The Wedding Countdown (6 page)

‘She’s probably worrying about the tone of the neighbourhood now,’ hisses Mummy-
ji
, all ready to jump out and give Ms Snooty a piece of her mind. ‘See what the people are like here?’

I’ve been in Chelsea for all of thirty seconds and already I’ve encountered a London stereotype, the unfriendly city dweller.

Bradford is full of friendly folk. Spontaneous conversations occur with the most unlikely people. Eve says if someone smiles at you in London you start to pray and hide your iPod bloody quickly.

I’m going to miss Bradford. I'm even missing my sisters already...

Just as I’m about to bottle out completely, tell Daddy-
ji
I’ve made a terrible mistake and let’s please go home now, the door of the house in front of us opens and a girl bursts into the street, shrieking with delight.

‘Eve!’ I fling open the van door, launch myself across my mother and dive into the street. ‘Am I pleased to see you!’

‘Oh me too, babes!’ Eve hugs me and I breathe in her familiar perfume mingled with Silk Cut. ‘Thank God they didn’t swap you for a camel.’

‘Camels are no good in Bradford,’ I remind her. ‘But if it had been an HD plasma screen I think my dad may have been tempted.’

My mum and dad have clambered out of the transit van and opened the doors. Duvets, potted plants and the entire Schwartz factory spill out like a fat woman’s belly released from control knickers.

‘Bloody Hell,’ Eve gasps. ‘I’ve only got one flat!’

‘Hello, Eve
beti
,’ beams my father, his arms full of cooking pots. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, thanks, Mr Ali,’ says Eve politely, and then whispers to me. ‘But he won’t be after he’s lugged this lot up three flights of stairs!’

One hour later we’ve all got arms that feel like overcooked spaghetti and have climbed Everest’s equivalent in steps. The van is empty and Eve’s lovely minimalist flat resembles the aftermath of a Bring and Buy sale. Mummy-
ji
is delighted to find milk in the fridge and Daddy-
ji
is busily writing notes onto a big A4 pad he’s bought especially for the purpose. While Eve and I got stuck into the unpacking and Mummy-
ji
checked out every nook and cranny of the flat, Daddy-
ji
went on a recce of the immediate area, checking out the precise location of the local police station/hospital/mosque. Now he’s written me copious notes, which I’ll be expected to memorise and keep with me at all times; notes which give me directions to all these vital locations and even a list of phone numbers in case I get lost. Below this are twelve bullet points of advice, just in case the Big City drives all sense from my fluffy brain. Daddy-
ji
is very proud of his research and hands me
Ahmed Ali’s Guide to Chelsea
as though it were a Shakespeare First Folio, and twice as precious.

After a cup of
chai
and a quick read through of Daddy-
ji
’s notes, my parents can’t put the moment off any longer: the time has come for them to leave the flat, the capital and me. It’s twilight and the street lamps throw orange pools of light onto the pavement. I hug my parents tightly, wishing they could stay for just a little bit longer. Am I doing the right thing?

‘Have you packed your toothbrush?’ worries Mummy-
ji
. ‘Or your rape alarm? The Holy Quran?’

‘Come on, Hamida.’ Daddy-
ji
gently places his hand in the small of my mum’s back, guiding her into the van. ‘Time to head home.’

At the word home a lump fills my throat. I know it must sound ridiculous to be twenty-two years old and never to have left home before, but this is the first time I’ve been away from Bradford and my family. I think I can be forgiven for being a little bit teary-eyed. As they drive away, waving, blowing kisses and shouting advice until the van turns the corner, I can’t help myself. Two tears roll down my cheeks and plop onto the pavement.

‘Don’t cry, hon.’ Almost as if by magic Nish appears at my side; slim little Nish with her pixie-sharp features and neat black bob, and I’m so pleased to see her that I sob all the harder. Nish hugs me and I boo-hoo into her beautiful suede jacket for a bit while she pats my back.

‘Sorry,’ I sniff eventually, dabbing at my eyes with my sleeve. ‘I’m OK really. It was just saying goodbye to them was a lot harder than I thought it was going to be.’

‘It gets easier, believe me. And we are going to have so so much fun, Mills, that you won’t miss them for long.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m so excited about starting at
GupShup
tomorrow. It’s just so much to take in all at once.’

Nish nods, her nose ring glittering. ‘I still can’t believe that we got the jobs, Mills! Out of all those applicants!’

It is incredible and wonderful and tomorrow I’ll be there, a real journalist on a real glossy magazine! Although I feel like someone has superglued my nostrils and my eyes are all sore and puffy, that twisty feeling of excitement comes back.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Eve asks through a cloud of cigarette smoke when I walk into the kitchen. ‘You look like a frog.’

‘Give her a break,’ Nish says. ‘Her parents have just gone.’

She raises her eyebrows. ‘And you’re crying why?’

Eve has the most peculiar relationship with her parents. They throw money at her and she spends it.

She rolls her eyes and pours a glass of wine. ‘Now it’s really time to party. Fancy hitting the clubs and getting rat-arsed, Mills? That’s what Nish and I do every night!’

I couldn’t be more horrified if she’d punched me in the stomach. Like duh, Muslims aren’t allowed to drink alcohol and as for clubbing, there’s no way I could ever contemplate it. For a minute I consider hurtling down the stairs, running after my parents’ van and shouting for them to come back and save me.

Then Eve and Nish start to giggle.

‘Gotcha!’ wheezes Eve. ‘God, you’re gullible, Mills! You really thought I meant it. I gave up trying to corrupt you back at uni.’

I’m not laughing, though. The London that stretches away below our rooftop vantage point is vast and sprawling and utterly unknown. The sheer scale of it takes my breath away.

Hundreds of miles away from Bradford and everything I’ve ever known, I suddenly feel very vulnerable and very, very scared.

I really hope I’m doing the right thing.

Chapter 6

It’s dinner-time and I can hardly manage a mouthful.

‘Are you leaving that?’ asks Nish incredulously.

I nod. ‘I’m too nervous to eat.’

Nish scrapes my plateful of Chinese onto hers. ‘All the more for me.’

‘Your editor’s supposed to be a right dragon,’ says Eve. ‘I read an article about her in the
Media Guardian
. Amazing woman but tough as old boots.’

The editor of
GupShup
is Nina Singh, a woman with an eagle eye for a story. Her sharp grey bob and scarlet lips are her trademarks and a familiar sight on shows like
Loose Women
and
Question Time
. Nina’s the epitome of a successful Asian career woman and I’ve admired her for ages.

She also has a reputation for being a slave driver and having a notoriously short fuse.

‘I hope she thinks we’re good enough to keep on,’ I fret. ‘They’ve never taken two interns before. I wonder what’s changed?’

‘Chill,’ says Nish. ‘You saw the letter. Nina was impressed with our joint article. There’s no hidden agenda.’

‘You’d better crack on with husband hunting or you’ll be off to Pakistan even if you do get a job,’ warns Eve.

‘I’m on the case,’ I tell her. ‘I can’t hang around though. A year isn’t very long.’

‘Maybe there’ll be some really lush guys at
GupShup
,’ suggests Eve. ‘Some nice scenery to make the day go quicker? Not like at my office. I swear Dad gave me an ugly boss to wreck any chances I might have of enjoying work.’

Eve works for her dad’s PR company, B-D International, and for the last two hours has barely stopped moaning about her boss, Damien Oxley.

‘Damien isn’t ugly,’ says Nish, chomping on a prawn ball. ‘I think he’s really attractive in an older man kind of way. Very George Clooney.’

Eve hurls dishes into the machine. ‘You need your eyes tested; he’s ancient.’

‘He’s forty-seven,’ says Nish. ‘Isn’t George Clooney forty-seven or thereabouts?’

‘George Clooney?’ Eve brandishes a fork in her direction. ‘Are you crazy? Damien has the social graces of George’s dead pet pig but that’s as far as any similarities go. The man’s Hell in Armani.’

‘He’s certainly got under your skin,’ I say.

‘He’s a bloody slave driver, that’s why.’

Eve tosses her blonde curls, pours herself an enormous glass of wine and lights a cigarette. She inhales deeply and closes her eyes before blowing two plumes of smoke out of her nose. I’ve seen Eve do this hundreds of times; in restaurants, at the students’ union and even while she writes essays. She’s the most elegant smoker I’ve ever seen, gesticulating wildly with her cigarette and blowing smoke rings like wispy hula-hoops.

I’ve never smoked. I don’t drink. I’ve never kissed anyone. Sometimes when I compare myself to my flamboyant friend I feel really dull. When Eve isn’t being slave driven by Damien she’s zooming round London in her BMW Z5, hood down and hair flying in the wind. My Nissan Micra just can’t compete, which is why I’ve passed it on to Roma and opted to take the tube instead.

I love Eve, but we come from such different worlds. I want so much to prove myself and I can’t wait to start work, whereas Eve puts more energy into getting out of her job than she does actually doing it.

After clearing up, Nish pops out and Eve settles down in front of
Made in Chelsea
, on the pretext of trying to decide which local
reality star B-D will next represent. This leaves me to go and sort out my belongings. Fetching my suitcase I flip open the lid and rummage around for the perfect outfit for work. What shall I choose?
Shalwar kameez
? Or what about my latest eBay bargain, the beautifully cut suit from Karen Millen? What impression do I want to create? Asian Babe or Career Woman? I lay out several outfits and put the decision off until the morning, hoping that after a good’s night sleep I’ll be inspired.

I’m just on the brink of dropping off when my mobile shrills into the quiet.

‘Mills!’ wails Roma when I answer. ‘Something awful’s happened!’

‘What?’

‘It’s Qas.’

‘Roma, you’re scaring me. What’s happened to Qas? Is he hurt?’

Roma inhales shakily. ‘He’s fine, but Mum and Dad aren’t. Auntie Bee turned up this afternoon and wouldn’t push off. I had to spend hours makin
g
chai
and fetching her food. You know what she’s like.’

‘I certainly do.’

‘When Mum and Dad got home, exhausted from the drive, she was ready for them.’

‘And what poison did Auntie Bee pour into their ears this time?’

Roma starts to sob. ‘Auntie Bee’s friend Naseem knows a woman who saw Qas in town. He was with a girl. A white girl.’ The sobs increase. ‘He was kissing her! And bloody Bee’s told everyone!’

How could Qas be so careless? Has he gone
pagal?

‘Mum’s in tears, Dad’s locked himself in the office and Auntie Bee is busy being Bradford’s answer to the
News of the World
. It’s really awful.’

‘Oh crap!’

‘You know they’ve got a cousin lined up for Qas,’ Roma weeps. ‘Dad’s all but given his word. He went spare when Qas refused to back down and Mum’s in tears because Qas called them racists.’

My poor parents!

‘Mum and Dad aren’t racists!’ Roma wails.

‘Of course they’re not. But they do know how difficult it is for two cultures to come together. Don’t forget there’s history there.’

‘History?’

‘Aunt Seema?’ I remind her. ‘Otherwise known as
She who must not be mentioned?
Dad’s sister who broke her betrothal off and married a plumber called Alan?’

‘Duh.’ I hear my sister slap her palm against her forehead. ‘How could I forget that? Nanny-
ji
hasn’t spoken to her since, has she?’

‘Not as far as I know, Roma
.
And Grandpa-
ji
never spoke of her again. Dad
says the shame killed him.’

We’re silent. Mixed-race marriage is a sore topic in our family. My father would never tolerate such a match, not knowing the grief it could cause.

‘I wish you were here,
baj
,’ Roma sighs. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘I’ll come home,’ I say. ‘I’ll get the train first thing.’

‘You can’t. It’s your first day at
GupShup
.

‘That doesn’t matter.’ My lovely, funny crazy family is infinitely more important than a job, even my dream job. ‘I’m coming back.’

‘No way,’ says Roma. ‘Why should Qas ruin everything you’ve worked for?’ 

I say nothing.

‘Why does Qas have to be so difficult?’ Roma says eventually. ‘Why choose a
gori
when he knows how Daddy-
ji
feels?’

I sigh. ‘If two people are in love, soul mates if you like, they
have
to be together. True love can overcome anything.’

‘Do you really believe that,
baj
?’

‘With all my heart.’

‘Maybe everything will be OK then,’ Roma says hopefully.

‘Of course it will,
insha’Allah,
’ I promise, with more conviction than I feel.

‘At least Qas isn’t a girl,’ says Roma. ‘Our
izzat
’s a bit dented but you’ll set that right, Mills.’

‘Me? How?’

‘With the wonderful marriage you’re going to make. Oh
baj
, you’ll make Mum and Dad proud and really shut that cow Bee right up. I know you’ll find a wonderful man, a barrister or a surgeon at the least, and then Mum and Dad will be
pagal
with joy. Only don’t take too long, will you? Things are pretty tense here.’

Oh great. Not only is the countdown to Subhi tick-tocking away but now I’ve got the added pressure of shoring up the family
izzat
to contend with.