Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

Because I do care. Does me not wearing a piece of cloth on my head mean I’m fair game to maul and grab? Life isn’t black and white, and neither are people, so why would my faith and how I practise it be any different?

Hamza looks at my clenched fists and the water gathering in my eyes and doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he lets out a long breath and, as he does, his shoulders sag slightly.

‘I need to talk to you about something,’ he begins, the confusion and hurt in his eyes painfully obvious. His expression and his tone are softer than before, but still, my pulse starts to quicken in nervous anticipation.

‘OK,’ I respond, taking a long gulp of my Diet Coke in a feeble attempt to calm the anxiety that’s bubbling away inside me.

He looks at me in silence for a few seconds. ‘How long have we known each other?’

‘Er .?.?. I’m not sure exactly. Three months?’

‘Five months today, actually.’

I swallow. ‘Is that why you’re upset? I’m not good with dates.’

‘Fair enough.’ There’s another painstakingly long pause and I’m tempted to get up and run. I hate confrontation, and this discussion is beginning to take a turn that I know is going to be difficult for me to navigate around. I brace myself for the storm that lies ahead.

‘It got me thinking. It’s been five months but we still act as if we’re only friends. If I hadn’t met you at a Muslim matchmaking event, I would be certain that you’re not interested in pursuing this further.’

‘It was a networking event,’ I mutter under my breath, for want of a better comeback.

‘Oh, come on! Everyone knew it was really a matchmaking event for singles and their matchmakers. Anyway. You looked horrified when I called myself your boyfriend in front of what’s-his-name – Adnan?’

‘Adam. And I wasn’t horrified, I was surprised. I mean, come on. We weren’t there yet, were we?’

‘So are we there now?’

Shit. I walked right into that one.

‘We’ve barely spoken in the past month, and you were pretty pissed off with me for talking to Mo.’ I shift nervously in my seat. ‘And now you’re asking me if we’re there?’

‘Look, Zara, I don’t want to play games. That’s not who I am. I like you. I really like you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t trek all the way up to North London to catch a glimpse of you. But whenever I try and move things up a notch, you retreat. I want to know why.’

Fear spreads through my body like water leaking into a ship. My hands begin to tremble and I clutch on to my glass to steady them. All this time, everything that was left unsaid gave me the freedom to get on with things without having to make the most difficult decision of my life. Who knew how Hamza felt about me? I wasn’t about to place all my ageing eggs into a basket with holes in it. But now that he’s forced me into a corner, I’m going to have to reveal what’s on my mind.

I can’t keep looking down at my plate full of uneaten, stone-cold chicken, so I force myself to meet Hamza’s penetrating gaze.

‘Um,’ I begin hesitantly. ‘I like you too .?.?.’ My voice trails off as I look down again. This is horrible. Horrible! I feel like a monstrous bitch. Why couldn’t I be in love with him or, at the very least, like him as much as he likes me? Life would be so much easier then. We could get married; have a bit fat Bengali-Egyptian wedding with tasty Indian food and lively Arabic entertainment; move into a comfortable, affordably trendy one-bedroom flat close to Central London, maybe in Camden or King’s Cross; I wouldn’t have to work as I’m pretty sure Hamza’s on big bucks, but I would anyway, at least until we had kids. Then we’d move out to the suburbs, if not Highgate then Crouch End, and have the cutest, chubbiest mixed-race kids you’ve ever seen, all golden skin and curly black hair, with their dad’s happy-go-lucky temperament .?.?.

I gulp. This is beginning to sound really, really tempting.

‘There’s going to be a “but”, isn’t there?’ Hamza interrupts my daydream at precisely the right moment because my little fantasy was becoming a bit too appealing, and I was this close to telling him we should go for it.

I open my mouth to tell him that there’s no ‘but’, and then close it again when I see his defeated expression tinged with a smidgeon of hope. I can’t lead him on. Not after he’s been so open and honest with me. It’s not right.

‘There is a “but”,’ I admit, too afraid to look at him. ‘I really like you too, Hamza, but I don’t know if I want to marry you.’

I was hoping that once the words were said, a weight would automatically lift off my shoulders. But it doesn’t. I feel awful. The fact that Hamza doesn’t reply doesn’t make the situation any easier. I’m still too scared to look up so I continue talking.

‘There’s so much that I lo—like about you. You have the purest and most sincere heart. You’re successful. Kind. Honourable. Thoughtful. Funny .?.?.’ My throat goes dry and I reach for my drink only to find the glass empty.

‘If I’m so great, then what’s the problem?’

He’s not going to make this any easier for me, but I owe it to him to be truthful. I can’t feed him some bullshit about him being too good for me and deserving better. But how can I tell him I don’t fancy him without completely trampling over his ego?

‘I don’t think there’s any .?.?. chemistry between us.’ I wince as I say this and continue to avoid looking at him. There is a silence that is magnified by the enormity of what I’ve said. It’s the loudest damn silence I’ve ever experienced, and in the absence of a response, I hear my heart pounding in my ear, almost deafening me.

‘Why? Because I’m fat?’ His voice is flat, devoid of any emotion, and it makes me finally look at him in surprise.