The Wedding Countdown Read online

  ‘Funny schmunny,’ I say, wagging my finger at her. ‘Have some respect for your elders. Like my Kabir. He’s a good boy. Marry him to Amelia at once!’

  ‘Gross!’ Sara pulls a face. ‘I’d forgotten you were supposed to marry him. Look, there he is, talking to your dad. How did you manage to resist?’

  Sure enough, there’s Kabir, shovelling food into his mouth as though there’s about to be a world chicken tikka shortage, and spraying bits of violent red goo all over my unfortunate dad. He is as wide as he is high, and his waistline is expanding as rapidly as my overdraft.

  ‘I think I just lost my sense of humour,’ I sigh.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Sara grimaces. ‘Shagging Kabir would be about as funny as a Bernard Manning gig in Bradford.’

  ‘Brad Pitt must be shaking in his boots,’ I say.

  But as far as Auntie Bee is concerned, Kabir is Brad Pitt, Orlando Bloom and Prince William all rolled into one perfect package.

  The Alis, like many Pakistanis, tend to keep marriage within the family and on the very day I was born Auntie Bee suggested I was betrothed to her son. Thankfully my dad managed to ignore that one, and she was fobbed off with comments about when I was older and all grown up, insha’Allah. Any road, around the time that I was sitting my A-levels, Auntie Bee, never one to take nahin for an answer, came waddling round and interrupted my revision by demanding it was high time Kabir and I were betrothed. I’d refused point blank and luckily my parents hadn’t pushed the matter because I’d already accepted a place at university.

  But lately I’ve been wondering if they’re biding their time after all. I bloody well hope not. I’d rather eat my own vomit than marry Kabir. This is why I have to talk to my mother sooner rather than later.

  ‘I shouldn’t worry too much,’ Hoor whispers. ‘There’s no way Uncle Ahmed would ever want you to marry Kermit. He knows that Auntie Bee and your mum don’t exactly see eye to eye.’

  This is possibly the understatement of the year. The Montagues and the Capulets probably got on better. Auntie Bee lives for gossip. Meddling and interfering is her life’s mission. My poor mum, Hamida, is always in the firing line when it comes to her dear sister-in-law, who wastes no time criticising her as a mother and wife, and generally dishing out advice on how to treat my dad the way every man in our family deserves to be treated.

  Because Sanaubar is the perfect daughter and Kabir – or Kermit as I’ve always called him, on account of his frog-like eyes and squat body – is the perfect son, my brother, sisters and I have all been compared to them for as long as I can remember. Sanaubar and I are only six weeks apart in age and we share a long history of rivalry, mostly due to Sanaubar’s superiority complex and catty competitive streak. Not the nicest combination, especially in high doses. Sanaubar and I have never got on and we never will. Sanaubar’s conversations tend to be about her amazing clothes (snore), her amazing marriage (yawn) and her amazing brat ... I mean son.

  ‘How can I marry a man who has all the charm and wit of a single-cell amoeba?’ I wonder aloud. ‘I’d rather watch my car get dirty than hang out with Kabir.’

  Emira snorts with laughter. ‘Stop it, Mills! Auntie Bee will hear!’

  ‘She’ll think you’re eyeing him up,’ says Hoor.

  ‘I wouldn’t panic,’ Sara says. ‘Auntie Bee was so insulted when you turned Kermit down the last time she’s hardly likely to give you another chance.’

  It’s a fair point. Auntie Bee didn’t take the rejection too kindly and lost no time spreading vicious rumours that my mother had lost control of me and that – Astaghfirullah! God forbid! – I had turned out to be one of those western independent types, one of those girls who eventually turn their back on their family and spit on the family name. But when she started spreading word that I was using university schuniversity as an excuse to see boys unchaperoned, my father had to take her to task.

  Seeing boys unchaperoned? Hardly. Sweet twenty-two and never been kissed.

  I wonder what it’s like? Kissing I mean…

  My gaze strays over towards Tara, who is stunning. She has waist-length ebony curls and eyes like the saddest of Andrex puppies. She met Faisal, her new husband, through the usual family network, but it’s clear they adore each other. I watch as every now and then their fingertips brush, and the flush in Tara’s cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes speak volumes. Faisal, who is handsome in a tall and lanky way, looks like a man who can’t believe his luck.

  ‘They can’t wait for the rest of us to shove off and leave them to it,’ whispers Sara, following my gaze. ‘Lucky buggers. I can’t wait to get married. If we have to wait much longer to shag, Shabs will explode.’

  Hoor splutters Diet Coke all over us.

  I’m used to Sara. She tries very hard to shock but actually is one of the most conventional people on the planet. She’s been engaged to Shabir, another cousin (surprise, surprise), for aeons and once her law degree’s completed they’ll be married.

  Are you starting to see the pattern?

  ‘What about Qas?’ asks Hoor, swiftly trying to change the subject. ‘Has your dad sorted out anyone for him yet? He’s grown up to be really fit.’

  I peer across the room at my brother, who is helping Nanny-ji find a place to sit. When did Qas change from being a spotty teenager into a man? It makes me laugh to think that my baby brother now has a huge Bradfordian female following. I guess if Beckham-style diamond earrings and trendy mullet-meets-Mohawk hairdos are your thing, then Qas is attractive. He still farts a lot, though.

  ‘A potential doctor,’ muses Sara. ‘I bet all the auntie-jis are queuing up with their daughters.’

  ‘He’s the darling boy,’ I say. ‘Every Asian parent’s fantasy fulfilled. A doctor son.’

  Emira shoots me a sharp look. ‘Miaow! I thought Sanaubar was here for a minute.’

  ‘Sorry.’ I’m such a cow. It isn’t Qas’s fault he has a willy and therefore about a million times more freedom than I do. I can’t blame him for being allowed to go to Bristol University rather than having to stay in Bradford and be home early every day after lectures finish. That’s just the way that things are in families like ours. Family honour, izzat, must be preserved at all costs, and daughters have a special duty when it comes to upholding it. Qas does all the normal boy stuff like going out at any time of night or day, avoiding all household chores and not having curfews. It is unfair but there’s no point blaming him.

  But there’s more to my feeling irritated than this.

  ‘Qas is such a sweetie,’ insists Hoor. ‘Look how he comes back from uni every weekend when he could be out socialising. He’s such a good family guy.’

  All my cousins nod. You can practically see Qas’s halo glowing above his dark head. He’s so perfect, they coo, and of course I have to agree. Qas is the sohna bachcha, the golden boy, all right.

  And there’s the rub. The truth of the matter is that Qas is dating somebody and has been for at least the last year. Our parents are blissfully unaware of this and it infuriates me that they just assume he’s a good family boy. Sometimes I’m just bursting to spill the chilli beans when he comes home to earn himself some more brownie points, especially when the reality is he spends just enough time indoors to thrust his dirty washing into Mum’s arms before racing off to be with this girl, only coming back in time to shout a quick ‘Allah hafiz!’ before scooping up his clean laundry and zooming back to Bristol.

  ‘Don’t have a go again,’ Qas pleaded yesterday. ‘Just trust me. She’s really special and I love her.’

  ‘So let’s meet her,’ I’d retorted. ‘Mum and Dad will come round. Lots of our cousins have found their own partners. As long as she’s a Pakistani Muslim they’ll be fine.’

  Qas said nothing. Instead he seemed to find the inside of the washing machine very interesting all of a sudden. Amazing. I hadn’t been aware he’d even known what it was. ‘She’s not from Pakistan,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Oh.’ I digested this informatio
n slowly. ‘Qas!’ I leapt forward. ‘Don’t put red socks in with whites!’ I pulled the offending garments out of the drum, and sat back on my heels. ‘OK, so she’s not from a Pakistani family? Is she an Indian?’

  ‘No.’ Qas had straightened up and was running his hands through his trendy haircut, making gelled clumps stick up in alarm. ‘She’s British.’

  ‘British?’ I parroted.

  ‘She’s not a Muslim, either,’ added Qas, looking at me with troubled eyes. ‘She’s called Lizzie and she’s white, and before you say anything, yes, I do know what Mum and Dad are going to say, OK? But I love her and I’m not going to give her up.’

  I’d been lost for words.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that!’ begged Qas. ‘I will tell them, I promise. But it’s got to be when I’m ready, Mills baj, and when we’re strong enough as a couple to deal with all the crap. I don’t think I could bear their disappointment otherwise.’

  I didn’t know what to say. He was right. They would be disappointed. Not because Qas’s choice was British but because izzat demands that children respect their parents and allow their elders’ wisdom to guide their choices. Auntie Bee would have a field day.

  But there’s more to it than this. Years ago, back when the dinosaurs were roaming Yorkshire, Dad’s sister Seema turned her back on her arranged marriage and family izzat to run away with the lad who’d been plumbing in the family’s new bathroom. Granddad-ji had a stroke from the shock and Auntie Bee’s marriage prospects were nearly ruined. Family legend has it that Granddad-ji’s subsequent death had as much to do with all this as his blood pressure. Any road, Aunt Seema and Uncle Alan live in London now and have a family of their own. Not that I’m ever likely to meet them. Daddy-ji has never forgiven his sister and no one ever mentions my aunt’s name in his hearing.

  So mixed marriages are a big no no as far as Daddy-ji’s concerned.

  ‘I know it’ll be hard,’ Qas told me, ‘and that Dad will go spare, but I love her. I really do.’

  And then he’d made me swear on my life I’d keep his secret. Which I will, of course, but it isn’t making me happy to have to lie to our parents.

  There’s also a nasty part of me that’s jealous Qas is free to find somebody he loves and who loves him back. No nightmares about Cousin Kermit for him. Qas doesn’t have all the auntie-jis gossiping about his unmarried state, and nor is he made to feel like some ancient spinster who ought to take the first man who looks her way.

  I told you I hate weddings. They always get right under my skin and force me to analyse my own predicament. No wonder I’m having nightmares.

  But how can I say all this to my cousins? Hoor is married and has provided the precious son and heir; Sara is engaged; and I know for a fact that Emira has found somebody. I’m the odd one out – just as I’ve always been.

  I take a deep breath. ‘It’s just sometimes I wish things were different. I wish I could find the perfect man who loves me for me. Not for my family name or because his father has given his unbreakable word. A man who understands my deepest thoughts and who sees into the secrets of my heart, who lights my world with his laugh and who reads everything under the sun, moon and stars. A man who turns my insides to ice cream every time I look at him.’

  My cousins are staring at me.

  Typically Sara breaks the spell. ‘Ice cream?’ she shrieks. ‘You are such a hopeless romantic. Who gives a toss about ice cream as long as he’s got an enormous willy?’

  And then we’re screeching with laughter until the tears run down our cheeks and our sides ache. Such is the din of our mirth that Auntie Bee and my mother zoom over to shush us.

  ‘Something must be funny,’ says my mother, raising one perfect eyebrow. This is a new mannerism thanks to my sister Fizz, who is training to be a beautician. We are all victims for tinting, tweezing and waxing – and we have the scars to prove it. (Fizz swears that she didn’t mean to heat the wax to quite that temperature but I’m not convinced.)

  ‘Mills was telling us what she looks for in a fantasy – I mean, a man,’ sniggers Sara, wiping tears from her eyes.

  Honestly, I could have ripped her tongue out there and then. What a subject to bring up in front of those two. Instantly Mummy-ji’s brow crinkles – Fizz has yet to master the mysteries of Botox – and Auntie Bee’s eyes shine with all the zeal of a religious fanatic.

  ‘Still looking?’ she tuts. ‘Chi chi, Hamida. Whatever are you and Ahmed thinking? Unmarried at her age? Isn’t it time she got a move on? Time is running out.’

  ‘Amelia has only just graduated, Bilqees bhabhi,’ my mum says through clenched teeth. ‘She’s got a really good degree.’

  Auntie Bee sighs. ‘Tick tick! Tick tock!’

  I think that’s supposed to be my biological clock.

  ‘Uni schuni,’ she scolds, waggling her finger at me. ‘Where’s that going to get you, my girl?’

  I open my lips to reply but wow! Auntie Bee’s voice is coming right out of my mouth.

  ‘I’ll tell you where it will get her, Hamida! Off and away to London like these gori girls, living in sin and wearing shameful clothes! That’s where! What man looks for a girl with a degree? A man wants a wife who can cook, like my Sanaubar beti. Amelia might have a degree but can she cook, eh?’

  ‘Of course she can.’ Mummy-ji puts her arm round my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. I’m taken aback because this is a total and utter lie. ‘Amelia is a wonderful cook.’

  ‘Really?’ Auntie Bee peers at me suspiciously through her thick glasses. ‘What a clever girl.’

  I am clever actually. I can read Chaucer in the original. But how does that compare to making sag aloo?

  ‘So who is the lucky boy?’ Auntie Bee is like a dog with a bone. ‘Has one been chosen yet? If not, my Kabir is a fine young man. He’s going to be a wonderful doctor.’

  I snort with mirth and then have to pretend I’m coughing. I’m more likely to fly to the moon than Kabir is to become a doctor. The closest he’ll ever get is watching Holby City. This has to be his third career change since he re-took his A-levels. If he wasn’t so obnoxious I’d almost feel sorry for him.

  Mum pinches me hard. ‘That’s very considerate,’ she says. ‘But we have the matter in hand. Ahmed is already putting things in place.’

  What? He is?

  Auntie Bee shrugs her fat shoulders. ‘He’d better hurry up then. Amelia’s not getting any younger. Any man wanting sons and heirs will be looking for a youthful and childbearing bride. My Sanaubar was only seventeen when she got married.’

  And wouldn’t you know it, here’s Sanaubar, bang on cue. One hand rests on her swollen belly, the other tows her snotty son.

  ‘Mummy-ji, Auntie-ji.’ Sanaubar dutifully air-kisses her elders, before turning her attention to me. ‘Hello, Amelia, interesting churidar kurtas. Did you make them yourself?’

  Only the fact that I’m twenty-two not twelve stops me from smacking her in the face.

  ‘A girl never reveals her tailor,’ I say airily. Actually, I love this outfit. My dressmaker and I have worked on it for weeks and designed it from scratch. I love looking different from everyone else, as well as making a fashion statement on the side. I don’t think Mummy-ji would let me get away with Liz Hurley-style safety pins or a J-Lo bum-cleavage frock, but a different neckline or an original way of draping fabric is fine. And the less flesh shown the better.

  The material for today’s outfit is silvery green and the cut is really flattering. My stomach has never looked so taut or flat. All my cousins have been asking me where I’ve bought this outfit. Maybe if I don’t make it as a journalist I can turn my hand at fashion design. After all, Victoria Beckham started by making a living just changing the colour of the thread in jeans, so how hard can it be?

  ‘You’d better keep it a secret,’ says Sanaubar nastily, ‘if that’s what she makes. That colour is so last season. My husband bought my outfit from Lahore. Everyone’s wearing this style in Pakistan.’

&
nbsp; I make a mental note never to visit Pakistan if it means wearing vomit yellow with snot-green flowers. I’d rather go naked, thanks, than look like something the cat threw up.

  ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ gushes Auntie Bee. ‘Sanaubar’s husband dotes on her. He says he must have done something in his earlier life to deserve her.’

  He was probably Adolf Hitler, then.

  ‘Lovely,’ we all echo dutifully.

  ‘And another grandchild on the way,’ ploughs on Auntie Bee. ‘God has truly blessed me with a dutiful daughter and a growing family. But never mind, Hamida, I’m sure that you’ll be as fortunate too one day. One of your children is sure to marry eventually, insha’Allah. Do you know, Hamida, I pray for bechari you and my bechara brother and all your becharay children, and especially bechari Amelia, night and day, night and day, I pray and pray, after each and every namaz, always, always first, even before I thank Allah-ji for blessing me with a beti such as my Sanaubar…’

  ‘Oops!’ Sara cries, whacking her elbow into Auntie Bee’s towering plate of food and sending splats of chicken and rice flying. ‘Clumsy me. Sorry! I must have tripped.’ She winks at me as she takes Auntie Bee’s podgy arm. ‘So sorry, Auntie-ji. Let me help you get cleared up.’

  I instantly forgive Sara for bringing up the dreaded subject of marriage. It’s worth it to see Auntie Bee dripping in chicken tikka and Sanaubar’s hideous shalwar kameez vastly improved by the splatters of red dye. My mother, though, is furious. I recognise the firm set of her mouth and the shoulders so tense that they are practically round her ears. Poor Mum; she’s more and more in the firing line as time goes on and my ovaries supposedly wither away.

  Over at the buffet relatives are fighting for available chairs, which is when the claws, or rather nail extensions, really come out. It’s less like musical chairs and more like territorial warfare. At the last shaadi I was in real fear for my toes, so foolishly exposed in sandals. I may be a pacifist at heart but I can fight with the best of them and, besides, Qas always says that my bony elbows can slice granite. Pretty quickly I find a seat for my mother and fetch her some juice.