Читать книгу The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters - Nadiya Hussain - Страница 12
ОглавлениеOh God, oh God, oh God. Was it my fault? I looked up at the sky, in case I got a sign whether it was or not. Did I give my sister the evil eye? It’s not as if I wanted to marry her husband – just that, what would it be like to come home to someone who loves you? What’s worse is that I can never stop my tears from falling and everyone looks at me like I’m this pathetic person. How do you make yourself disappear? So you can feel what you feel without worrying about what other people see?
When we got home after the second day at the hospital Mum and Dad insisted that Farah come and stay with us – we’d all be together under one house, just like old times.
‘Apart from Jay,’ said Mae without looking up from her phone.
‘Look at this,’ said Bubblee, picking up the local newspaper. ‘Front page news.’
She skimmed through it and dropped it on the table. Mae went to read the article.
‘Car accident leaves old lady’s prize-winning poodle in need of veterinary care.’ Mae laughed. ‘The victim …’ She looked up. ‘… That’d be our bro-in-law – is in a coma. He is thought to be in a critical but stable condition.’
‘This place,’ said Bubblee, shaking her head. ‘A poodle’s disturbed and it’s front-page news.’
‘Marnie was complaining about the traffic on Bingham Road because of the branch that fell from the tree,’ added Dad.
‘That’s Mrs Lemington,’ I said. ‘She loves her dog. We should probably send her something.’
Farah stared at the page and didn’t say anything.
‘Animals matter more than humans here.’ Mum shook her head as she went straight into the kitchen and I followed her to help prepare dinner for everyone. Bubblee loomed in the doorway.
‘This is just typical.’
How does she manage to fill a room like that without being fat? I always seem to fill it in the wrong way – not knowing where to put myself – where to shift or pause. But not Bubblee. She enters a room and people have to look. You can’t not look at beauty: her brown hair, chopped and cut messily; her big eyes darting between Mum and Dad; rose-bud mouth pursed in her usual annoyed way. All this and living her independent life in London, not being tied to what people tell her; knowing what she wants and then just going out to get it. It’s almost as if she knows she has a right to it. Or at least a right to try. I suppose everyone has that right, but how do some people just feel it? I’m told she and I have the same eyes, but I don’t see it. I see nothing of myself in any of my sisters.
‘When was the last time Dad entered the kitchen?’ Bubblee added, putting down her patchwork bag that bulged at the seams.
She walked in and I had a sudden feeling of the room being too full, a need to be in my own space, within my four walls.
‘Is this how you’ll speak to your husband when you’re married?’ said Mum, looking at her. ‘You should go and borrow some clothes from Faru. I’m not letting a boy see you like that in such tight jeans and T-shirt.’
‘What boy?’ said Bubblee as I got the ghee out of the cupboard.
‘You’ll see him tomorrow,’ replied Mum.
Tomorrow! I remembered. I had a hand-modelling shoot tomorrow. When I told Mum that I’d cancel it she said: ‘No, no, no. You must still go. I want to add it to my pile.’
She opened her drawer to show the plastic wallet she has of all my hand-modelling pictures.
‘Bubblee will drive you.’ She looked over at her. ‘And you’ll wear something nice when you both come after to the hospital.’
‘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.
Mae put her phone down as Bubblee switched on my bedside lamp and looked around my room.
‘Every time I ask she just replies “Fine.” I think you need more colour in this room, Fatti. Maybe a painting or two? Something to add a little character.’
What did she mean? Doesn’t she think I have character?
‘Are you gonna marry that Malik guy?’ asked Mae.
My heart seemed to beat a little faster.
‘Over my dead body,’ replied Bubblee, observing my bookshelf. ‘There’s something very reflective in the orderly way you’ve piled your books, Fatti.’
Mae shot a look at me, suppressing a laugh. I had to hold mine back too.
‘I mean, we can really draw parallels from our surroundings about our personalities.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said Mae. ‘What’s your flat like then?’
‘You can come visit and see for yourself one day.’ Bubblee looked at her. ‘If you do well in your GCSEs, you can even come and stay with me for a while.’
Mae sat up. ‘Shut your face.’
I had a sudden bout of panic. If Mae leaves here, then I’ll be alone – with my parents.
‘We can go to exhibitions and sit in cafes. You can get a part-time job.’
‘A job?’ said Mae.
‘Yes. A job. That thing that funds the life we want to lead.’
Mae lay back down. ‘London would be something.’
‘Fatti, you can come too,’ said Bubblee, hitting me on the leg.
I said: ‘That’d be great.’ But a hundred questions came to me: What would I wear? How would I act with Bubblee’s artist friends? I need to lose at least twenty pounds before going to London. The whole idea made me want to reach into my drawer for cheese, except I couldn’t with Mae around. But she was right, London would be something.
‘You’d better not marry that Malik before I get a chance,’ said Mae.
Bubblee threw a pillow at her. ‘I’m not marrying him. He’s so uninspired.’
‘But you don’t even know him,’ I replied.
Why do people make such quick judgements about others? Why does no-one give anyone a chance? I think Bubblee said something, but I was too lost in these thoughts to hear. So lost that I ended up saying aloud: ‘I feel like I know him.’
Mae let out a snort of laughter. I felt my face flush, unable to look at Bubblee, who I could tell was staring at me.
‘Haha. Fatti fancies Mal-meister,’ said Mae, getting her phone out again.
‘Don’t even think about hitting the record button,’ I said, the heat in my face rising. ‘And I don’t fancy him. I’m just saying. He is family, anyway.’
‘Exactly,’ said Bubblee. ‘It’s unwholesome to even think about marrying him. I mean, Farah married her cousin and that’s bad enough.’ Bubblee looked at the ground. ‘Look what she’s got to show for it,’ she added.
It seemed so obvious to me. Was I being stupid? Did no-one else see what I saw?
‘Let it go, man,’ added Mae. ‘How much longer are you gonna hold that against her?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ replied Bubblee. ‘Can you believe how Mum was going on and on about Jay? I was embarrassed for her.’
‘He does send money,’ I said.
‘Not nearly enough to make up for the fact that we never know where he is, or what he’s doing. He couldn’t give a crap about any of us.’
I wondered if Bubblee realised that a lot of the time we don’t know where she is or what she’s doing either. My bedroom door opened again and it was Farah. ‘This is where you’re all hiding.’
I folded my legs to make room for Farah on my bed.
‘Bubblee’s the one hiding,’ said Mae, still tapping on her phone. ‘From her husband.’ After which she made kissing noises.
‘She could do a lot worse than him. They’re a good family. Good brothers,’ replied Farah, still standing at the doorway.
‘Good enough for someone else, maybe,’ mumbled Bubblee.
‘What?’ said Farah.
‘Nothing,’ she replied.
Farah’s hand rested on the door handle – she was still as a statue. ‘If you have something to say, you might as well say it. It’s not like I have other things to deal with.’
‘Nothing,’ repeated Bubblee.
I don’t understand how someone can be so stubborn about something. I’ve seen the way Mustafa is around Farah – the way he’s looked after her. He might not be funny and clever – all those things that Bubblee goes on about – but he was kind, at least. Is kind. Which is more than can be said for a lot of men. God, I hope he lives.
‘Mae – get off your phone and sleep in the room with me tonight,’ said Farah.
Mae sighed deeply, picked up her pillow and left the room with Farah closing the door behind her.
I watched Bubblee who was staring at the closed door.
‘You can sleep on the bed,’ I said to her. ‘I’ll take the floor.’
‘Thanks,’ she replied, sounding as if she were somewhere far away.
*
I woke up early, absolutely starving. Creeping out of the room, I walked passed my parents’ room and heard weird noises coming from inside. Sounded like Mum’s arthritis was pretty bad, as she seemed to be moaning. When I went downstairs Malik was at the breakfast table, eating a bowl of cornflakes.
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘You’re up early,’ he replied.
I couldn’t think of anything to say and wished I’d at least put my bathrobe on. My green polka-dot pyjamas weren’t exactly the most flattering in the world.
‘My jet lag’s bad,’ he added as I went over to the kitchen cupboard, forgetting what I was looking for. A plate – that’s it.
‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘Must be.’
What I wanted was squeezy cheese and mashed prawns on my four slices of toast but I couldn’t let him see me do that. I grabbed an apple and sliced it into pieces, along with some tangerines and a banana.
‘Fruit?’ I offered.
‘Yes. Please. Thanks.’
I handed him the plate of chopped fruit and made myself another one, thinking of the cheese I couldn’t eat. As I took the plate and made my way out of the kitchen, he said: ‘Sit with me, Fatima.’
No-one ever calls me Fatima like that. It’s always Fatti, Fatti, Fatti. As if even my name lives up to the expectation of who I am. I took a seat opposite him and looked at my plate, feeling my face flush again. He’s meant to marry Bubblee. Even if she won’t marry him. It doesn’t matter. He’ll never look at you after having looked at her, anyway.
‘You’re very shy for the eldest,’ he said.
I shrugged. ‘I don’t have much to say.’
‘That can’t be true,’ he said, putting a slice of apple in his mouth, munching so loudly it filled the room.
‘Did you sleep okay?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
When I looked up he was staring at me. Our eyes met and he didn’t look away, just smiled. I peeled off the white veins of the tangerine.
He seemed to laugh at something.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Nothing, it’s just that … well, you have your kala’s hands. My amma’s hands.’
He observed my hands carefully.
‘They’re beautiful,’ he said.
That much I knew was true, or I wouldn’t be modelling them – long, slender fingers, petite and soft, finely shaped nails that never really need to be filed. It’s the only attractive thing about me.
‘Oh. Thanks.’
‘Tell me about yourself, Fatima.’
The house felt so quiet we could’ve been the only two people there. Is this what being with someone would be like? You’d wake up in the morning and just talk casually about anything; this little space made of you and them, like a secret society of privileged members. For a moment I pretended that we were married and that it was just another day in our lives – the happiness seemed to swell inside me, until I realised that it wasn’t real and that I was even more pathetic than I thought.
‘Nothing to tell,’ I said.
‘What do you do? What do you like?’ He paused. ‘Have you had many marriage proposals?’
Many? The banana pieces were already getting black, the juice from the tangerine touching the sliced apples.
‘I er … no. I’m learning how to drive.’
He leaned forward, putting his plate to one side. ‘And?’
‘Well, once I pass, you see, I’ll be able to get around and maybe get a proper job. Right now, I just help around the house.’ I put out my hand. ‘I make money modelling my hands in a magazine.’
‘Good. I’m not surprised,’ he said, looking at my hands again. ‘Why haven’t Kala and Mama found you a husband yet? You’re the eldest – you should be married now.’
Imagine if he’d said that to Bubblee – she’d have thrown her plate at him. But it was nice being asked, because it was as if it was possible that someone like me could be married. In his eyes, it wasn’t only possible, but actually weird that I wasn’t married.
‘Maybe. One day,’ I replied.
‘Someday soon, inshallah,’ he replied. ‘There should be no maybe. Of course you’ll get married.’
It was nice to have someone believe that would happen for me, even if it was just to make me feel better.
‘And how’s your brother,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Jahangeer? He hasn’t come home for Mustafa?’
We heard something drop and looked outside into the passage.
‘Oops,’ said Mae, bending down to get her phone.
‘Mae, if you were recording without us knowing …’ I began.
‘I wasn’t, I wasn’t,’ she exclaimed.
Her eyes rested on my plate of fruit.
‘Amazing, Fatti. Well done. Better than those hundred slices of toast you eat when you think none of us are looking. All right, Mal-meister?’ she added, opening the fridge and getting some kind of smoothie concoction out.
‘Mal-meister Baia to you,’ he replied, his back turned to her as he winked at me.
‘Ooh, yeah, of course,’ she said, making stupid hugging gestures while he couldn’t see. ‘Doesn’t Fatti have to call you Baia out of respect too? I mean, if you’re my brother then you must be hers too, right?’
I could’ve killed her, laughing like that, without him seeing, while I could do nothing but look and listen. She took a sip of her smoothie.
‘Ugh!’ she exclaimed, spitting out its contents and looking at the bottle and wiping her mouth. ‘Gross. Dad’s at it again, isn’t he? He made me this weird smoothie days ago and it tasted like he’d put a spoonful of sewage in it.’
She tipped it out into the sink and threw the bottle in the recycling bin.
‘You’re almost half her age. She deserves your respect,’ said Malik.
‘And she gets it, don’t you, Fats?’ she said, messing up my hair while she walked past.
I tried to hit her on the leg but she just about escaped out of the kitchen. He must think everyone walks all over me. I just shook my head and pretended to laugh. ‘Kids,’ I said.
He leaned forward and put his hand on mine. I was so taken aback, I couldn’t move. What was he doing? Why was he touching me? No-one’s ever held my hand before. All that fruit was churning in my stomach, and it wasn’t sitting very well.
‘She’s right, though, Fatima. You must know …’
We heard footsteps come down the stairs just then. Mae must’ve woken everyone up, as Mum walked in and Malik took his hand away from mine.
‘Oh, Malik, you must let me make you a proper breakfast. This is no good.’
He gave her this weird look. ‘No. Thank you.’
She insisted but he kept saying no and I did think, just let her make you some chapatti and lentil stew. Mum hesitated a little and then smiled at me.
‘Fatti,’ she said, getting out my prawns and tube of cheese. ‘Shall I make you toast?’
What must he have thought of me?
‘No, thanks, Amma. I’m just having this.’
She looked at my plate of fruit and frowned.
‘You can’t just eat that,’ she exclaimed and was already making me a cheese-and-prawn sandwich when Bubblee came down.
‘Morning,’ Malik said to her.
I took the sandwich Mum handed to me as I watched them and munched on the huge bite I’d taken. Bubblee simply gave him a nod as she made a cup of coffee for herself.
‘Amma, I really think you should call Jay,’ she said to Mum.
Malik glanced at her as she said this. ‘Bubblee is right, Kala,’ he added. ‘Wouldn’t he want to know?’
Mum looked annoyed but turned around and got the flour out for the chapattis.
‘I know Farah’d want to talk to him,’ added Bubblee. ‘And she’s in no state to call him herself, or tell him what’s happened.’
Mum shot her a look before turning to Malik. ‘There’s no need to worry him,’ she said.
I saw Bubblee shaking her head in disbelief. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if it wasn’t for the fact that Malik was staring at her. I took another bite of my sandwich and wished I hadn’t as Malik looked at me – my mouth full – while Bubblee’s delicate mouth sipped at her coffee. He smiled at me though, so kindly that I didn’t know whether to swallow what was in my mouth, or cry.
