Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

In an effort to do her proud, I nip off to Boots straight after work and pile on even more makeup. I also buy a cheap pair of earrings and a necklace from Primark to jazz up my dark jeans and jumper. Not exactly Vogue but I decide I will have to do.

Emerging from the Underground at London Bridge, I start walking down Tooley Street, where I am surrounded by imposing glass towers juxtaposed against classic English architecture. People who look as if they’ve jumped straight out of a fashion shoot, with their cashmere coats and monogrammed briefcases, hurry past me. It’s a far cry from Wood Green High Road, I can tell you that.

As I wait for Layla outside the PwC offices – a really cool, modern glass building that curves in the middle like it’s come from the future – I begin to wonder if I was too hasty in accepting her invitation. This morning I thought I looked pretty decent but now, at dusk, at the heart of the City surrounded by glass and lights, I wish I was wearing heels. And silk. And diamonds.

‘Assalaamu Alaikum!’ Layla calls out to me, her arms outstretched.

‘Wa Alaikum Salaam,’ I respond with a smile. We hug and, as always, I feel better by her energetic presence. She’s always hopping around, laughing or cracking a joke. We were introduced by a mutual friend, Ezra, in Wood Green Library during our first year of A Levels, where we would go to ‘study’ every weekend. By ‘study’ I mean gossip, check out boys and generally mess around. We bonded over our love for Garage music and playing pranks and have been best friends ever since.

‘You look so hot,’ Layla says with a wide grin. ‘I bet at least one guy asks for your number tonight.’

‘It’s not about numbers though, is it?’ I reply as we sit on a nearby bench to kill the ten minutes before the event starts.

‘What is it about then?’ she asks, adjusting her loosely tied headscarf. ‘I mean, I know your mum threatened you, but is it really about that?’

I think for a moment. I’ve been asking myself the same question and although I’ve been a bit difficult about the whole biodata thing, the truth is, I want to get married.

‘Not really,’ I admit. ‘It’s been so long since you-know-who. He was a piece of shit, I know, but apart from that, I enjoyed being in a relationship. The feeling of having someone there for you, no matter what, the companionship. Right now, I feel so .?.?.’ My voice begins to wobble slightly. ‘.?.?. Lonely.’

‘Ah, sis, don’t say that! You have me, and Ezra, and your sisters. You’re definitely not alone.’

‘I know. But I still need more, you know? I want what you have with Hasan.’

Layla scoffs at this and rolls her eyes. ‘Are you serious? I want to kill him half the time.’

‘Yeah, but the other half of the time you can enjoy the fact that you married your first love. He has your back, no matter what. You never go to sleep alone.’

‘Honestly, Zara, going to sleep alone is the best thing! No duvet-hogging, no snoring, no dribble on your pillowcases. I don’t go on about it, but I often wonder if I married Hasan too soon. We were only twenty-four .?.?. Well, I was twenty-four and he was twenty-three, for God’s sake. Who the hell gets married that young these days?’

‘So? You got to grow together!’ I insist, beginning to feel a bit panicky. In my eyes, Layla and Hasan are the perfect couple and the image I have of them is currently teetering on the edge of a precarious cliff, about to topple over and shatter into a million shards.

‘More like grow apart,’ she mutters. ‘Look, Zara, all I’m saying is that things aren’t as rosy as they seem. I wish I’d waited, but I was desperate to flippin’ shag him, wasn’t I?’

What?I stare at her and the shock is quickly replaced by giggles. ‘Are y-you telling me that you were in such a hurry to marry him because you wanted to sleep with him?’ I manage to choke out in between fits of laughter.

‘I wanted to make it halal, didn’t I!’ she wails, covering her face with her hands.

I lean over and give her a hug, still chuckling. ‘You’re such a horny cow. He’s a lucky man.’

‘But that’s the thing: now I can’t be arsed most of the time. He feels like I lured him into marriage under false pretences.’ She looks both embarrassed and pissed off as she admits this but one look at me struggling to contain my laughter and she lets it all out. We’re still laughing as we wobble into the building like a pair of drunks.

‘What exactly is tonight about, other than networking?’ I ask once the giggles subside and we are assaulted by more glass, chrome and marble. For a moment I wish I worked in Finance so I could wear high heels and a power suit every day. Then I remember that I rarely wear heels because I’m already tall and they hurt my feet.

‘It’s a chocolate-making night!’ Layla squeals as we head towards the lifts. She’s one of those people who can rarely conceal her emotions, be it excitement, anger or pain. I feel my spirits begin to lift. You can’t go wrong with chocolate.

We walk into a spacious conference room with glass walls and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. Layla spots a noticeboard at the entrance of the room with our names and table numbers on it.

‘Damn,’ she whispers, her hazel eyes wide, ‘we’re on different tables! I didn’t think they’d do that.’ So much for having a wingwoman. She is at the other end of the room and will be of no use to me.

There are five men and four other women on my table and, despite the odd wing person, it’s painfully obvious why we’re here. ‘Networking’ my arse. I can smell the desperation in the air as the women casually play with their hair or their headscarves and the men try to look indifferent.

Everyone looks so high-class in their tailored suits and expensive shoes and I’m the only one in jeans and Primark accessories. I shrink into myself as I wonder what to say when I reach my table.

I opt for a simple, ‘Assalaamu Alaikum,’ with a bright smile. There is a chorus of ‘Wa Alaikum Salaam’s as everyone turns to smile back at me. I can feel all of them, men and women, sizing me up. They’re probably wondering how I got past security.

I write my name on a label and stick it onto my jumper. On my right is a tall, OK-looking guy with trendy geek-chic glasses and a quirky tie. On my left is a petite woman in hijab. Sitting opposite me is a really tall hench-guy with brown hair and green eyes, who, according to his name label, is Hamza. He’s so big he looks like a tree, and I feel even smaller than I already did.

I can feel Hamza appraising me as I make small talk with Wahida on my left. Maybe I don’t look that bad after all. Feeling a bit more confident, I pretend not to notice.