Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

‘Hey, how are you feeling?’ she asks gently, perching on the edge of my tousled bed. ‘Here, drink this, it will make you feel better.’ She hands me a mug of coffee from the tray and I pull myself up and take it. She’s also brought up a bowl of porridge, a glass of water and a box of paracetamol, and I thank her gratefully.

The nap seems to have revived me. It has certainly helped clear my mind. For the past year, while I’ve been searching for Mr Perfect, I’ve realised that I have a lot to be thankful for, and just because I was single didn’t mean that I was lonely. Far from it. I have a loving, albeit dysfunctional, family. I have amazing friends. I have a good job. I’m fulfilled. Marrying Hamza will be the icing on the cake, not the cake itself.

And if he hadn’t proposed when he did – well, that would have been fine as well. I don’t need a man to complete me. No one does. Our whole lives we’re taught that marriage is half of our religion, and we take it so literally that we feel incomplete until we achieve it. Yes, it’s part of our religion to find a partner and become a parent, but only if the right person comes along. It doesn’t mean that without it, we’re less, or worse – that we should settle for less.

‘Eat up,’ she instructs me, pushing the tray towards me. ‘I’ve booked a mobile beautician to come and she’ll be here in about half an hour.’

‘What!’ I exclaim. ‘Why?’

‘Er, have you seen the state of you? You can’t get married like this. You need to hop in the shower because first you’re getting a massage, followed by a body scrub, then waxing, a facial, mani/pedi, hair treatment and blow dry. I figured you’d want to do your own makeup. Hopefully by the time she’s done with you, you’ll look normal again.’

‘Oh Yas!’ I start tearing up again. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Don’t say anything. Eat, shower and wait here in your robe until she gets here.’ Yasmin untangles herself from my grip and I hold on as long as possible. When she finally manages to escape, I wolf down my breakfast and jump into the shower, scrubbing away all the sweat and grime from last night.

True to her word, thirty minutes later there’s a knock on my door and in walks a pretty, petite Asian girl with glowing skin who quickly sets up her portable bed and unloads a case full of products and equipment. She talks me through the various things she has planned, takes my medical history and then starts off with one of the most relaxing massages I’ve ever had. She even has speakers with her which she connects to her phone and plays soothing spa music while she works on kneading out all the knots and tension in my muscles.

Though my body is relaxed, it takes a lot longer for my mind to follow suit. I keep thinking about my lucky escape. It’s taken forever to get here but Hamza’s finally under my skin. All our lives we watch movies and read books that perpetuate the myth that there’s such a thing as ‘love at first sight’, but the reality is, there isn’t. There’s lust at first sight, sure, but love takes time to develop. It isn’t always groundbreaking and earth shattering like you think it’s going to be. Sometimes it’s a slow and steady stream of good vibes, good experiences and good memories that grow, until there’s enough to make you want to hold on to forever.

As for Adam, he’ll always hold a special place in my heart. He’s been a really good friend to me over the past few months, and I can’t help the fact that I’m attracted to him, but I know that it’s nothing more than that. Losing his friendship is what’s going to be hard to deal with. I’m going to miss him like crazy, but I know I need to keep away from him if I want my marriage to succeed. It’s not going to be easy, given the fact that I work with him, but it will be possible. Until last night, we successfully managed to avoid each other for over a month.

I feel reborn once the therapist is done with me. The last stage is blow drying my hair into soft, bouncy waves, and after she packs up and Yasmin parts with half her student loan to foot the bill (I do try and pay for it myself but she insists), I get to work on my face, which feels so much cleaner and refreshed after the facial.

I take out the dress bag that arrived last night while we were out, along with a suitcase full of other goodies. True to his word, Hamza stuck to Bengali tradition and chose my dress, shoes and accessories himself, as well as perfume and makeup. I can’t believe that last night’s drama made me forget to look in here.

I undo the zip and gasp as I find the most gorgeous Pakistani-style long white dress with delicate pearls and threadwork along the neckline, sleeves and hem. It’s simple but stunning, and exactly what I would have chosen for myself. My eyes well up again. He knows me better than I thought he did. The shoes are another surprise; sparkly Louboutin’s with red soles and again I can’t believe that he went to all this trouble for me. Lingerie is also part of the bridal trousseau, which his sister probably bought. It was really embarrassing when she texted me asking for my size.

By the time I’ve finished my makeup, it’s almost five, so not long left for the guests to arrive. Mum and Nani have finished all the cooking: a gigantic pot of spicy lamb biryani, a hundred pieces of moist tandoori chicken, a vat of vegetable curry and countless juicy lamb kebabs, all home-made. Abbu has bought naan and samosas from a restaurant and we’ve ordered a fresh cream cake adorned with pink flowers from a local bakery. The ceremony will take place in the living room, with Kamal giving a short speech about the sanctity of marriage, his brother Ridhwaan reciting a chapter from the Qur’an in Arabic, and then the actual nikah will take place, including setting the dowry amount that Hamza will offer me. This could be any amount, from £200 to £100,000 or more. My dad prefers going with the Prophetic tradition of a smaller amount so it’s manageable for the groom and not a burden. Abbu and Hamza’s dad will serve as the official witnesses. It will be a simple affair, but that’s how we want it, especially as we’re planning to go all out for the reception.

Nerves begin to brew as I spray myself with the perfume that Hamza chose and take a couple of half-hearted selfies and then sit back on my bed and wait. I can hear the guests start to arrive; cars pulling up outside the house, loud voices and laughter, the doorbell ringing, more voices and laughter. Soon, I hear footsteps coming up the stairs and my bedroom door is thrown open.

‘Omigod, you look sensational!’ My sisters, Samia and my younger female cousins – Jannah, Madiha and Ameera – all troop into my room and start squealing and taking photos. I oblige and try to smile but after the near miss from this morning, I find it difficult to get into the spirit of things. No one notices, though, they’re all too excited. Someone starts playing Bollywood wedding songs, and I half-heartedly dance along with my cousins as they continue to take pictures and make TikToks. We Zoom call Sabina and she gives my makeup the thumbs up, and makes Sam promise to call her during the actual vows so she can watch.

‘You did it,’ Samia says. ‘You’re getting hitched before you’re thirty and before me.’

‘It was never a race, Sam,’ I reply. I see Yasmin rolling her eyes and I decide to leave it at that. I don’t want any ill-feelings, especially not today. After some more giggling, the girls head back downstairs to sort out the final touches before the groom’s party arrives.

This is it. I’m getting married in an hour. Everything that has happened over the past year has led to this moment: Dr Farook, Mo, being rejected by the Tower Hamlets guy. It was all part of the maze that is my life, pushing and pulling me in different directions until I found the middle. I realise I’ve left Adam out of this list and I feel another wave of sadness. No more banter, no more chocolate biscuits in the pantry, no more late dinners in Wood Green, no more motorbike rides, no more confessions by the fire exit, no more Adam.

It’s almost without thinking that I take my phone out and check his social media profiles for updates. I tell myself that it’s innocent and there’s really nothing wrong in what I’m doing .?.?. right? I go to Instagram first but I can’t find his profile. Weird. I head to Snapchat next, but again, he’s disappeared. Same with Facebook. He’s still there on Twitter, but he hasn’t tweeted anything since last month.

Panic sets in as I try to access his profiles over and over again. I don’t know if he’s deleted me, blocked me, deactivated his accounts or if something has happened to him. His picture has disappeared from WhatsApp and I feel sick with worry and sorrow as I sit there, trying but failing to find out how he is.

Desperation takes over and I call him, only for the phone to go straight through to voicemail. My stomach plummets and I get the overwhelming urge to cry. But I can’t, or I’ll ruin my makeup.

It’s while I’m still holding my phone that it rings. It’s Hamza, probably calling to tell me that they’re almost here. I take a long, deep breath and try and compose myself before I answer.

‘Hello?’

‘Hey. So. We need to finish our earlier conversation.’

‘I thought it was finished?’ I reply, panic setting in all over again. Why? Why is this happening again? Is God punishing me because I feel upset about Adam? Of course I’m upset! He was a friend! He was important to me! I can’t turn off all these feelings with a switch. It’s going to take time!

‘I had more questions but when I’m around you .?.?. your presence affects me. I couldn’t do it with you right there in front of me, looking at me as though you were about to break. I’ve been trying to let it go all day but I can’t until I know more. I can’t marry you until I know.’

I close my eyes and try and gather my thoughts. What else does he need to know? I thought we already went through everything. Why can’t he let it go? Anger starts to simmer in my gut, and I try to douse it with positive thoughts. He needs reassurance. It only just happened and he hasn’t had enough time to process it all.

‘What do you need to know?’ I manage to choke out, trying to keep my voice neutral.