Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

Chapter 9

That evening, dinner is a solemn affair with me scowling at Mum every few minutes, her huffing and puffing and everyone else waiting for one of us to explode. I don’t, though. I eat my generous portion of shepherd’s pie as quickly as possible, help with the tidying up and then excuse myself. As I make my exit, I hear Abbu grumbling to Nani about still being hungry and if there’s any ‘real’ food around (i.e., rice and curry).

I don’t know why, but I keep replaying my conversation with Adam over and over in my mind. I know I’m a bit of a ditz sometimes, but I am astute enough to realise that something changed between us today. Apart from when he acts like a judgemental git, we’ve always got along quite well. Our conversations rarely go beyond superficial topics, though; office politics, films, TV shows, restaurants. Now we’re suddenly talking about the things that matter. And his coat was so warm and smelt so good.

I wonder what my parents would say if I wanted to marry a Turkish guy .?.?.

Argh!

This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all.

Looking for further confirmation of what I already know, I find myself on Adam’s various social media pages. It’s the first time I’ve looked at them since he added me two years ago. On Facebook he doesn’t have many profile pictures, so it doesn’t take long to go through them. None of them are too posey, which I like. There’s one of him on top of a mountain with some guys, another in the desert with a falcon on his arm, and one of him holding a fishing line on a boat. I hadn’t realised he was so outdoorsy.

My phone pings with a message from Mo and I start, feeling ever-so-slightly guilty; texting one guy, seeing another, whilst stalking the social media of someone else. A year ago, I would have scoffed in your face if you’d told me that I’d have three men on the scene simultaneously. And yet here I am. According to Yasmin, Layla, and even my inexperienced cousin Samia, this is what dating in this decade is all about.

I go back to Adam’s profile and, after a little poking around, find quite a few photos of him that other people have added, which mainly consist of him in different bars and clubs with various scantily clad women hanging off of him.

The butterflies I got from his beautifully fragranced, manly jacket flutter away as quickly as they appeared. I can’t compete with these women, with their fake tans, big hair, bigger boobs and strategically placed tattoos. I doubt he’d ever be interested in a girl as plain as me. The closest I’ve ever got to a tattoo are the henna ones we get done before weddings.

‘Zara! Quick!’ Mum bursts into my room with my sisters close at her heels and Nani panting behind them.

‘What?’ I look up with a bored expression. I do this intentionally because I know my mum hates my resting bitch face. But she’s too wound up to notice, let alone care.

‘You have an email from the dentist!’ she exclaims, practically dancing with excitement. ‘See! I knew ZaraTheExplarer was a good call!’

Yasmin chokes as she tries to contain her laughter and I give her my most lethal death stare.

‘I thought you said you wouldn’t check that account without letting me know?’ I say, raising an eyebrow.

‘I’m letting you know now, aren’t I? Quick, open it up!’

All of them gather around me on the bed as I let out a theatrical sigh and quickly open a new tab before they see what I’ve been doing.

‘Read it out loud then,’ Mum commands as I open up the email from ‘F. Chowdhury’. I read in a monotone,

Dear Zara,

I hope this email finds you well. I have perused your biodata; thank you for sharing it with me. However, before we proceed, in order to determine whether or not we are compatible, could you kindly complete the attached questionnaire.

Do take your time with each question and remember – there are no right or wrong answers! All the best and I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Dr Farook Chowdhury.

There is a silence so deafening that my ears begin to ring.

What. The. Hell?

Like seriously. What the hell? I don’t know what’s worse – the questionnaire or the fact that he’s signed himself off as ‘Dr’.

Yasmin is the first to break the silence by clearing her throat. ‘Erm, it’s a bit like when you apply for a job, Z,’ she says in a strangled voice. ‘You sent your CV in and now he wants you to complete the application form, so he knows whether you’re the right candidate to be invited for an interview.’

I stare at her, not sure if she’s taking the mick or being serious. I think it’s the former, and judging by the dirty look she shoots Yasmin, Mum obviously does too. She chooses to ignore the sarcasm and steps in before I get my voice back.

‘Exactly, that’s all it is, nothing wrong with that,’ she says chirpily with a huge fake smile. ‘Open the attachment then. Let’s fill it in together, shall we?’

‘Don’t open it!’ Amina bursts out, her face red with fury. ‘Who does this Doctor Farook Chowdhury think he is, exactly? Unless he’s Zayn Bloody Malik, how dare he belittle you like this? Actually, you shouldn’t jump through hoops evenfor Zayn! You don’t need him or his shoddy questionnaire, thank you.’

‘I thought you were a Riz Ahmed kinda girl,’ Yasmin says to Amina, going off topic. ‘Zayn is a bit obvious don’t you think?’