Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

Chapter 29

‘What? This Saturday?’ Mum gasps when I drop the news at dinner time, her hand freezing near her mouth where she was about to deposit a ball of rice mixed with daal and aubergine bazi. After the exchange with Adam, I was more certain than ever that I wanted Hamza. Hamza knows what he wants, always. He’s never uncertain. Never flaky. Always dependable. Exactly the qualities I want in a husband and the father of my future children.

I’m happy to bring the date forward, too; what’s the point in delaying the inevitable? Engagements and nikahs are nearly the same thing, we might as well save ourselves the time, hassle and expense and do just one; and then have a big reception later.

‘Why?’ Amina demands, looking at me as though I’m hiding something. ‘What’s the rush?’

‘I think it’s a good idea,’ Abbu says thoughtfully. ‘Saves us the bother of hosting the nikah a few months later.’

‘Ya Allah, people will wonder why we’re in a hurry,’ Nani splutters in Bengali.

‘Don’t you want two parties, sis?’ Yasmin asks.

‘Not really,’ I reply. ‘I’d rather get this done now and then go all out for the wedding later. Otherwise there’s the paan chini, then the nikah, then the mendhi, wedding and walima. Not to mention a bridal shower, and maybe a holud and a sangeet. It’s too much. I’d prefer us to have one reception and not bother with a separate wedding and walima.’

‘You’re our eldest daughter,’ Mum says. ‘I’m not skimping on anything. People will think we’re being stingy.’

‘Mum, everyone does it like this now. No one bothers with separate weddings and walimas anymore.’

‘That’s right,’ Abbu agrees, and I can practically see the calculator in his head doing the sums. ‘There’ll be at least eight hundred people attending, so it’s going to be expensive as it is.’

‘Eight hundred!’ I stare at my dad in disbelief. Do I even know eight hundred people?

‘We’ll talk about this later.’ Mum looks at Abbu pointedly. ‘But as for this weekend, if you really want to do the nikah then fine. But check with Kamal to see if he can conduct the ceremony. I don’t want any old Imam doing it and messing it up.’

*

We carry on talking about the event and the logistics throughout dinner. Mum makes it abundantly clear that in no uncertain terms can Hamza and I move in together until after the reception. Not that I want to, anyway. All it means is that, in God’s eyes, we’ll be lawfully wed and therefore can meet up and do whatever we want without it being haram, or sinful. It sounds strange but it’s something a lot of people do, to make the relationship legit while still having enough time to plan an epic wedding.

Gulp.

Anyway. Let’s not think about that. Whilst Islamically we will be married, socially, we won’t, so as per traditional Bengali customs, my parents don’t want us spending the night together until they officially give me away. I tell Hamza this rather timidly, and he laughs and says he’s waited to bed me for nearly a year so a few more months isn’t going to kill him! Can you believe he said that? Hamza, Mr Sweet and Innocent!

*

Throughout the rest of the week, every so often I’m suddenly hit by nerves that make my head spin so fast that I don’t know where I am anymore, let alone how I got here. It’s not that I’ve changed my mind or that I’m regretting saying yes. I’ve weighed up the pros and cons a million times and I’m semi-confident in my decision. But it’s such a massive thing, isn’t it? This is it. The person I’m going to be with forever, and while a part of me feels content, the other part is terrified. What if this is the wrong move? Just because it’s happening and it’s God’s plan doesn’t mean it will be a success, does it? What if God’s plan is for me to marry Hamza and then get divorced a few years down the line?

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can’t think like this now, the night before my nikah and moments before my last evening as a singleton.

My sisters and I are meeting Layla and Ezra at a fancy Turkish restaurant that has a modern, fusion fine-dining-esque menu and a boujie, loungey type vibe. All the influencers hang out there and take pictures by the signature gold glitter wall and it’s the perfect place to end my single life. I’m wearing a hot-pink off-the-shoulder dress with tights and sparkly gold heels with massive gold hoops and matching pink lipstick. The theme is Essex Glam and I definitely feel a bit TOWIE in my outfit, but I don’t care. Who knows when I’ll be able to tart up like that again? Amina has gone to town in a leopard-print jumpsuit and black strappy heels, her hair scraped back into a sleek pony. Yasmin is slightly more toned down, in skinny jeans, knee high boots and a zebra print top, with lashes so long they look like wings.

The others are already at the restaurant when we arrive so we follow the hostess up two flights of stairs to our table, and as I turn the corner and scan the crowd for my friends, I hear a huge cheer. There, at the furthest corner of the room is a group of people surrounded by golden helium balloons and flowers, all smiling and waving at me. My jaw drops open as I realise that not only are Layla and Ezra among them, but I can see a couple of old uni and school friends, Samia and even Francesca. Not sure how I feel about the last two, but excitement bubbles within me and I push the animosity aside. This isn’t the time to hold grudges.

‘Oh my God!’ I squeal, turning to give Amina a hug. ‘Did you do all this?’

‘And Yas.’ She shrugs. I hug Yasmin too, and then make my way to my friends, allowing myself to be embraced and squeezed to within an inch of my life, while they fire a million questions at me. It’s actually a really nice feeling, all this love from people who are genuinely happy for me, and I feel the cloud of uncertainty and sorrow slowly dissipate with every smile and hug.

‘I can’t believe you’re getting married, and it’s all thanks to me.’ Layla beams as we wait for our starters to arrive. I’m sitting in between Ezra and Shaniqua, with Layla opposite me. Layla’s stuck to the TOWIE theme and is in a gold lamé top with leather trousers and super-high sparkly heels. But she’s also wearing a gold headscarf that’s beginning to slide back like it always does, so it’s more Essex meets Beirut, and the combination is odd but it works in a weird Arabian glitz way.

‘How’s it thanks to you?’ Ezra asks her, adjusting her plain cotton headscarf for the millionth time. Despite the careful lengths she goes to, it always looks dishevelled, as if she’s just thrown it on. Ezra hasn’t tried to dress as per the theme, and I’m not surprised in the slightest. Neither TOWIE nor Arab glam is really up her alley, and her charcoal-coloured silk top and matching long skirt with chunky silver jewellery is as dressy as it gets with her.

‘I’m only the one who dragged Zara to the PwC networking event where she met him for the first time,’ Layla replies smugly. ‘She didn’t want to go but I persisted and now look where we are, at her last supper.’

‘No need to call it a last supper,’ I interject hurriedly. ‘Unless marriage is akin to crucifixion? You would know, Layla.’

‘It is a lot of the time.’ She sighs, but upon seeing the queasy look on my face, quickly adds, ‘But let’s not dwell on that now. You’re right. This isn’t a last supper. It’s your last night out before you marry your soulmate, the man you were paired with in heaven before either of you were born, who God put in your path so you could meet again.’

‘Is that the Islamic belief then? That God created you in pairs?’ Shaniqua, my old uni mate asks curiously. Francesca leans in to listen.