if I need some photocopying or filing at five and you’ve gone off to uni?’
‘Erm, ask Lucy or Arjun?’
Sheila glanced at me sharply and I wished I hadn’t answered her rhetorical question.
‘And if you do it part-time?’
‘It’s one evening a week. But I’d really prefer to do it full-time so I can finish it quicker.’
‘What’s the rush? I think I can manage to let you go once a week despite the inconvenience, but twice a week? That’s too much and it’s not fair on Lucy or Arjun to have to pick up the slack. You don’t need a master’s degree in Law to perform your paralegal duties. I’ll email you later with the confirmation.’
With that, she began typing on her computer, signalling the end of the conversation and my cue to leave her space.
I turned around and left, my legs unsteady and my insides simmering with a quiet fury. Did she really say I couldn’t do it full-time in case she needed me to photocopy? Angry tears burned at the back of my eyes and I blinked them away, determined not to let her see how much she had upset me. She didn’t even say that she would think about it.
‘What happened to women supporting women?’ I asked Fareena in therapy later that day. ‘What happened to sisterhood? Uplifting each other? I didn’t ask for any time off! I’ll still be working what I’m contracted to do. Why is she being like this? Why does she hate me so much?’
‘It’s not about you,’ Fareena said calmly. ‘I doubt she hates you. Sheila’s projecting her own issues onto you. The question isn’t why is she being like this, it’s how are you going to navigate the hurdle?’
‘What can I do? She’s said it now. She’s ruining my entire future.’
