Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

Chapter 8

I’m more than a little flustered when I enter the office fifteen minutes later. There is a reason why Londoners ignore each other on public transport. I am never, ever going to shun social norms and strike up conversation with a random stranger on the Tube again. Ever.

‘What’s got your knickers in a twist?’ Adam says as I stomp into the open-plan room, fling my bag onto my desk and slam my Thermos next to it.

‘Nothing,’ I snarl, throwing myself into the chair. ‘And you can’t say words like “knickers” to me, all right? Have some respect.’

Well accustomed to my occasional outbursts, Adam rolls his eyes and turns back to his screen. Not that he’s working. I can see quite clearly that he’s messing around on Facebook and, as his manager, I feel like telling him off. But I can’t because he’s my friend too and since I’m going to spend half my day on social media, I’d be a total hypocrite.

The morning’s events still making me feel nauseous, I decide to take a moment to myself before I sit down to work. I gulp the last drop of tea from my Thermos and then head off to the kitchenette for another. At times like this, I wish I drank. I could do with a strong shot of something right about now. Oh well, piping hot tea with about ten biscuits is going to have to do.

As the kettle boils, I replay what happened on the Tube over and over again. Each time I do, the scenario gets worse and I feel like an even bigger loser. Maybe I should just leave the husband finding to my mum? But then, that’s what I did the first time, and look how well that turned out.

‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’ I turn around and see Adam lurking in the doorway holding a packet of chocolate Hobnobs. ‘I come in peace, bearing a friendship token from my planet.’

I grudgingly take his token and, against my better judgement, proceed to explain what happened. By the end of it, he is practically rolling on the floor with laughter.

‘I’m glad to see that you find my humiliation so amusing,’ I grumble, dunking a biscuit into my tea and licking the chocolate off.

He snorts. ‘I can’t believe you told him to shut up at the end!’

‘I didn’t! I was telling myself to shut up! I didn’t realise I said it out loud!’ I turn red at the memory.

‘That’s even worse. He must think you’re a total psychopath.’

‘Well, thanks for pointing that out!’ I snatch up the rest of the biscuits and head back over to my desk to nurse my wounds.

For the rest of the day, I struggle to concentrate on my work, mostly because I’ve got Mo DMing me throughout. It’s becoming a bit annoying now. The messaging was fun at first but now I just want him to call me and the fact that he hasn’t makes me wonder if there’s something wrong with him. Or me?

As I start winding down for the day, I get a different unexpected call. Mum never bothers me while I’m at work, so I can’t help but feel a nervous stirring in the pit of my stomach when the theme tune to Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho starts playing. In the eight seconds it takes me to locate my phone and answer it, I’ve already gone through various scenarios in my head (Nani has fallen and broken her hip; Amina has had a nervous breakdown in public and has been institutionalised; Yasmin has run off with a Jehovah’s Witness), and have consequently worked myself up into a bit of a panic.

‘Hello?’ I answer, my palms sweating. ‘What’s going on? Is everything OK?’

‘Everything’s fine! Why wouldn’t it be?’ Mum quite rightly responds, her voice so loud that I have to adjust the volume. I take a sip of water in relief and notice Adam shift in his seat. From the way he’s tilting his head, I can tell he’s trying to listen in, the nosey git.

‘You never phone me when I’m at work,’ I explain, lowering my voice to just above a whisper.

‘I know, but this is important. You know your dad told the mediator to go ahead and send your CV to the dentist and the Tower Hamlets boy? Well, he got back to your dad and said that the dentist wants your email address.’

‘That’s odd,’ I muse. ‘Why?’

‘We won’t know unless we give it, will we? But the thing is, I don’t really want to tell them that it’s NorfLandanGyal. Sounds a bit .?.?. “street”, doesn’t it? You really ought to think about getting a more mature email address. You’re not fourteen anymore.’

‘Er, good point,’ I admit. ‘You can give my work one then.’

‘Oh, that’s a good idea .?.?.’ She trails off and I feel my nerves begin to rattle again. I can tell that something is up and I’m about to find out.

‘Anyway, it’s too late for that, I’ve already made a new email address for you,’ she says so quickly that I almost miss it.

‘You what?’

‘Calm down, it’s only for this purpose. I’ll text you the password and I won’t access it without your knowledge.’

‘Dare I ask what it is?’ I sigh. I don’t know why I’m even surprised by my mum’s behaviour these days.

‘Well, “Zara.Choudhury” was taken everywhere unless we added lots of numbers to it, which is a bit unimaginative. We wanted something a little different and intriguing .?.?.’

My mouth turns dry and I swallow nervously. I really don’t like where Mum’s going with this. I take another sip of water and brace myself.