Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

Chapter 5

I feel a huge sense of relief when Monday rolls along. If I ever have to look at a saree again, I think I might strangle someone with it. On the way home from the wedding, Mum and Nani kept exchanging worried looks and then glancing over at me, as if they were afraid that I had officially lost my mind. I kept reassuring everyone that I was fine and when that didn’t work, resorted to the old PMT excuse. Even though I’m not due on for a while.

Monday mornings are usually pretty hectic at work. We have a cross-departmental meeting with Marketing and PR, followed by our own quick huddle setting out our priorities for the week. That doesn’t stop Adam, Francesca and me from sharing a packet of biscuits and having a long chat about our weekends, though. It’s become an important Monday tradition, almost as important as the meeting itself.

‘How was your weekend then?’ I ask Fran as Adam goes to refill our tea mugs.

‘Wild,’ she admits. ‘I think I slept about three hours in total. I feel like shit.’

She doesn’t look like shit. She never does. Everyone can tell when I haven’t slept by the grease in my hair and the circles under my eyes. Not Francesca Robinson, though. Her blonde mane is as glossy as if it’s been combed a thousand times with a brush made from unicorn fibres, and the only things that ever rim her baby blue eyes are expensive designer glasses, which I recently found out are purely for fashion purposes.

‘Mine was a mad one as well,’ Adam says, catching the last part of her story as he rejoins us, carefully balancing three mugs of steaming tea.

‘Why, what happened?’ I asked, dunking a Hobnob into mine.

‘It was my cousin Aygul’s thirtieth birthday party. It started off normal, you know, loads of food, the kids running around the house wrecking everything .?.?.’

‘And then?’ I probe, looking forward to hearing the rest. Adam always has the best stories.

‘Then, my bastard sixteen-year-old cousin Ahmet, spiked the mocktails, so when we thought we were taking a break from the alcohol, we weren’t. Everyone got completely smashed, even my mum. Even my gran! I haven’t seen her like that in years! She got up and started dancing like it was 1973, then knocked into the birthday cake and ruined the whole thing!’

Fran and I laugh as he pulls out his phone and shows us videos of destroyed cake, sitting on the floor in a heap of fresh cream and vanilla sponge.

When it’s my turn, I ’fess up about the wedding, how I burst into tears like a hormonal adolescent, and how people said I had put on weight and that my complexion was ‘moila’. I omit the bit about my cousin being chosen over me.

‘What does “moila” mean?’ Adam asks, confused.

‘It literally means “dirty,” bu—’ Before I can explain the meaning in this context, he interrupts me.

‘I can’t believe people came up to you and told you you’ve put on weight! And that you’re dirty!’ he exclaims indignantly. I expected him to laugh or take the mick, but he actually looks horrified.

‘Hang on a second,’ I cut in, before any rumours of my hygiene start circulating. ‘They didn’t call me dirty. They said my complexion is “moila”. In Bengali it doesn’t sound that bad.’

‘Well, it sounds bad in English,’ Fran looks perplexed in that way politically correct white people do when they don’t want to offend you or your culture. ‘You have a nice colouring. I pay good money and spend hours under sunbeds to look like you!’

‘And you’re not fat, either, so get that out of your head,’ Adam adds.

‘Er, OK.’ I’m not used to Adam saying anything nice to me or about me, so I’m not sure how to take it. I study his face, wondering if he’s winding me up, but he looks serious.

‘And you’re not old,’ he continues, clearly on a roll. ‘I’ve got loads of aunties in Turkey who are, like, in their forties and unmarried and childless—’

Spotting the startled look on my face, he hurriedly adds, ‘I meant, you’re not even old. You’re twenty-nine, big deal. Who wants to marry an immature kid who doesn’t have a clue about life, anyway?’

‘When did you become such a Zara fan?’ I tease, when he finally stops ranting.

‘Shut up,’ he grumbles, swivelling his chair around and opening up InDesign on his Mac. ‘Be thankful I’m looking out for you.’

‘And maybe you need to find a husband a different way?’ Francesca adds. ‘That wedding sounds like a complete circus!’

‘Don’t worry, I am. I’ve actually signed up to a Muslim marriage app,’ I admit before I can stop myself. As soon as it’s out of my mouth, I regret it. One nice moment doesn’t mean I can trust Adam with this sort of info about my personal life. He swivels back round again, his mouth agape.

‘You’re seriously going to date men online? You know they’re all after one thing, right?’

‘It’s not a dating app, it’s a marriage app,’ I say slowly, enunciating every word like I’m talking to someone thick. ‘The guys on there are looking for wives, not hook-ups.’ Well, most of them, I say in my head, remembering what Yasmin told me about her friends.

‘Give me a break,’ he snorts. ‘It’s horse shit dressed as manure.’

‘Pretty sure horse shit is manure, Adam.’