Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

Chapter 7

The following Monday, I’m really feeling the hours of sleep I’ve missed out on because of my text convos with Mo. The weekend was no exception – in fact, it was even worse because I tried to do what Francesca advised and speak to multiple men on the app at the same time. This drained hours of my time and it all got really confusing. I started mixing up where Ahmed lived with what Khalid did for a living and what Wassim liked doing for fun. It got even messier when I replied to Mo instead of Khalid and then had to backtrack and work my way out of that one. It was exhausting and in the end, I gave up. It’s hard enough having three guys on the scene in real life. I don’t need to complicate it further by adding another three online.

I’m not a morning person anyway but today, it’s worse than ever. My alarm starts going off at seven but it takes me a whole hour to persuade myself to get up: Should I get up? Do I really have to get up? When was the last time I pulled a sickie? Can I get away with pulling another one? Can I pretend I had a morning meeting and go in at noon instead? Can I switch off my phone altogether and make up an excuse tomorrow?

By eight, I’ve reasoned that I can’t pull a sickie as it hasn’t been long enough since my last one. I can’t pretend I have a morning meeting because Kevin has access to my calendar. I can’t not go in – not unless I want to lose my job anyway. Seeing as I’m lucky enough to be one of those rare people who actually enjoys what she does, in the end, I leap out of bed and do my morning stretches and deep breathing.

Yeah, right. Ha. I literallyroll out of bed, fall onto the floor with a loud thud, and drag myself across the thick, grey carpet in my room and go to my en-suite bathroom to get ready.

Mum has given me strict instructions not to apply my makeup in my room in case any debris should fall from a palette onto her beloved carpet. I don’t blame her. It took a whole year of moaning at my dad before he agreed to change the ten-year-old carpets in the house and she is very protective over them. How would she know if I defied her, you might be wondering? She won’t, but the one time I ignored her, I dropped my eyebrow pomade everywhere. I almost stopped breathing. Half an hour of scrubbing later, the marks had almost disappeared and my hands were left red and raw.

As I go through my usual morning routine, I decide to spend a little longer on my face, to make it look as though I haven’t been awake most nights over the past week. Back in the day, I could slap on a bit of blusher and lippy and hope for the best, but that just doesn’t cut it anymore. My imperfections are even more apparent when I’m next to Insta-perfect Francesca.

When I’m done, I spray on my lucky perfume, throw on a long jumper and dark skinny jeans and make my way down the three flights of stairs to the ground floor. Today is Monday, I remind myself. It’s a new day, it’s a new week, and I’m going to make it count. So far, I’ve been to a matchmaking event, joined MuslimMate and I’ve agreed to send my biodata to two potential suitors. This week, I have to think of a new way to meet someone.

‘Salaams, Nani,’ I say to my grandmother as I enter the kitchen and spot a plate of scrambled eggs, avocado and wholegrain toast waiting for me on the kitchen table, along with a Thermos of hot tea and a Tupperware with my packed lunch. I walk over to her and give her a big hug and kiss and then plant myself in the chair next to her and dig in while she daintily sips her tea and nibbles on Ryvita with low-fat spread.

Before you ask, yes, she does do this for me nearly every day. And no, she doesn’t do it for anyone else.

‘Tumareh ayzku oto shundor lager kheneh?’ Nani asks, pouring me a glass of water.

‘Thanks, Nani.’ I grin at the compliment, my mouth full of food. ‘I’ve decided to make an effort so boys notice me more.’ Nani almost chokes on her tea.

‘Toubah ostoghfirullah,’ she splutters, her eyes wide with horror. This, by the way, is her favourite phrase, a Bengali version of the Arabic, ‘I seek forgiveness from Allah.’

‘Not like that, Nani,’ I laugh, giving her a squeeze. ‘I can’t sit around and wait for Ammu to find someone for me. I need to look out myself, too. And while I do, I need to look presentable.’

I love my morning chats with my grandmother. As my sisters both leave for uni/work an hour earlier than me, and my dad leaves half an hour before me, it’s usually just the two of us eating and talking together. Nani has lived with us since my granddad died when I was fifteen. I have uncles she could have lived with, but we have the biggest house so Mum insisted that she moved in with us. Sometimes it can become a little stifling, having three adults in the house to answer to, but mostly I love it. Nani is like a little 4’ 9” mother hen, always flapping about, making sure we’re fed, warm and happy.

The February air is crisp as I walk to the station, wrapped up in my winter coat, thick-knit scarf and knee-length boots over my jeans. I’m lucky enough to be able to wear casual clothes to work so long as nothing is ripped or too provocative. Not likely with a mum like mine. I bought ripped jeans once. There was only one, tiny, modest tear at the knee – just one – and she went ballistic. The next morning, I decided to rebel and wear them with leggings underneath. I found them folded up on my dresser with the tear neatly sewn up.

Now do you see why I need to do whatever it takes to get married and get the hell out of this house?

I usually take the bus to work as the W3 stops right outside the office, but I’ve cut it too close today so need to get the Tube. As I hurry towards the station, Hamza’s text the other day plays on my mind. I wonder if I should have been more cut-throat with him and told him I’m not interested. Or maybe I should have just ghosted him and saved myself the awkward conversation altogether. But the thought of completely ignoring someone without having the decency to tell them why makes me feel sick. I couldn’t do that to him, or anyone really.

The eastbound Piccadilly Line train towards Cockfosters is almost always empty by the time it gets to Finsbury Park. I’m only on the train for a couple of stops so whether or not I get a seat is pretty irrelevant, but it is nice to be able to sit down, pull a book out and read instead of standing squashed against other commuters.

I step into the carriage and do a quick scan of where to sit when I realise that my Tube crush, Mr Piccadilly Line, is in the same carriage but right at the other end. As always, he looks like he’s stepped out of a men’s magazine. He’s tall and broad with a head full of thick, wavy hair and a small beard. And there’s no ring in sight. The only problem is .?.?. I don’t know if he’s Muslim or not. He looks it. Sort of. Back in the day, it used to be easy to tell if a guy was Muslim by his facial hair. Now that beards have become fashionable and every man that grooms himself fancies himself as a hipster, it’s bloody impossible.

Mr Piccadilly Line and I have been ‘bumping’ into each other every couple of months for the past two years. We’ve made eye contact a handful of times (and, damn, his gaze is unnerving) but that’s about it. This is the London Underground, after all, where you ignore everyone around you as much as you possibly can. Even if they’re crying in front of you and staring at you like they need help.

He hasn’t seen me get on the train as his (perfect) nose is buried in a book. If this coincidence had occurred before my birthday, I would have sat down in the nearest empty seat and stolen the occasional glance at my little Tube crush from afar.

However, today is not just any day. Today is a new week, a new beginning. Today is the day I’m wearing my lucky perfume and most of the makeup I own. Today is the day I’m wearing my magic jeans that almost make my bum look sexy.

Today, my friends, is the day I will do more than accidentally catch his eye. Today I will find out whether he is Muslim, and therefore, marriage material. Today is not a coincidence – it’s fate.

I can’t bring myself to pass the empty seats nearby and walk all the way down the carriage to sit near him, though. I do have a bit of shame. By some stroke of good fortune, the doors haven’t closed yet, so for once, I act fast. I jump off the carriage, run down to the other end and, as the doors are about to close, leap back onto the train. Panting unattractively, I plonk myself down in the seat directly opposite him.

My abrupt movements startle Mr P into looking up from his book and into my slightly manic, grinning face. Oh Lord, he is even better looking up close, if that’s possible. Everything about him is sheer perfection, from his full, but not-too-thick eyebrows and super-long eyelashes that frame his chocolate eyes, to his straight nose and neatly trimmed beard.

I need to say something to him. Anything. While I still can. Because the minute he starts reading again, that will be it. My chance will be over for another few months. I’m not lucky enough to have lightning strike in the same place twice while I’m looking this good.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you,’ I say, still wheezing from the rare exertion of running ten metres. ‘I didn’t want to miss this train and be late for work.’

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret it. It’s such a boring thing to say and it’s not even a question. How am I going to keep the conversation going if he replies with something like, ‘It’s OK’?

‘No problem,’ he says with a smile. He appraises me for a moment, a curious look flashing across his face before it becomes impassive again. Gosh, even his teeth are perfect, sparkly white and straight. He looks back at his bloody book.