Chapter 2
It’s Monday; I’m back in the office and apart from joining MuslimMate, putting together the biodata, and wearing more makeup than I usually would to work, I’ve done little else to find Mr Right. Judging from the calibre of candidates I’ve seen so far, though, I should probably lower my standards and settle for Mr All Right.
My department, Community Engagement, has the best corner in the open-plan office space on the third floor. There are only three of us at the moment; me, Adam the graphic designer and Francesca the events coordinator, and we sit facing each other right by the window, with Adam’s posters and hand-drawn sketches covering the wall next to us.
My desk, like my bedroom, screams my personality. There are Polaroids of my friends and family stuck everywhere and all my stationery is stuff I’ve bought myself, not nicked from the supply cupboard. I’m one of those saddos who has a thing for stationery. I can spend hours stroking pens, checking out highlighters and eyeing up notebooks.
I absolutely love my job. I have a fantastic team, my manager, Kevin, is supportive, and all day I get to do things I enjoy; like writing articles for the community newspaper, contributing to the website, and coming up with events and ideas on how to bring the local community together. I get to meet new people all the time, which is one of my favourite things, and boss my little team around. Admittedly it’s not the most glamorous of jobs, and my ‘team’ comprises only two other people, but the hours are decent, the salary is OK, the benefits are amazing and I can even walk to work if I want to.
My best friend Layla doesn’t get it, though. She’s constantly on at me to aim higher and either go completely corporate to earn loads of money, or go into the non-profit sector and use my brains for the greater good. But I’m honestly well and truly happy here. She’s always ranting about her crappy boss and how her workplace isn’t diverse enough, how all the old white men don’t take her seriously because she’s a young woman of colour. I don’t have that problem. I’m respected here, I feel challenged and I genuinely enjoy what I do. OK, it’s comfortable and safe, but what’s wrong with that? Not everyone wants to save the world like her. Some of us are still trying to save ourselves.
The only downside is the lack of potential suitors. All the guys are either too old or (no offence) too white. When I first joined three years ago and learnt that Adam was Turkish, for a fleeting moment I thought he might have been a possibility. He’s actually quite attractive in that North London ‘rough around the edges’ way. As I got to know him better, I realised that he’s not really what I’m looking for in a life partner. For starters, he’s a not-very-practising Muslim. I know I have a long way to go myself, but I do want to become more God-fearing. I want my kids to grow up in a household that prays regularly. The only thing he does five times a day is smoke those cheap fags you have to roll up yourself.
Adam’s religiousness (or lack thereof) isn’t the only thing that has prevented me from considering him. He’s also a year younger than me, which isn’t that big a deal, but he’s pretty immature and looks quite young. The last thing I want when I turn forty is a husband that still looks thirty and thinks farting in public is funny. There’s also the fact that I’m his line manager, which would make things super-awkward if things ever went wrong.
‘What did you get up to over the weekend?’ he asks a couple of hours into the workday.
‘I put together a marriage CV,’ I reply blithely, continuing to edit the community newsletter.
‘You what?’ he splutters, spinning his swivel chair around to stare at me. ‘Why?’
Francesca, who, despite the Italian name is actually from Essex, also turns around.
‘Because I need my family to hurry up and find me a husband, that’s why.’ I answer without looking at either of them, already regretting being so forthcoming. Adam is completely unpredictable and part of his boyish charm is that you never know what’s going to come out of his mouth.
‘Isn’t actively “finding” a husband a bit contrived? Aren’t you supposed to meet someone, fall in love and then get married?’
I roll my eyes. ‘Don’t get all coconut on me. You’re Turkish. You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
‘Yeah, but that hardly happens in our community any more.’
‘Whatever.’ I turn to look at him. ‘Most women at some point start actively looking to settle down. She might call it looking for a boyfriend. Or dating. But what she really hopes is that it will one day lead to a life partner. All I’m doing is cutting out the time-wasting stages that happen before.’
Adam turns to Francesca for backup and she shrugs. ‘Sorry, Adam, I’m with Zara on this one. It gets tiring, not knowing who’s serious and who’s messing about. I think it’s pretty cool that you can cut out the bullshit and get to the point.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile at Fran. She smiles back and I relish this moment of sisterhood and experiences that transcend culture and religion.
‘Well, it sounds unnatural to me,’ he says, giving me a haughty look that I don’t care for.
‘Good thing I don’t really care about what you think, then,’ I retort.
‘Good thing I don’t care that you don’t care.’ See what I mean about him being immature?
I turn my back to him pointedly and take out my phone to act like I’m busy but I don’t really have anything new to check. Except .?.?. I haven’t logged into MuslimMate since yesterday. I’m quite curious to see if I’ve managed to get through the verification process despite the not-entirely-accurate picture I submitted, so I open it up and sure enough, I’ve passed. And not only have I passed, I have over 300 new ‘likes’!
I stare at the screen in shock. How can that possibly be true? My profile has only been live for a few hours. There are no messages and I deduce that only people I ‘like’ in return will be able to have that privilege.
‘Zara, do you have a minute?’
My boss, Kevin, appears in front of me like an apparition and I stuff my phone into my pocket nervously, hoping he hasn’t seen what I’ve been doing. I always think the worst when he asks to see me.
‘Sure!’ I reply with faux cheeriness, getting up to follow him to his office. As we walk across the room, all the possible worst-case scenarios play out in my mind; from being put on a performance management programme to getting fired. I force MuslimMate to the back of my mind. The 300 men all waiting to hear back from me are going to have to wait a little longer.
*
It turns out that Kevin only wanted an update on our upcoming community event. We usually have cross-departmental meetings on a Monday, but a few of the senior managers were off sick or in meetings, so it was cancelled today. Still, I decide not to open MuslimMate again during work hours, since ‘Finding a husband’ isn’t a part of my job description.
After my satisfying lunch of yesterday’s leftover chicken pulao that Nani kindly packed for me, Layla emails me asking if I want to attend a swanky Muslim networking event in the City. She hasn’t told me much, just that I need to be in London Bridge by six thirty and I need to look ‘hot’.