Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

‘He called me the next day but I didn’t answer,’ I croak, my throat hurting too much to speak any louder. ‘I couldn’t. I felt disgusted with myself, and so, so ashamed. I couldn’t tell anyone what had happened. Who would believe me? They’d think I was asking for it, somehow. And maybe I was. Maybe I gave off the wrong vibes?’

‘Don’t ever blame yourself!’ Hamza slams his fist on the table, and his ferociousness makes me look up in surprise. He’s furious but concerned at the same time, and the relief I feel at not seeing disgust in his eyes is palpable. I begin to cry more, loud, wracking sobs, but this time because I feel so relieved to have finally told someone and have them empathise instead of blaming me. I’m vaguely aware that we’re in public and people are probably wondering what the hell is going on, and to Hamza’s credit, what others might think about him right now is the last thing on his mind.

‘It’s not your fault,’ he continues vehemently. ‘You said no. That’s enough. He had no right to force you. And I know you, Zara. There’s no way in hell you implied that you wanted it. And even if you did – you’re allowed to change your mind.’

‘I should never have got into the back seat,’ I whisper, wiping my nose with my sleeve.

Hamza looks so angry that I’m worried he’ll suddenly knock over all the plates on the table. He runs his hand through his hair and shakes his head in disbelief as I continue the story; of how, after a couple of days of ignoring his calls, Tariq stopped calling altogether. And exactly two weeks later, we heard he got engaged to his cousin.

I never told my parents what had really happened between us. Only Yasmin knows the truth. Everyone else thinks he cheated on me .?.?. and I suppose he did, kind of. I mean, we never actually broke up. I thought that he would try and call me again, and then we’d talk about what happened, he would apologise, and I would persuade myself that it was a mistake, that there was no malice involved. We’d get married and that would be that. That night would turn into a distant memory, a hiccup in what would eventually be a lifetime together.

But he never apologised. In fact, we never saw each other again. He chucked me aside like a used, dirty old rag, and I had to pick up the pieces of my shattered heart and crushed soul, with only Yasmin by my side. All it was for him was one moment of pleasure – something he could have had with anyone – yet a moment was all it took for him to strip me of my dignity, my self-respect, my self-worth, my strength.

For over a year, I barely left the house. I pretended I was busy with work, but the reality was I couldn’t face my friends. They had no idea what had happened and thought I was nursing an ordinary broken heart. I stopped going to weddings or events where his family might be present. And not only because of them, but because the rumour mill was spinning fast. As people speculated about what happened between us; gossip turned to rumours, rumours turned to lies, my reputation and honour was questioned.

I stopped wearing clothes that would make me attractive, and I gave away everything that was slightly revealing. I started putting on weight. Someone asked if I was pregnant.

My mum was livid and fell out with his mum over the deceit and all the gossip. My sisters were heartbroken for me. They tried their best to cheer me up and then gave up when they could see that I wasn’t responding to their attempts. My nani was practical, telling me that I would find someone better, it was his loss and Abbu was .?.?. Abbu. He didn’t say much at all.

And me? I’ve spent the last five years making sure that I never give off the wrong impression again. That any guy I speak to knows his place and my limits. I’ve built walls so high around me that you’d need more than a ladder to climb over them, you’d need military intervention. And since I have first-hand experience of how vicious some people in my community can be, I’m more careful about my reputation than ever. Yes, we live in London, but sometimes it feels like we never left Sylhet .?.?.

‘I’m sorry for not telling you any of this sooner,’ I say, rubbing my eyes. I’m pretty sure I look like a raccoon right now, with black rivers all the way down my face, but I get the feeling that Hamza doesn’t care. I look around the restaurant and there are a few people giving me curious sidelong glances, in that very British ‘let’s pretend we haven’t noticed’ kind of way. But there’s nothing I can do about that. It’s too late; it’s all out now. And I feel oddly lighter.

‘You don’t have to apologise. It was never my business to know. But I’m glad you felt you could tell me. I can’t believe you’ve kept this all to yourself all this time. You should have got help. Justice.’

‘Justice? For what? He didn’t get to finish the job he started. I would have been a fool to tell anyone the rest. Can you imagine what people would have said about me if it got out? They chatted crap about me when they didn’t know anything! No one would have blamed him. They all would have said that I was asking for it, or that I led him on, or worse, that I’m lying, that I made it up because he ended it with me. It would have broken my parents and they would have had to deal with the rumours and whispers for the rest of their lives. I couldn’t do that to everyone, or even myself. It wasn’t worth it.’

‘Our society is f***ed up isn’t it?’ Hamza says with a grimace. I smile a small smile back at him because it’s the first time I’ve heard him swear, and it doesn’t sound as out of place as I thought it would.

‘It is what it is. So yeah. Now you know why I don’t let anyone near me.’

Hamza insists on walking me home afterwards, although my house is only five minutes away.

‘Zara,’ he begins gently when we get to the bottom of my road, ‘I get why you don’t like physical contact now, and why you’ve been reserved with me. I even understand why you needed to cast a wide net. Sort of .?.?.’

We carry on walking, me examining the cracks and gum on the pavement while he continues to talk.

‘.?.?. But what you said about not being attracted to me is still true. If this isn’t going anywhere and you only want to be friends, you need to tell me. I need to know so I can move on. I want to get married and have kids. You’re not the only one getting older, you know. I’m going to be thirty-three soon, and my parents are pressuring me. But I want to marry someone who wants me as much as I want them. Not someone who’s settling for me.’

We stop walking and, as I look up at his earnest face, I feel a pang in my heart at the thought of never seeing him again. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, a lump forms in my throat and it hurts to swallow.

‘You don’t have to decide today, but you need to decide soon, OK? Please don’t leave me hanging forever.’ He draws me close to him and gives me another gentle kiss on the top of my head. This time I don’t recoil. In fact, I tentatively return the hug. We stand there for a few seconds, our hearts pounding away in unison, while he softly strokes the top of my head. Then he brushes away the last tear trickling down my cheek and walks away.