Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

‘You piece of shit!’ I yell, burying my face into his back as my stomach does somersaults and threatens to release its contents. ‘You promised you wouldn’t go fast! Slow down!’ I hear him laugh and he eases the speed. When I’m certain that he’s not going to accelerate again, I slowly work up the courage to release my demon clutch a little and force myself to open my eyes and look around.

I’m so glad I did. There’s something wonderfully exhilarating about riding a bike through these dark, quiet streets, the wind tearing through my hair and all the twinkling street lights blurring into a pretty, hazy glow. I relax my grip a little more, a massive smile on my face. Why was I so scared? This isn’t scary, this is amazing. I’m like Princess Jasmine, soaring through the sky with Aladdin showing me all the wonders of the world. OK, so I’m in North London, and instead of flying amongst the stars we’re riding through grimy, damp streets, but it’s still bloody amazing!

We’ve almost reached my house but I’m not ready for this magical carpet ride to be over, so I ask Adam to take a detour. He obliges with a stupid know-it-all grin, and we carry on riding past my house, down to Seven Sisters and up Holloway Road. Not the most glamorous of locations for this midnight adventure. In fact, it’s pretty dingy, but I don’t care about the scenery because I’m having way too much fun on this bike. I feel powerful and strong and I’m not even the one controlling it. No wonder Adam has such a huge ego, I would too if I was claiming the streets of London on this monster of a machine.

As we come up to the roundabout by Highbury and Islington, he speeds up and spins around it so fast that I’m once again clinging on to him, my face pressed against his back. I inhale deeply and take in his warm, masculine scent and it leaves me feeling strangely giddy. The only guy who’s got this close to me (apart from He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named) is Jordan, and that’s because it’s his job. I’ve never even had a male doctor before. Yet here I am, squished up to Adam as though I do this sort of thing every day.

My mind races as fast as the bike as I wonder what this broken barrier means. Will Adam now think it’s OK to hug me hello and goodbye? A couple of hours ago he thought I was mysterious and different from all the other girls he knows. Does he now think I’m yet another girl who quivers at the sight of his lean muscles and cheeky grin? He does feel amazing, though, and probably even better under the leather jacket.

He heads back down Holloway Road and I’m glad we’re going towards my house. This is all getting a bit too impassioned and confusing. It must be the excitement of it all that’s clouding my judgement and turning my insides to mush. No rational, logical or sensible twenty-nine-year-old Bengali girl would ever go for someone like Adam; who’s not only rude to me half the time, but the complete opposite of what I want in a husband. But then, look at Hamza; he ticks all the boxes and I’m hardly ready to run up the aisle with him either. I don’t think I know what I want.

‘Which one is your street?’ Adam asks when we reach Nando’s, and I reluctantly direct him to my quiet road with its long row of Victorian terraced houses, the engine shattering the silence. I look up at my house, praying that no one hears it. For a second, I think I see a curtain on the first floor twitch slightly. My heart in my throat, I check again but there’s nothing there.

‘Nice house,’ Adam says, looking up at it as I climb off the bike and take the helmet off. The top of my head is sweating and my hair is stuck to my scalp, while the bottom half is wild from the wind ripping through it. I probably look like something the cat dragged in, and I self-consciously run my fingers through the tangles.

‘Thanks,’ I reply shyly. ‘And thanks for the ride. It was pretty awesome.’ I look at him from beneath my lashes, and then look away, scared that the dodgy feelings that have been stirring away in my stomach might manifest in my expression.

‘I knew you’d like it,’ he says with a smirk as he takes his helmet back. ‘No one ever complains after I take them for a ride.’

Before I can articulate a witty response, he zooms away and I’m left standing at my gate watching him become a little speck in the distance. Idiot boy with his idiotic comments.

I open the gate and walk up the path, unable to wipe the stupid grin off my face. As I’m digging around in my bag for my keys, the front door swings wide open and there’s Mum in her cotton nightie, her expression furious.

‘You better have a flippin’ good explanation for coming home at this hour on the back of a motorbike like abehaya,’ she fumes, grabbing my arm and pulling me into the dark hallway. ‘What were you thinking? Don’t you care that the whole street can see your shenanigans? First that ridiculous picture with your personal trainer and now this? How am I supposed to get you married now?’

‘He’s my colleague,’ I yawn, still smiling. ‘You know I was working late tonight. Did you want me to get on the bus at this time?’

‘Oh, really? You expect me to believe that you were working all this time, do you? I’m not one of those village mums, all right. I can smell the kebab from here.’

Mum’s famous ‘I’m not one of those village mums’ line is one I’ve heard countless times before: when she discovered that I had a secret mobile phone at thirteen; when she read through my diary and learnt of all the naughty things Layla and I were getting up to at seventeen; and that one time I snuck out to go clubbing when I was at uni, she was waiting for me with the rolling pin when I got back at two in the morning.

How I wish she was one of those mums that grew up in a rural Bangladeshi village and was too naïve to figure out what their kids were getting up to. Instead, I’m lumbered with a mum that is the worst of both my worlds; tech savvy and cynical like a Western mum, but still clinging on to old traditions like the village mum she claims she isn’t.

‘So what if I went for dinner with Adam after we finished working? Maybe I was trying to be proactive about finding a husband like you desperately want?’ I retort insolently, to piss her off more. I’m aware that I’ve placed Adam in the husband category, but I don’t mean it. I want to wind her up and turn the spotlight back to her, but it has the complete opposite effect.

‘Give me attitude again and Allahr Kosom, I swear to God, I will book your ticket to Bangladesh right now!’ she hisses, as she grabs me by my ear and pulls me towards the stairs. ‘Now go upstairs before I take off my slipper and show you who’s proactive!’

‘Ouch, that hurt!’ I moan rubbing my ear, the grin well and truly wiped off. And then stop abruptly when I see the thunderous look on her face. So I turn around and leg it up the stairs as fast as I can. I guess when you’re Bengali, you’re never too old for a good ear-yanking or a slipper-slap from your mum.