The Wedding Countdown (10 page)

Nina looks unimpressed. But then she probably doesn’t shop in supermarkets but strolls around the Harrods Food Hall placing foie gras and caviar into a wicker basket.

‘How about we get in touch with local radio and set up a supermarket dating scenario?’ suggests Nish. ‘Young singles could turn up at certain times and cruise the aisles for love. They can put a code item in their baskets to signify their availability to the other shoppers.’

Nina looks pained. ‘Yes, yes, I get the picture, but this is nothing new. And it isn’t specifically Asian.’

‘But it could be!’ I cry, suddenly seeing the beauty of this plan. As any budding journalist knows, in order to get a story you have to do your research, get word out and get out there to the place of action. ‘Say if we contact a local Asian radio station like HuM SaB FM? We could get something similar going in the London
desi
supermarkets!’

Nina nods thoughtfully. ‘And they could run it in conjunction with us, which would be good PR for
GupShup
. I like it.’

Nish gives me a look which says,
thank goodness for that!

‘Make it happen,’ barks Nina. ‘I want some copy we can put to bed for next week’s issue. Take Wish if you need pictures. Well, what are you waiting for? Get to it!’

We scuttle back into the newsroom and whoop with excitement.

‘You haven’t been sacked!’ says Raj.

‘We’ve got our first assignment,’ shrieks Nish. ‘A joint series of articles on Asian dating.’

‘Nina went for it then?’ This question is from Irfan, the senior reporter, to whom Nish and I report directly. ‘Well done girls!’

While Nish finds the details of HuM SaB FM, I go online and see what else I can find out about Asian dating. I can’t say I’m wild about the Internet scene but the speed dating could be worth a look.

I think...

‘Looks intense,’ comments Wish over my shoulder. ‘Is that the second article?’

‘Maybe.’ I minimise the screen so he can’t see I’ve started to fill in my own details. A girl never likes to look desperate, does she? ‘I’ve got lots of ideas.’

‘I don’t doubt it for a minute,’ says Wish, perching on my desk and fiddling with a sophisticated camera. ‘If you need a photographer you know where I am.’

‘
Shukriya
,’ I say, thinking privately there’s no way that I’m having the model dating Wish watching me make a prat of myself. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

Wish leans forward and a lock of dark hair falls across his cheek. ‘How are things with your brother?’

‘Stalemate. I talked to Mum last night. She’s really upset but she wants to meet Lizzie, Qas’s girlfriend, and get to know her. It’s my dad who won’t budge. Apparently he’s locked himself in his office and won’t talk about it.’

Wish smiles. ‘Yeah, my Pakistani granddad’s a bit like that. Sounds like your mum’s pretty sensible though. Any chance she’ll be able to talk him around?’

‘Maybe. She managed to persuade him to let me come here.’

‘When things calm down a bit you ought to think about doing an article on mixed-race relationships,’ suggests Wish. ‘It could be your own article, with your own experiences. I could help if you like.’

‘That’s a great idea,’ I say. ‘It could be really interesting. And I’d love you to help me, if you don’t mind talking about personal stuff.’

‘Course I don’t mind; it’s not as if Raj and Kareena don’t spend every spare minute gossiping about me. Yes they do!’ He laughs when I protest. ‘My past is no big secret. And what they don’t talk about my girlfriend tells
OK!
magazine! And talking of Minty, I’d better go and pick her up. I’m freelancing today and she’s got me some work with
Marie Claire
.’

‘Wow.’

‘It’s not nearly as exciting as it sounds.’ Wish picks up his motorcycle helmet. ‘Never mind, it pays for the bike. Good luck with the supermarket.’

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Good luck with the supermodels.’

Once Wish has gone I come back to earth with a thud because Nish and I have so much work to do. We spend an hour brainstorming before calling the radio station. To my surprise they invite us over to the studio and pretty soon we’re cruising through London in a black cab.

HuM SaB FM is the hippest Asian radio station in London. Or so Nish tells me because, being a Bradfordian, I’ve never tuned in.

‘Everyone listens to this station,’ Nish says as the taxi pulls up outside a shabby warehouse in West Ealing. ‘They play all the latest music; anyone who’s anyone is desperate to get airtime on the DJ Kishii show.’

I nod wisely. This isn’t a good time to tell Nish I have never heard of DJ Kishii.

‘So how come you’ve managed to swing us an invite to meet him?’ I ask, following her into the radio station’s lobby where hip-hop belts out.

‘Kishii owes me a favour,’ hollers Nish, swaying to the beat, ‘from way back when he was at school and known as Kishore Shetty. I broke the nose of the guy who was calling him Shitty.’

‘I didn’t know you had Ninja skills.’

‘I don’t,’ admits Nish. ‘I was throwing a hockey ball to one of my mates and by happy coincidence the other boy was in the way. He never picked on Kishii again. Or talked without sounding like he had a peg on his nose, come to think of it, but that’s between you and me, OK? Kishii doesn’t know I’m not really a super hero.’

‘My lips are sealed.’

We sign in and the receptionist takes us to meet the big cheese himself, although the place is so plastered with posters of the superstar DJ, complete with baggy tracksuit and the obligatory bling, I feel I already know him.

‘Go on in,’ says the receptionist, pausing outside a studio. ‘He’s expecting you.’

There’s a big red light above the door and a sign that says ‘On air.’ I point to it. ‘Shouldn’t we wait?’

The receptionist looks puzzled. ‘Not if you’re on the show.’

What?

‘Sorry, Mills,’ says Nish. ‘I didn’t think you’d come if you knew.’

‘Too bloody right!’

‘Come on, babes, please! This is our big break. Just think how impressed Nina will be if we can get
GupShup
mentioned on one of the hottest radio shows in London!’

There’s no arguing with this but I don’t like being cornered. On the other hand Nish has a point: we’re the rookies and we need to impress our boss.

‘All right. Just this once, though.’

We’re ushered into a dark space crammed full of scary-looking electronic equipment. Music booms out and across the room is DJ Kishii himself, a strange elfin figure in a lime tracksuit, jigging away happily.

‘Nish!’ Kishii leaps his decks and envelopes her in a bear hug. ‘It’s great to see you.’

Nish hugs him back. ‘And you, babes! Thanks for seeing us.’

‘No sweat,’ grins Kishii, revealing a jewel-encrusted grill that’s probably worth more than Eve’s flat. ‘My producer thinks it’s a great idea, especially the bit about linking our name to
GupShup
!’

Alarm bells start to ring. What exactly has Nish offered without consulting Nina?

‘I’ll mention your magazine on my show every time we do the singles thing,’ promises Kishii.

‘This is Mills, my friend and fellow journo,’ Nish adds because I’ve lost the powers of speech. ‘She looks constipated because she’s got stage fright.’

‘Thanks, Nish!’

‘Shit man!’ Kishii leaps the desks. ‘The track’s ending! Get your earphones on girls and pull the mikes down! You’re on air.’ Fixing his own headphones and mike with a practised sweep he slides down some controls and launches into the bizarre gangster speech that Kareena favours.

‘Awwight!’ screeches Kishii, doing a really weird clicking thing with his fingers. ‘I got with me two babes from the phat gossip magazine,
GupShup
! It’s Nish and Mills! And they is here to talk about love! Awwight ladies?’

‘Awwight!’ chirps Nish while I just stare at him like the poor lost Northern lass I am.

‘So gels, spill the juice!’

Nish launches into a spiel about being lonely and single in London, how hard it is for young Asians to meet when they are so busy being doctors/lawyers/hedge fund managers. She’s a natural.

‘I can’t believe you is both single,’ says Kishii gallantly. ‘Listeners, they is well fit!’

‘But it’s about finding the right one,’ I say, ‘your soul mate. Imagine if he was there all along, pushing his trolley through the fish-finger aisle but you never got to meet him because you were in the magazine aisle. Your lives went along side by side but you never actually met! That would be awful!’

Kishii and Nish stare at me.

Nish mouths ‘fish-finger aisle?’ and shakes her head.

‘Err, yes! You is right!’ Kashii recovers. ‘So all you
desi
singles out there, hit your local
desi
supermarkets on Thursdays between the times of six till ten, and find love in the aisles!’

‘Tell them about the rules,’ urges Nish.

‘I is just coming to that, ’cos rules are important innit!’ says Kishii, reaching out and taking the notes Nish has scrawled quickly on a takeaway menu. ‘Here is the rules! Always use a shopping basket and put a box of
gulab jamuns
on the top of your baskets for identification purposes. It’ll single out the singles hoping to meet a fit individual of the opposite sex!’

‘And if that’s not incentive enough,’ chips in Nish, ‘anyone who emails or writes to
GupShup
with their personal experiences will be entered in a draw for the chance to win a meal for two in a top London hotel.

‘How fine is that?’ Kishii clicks his fingers again. ‘And if you get lucky you can even take your supermarket lover with you! Blinging! Nish and Mills from
GupShup
!’

Then he slides up the controls, there’s a noise like hyenas playing the dustbins and thankfully the whole ordeal is over.

‘You totally stitched me up,’ I say angrily, once we’re safely out of the studio. ‘And what’s all that stuff about hotel prizes? Has Nina okayed it?’

‘She will,’ says Nish airily, ‘when she sees her circulation go up.’

‘I bloody hope so.’ I’m still cross, not just because of the fait accompli radio interview but because I made an idiot of myself live on air to most of London. ‘Otherwise, we’re history.’

‘Well then,’ says Nish, and there’s a wicked glint in her eye, ‘we’d better make sure this supermarket idea is a big success, hadn’t we?’

Chapter 12

I can’t believe I let Nish talk me into doing this.

It’s seven o’ clock on Thursday night and against my better judgment I’m lugging a basket round my local halal supermarket.

‘Why have I got to do it?’ I moaned when Nish pulled up outside the store and told me to get on with it.

Nish yanked up the handbrake. ‘We’ve been through this. One of us has to be in the office to man the calls and the emails.’

‘Why don’t I do that and
you
make a prat of yourself?’

‘Because,’ said Nish, fixing me with a stern look, ‘I’m not the one who has a year to find a fiancé, am I? It makes sense for you to kill two birds with one stone.’ She gave me a poke in the ribs. ‘Get shopping, Ms Undercover Reporter!’

You’re here purely for career purposes, I tell myself as I scan the aisles in the vain attempt to spot a lush male shopper. I’m trying not to look too obvious but I’ve perched three boxes of
gulab jamuns
(no point in doing things by half) right on the top of my basket and I can only hope that any poor single fellow out there buying his weekly groceries has been listening to DJ Kishii and doesn’t think I’m a greedy cow with a very sweet tooth. I’ve dressed up in my best skinny jeans and suede boots because I want to look the part and not because I seriously think Mr Right is going to pop up somewhere between the Bombay mix and the pickles.

But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared just in case!

The supermarket’s quiet and I wander aimlessly up and down the aisles for a good hour filling and emptying my basket to kill time. I get a few strange looks from the other shoppers and a yellow-toothed smile from an ancient gent limping round with a trolley, empty except for a giant packet of
gulab jamuns
.

No way! I hastily rearrange my basket and bury my sweets under a bag of
chapatti
flour. I’m dedicated to my job but some things are way beyond the call of duty.

I’m just emptying my basket for the fourth time when a jar of mango chutney slips from my fingers and shatters all over the floor. Splashes of sticky orange goo instantly cover my boots and jeans, and the cloying sickly sweet smell is overpowering.

That’s it. I’ve been here long enough. Supermarket shopping obviously isn’t the way to find love. I need to get back to the flat as soon as possible if I’m going to be able to save my boots. I look around for some supermarket staff to deal with my pickle but they’re either camouflaged as cooking sauces or are on a tea break. Time is of the essence because I can feel the condiment seeping through to my toes. I think it’s time to abort the singles search mission. How likely is it that a guy will want to get close to me now I reek of mango chutney?

And right then, just as I’m speed-dialling Eve and looking down sadly at my poor boots, Fate decides to pull a moonie at me. I crash smack into the very embodiment of the male specimen for whom I’ve been trawling the supermarket, knocking the basket out of the
bechara
man’s hands and spilling his shopping all over the floor.

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry!’ I gasp, crouching down to help him retrieve his unbroken (phew) bits and pieces. ‘I’m so, so sorry!’

He’s bent down too and when our eyes meet across the groceries I suddenly get all flustered, and keep repeating ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ over and over again.

He laughs. ‘It’s no problem! I don’t mind being knocked off my feet by a gorgeous girl!’

I cast a swift glance around just in case there’s a gorgeous girl about, but no! It seems that he means me.

‘Actually,’ says Mr Spilled Groceries, ‘I may be seriously injured. Could I have your contact details just in case I need to sue for compensation?’

I laugh. ‘I’m sure you’re fine.’