Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

‘Don’t be stupid!’ I exclaim, horrified by his accusation. ‘You’re not fat! And if you were, it wouldn’t matter.’ This turns out to be the wrong thing to say, because colour floods into his cheeks and he looks even more affronted.

‘So now I’m fat and stupid?’

‘Please don’t be like this!’ I’m mortified that I’ve offended him. ‘You’re putting words in my mouth!’

‘Be like what? How did you expect me to react? We’ve been getting to know each other for five months and only now do you decide to tell me that you’re not attracted to me, and only because I’ve practically forced it out of you? Why the hell have you been stringing me along all this time?’

My own face turns pink under his accusatory stare, and I squirm uncomfortably in my seat, completely unsure of what to say. I’m trying to be honest but his response, albeit justified, is making me wish I never opened my trap. This is not the reunion I was envisioning after our month-long break.

‘That’s not fair. One of those months was Ramadan, and we’ve only met like, three or four times. It’s not that simple.’

‘Simplify it for me then.’

Everything about his tone and his body language is the complete antithesis of the Hamza I thought I knew. I thought I liked assertive men who had a rough edge, but now I’m not too sure.

‘Tell me what’s been going on, Zara. And don’t feed me any crap, please. If you have any respect for me, be honest with me.’

This is it then, the moment of truth. I can go in either direction right now, but he’s right, I owe it to him to be honest.

‘Wallahi,Hamza, I swear, I think you’re really special, and I’ve been going along with this despite the lack of chemistry because I was hoping that, with time, it would grow. But it hasn’t. There’s still no chemistry. No tingles. No buzz, you know?’

Instead of looking angry, or shocked, Hamza looks absolutely crushed. But the worst part is, he also looks like he understands.

‘So that’s why you flinch whenever I touch you?’

The enormity of what I’ve offloaded onto him hits me, and that’s when I know I have to tell him everything. I can’t let him think that my issues are purely about him, when it is to do with me as well. He doesn’t deserve that.

‘No, that’s not why. There are some things you don’t know about me,’ I begin hesitantly, nervously twisting the ring I wear on my forefinger over and over. I stop to see if he’s listening, and although he can’t meet my eyes, I know that he is.

‘I was engaged once. His family knew my family, but he and I had never met until they brought the proposal round. We liked each other instantly and my parents let me get to know him before I made my decision. I fell for him hard. It was difficult not to, he was so charming and good-looking and we got on so well .?.?.’

My voice really begins to shake now, so I stop talking for a bit. I need a drink, but my glass is still very empty, so I grab Hamza’s and down the rest of his Coke. I don’t look at him, though. I can’t bear to see his expression right now.

‘We had been talking for about three months when he started trying to get physical with me. I was twenty-four and had never had any proper male friends, let alone an actual boyfriend. My idiotic friends used to tease me and call me a lesbian because I wasn’t interested in anyone.’

‘That’s so messed-up,’ Hamza interrupts. ‘I hate all these stereotypes about women, created by a scorned man, no doubt.’

I smile a sad, shaky smile then, despite what I’m about to tell him. ‘That’s the reality of being a woman. If you mess around with boys you’re a slut, and if you don’t then you’re gay, or frigid, or a tease. You can’t win either way.’

I take another deep breath and continue. ‘Anyway, throughout uni, they all had boyfriends but I was having fun with my girlfriends, going to restaurants, movies, musicals and exhibitions. I didn’t feel that I was missing out on anything. Besides, my whole life, my nani has gone on and on about how precious your reputation is, and how once it’s shattered, you can never repair it. So, I didn’t go there. It wasn’t worth it.

‘It started with his arm around me at the cinema. At first, I felt uncomfortable but then it actually made me feel warm and safe, so I let him. Then it was hugs whenever we said goodbye. Then we started to hold hands. I kept telling myself that it was minor, everyone did it, most people did more. Then, one day he was supposed to be dropping me home after dinner, and we stopped in Alexandra Palace to take in the view and chat. He started getting close to me and it felt wrong, so I told him to stop, but he wouldn’t. He kept laughing and telling me to stop being silly, that we were going to get married anyway, that it wasn’t a big deal.’

The tears that have been welling up in my eyes spill over, and I brush them away angrily, annoyed with myself for still letting him affect me like this. I’ve tried so hard to forget that day, but every feeling, every word, every smell, will be forever etched in my memory.

We had driven up to the top of the hill and he stopped on the side of the road next to the palace, so we could look down at the whole of London at night, with a million lights twinkling in the cold, winter darkness. There were no other cars around so we sat there for a while, talking about random stuff; friends, work, uni. He was doing his Master’s at the time, in architecture. And then he suggested we move to the backseat where we could be more comfortable.

We sat in the back, cuddling while we talked. His arm was around me and I was nestled into the crook of it. I had never felt so safe, so secure, so loved. But then he started to get closer, his fingers lifting my top and caressing my skin. I pushed his hand away and tried to laugh it off, telling him that we were going to get married in a few months so he could wait until then. He laughed too, and then tried it on again, turning the whole thing into a joke.

Until suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore.

He became a different man that night, as he pulled at my clothes, pawed at my flesh, held me down with his hands and knees so that I was trapped beneath his weight. I was petrified and kept struggling, but I could barely breathe, let alone move. The windows and doors were locked, and I remember taking huge gulps of air, trying to stop the bile from rising up my throat. He kept laughing and whispering that he knew I wanted it, how beautiful I was, how I was his and no one else’s, to stop playing games. He acted like we were having a laugh together, even though I was sobbing. To this day, I just have to catch a whiff of Versace’s Blue Jeans and I begin to retch.

‘Did he .?.?. ?’ Hamza’s voice trails off into a whisper, his face ashen.

‘No,’ I reply shakily. ‘He very nearly did, but then someone suddenly knocked on the window. It was a policeman – we were parked in the wrong place. That seemed to break the daze that he was in. We went home in silence.’

The tears are pouring freely down my cheeks now, and I can’t wipe them away fast enough, so I give up and let them flow.