Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

‘Not exactly,’ he confesses, looking more and more fearful by the second. ‘You see, when my parents found out that Hiba was going to meet you, they wanted to meet you too and they wouldn’t take no for an answer, and then my aunt—’

The bomb explodes.

‘Hamza! I swear down I’m gonna kill you!’ I cry, covering my sweaty face with my clammy hands. ‘How could you do this to me? I’m not going in! Take me back to the station!’

‘I can’t! I already texted them and told them we’re on the way. They’re waiting for you!’

‘Hamza!!!!!’

‘I’m sorry! It was my sister’s fault! She told my mom she was meeting you, and then my mom insisted she got to meet you too!’

With one last wail, I give Hamza my fiercest glower before hastily rummaging around in my bag for things to help me look more presentable. In about thirty seconds flat, I manage to dab away most of the sweat, touch up my powder and lipstick, run a brush through my hair and spritz on some more perfume. And I don’t finish a second too soon because as I’m about to get my deodorant out, the front door swings open and a cheery girl in jeans, flowery blouse and pink headscarf bounds out and peers into the car before knocking on the window and waving frantically.

This, quite clearly, is Hamza’s sister; a smaller, female version of him.

I take a deep breath, plaster a shaky smile on my face, open the door and climb out of the car as elegantly as possible, my legs wobbling with nerves.

‘Hi! Assalaamu Alaikum, I’m Zara,’ I manage to say with realistic-sounding enthusiasm, extending my hand as she comes towards me. She pushes it out of the way and instead grabs me in a massive bear hug, before planting three alternating smackers on my cheeks.

‘Zara! ‘Alaikom Salaam! I’m Hiba! Oh, you don’t know how thrilled I am to finally meet you!’

Hiba has the same American-ish accent as Hamza and it suits her. She’s too full of life to be British. Then, grabbing the hand she pushed away only a moment earlier, she half ushers, half drags me towards The Front Door of Fear. I look back at Hamza in a panic, but he shrugs sheepishly and follows us into the house.

Oh Allah give me the strength to get through the next hour with dignity, grace, intelligence and sanity,I pray desperately as I misjudge the two steps leading up to the door and trip, nearly pulling Hiba down with me. Allah, please get Adam out of my head and show me whether Hamza is suited to me. Thankfully she’s nice and sturdy and helps steady me before giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.

‘Look, don’t worry, everyone is dying to meet you. You have nothing to worry about,’ she stage whispers as we enter the hallway.

‘Everyone?’ I croak. Who’s everyone?

I soon find out because a second later, we walk into the sitting room. The hum of voices stops abruptly and about ten people all stare at me with a mixture of curiosity and excitement.

‘Everyone, this is Zara!’ Hiba announces proudly, as if we’re old friends.

‘Zara! Habibti! Ahlan wa sahlan!’ A round woman in a white headscarf comes up to me first and engulfs me into her ample bosom. She feels warm and smells like honey and hand cream, and I know immediately that this is Hamza’s mum. OMIGOD I’m trapped in Hamza’s mum’s arms!

‘Assalaamu Alaikum, Aunty,’ I reply timidly as she takes hold of my shoulders, pushes me back and looks at me intensely. ‘It’s very nice to meet you.’

‘Haraam, look at you,’ she says in a strong Egyptian accent, frowning deeply as she takes in my startled expression, my clothes, my everything. Haraam? What does she mean by that? Is it because I’m not wearing a hijab? I feel my face heat up with humiliation.

‘Haraam, you are so small, so skinny! We will have to feed you today. But still, Masha’allah, helou.’ Then, as if she realises that I don’t understand Arabic, repeats, ‘Helou! Beautiful! Masha’allah!’

I let out a breath. OK, maybe she wasn’t insulting me, although I still don’t know why I’m haraam. I make a mental note to ask Hamza later. But now I’m being shoved towards somebody else as Hamza’s mum says something in Arabic, and judging by the wrinkles, I’m guessing it’s his grandma.

And it goes on and on. I meet his granny. His aunt. Two cousins. His brother. Some kid his aunt’s looking after. His mum’s best friend. And then, finally, his dad, who greets me quickly with a reserved smile and firm handshake, welcomes me to his home, and then swiftly leaves the room with the brother. I’m offered a seat on a sofa so soft that it practically swallows me whole and when I think I’ve got my balance, Hamza sits down next to me which makes the whole thing lean in his direction and I fall onto him. I try to shuffle away to the far end, but it’s difficult when I’m that sunken into it.

‘Ah, don’t worry, everyone gets confused by that sofa,’ one of Hamza’s cousins says with a shy smile when I finally manage to drag myself to the safer end, cursing it in my head. I swear to God, if I end up being part of this family, this is the first thing that’s going into the skip. ‘Our grandfather bought it before he passed and so it’s too sentimental to throw away. It’s become the lucky sofa now.’

Oh.

I smile back, embarrassed. ‘It’s OK, it’s comfy,’ I lie, giving Hamza a subtle glower when I hear him suppress a chuckle.

As the women continue to analyse me, I try my best to pretend that firstly, I haven’t noticed, and secondly, that I’m not furious at being duped like this.

I remember Francesca asking me weeks ago if Hamza had ever pushed me into things and I tried to defend him. But he’s done it again. He could have told me earlier what had happened with his family and then left it to me to decide if I still wanted to go ahead. Instead, he waited until it was too late for me to back out without looking like a complete cow and essentially taking the choice away from me.

In an attempt to distract myself from what Hamza has done, I surreptitiously glance around the room instead to try and get a feel for the place. As sitting rooms go, it’s pretty big, with high ceilings and what looks like an original Edwardian fireplace complete with coal and poker. And it reminds me of my own living room, only slightly bigger. The furniture is a bit too ostentatious for my taste, all curvy, engraved wood and floral upholstery that matches the maroon floral curtains. There’s a dusty chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and a faded proper Persian rug – not the fake Persian patterned ones you get, but a real, silk one.

And there are lace doilies everywhere. There’s one on the mother-of-pearl encrusted coffee table in front of me, spoiling its beauty. About three along the mantelpiece, one on each of the nesting tables, and I can see one on every shelf of the glass cabinet housing fine china and crystal ware. There is also an overabundance of ornaments; candles, vases, bowls with potpourri in them, fake flowers. It’s like being thrown straight into Cairo, circa 1979.