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‘No, I won’t,’ answered Bubblee.
‘Bubblee – for so long your dad and me have let you do what you want. Do you know the talk we have to hear when people know you live in London?’
Why don’t my parents ask me about marriage? Do they think I’m too fat and unattractive to be married? They wouldn’t be wrong, but aren’t your parents at least meant to see the best in you? Isn’t that the point? Dad was standing behind Bubblee. She didn’t see him until he said: ‘Malik.’
Bubblee turned to look at him.
‘Your amma and I have talked about it and we think it would be very good if you married him.’ He glanced over at Mum who was staring at Bubblee, a frown etched in her brows.
I opened the can of ghee, trying to concentrate on the sizzling onions, trying to forget that Malik – last I remembered – was thirty-two. Only two years older than me – wasn’t that the perfect age for me? I reached into the cupboard and got the cheese tube out, squirting it in my mouth while they weren’t looking.
‘But I don’t even know him,’ Bubblee exclaimed. ‘Anyway, I have to go back to London tomorrow. Sasha has an exhibition and I promised I’d be there.’
Mum adjusted her purple sari and lit the hob. ‘Sasha is not more important than your family.’
‘You shouldn’t spend so much time with just one girl,’ said Dad, clearing his throat. ‘Please, Bubblee,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Open your mind that you might like something that your parents think is good for you. Why would we want to see you unhappy?’
‘But I’m happy now,’ she replied.
Mum and Dad were both turned towards Bubblee – me hovering in the background, frying onions. I wondered: what does happiness really feel like?
*
The following day everyone else went to the hospital as Bubblee drove me to my shoot. She’d given in and worn a pair of jeans with a kaftan, which made me think that sometimes she could do things, against her principles, just to keep the peace. She’d called Sasha and let her know she wouldn’t make her exhibition.
‘And no-one appreciates it,’ she said to me, one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other resting on the gear-stick. ‘That I’m putting my life on hold. It’s all expected.’
Weird how she didn’t expect it of herself.
‘Farah needs us all here,’ I said.
She took a deep sigh. ‘I know, I know. God, there’s no need to make me feel worse than they do. It’s just Mum is impossible and Dad nods at everything she says. It’s infuriating.’
‘At least it’s not the other way around,’ I replied.
Let’s face it, Bubblee would’ve been up in feminist arms.
‘Doesn’t make much difference, given that Mum’s intent on ruling my life and telling me what to do. All because it’s expected that I’ll get married. It’s expected that I’ll be a good little wife.’ She beeped at someone, who I’m pretty sure had the right of way. ‘Like good old Farah.’
We all know that Bubblee’s ideals – however weird they seem to me – stop her from liking the fact that Mustafa married our sister, but I never understood the strength of her opposition to it. It’s not as if we get to like everything in life, but we accept it and get on with it. There are a thousand and one things I’d change about mine: not having a driver’s licence being one of them; losing weight; being able to walk into a room with the same confidence that all my sisters seem to have. I might cry about it in my own room but I don’t make a song and dance about it to everyone – how uncomfortable would that be? There are some things that you just keep to yourself.
‘Did something happen?’ I asked her.
‘What do you mean?’
‘For you to hate Mustafa so much.’
She paused at a traffic light. ‘I don’t hate him. He’s fine.’
‘Then what is it?’
She looked at me like I was an idiot who’d missed the point completely. ‘Why did Farah settle for fine? All this playing house is so … conformative.’
I didn’t really understand what she meant by playing house. I thought that was just life – you meet someone, you fall in love, then you marry them. Wasn’t that just being happy?
‘God, I hope Mae doesn’t do the same,’ she added, picking up her phone, checking for messages then throwing it back down. ‘What another waste it’d be.’
‘Is that what I am?’ I mumbled.
It wasn’t meant to come out loud at all, but somehow the words tumbled out. I hoped she hadn’t heard them.
‘What? Don’t be silly. You’re just you.’
What did that mean? Maybe Bubblee just had higher hopes for a sister who’s her twin and the other sister who’s so much younger than us, she’s practically a different generation.
‘What I meant was …’ continued Bubblee, but not quite finding the words, it seemed.
I scratched at the skin around my fingernails, peeling it as I felt Bubblee’s eyes on me.
‘You just seem content with everything,’ she said. ‘I mean, you like staying in your room and getting on with your own stuff. Oh, you know what I’m saying.’
Actually I didn’t. ‘Yeah, yeah. I know.’
‘It’s just, with Farah, it’s like she could’ve wanted more.’
I looked up.
‘That came out wrong,’ she said. ‘It’s like Mustafa came along, made her fall in love with him, and she never got the chance to see what she could’ve been, because she was too busy being in love with him.’
I nodded at her, even though with every word she said I felt something pinch at my insides.
‘You’ve had more time to figure out what you want. And this seems to be, just, you know … you.’
What was me? A thirty-year-old who’d failed her driving test a hundred times and had nothing but a portfolio of nice pictures of her hand because her face isn’t worth photographing?
‘And it’s great. You’re a hand model,’ she added, glancing at me with encouragement.
It didn’t exactly sound like she actually thought that was impressive.
‘Listen, if you’d got married at twenty-three to someone who was just fine I’d probably be furious with you too.’
Except no-one wanted to marry me or be with me at the age of twenty-three. Or any other age, come to think of it. Bubblee began to look like she was trying to pass some really uncomfortable wind so I just smiled and said, ‘Of course’ before pretending to be really interested in the sky.
‘Are you okay, Fatti?’ she asked.
‘Oh, yeah. You know. Bit grey out,’ I replied, as we got to my destination.
Bubblee said she’d wait for me in the car as I went in and sat to have my hands made up.
‘Beautiful,’ said the woman, admiring my hand as she gave it back to me.
I wondered what it’d feel like for someone to look at all of me and say that?
When we got to the hospital the nurse was checking Mustafa’s vital signs.
‘Well?’ I asked as the nurse left the room.
Farah shook her head, rubbing her tired eyes.
‘No change,’ said Dad.
Mum asked me how the shoot was as Bubblee went and sat on a chair. Mae was obviously on her phone. I stood around for a bit before noticing that it’d started pelting down with rain. As I sat, facing the door, dying for some prawns and cheese on crackers, this figure appeared, drenched. I couldn’t quite see his face under his dark-grey trilby until he removed it, holding it against his chest. Then our eyes met. I noticed his dark lashes and slightly hooked nose, his chest rising and falling as if he were out of breath. When he smiled at me it was the weirdest thing – it’s like there was something familiar about him, but I couldn’t decide what.
‘Kala. Mama,’ he said, looking away from me and at Mum and Dad.
They both turned around and got up.
‘Malik,’ said Mum as she burst out crying.
He put his arm cautiously around her, pursing his lips.
‘Shh, shh. He’ll hear you. You know my brother doesn’t know what to do when someone cries,’ he said in Bengali.
This made Farah smile for the first time in days. It didn’t seem to have quite the same effect on Bubblee, who sat as if glued to her chair.
‘What a surprise – everyone gathering around the man who enters a room,’ said Bubblee, quietly, glaring at him.
For a moment I wished I could be like Bubblee – unafraid to say what she thinks, not caring how people might react. I was ready to give up my seat for him, go and get him a drink, ask him what his favourite food is, and there was Bubblee, looking as if ready to murder him. Malik’s gaze fell on Mustafa, lying there with tubes attached to machines.
‘He will be okay,’ he said, so assuredly it made me wonder what I’d been worrying about. If I’d accidentally given my sister the evil eye, then he was here to do the opposite – to make things better. What was that feeling of familiarity? Maybe it’s because he looks a lot like Mustafa. Of course I knew of Malik – he’s family, after all, but it’d been so long since any of us had met him. He wasn’t able to come to England for Mustafa and Farah’s wedding and we hadn’t been back home in over twenty years. Last time we saw him we were all just children. I hadn’t realised that my nails were digging into my palms as I stared at him. I stood up.
‘Have my seat,’ I said.
He looked at me and smiled. ‘Fatima.’
Was it me or did he hold my gaze a little longer than normal? Then he looked around at all of us and said: ‘How you’ve all grown.’
His eyes settled back on me. I pulled my skirt down, trying to cover my thighs. Why hadn’t I put on a bit of make-up before leaving the house? It was only when he’d taken my seat that I realised I’d put him next to Bubblee, who’d turned around and pretended to look out of the window, even though it looked like it might give her a crick in her neck.
‘I remember, when we were children, you were the one who pushed me when I called you a girl,’ he said to her.
Mum laughed and said in Bengali, ‘She was always spirited.’
‘I didn’t push you,’ she said. ‘I punched you. And you went crying to your amma.’
He observed her for a moment before looking back at his brother.
‘Bhabi,’ he said to Farah. ‘We are all praying for him.’
She looked at him, grateful. What was she thinking when she looked at Mustafa like that? What exactly was going through her mind? Mum and Dad went through the story with Malik about the police coming to Farah’s and telling her about the accident, us all rushing to the hospital, Bubblee coming up from London, how difficult these past few days have been, but how glad we were that he was here. Malik rubbed his eyes and continued to stare at Mustafa.
‘Amma and Abba wouldn’t be able to look at this,’ he said.
Then he took Mustafa’s hand, leaned forward and kissed his forehead. ‘That’s from Amma.’
‘You should’ve told us what time your flight was getting in,’ said Dad. ‘Someone would’ve come to collect you.’
‘We would’ve sent Bubblee,’ said Mum. ‘This isn’t right – you’ve flown all this way, come straight here and didn’t tell us. You know Jahangeer is away, so you are now the man to come and look after us.’
I stole a glance at Bubblee who looked like she might throw something at someone.
‘He’s just so busy,’ continued Mum. ‘Working, working – sending us money.’
Mae snorted and looked up from her phone as everyone stared at her. ‘Sorry.’
‘If he were here you’d be able to speak with him, but you’ll have to settle for all these women,’ said Mum as Dad cleared his throat. ‘And your mama,’ she added, looking at Dad.
Malik stared at them both before he waved his hands around as if it were all too silly to talk about. Mum and Dad looked at each other, approvingly. I guess they were thinking he was perfect for Bubblee, and when Farah’s husband wakes up, there’ll be another family wedding and everyone will live happily ever after. I probably still won’t have passed my driving test. Oh, God! I remembered I’d forgotten to cancel my lesson the following day. I texted Ash and told him what had happened, if he hadn’t already read it in the paper.
From, Ashraf: I’m so sorry to hear that. Hope he recovers soon. Just let me know when you’re ready for your next lesson. Are you okay?
To, Ashraf: Yeah, fine. Just weird when something like this happens. Makes you realise how short life is. The sooner I pass my test the sooner I can start living mine.
I thought about it for a second before sending it, but Ash is always saying stuff like this to me – telling me what’s going on with him, so why not? I didn’t think he’d respond, but he did, saying something like I don’t need to pass my test to do that, but he doesn’t understand. Passing my test means being in control. Just once, I’d like to feel like I have some of that.
*
‘Ewww!’ exclaimed Mae. ‘Bubblee? Marry Malik? Gross.’
‘What do you mean?’ I replied. ‘He’s nice looking.’
‘Er, yeah,’ replied Mae, ‘but he’s like, from Bangladesh. That accent is vom.’
I’d laid out a blanket for her on the floor of my bedroom because Malik was staying with us and Bubblee and Farah were sharing.
‘Mae, you shouldn’t say stuff like that about people,’ I said, thinking about his trilby and how English he looked when he walked into the hospital room.
‘What? Be honest?’
I looked up at the ceiling as I lay down on my bed. ‘You need to learn that some things should be kept to yourself.’
The light from her phone shone on her face. ‘Yeah, well, I don’t expect people to read my mind.’
Wouldn’t that be great. If people could do that. My mouth never quite manages to say the words my brain thinks. It could save me a lot of trouble. While I was thinking this, someone knocked on the door before opening it.
‘Is she still on her damn phone?’ said Bubblee, walking into my room and plopping herself on my bed.
‘How’s Farah?’ I asked.
