Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

Chapter 20

I don’t know about you, but after I’ve had a fab night out, I feel on top of the world. My friends who drink beg to differ. They claim that following a night of unadulterated partying, they’re usually one of three things: glued to a toilet bowl with vomit trickling down their chins; in bed with a brain-crippling headache; or in bed with a stranger, wondering how to sneak out without having to make awkward conversation. And occasionally, all three.

As for me, I’m beginning to feel like my old self, the one I was before all this marriage drama, before Tariq. Who would have thought that a bit of quality time with my sisters and cousins, good music and shisha was what I needed to pick myself up?

After we dropped Adam off outside his house – a small terrace on the Harringey Ladder – the girls wouldn’t stop hooting and singing about Zara and Adam sitting in a tree and other such adolescent nonsense. Samia was particularly enamoured by him and kept asking me questions about him. From general things like what he does for a living and who he lives with, to random questions like what his favourite food is (doner kebab), what sort of music he listens to (old school hip-hop), how he drinks his tea (black and with heaps of sugar). What she plans to do with that information, I have no idea.

The rest of the weekend passed with loads of eating, laughing and catching up. Nani spent the entire time fussing over us all, Sabina in particular. She’s always been Nani’s favourite, with me coming in at second place and Samia at third.

But amidst all the chaos and curries, I found my mind constantly returning to Adam, and not just about how I felt cocooned against him, but the fact that the first time we met, he tried to save me by sticking that sign on the toilet. And what is most astounding is that he had successfully hidden it from me for three years, instead of reminding me of his chivalry at every available opportunity.

It’s while I’m sitting with my family, quietly minding my own business and wondering if Adam ever thinks of me outside the office, that my mum decides to launch into one of her marriage tirades.

‘Listen, Zara, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but things have been a bit quiet on the biodata front,’ she says on Sunday night, after my cousins have left and it’s the six us of once again, curled up on the sofa watching a cooking show. Rather than reply, I rest my head on Nani’s shoulder and stoically continue to watch Nadiya Hussain travel through Bangladesh eating all this stuff I’ve never heard of, let alone seen.

‘Well, anyway, I don’t know if you met your Bilquis Aunty at that wedding we went to? She’s looking for her son, Tony, and wanted me to share his picture with you.’

I glance over at my sisters to gauge their reaction. Yasmin’s scrolling through her phone and appears to be ignoring the exchange and Amina is watching us curiously, probably wondering if I’ll ’fess up about Hamza.

‘Er, right,’ I say, noncommittally.

‘You could show a little enthusiasm!’ She huffs, glaring at me with eyes as big as mine.

‘It’s hard to be enthusiastic when it’s probably not going to go anywhere,’ I reply, my tone neutral. I look over at my dad for backup, but as usual, he keeps out of it. To be fair, contradicting my mum is akin to throwing oneself in front of a bulldozer.

‘Well, it’s that winning attitude that’s getting you nowhere!’ she retorts, her voice soaked with sarcasm. ‘We have less than six months before your birthday, but riding motorbikes and going out with your friends is more important than finding a husband, isn’t it?’

Yasmin stops looking at her phone and Amina sits up straight, the tension in the room so thick you can almost touch it. I woke up this morning feeling like I was in a good place, mentally and emotionally. But my mum’s accusation lands heavy, and it hurts.

‘How can you say that?’ I exclaim, my voice rising. Nani places a hand on my leg but it makes no difference to the rage that’s simmering inside. ‘I’ve done everything you wanted me to and more! I wrote your stupid biodata, I’m going to the weddings, I’ve lost weight, I signed up to a marriage app, I’ve been to events! I dressed up like a granny and met Dr Fool after completing that humiliating questionnaire of his! I’ve even let you send my details to people I’m not interested in, against my better judgement, and they’ve rejected me! And now you turn around and throw it all in my face?’

By this point I’m standing up and waving my hands around manically. All four feet nine inches of my nani is trying to pull me back to a sitting position, but I shake her off as I feel the telltale prickling sensation behind my eyes.

‘Mum, you’re being out of order.’ Amina sounds as indignant as I feel. ‘What else is she supposed to do? Promote herself on a street corner?’

‘Or take out a billboard ad like that Muslim guy did once,’ Yasmin adds.

‘Khobor dhar, amar Jara reh bezar khorbai,’ Nani joins in, accusing Mum of talking too much and telling her that she better not dare upset me. ‘Tumi beshi matoh!’ I look over at my mum to see her staring daggers at poor Nani.

‘All right, everyone needs to calm down,’ Abbu interjects feebly.

‘I am calm, thank you very much,’ Mum snaps. ‘Tell your beloved daughter to calm down. She’s the one gallivanting around North London on the back of a motorbike, and rejecting all sorts of decent proposals, like she’s still twenty-three! At this rate, Samia is going to be married before her!’

‘Decent? Are you telling me that Dr Strange was decent?’ I shout at her. ‘And so what if I’m twenty-nine? I’d rather be twenty-nine and single than twenty-nine and married to a psycho!’

‘I’ll show you psycho if you reject another perfectly decent proposal!’ Mum shouts back at me, pointing her knitting needle at me menacingly. ‘Six months, Zara! We’ve got six months and then I’m booking you a one-way ticket to Bangladesh!’

Unable to take any more of the accusations, I run out of the room and upstairs to my room. Despite the door being closed, I can hear the muffled voices from down below. Sticking my earphones into my ears, I squeeze my eyes closed and try to remember how settled and at peace I felt the entire weekend, up until this storm.

*

The next morning I leave the house extra early to avoid seeing anyone in my household and work out my frustration at the gym.

‘Zara, you’re smashing it,’ Jordan tells me, impressed as he feels my bicep while I beat the shit out of the punching bag. ‘You look incredible. Well done, babe.’

‘Thanks,’ I pant, wiping my sweaty hair out of my face. Jordan’s good looks barely affect me these days. I mean, I’m not blind, I can still see them but I’ve developed immunity to them. I carry on working out with his firm encouragement, my mum’s words ringing in my head over and over, like the most annoying song ever on repeat. I can’t believe she thinks I’ve been sitting on my backside for the past six months .?.?. and then hit me where it really hurt by pitting me against Samia.

Argh! I give the bag one last kick and then chuck off my gloves and go and get ready for work.