The Wedding Countdown (14 page)

‘Isn’t it ridiculous? I wasn’t even this nervous when I was first in court!’

I lightly touch her trembling hand with my own jittery fingers.

‘That’s two of us,’ I say, glancing around at the nervous faces. ‘And I reckon we’re not alone.’

There’s a whine and a blast of static and all eyes turn to the podium where a small plump figure is trying to lower the mike.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentleman! Welcome to Muslim Matrimonials, London! My name’s Ayoob. I’m here to talk you through the structure of this evening’s event. I know you’re all dying to begin, but please bear with me. There’s a lot to get through.’

He isn’t joking. After about fifteen minutes my brain switches off. How hard can it be? We chat, we move on, we chat, we move on. I don’t need to be Professor Stephen Hawking to suss it out.

‘The “strict” guiding rules of our operation are paramount,’ drones on Ayoob. ‘We know how important it is that this remains a highly respectable operation. So this is where I want to allay any fears that some of you may have. We can’t go upsetting those auntie-
jis
, now can we?’

No we flipping well can’t.

‘Ladies, you may request the contact details of specific males, identified by their nametags. The males’ details will be given unconditionally. However, the same does not apply to the men and in the case of males enquiring about specific females, a far more rigorous criterion is applied. I will not release any details until after we’ve contacted the lady in question and obtained her consent. If consent is not provided contact details regarding the female will not be released. Only once the lady in question is willing to give us a YES to having their personal details handed over will we proceed.’

‘It’s a bit scientific,’ murmurs Sajida.

‘But very respectable!’ I whisper back.

Ayoob wishes us all luck and gives the go-ahead to launch into the collective dialogues. The whole deal’s going to take hours from what I can gather, so I glug down some more juice and prepare for a very long evening.

Everyone on my table briefly introduces themselves. In the introductory round we all have to say a bit about ourselves for all eight pairs of ears to hear before we are able to launch into a more exclusive five-minute dialogue with the opposite-sex individuals. I’m starting to think marrying Subhi isn’t such a bad option after all because I hate being put on the spot. I’m beginning to feel a bit like an attraction at the zoo.

Oh crap! It’s my turn!

‘Err…’ Not a promising start. Think,
saheli
! Be witty! Be intelligent! Don’t get the speed-dating equivalent of stage fright! ‘I’m Mills Ali and I’m twenty-two. I’ve recently graduated in English Literature and I’m working for
GupShup
.’

At this point a few eyebrows are raised in smiling recognition. 

‘Its obvious I’m not from around here, I expect! I’m from Bradford actually and err… that’s it really!’

I grind to a halt. Nice one, Mills; so much for your famous sense of humour. Just when you could do with a few witty comments you’re flatter than week-old Coke.

Sajida wastes no time in introducing herself. Turning before my eyes into a poised legal eagle she does a far a better job in her more polished and refined southern tones than I did.

Actually, did the others even understand my accent?

Sajida’s next bit of info raises the competitive stakes a tad. As she hinted, Sajida is in the legal profession – not a mere solicitor but a barrister.
The male faces light up. I feel a bit better; this explains her confident public face. I’m not as useless as I thought. I’m just a mere journalist, that’s all.

I’m fine now about chatting and as the one-to-one session unfolds I tell them quite a bit about myself with perfect ease. And hey! This is quite cool because I seem to have my very own captive audience, unlike at home where Fizz tells me to shut up and Roma has her nose permanently in a book. To my delight the guys seem fascinated by my every word and end up asking so many questions I have less time to quiz them back.

I never knew I was so fascinating!

Feeling smug I do my best to suss out in five minutes whether I can picture spending an entire lifetime with the guy in front of me. It isn’t the easiest job in the world. No one is making the sun come out.

After talking to ten male attendees my eyes are starting to glaze and I’m very tired of repeating my brief personal history. For a second I toy with inventing a really outrageous alter ego, like a black belt in Sudoku or maybe a degree in belly dancing for example, but then I remind myself this is a serious enterprise. These guys have paid a fortune to meet nice Muslim girls like me and I owe it to them to take the whole thing seriously. Still, it might have perked things up a bit to see the looks on their faces. I’m so weary of hearing the same ol’ same ol’ responses from nearly all the male attendees. But like a good girl I listen carefully and then repeat what a great catch I am and how one lucky guy is going to end up thanking Allah-
ji
when he gets such a unique woman like me in his otherwise mundane life!

Only kidding! That’s what Fizz would have said. I’m not that conceited but I can’t help cracking a few northern witty one-liners. Some of the guys chuckle in response and only a few give me a worried glance before quickly moving to the next serious question or available female. Who wants a man with no sense of humour anyway? Wish has a great sense of humour. Take the joke he told the other day about the ball of string that goes into a pub… Oh never mind. I thought it was funny.

By the time we finally come to the one-to-one dialogues my tongue is sticking to the roof of my mouth from all the talking and my poor bladder can’t take any more sipping of orange juice. Somehow I manage to drag myself through the final hours and get the interviews over and done with. But where’s my soul mate? I thought I’d know him the moment I laid eyes on him, but so far there’s been no magic. No one has whisked me off my feet or made my heart zoom into fifth gear, which is a bit of a disappointment. I wanted it to be like that bit in
Romeo and Juliet
when their eyes meet across the fish tank.

Sorry! I meant when their eyes meet across the party! I must stop watching that Leonardo DiCaprio film.

Anyway, Romeo and Juliet came to a pretty sticky end. Maybe getting to know a guy as a friend and falling in love slowly is the way to go rather than expecting fireworks? Fireworks can cause nasty burns after all.

With my empty card in hand I plop myself at a table and gnaw my nails. Everything is a blur of doctors, lawyers, accountants and dentists, all very suitable, all very nice and all very… dull. Who to choose? It’s a wicked waste of two hundred quid if I just leave now and go home and watch Johnny Depp videos. (I know, I know, he’s not Pakistani but a girl can dream, can’t she?)

By the time I’ve worked my way through the long list of bachelors, as well as my left thumb and right index nails, I’ve come to my final decision and scribbled down the names of the three guys who grabbed my attention. In case I need pointers for future reminders I jot a clue next to each name.

Let’s take Aadam first. What stood out most about him? I chew my pen thoughtfully then bracket (blushes) because he had a sweet tendency to break out in a blush every second of our five-minute conversation. Then there was Basim whom I bracket (nice teeth) and after him was Mikhail (heavenly blue eyes). I don’t think I’ve ever come across eyes so blue. He has to be worth contacting just so I can have another look.

I check my list. So this makes Aadam, Basim and Mikhail.

Hang on. That’s only three. Surely I can’t have only found three guys out of a possible thirty-two of London’s most eligible bachelors? I can’t be that picky, can I?

Apparently yes I can.

It’s not that I’m overly fussy. It’s because I have no time to waste, that’s all. I have to get it right. This is the rest of my life I’m talking about!

Saying a quick bye to Sajida, who’s chatting intensely to a mature guy, not one of my chosen three thank goodness, I reach Ayoob and tell him I’ve had a great time and am really looking forward to hearing from him.

‘We’ll be in touch!’ promises Ayoob, and a delicious shiver of anticipation runs down my spine.

Weaving my way out of the suite I start to understand how boy bands feel when they get mobbed because the place has gone crazy. I keep cannoning into frenzied guys vying for attention and asking my permission to talk exclusively to them while they waggle their lists right under my nose. I would be flattered except I know these guys are on a frantic mission to find their own wives before being dragged off to marry some hairy cousin with a squint. Men may
seem
to be going gaga over me but I’m not kidding myself it’s
me
they really want. Any Muslim girl without two heads would do.

But I know my soul mate will want me for
who
I am. He’ll love me for myself and he’ll even love my annoying habits, like making jokes when I’m nervous or chewing my nails. I know he’s out there all lost and lonely while he waits for me. I refuse to let this husband-hunting business make me cynical.

I know my soul mate is just around the corner,
insha’Allah,
and I can’t wait to meet him. Bring it on!

Chapter 16

‘This is it!’ Eve pulls up outside a small Italian restaurant. ‘Out you get!’

‘I can’t,’ I whisper. ‘I really can’t.’

‘Bollocks!’ says Eve cheerfully. ‘Of course you can. This is supposed to be one of the nicest restaurants around. At least we know Dawud’s got good taste.’

I look through the steamy car window at the small restaurant. Rosy light spills out onto the street and I can see smiling couples bathed in romantic candlelight. My heart is banging like a drum machine because there’s no disguising that this is a date.

‘I’m not sure,’ I croak. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t? Muslims shouldn’t date. My parents will go spare.’

‘It’s not a date,’ says Eve patiently. ‘It’s dinner with a suitable Muslim man, surrounded by loads of other people and totally respectable. Besides, he seemed fine when we met him for coffee.’

‘True,’ I admit.

Yesterday I plucked up the courage to call Dawud. Eve and Nish accompanied a terrified me to Starbucks, sitting at a discreet distance as we chatted over our lattes. Very proper and very respectable it was and even Auntie Bee would be hard pushed to find fault. Dawud was the perfect gentleman, complimenting me on my clothes and paying for my latte and panini. The time flew and I loved talking about architecture with him.

‘Wake up!’ Eve waves her hand in front of my face. ‘This is meant to be fun, remember? Finding your soul mate rather than marrying good old Dr Subhi.’

‘Can’t we just go home and watch our
Sherlock
box set?

‘No more being a Cumberbitch! Time to get out there and experience the real deal.’ Eve gives me a poke in the ribs. ‘Look on it as practice for when Muslim Matrimonials get back to you. I’ll be back at half ten, don’t panic.’

So, feeling about as brave as Mr Jelly, I find myself outside the restaurant and being greeted by an enthusiastic Dawud. Pushing aside the suspicion that any reasonably attractive Muslim girl would get the same reaction, I follow him inside.

‘They have the best red wine here you’ll ever taste,’ Dawud tells me, holding the door and allowing me to enter the basil-scented restaurant. ‘And the most delicious pasta.’

‘But we don’t drink! We’re Muslims: it isn’t allowed.’

‘I enjoy a drink,’ Dawud says. ‘I hope that doesn’t offend you. I can’t bear those hypocritical Muslims who do one thing and say another. I like a glass of wine or a cold beer. Does that make me a bad person?’

I’m not sure. Part of me is shocked because no one in my family would ever touch alcohol. On the other hand I’ve plenty of Muslim friends who do drink, unbeknown to their families, so Dawud isn’t unusual.

‘
I
don’t drink,’ I say firmly, ‘and,
nahin,
I don’t want to.’

Dawud smiles, ‘I respect your views, Mills. But you need to respect mine too. I like to drink and party. Why should some outdated religion and a load of old rellies in baggy pants stop our generation having fun?’

At first I think he’s joking. Every Pakistani kid knows the answer to that: respect and honour, obviously. Then he orders a bottle of Burgundy and I realise he means every word.

So I set the ground rules, stating that although I consider myself modern this doesn’t mean I shun traditions, or am ashamed of my identity as a Pakistani or am promiscuous.

‘Shame,’ sighs Dawud, sloshing wine into a glass. ‘It would have been fun if you were. Joke!’ he adds hastily. ‘I totally respect your views, however outdated.’

‘Err, right.’ I turn my attention to the menu, deciding this isn’t the best time to pursue the topic. The rest of the date is fine, so long as we don’t discuss religion or our backgrounds. The food’s divine and we chat easily about our interests, our jobs and our families. I’ve been taught to never discuss religion or politics over dinner, luckily for Dawud.

Dawud glugs down the last of the wine. ‘So how come a stunning woman like you is single? Have you just broken up with someone?’

I lick the last dollop of tiramisu from my spoon. ‘I’m not allowed to have boyfriends,’ I remind him. ‘So I’ve never had a relationship. I’m hoping to meet someone who shares my values so that we can take things to a more serious footing.’

‘You’re looking for marriage?’ For a minute the oddest expression flits across his face. It looks a bit like terror.

‘I suppose I am.’

‘Women always are,’ Dawud observes bleakly. ‘My ex was.’

‘Muslim girls are brought up that way,’ I point out. ‘It’s a major expectation for us.’

‘My ex isn’t a Muslim. She’s Portuguese, actually, and a Catholic. But all that religious stuff’s the same, right?’

No, not really. But I say nothing and Dawud, his tongue well lubricated by red wine, continues in this vein, giving me his views on life, the universe and everything. He has a colourful past and I try my hardest not to look shocked when he tells me he has a son with his ex-girlfriend. Not that I’ve got a problem with that. I love children and hopefully one day I’ll have lots of my own,
insha’Allah
, but I’m confident Dawud’s not going to be the man to father them.