Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

Chapter 6

‘What base are we on now?’ Francesca asks as soon as she comes into the office the next day. I yawn in response and she laughs before heading off to the kitchen for a round of tea. Adam turns and stares at me and I shrug at him.

‘What?’

‘Been sexting all night, have you?’ he jibes and I narrow my eyes at him. There’s something in his expression – judgement maybe – which is making me feel defensive.

‘No, it’s not like that, thank you very much.’

‘If you say so.’

When Francesca returns with three steaming mugs on a tea-stained tray, I take one from her in relief and she deposits Adam’s one on his desk before coming back to my desk and hovering over me.

‘So? How’s it going? Met any more potentials?’

‘Nah, just been chatting to Mo,’ I admit, and she gasps in mock horror. ‘Well, Hamza texted this morning as well, asking me how I am, but that’s it.’

‘Zara, that’s really not the point of online dating. You’re supposed to bang it out, you know? Date ’em quickly, and chuck ’em aside if they’re not the One.’

‘I don’t know if I can do that, it feels wrong.’

‘It is wrong,’ Adam chimes in.

‘It’s not,’ Fran insists. ‘Trust me, he’s doing the same thing.’

*

I’m exhausted when I get in from work that evening, not least because of the online shenanigans that lasted half the night. We’ve got an event coming up in the spring, and some stallholders have cancelled, so Francesca and I spent most of the day trying to entice businesses into booking a space.

Kicking off my shoes and leaving them haphazardly in the hallway, I start making my way to the sanctuary that is my bedroom, but Mum hears me and pulls me into the kitchen. She’s in the middle of cooking dinner and is wearing an apron with her greying hair pulled back in a severe bun. The hairstyle, together with the way she’s waving her chopping knife around makes me feel a bit anxious. Why can’t she wait until dinnertime to talk to me, when I have the safety of the others around should things get a bit dangerous?

‘Right, Zara, we need to have an important talk,’ she announces, staring down at me.

‘Erm, OK,’ I begin warily. ‘But can I take my coat off first? And change my clothes? I don’t want them to smell of curry.’

‘Fine. But come right back down.’

‘What’s up?’ I ask nonchalantly when I return in my trackies and collapse onto the dining chair. I study the plastic tablecloth with the odd curry stain that won’t come out as I wait for Mum to join me. She gives the three curries she’s whipped up for dinner a quick stir and then sits down across from me. She doesn’t speak for ages though, and when I peek up, I see that she looks about as uncomfortable as I feel.

‘How are you?’ she asks, a small frown on her face. Mum’s always frowning, which is why it’s quite miraculous that her complexion is relatively smooth and youthful. People are always mistaking her for our older sister. Beige don’t age, and all that.

‘Er .?.?. fine,’ I reply, stifling a yawn. All I want to do is have my dinner and go and collapse onto my bed and maybe chat to Mo, instead of being held hostage in the kitchen. ‘Why? What’s going on?’

‘Look, I know I’ve put a lot of pressure on you by suggesting that we start looking at grooms from Desh before you hit the dreaded three-oh—’

‘I think you mean “threatening” not “suggesting”,’ I interject, my eyebrows raised.

‘I didn’t threaten you! I just said that we need to broaden our search, that’s all. Time being of the essence, and so on. Anyway, your dad seems to think that your tears at the wedding were because I’m pressuring you too much.’

She stops talking and pauses, as if waiting for me to jump in and tell her that Abbu’s wrong and she has done no such thing. I don’t.

‘Well. Anyway. I wanted to have a chat with you because there are a few candidates in the pipeline and if you want to slow down or anything, now’s the chance to let me know. Once I’ve confirmed with them, that’s it, there’s no going back.’

‘Look, Mum,’ I begin, breathing deeply to calm my agitated nerves. ‘I got a bit emotional at the wedding because it had been a really challenging day, but I’m OK now. I’m not some delicate flower that’s going to crumple at the thought of sitting through a few awkward meetings. I’m also well aware of the fact that I’m growing older every day, OK? Just so you know, I’ve got my own things in the “pipeline” too.’

I throw in that last bit to show her that she’s not the only proactive one in the room. She looks surprised.

‘What do you mean, “things in the pipeline”? You can’t go around meeting people willy-nilly without my approval!’