‘What’s so funny?’ she demands with a scowl. ‘I thought you were too depressed to even eat? I had to do all the bloody cleaning up.’ She squeezes herself onto the bed and we show her the biodata. She’s not impressed by the guy or our amusement.
‘You’re not going to send your details, are you?’ she exclaims, tossing the phone aside and looking at me intently. ‘You’re more than some ovaries, Z. You don’t need a man to complete you.’
I’m not surprised by Amina’s reaction. She’s made it clear to everyone – Mum and Abbu included – that she has no interest in marriage until she’s had a fulfilling career, and will only do it for love, not something as insignificant as dehydrated ovaries. That won’t stop my mum from hounding her the moment I’m married, though.
‘Er, I totally will send them,’ I admit with a shrug as both my sisters exchange pitying glances. ‘Look, he’s a Choudhury. He’s educated. He’s taller than me. He’s not bad looking once you get over the glasses and the hair style – both of which can be rectified. He ticks a lot of boxes.’
‘Since when did you become so pragmatic?’ Amina says, folding her arms across her chest. Everything about her oozes disapproval and I feel my skin prickling defensively.
‘Since I turned twenty-nine,’ I snap. ‘I hope neither of you have to go through what I’m going through when you get to my age.’
‘I don’t even want to get married!’ Amina retorts haughtily. ‘I don’t need a man bringing me down, telling me what to do, stopping me from progressing in my career to have his offspring. No thanks.’
‘I’ll go and tell Mum and Abbu the good news, shall I?’ Yasmin interrupts, jumping off my bed and making a swift exit before the conversation turns into an argument.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Amina says darkly before leaving the room herself.
Of course I bloody don’t. But at least there are now three prospective husbands on the scene, four if you include Mo. I’d better write a list before I get confused between them all. I take my phone out and get creating said list when it buzzes; a message from Hamza. I’m a little surprised since I still haven’t replied to this morning’s text. I thought that the ball being in my court would buy me a little time. Evidently, he doesn’t play by the rules.
Salaam, Z, you OK? What are you up to this weekend?
I’m not sure if I want to see him this weekend. Once the high from eating all that delicious food and coming home in an Uber I didn’t have to pay for wore off, I was back to feeling like Hamza and I weren’t suitable. Anyhow, now that there are three other men on the scene .?.?.
Adam’s sneery voice asking me if I’ll drop Hamza like a hot potato the moment a better opportunity arises comes back to me. Is that what I’m about to do?
I write back,
Hey, Hamza, Good, thanks, how are you? I’ve got a lot of stuff going on this weekend. Maybe the week after?
That sounds nice enough, right? It’s friendly, not an outright rejection as I’ve suggested an alternative, but makes it clear that I’m nowhere near head-over-heels.
His response comes within seconds.
Sure, next week sounds great!