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The Fall and Rise of the Amir Sisters
Nadiya Hussain
Heart-warming storytelling with strong themes of sisterhood from nation’s favourite and former Bake Off winner Nadiya Hussain, this is Little Women meets Marian Keyes’ Walsh family series for a new generation of readers.The four Amir Sisters – Fatima, Farah, Bubblee and Mae – are as close as sisters can be but sometimes even those bonds can be pushed to their limits . . .Becoming a mother has always been Farah’s dream so when older sister Fatima struggles with a tough pregnancy whilst Farah has trouble conceiving she cant help but be jealous. Until a plan to break a huge cultural taboo in her family, and use a surrogate gives her a renewed hope. But nothing is ever that easy in this warm, witty look at a modern British family.
Over 14 million people tuned in to see NADIYA win 2015’s Great British Bake Off. Since then she has captured the heart of the nation. A columnist for The Times and Essentials, Nadiya is also a regular reporter for The One Show and presented a two-part series, The Chronicles of Nadiya, on BBC One. She is the author of Nadiya’s Kitchen (Michael Joseph), Bake Me a Story (Hodder) and has been named as one of the top five most influential Asians in the UK.
Copyright (#ulink_e3549a0a-6a5c-5174-acb8-54e664075f6e)
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Nadiya Hussain 2019
Nadiya Hussain asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008192327
‘I want to be an archaeologist,’ I said, ‘You can’t be an archaeologist, your parents are not rich enough, it will be a miracle if you make it to university.’ I didn’t become an archaeologist or go to university. I did something else. I remembered her words and followed every dream. Unkind words bloom the unlikeliest of passions. This is dedicated to the dreamer in you.
Contents
Cover (#ubdb817ad-4d5b-52ab-9c94-c3a5785a3389)
Abou the Author (#ud3ec0187-ff2c-5768-bcd1-e63d40242e2d)
Title Page (#u239acb93-4a3d-53e5-952d-a08ca6d87710)
Copyright (#ulink_a8c0b760-e9bf-512a-96d4-6777b3872d3a)
Dedication (#uf9dac1dc-a128-5045-8e3e-6e0ec7c2c2f4)
Chapter One (#ulink_67249d72-88e1-57f2-8853-379314b13534)
Chapter Two (#ulink_7645dc21-f598-5dcf-b141-285dab8fe638)
Chapter Three (#ulink_da1c2b54-b270-54d2-a5f8-79c033d87289)
Chapter Four (#ulink_8088fefd-6796-58be-9460-1a2fcf19755a)
Chapter Five (#ulink_0dad7daf-c8ff-5623-b07e-14b976d5a578)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_15992b0d-aad0-5f69-b9ea-07c91603d1b5)
Farah liked bustling around. She was perpetually busy when not at her job; her hands at work on a curry, washing clothes, fluffing pillows and inspecting areas of her now smaller home. At least it’s easier to manage. She was going to be positive. She paused to try and listen for what Mustafa might be doing upstairs. Maybe he was still lying in bed. It was ten o’clock in the morning but his sleeping habits were never predictable any more. Or perhaps he was just looking out of the window, like he’d taken to doing. There was a time when she’d have asked what he was thinking. Now she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to know.
He came downstairs, managing to grunt a good morning as he opened the fridge.
‘Why is it stacked with so much stuff?’ he asked.
Farah was spraying Pledge on to the coffee table, wiping it down with a cloth.
‘For the sandwiches I’m making for Mae’s party later,’ she replied.
His brows furrowed as he snapped: ‘Where’s the mango juice?’
Farah swept into the kitchen and looked inside the fridge with him. ‘It must’ve been finished.’
He slammed the door shut and she jumped. ‘For God’s sake. You have the thing heaving with stuff for Mae but no mango juice.’
She folded her arms and clenched her jaw, looking up at him. Her husband was a stranger to her in these moments, because, before the accident, in all the years they’d been married, he’d never lost his temper with her, or anyone for that matter. It hadn’t yet failed to surprise her when his mood took a turn. He opened the fridge door once more and slammed it shut again. His face was enraged as he glowered at her but she didn’t move an inch. She waited. He stood there for a few more moments before thundering out of the room and she heard him slam the front door behind him.
Farah took a deep breath, because the last thing she needed was increased blood pressure. My husband is alive. She repeated this to herself every time she thought of him lying in his coma after the car accident. He had been punished enough for his mistake. Mustafa had crashed his car after finding out that her brother Jay had lost all of the money he was supposed to be investing in their business and now here they were, living with the consequences of Mustafa’s ongoing medication. The doctors had said it’d affect his moods – to be careful of him falling into a kind of depression, but Farah couldn’t quite separate the man from the drugs. Aside from that, this little flat wasn’t theirs. She missed the open spaces of their five-bedroom semi-detached place. Farah liked having a guest room in case one of her sisters wanted to spend the night, or they had family or friends visiting. She took comfort from the idea that there was another room that would make the perfect nursery… but she had to let go of that dream anyway. Looking around the small living room, the light wood laminate flooring, wallpaper they couldn’t afford to change and paint instead – apart from her parents, who had wallpaper now anyway? – she took a deep breath, closed her eyes and opened them again. Still, there were things to be grateful for – being alive was one of them.
When Mustafa returned an hour later he came into the kitchen. She pretended not to notice him as she made a start on the sandwiches.
‘You can feel summer coming to an end,’ he said.
She ignored him.
‘Can I help?’ he asked.
She got the butter out of the fridge and slammed the door shut, pointedly, looking at him.
‘What do you think?’
His face fell. The way he looked at her always reminded her of Jay and it managed to soften her heart.
‘You’d just slow me down, anyway,’ she added.
He smiled and looked at the ground, nodding. This time his chosen mood was martyrdom: the long-suffering husband of a wife who he couldn’t seem to please, even when he tried. He left the room without another word.
Farah listened to him going into the bathroom to take a shower. She heard his footsteps come out and go into their room. He stayed in there for two hours. Farah walked towards the bottom of the stairs and paused, caught between fury and guilt. Fury won. Mango juice! Of all the things in the world that he could get angry about. The sheer audacity of it! Here they were, living in this one-bedroom flat because of his inability to manage money. Because he decided to squander it on some half-baked scheme, cooked up by Jay, and all he cared about was the contents of the fridge.
Farah went back into the kitchen and finished making the sandwiches. After she’d scrubbed down the kitchen tops she squinted and knelt down to take a closer look behind the standing lamp. Her intuition for cleanliness had become quite remarkable.
‘Sandwiches ready, or are they hiding behind our lamp?’ Mustafa’s voice came, soft and sheepish.
She frowned when she looked up at him. Farah noticed his smile falter and tried to rearrange her features.
‘It’d be a miracle to hide anything in this place,’ she replied.
He cleared his throat as he looked over at the platters in the kitchen. She began wiping the floor as she heard her husband’s body shuffling around.
‘Come on, no one cares about some dust in the corner,’ he said. ‘You can’t even see it.’
‘I can see it,’ she replied without looking up.
There was a pause.
‘Maybe you need the opposite of glasses?’ he suggested.
She sat back and looked up at him. What was the point? He was trying – he always did. All this anger just exhausted her, and she was bored of being tired and frustrated – all of the negative feelings, which seemed to wash over her on a daily basis.
‘Something to blur my vision?’ she asked.
Mustafa took a second.
‘Exactly.’
Joking was good. Joking is what Farah’s sister, Mae, did all the time and her life seemed to be a lot less complicated. Except Farah had read that it wasn’t good to compare your life to another’s – she wondered if the same was true if all you wanted was to emulate them.
‘At least then I wouldn’t have to see everything – you know, just let some things go,’ she added.
It all felt too loaded. She needed to master the art of saying things with lightness – her words should be like froth, not lead.
‘Are you ready?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. I’ll put those in the car,’ he said, indicating towards the trays.
He walked over as Farah got up and brushed down her skirt. She watched his now bulkier frame as he made sure the cling film covered the sandwiches. Despite the weight, there was still something commanding about his figure. The new beard suited him, though he’d let his hair grow longer than she liked. Mustafa looked at the two trays as if confused about how to take them to the car. He put one on top of the other and Farah stopped herself from shouting out that he’d squash the ones at the bottom.
‘I’ll take that one,’ she said, rushing towards him. ‘Thanks,’ she said, as he handed the top tray over to her. ‘I can’t believe Mae’s finally going to university.’
‘She used to be such a cute kid,’ he said.
Farah bristled. What did he mean used to?
‘We all need to grow up one day,’ she replied.
She and Mustafa stood opposite each other, trays in hands. Farah remembered, as Mae got older and went to school, learned new things, that Mustafa being their first cousin from their mum’s side was not normal for non-Bengalis. Farah recalled the face she’d make as if she were about to throw up. Even now, years later, Mae would sometimes comment on how Farah was cousins with Mustafa one minute and then sleeping with him the next. It was usually accompanied by a shudder. The whole thing seemed to perplex her completely. It was a different generation, thought Farah. Things which seemed so normal in their culture had changed so much within the space of a decade.
‘Yeah,’ said Mustafa, bringing Farah back to the present day. ‘I’m just saying.’
He was always just saying, not thinking about his words – about the effect they could have on the people around him; namely Farah.
Mustafa added with a smile: ‘And at least she’s not like…’ He paused and seemed to think better of finishing his sentence.
‘Like?’ Farah asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Like?’
‘Bubblee.’ He raised his eyebrows, knowingly, as if this was an inside joke of theirs.
But Farah knew what his jokes really were. They were grievances from before the accident, which he’d remained quiet about, but which somehow now came to the surface.
‘I mean,’ he added, ‘at least Mae likes me.’
Farah avoided his gaze. Even she couldn’t lie about how Bubblee, her twin sister, felt about him. He was on medication, he wasn’t stupid.
‘I don’t know who’s going to keep Mum and Dad company when Mae’s gone,’ she said.
‘Right.’
‘Dad’s going to miss her so much.’
Mustafa gave her a sad look – as if he wished she’d contradicted him, told him that was nonsense and that of course Bubblee liked him.
‘They’ll be fine.’ He smiled. ‘We’re here, aren’t we? And anyway, look at it this way, she’ll be making trouble elsewhere.’
