The Wedding Countdown Read online

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’m so excited about starting at GupShup tomorrow. It’s just so much to take in all at once.’

  Nish nods, her nose ring glittering. ‘I still can’t believe that we got the jobs, Mills! Out of all those applicants!’

  It is incredible and wonderful and tomorrow I’ll be there, a real journalist on a real glossy magazine! Although I feel like someone has superglued my nostrils and my eyes are all sore and puffy, that twisty feeling of excitement comes back.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Eve asks through a cloud of cigarette smoke when I walk into the kitchen. ‘You look like a frog.’

  ‘Give her a break,’ Nish says. ‘Her parents have just gone.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘And you’re crying why?’

  Eve has the most peculiar relationship with her parents. They throw money at her and she spends it.

  She rolls her eyes and pours a glass of wine. ‘Now it’s really time to party. Fancy hitting the clubs and getting rat-arsed, Mills? That’s what Nish and I do every night!’

  I couldn’t be more horrified if she’d punched me in the stomach. Like duh, Muslims aren’t allowed to drink alcohol and as for clubbing, there’s no way I could ever contemplate it. For a minute I consider hurtling down the stairs, running after my parents’ van and shouting for them to come back and save me.

  Then Eve and Nish start to giggle.

  ‘Gotcha!’ wheezes Eve. ‘God, you’re gullible, Mills! You really thought I meant it. I gave up trying to corrupt you back at uni.’

  I’m not laughing, though. The London that stretches away below our rooftop vantage point is vast and sprawling and utterly unknown. The sheer scale of it takes my breath away.

  Hundreds of miles away from Bradford and everything I’ve ever known, I suddenly feel very vulnerable and very, very scared.

  I really hope I’m doing the right thing.

  Chapter 6

  It’s dinner-time and I can hardly manage a mouthful.

  ‘Are you leaving that?’ asks Nish incredulously.

  I nod. ‘I’m too nervous to eat.’

  Nish scrapes my plateful of Chinese onto hers. ‘All the more for me.’

  ‘Your editor’s supposed to be a right dragon,’ says Eve. ‘I read an article about her in the Media Guardian. Amazing woman but tough as old boots.’

  The editor of GupShup is Nina Singh, a woman with an eagle eye for a story. Her sharp grey bob and scarlet lips are her trademarks and a familiar sight on shows like Loose Women and Question Time. Nina’s the epitome of a successful Asian career woman and I’ve admired her for ages.

  She also has a reputation for being a slave driver and having a notoriously short fuse.

  ‘I hope she thinks we’re good enough to keep on,’ I fret. ‘They’ve never taken two interns before. I wonder what’s changed?’

  ‘Chill,’ says Nish. ‘You saw the letter. Nina was impressed with our joint article. There’s no hidden agenda.’

  ‘You’d better crack on with husband hunting or you’ll be off to Pakistan even if you do get a job,’ warns Eve.

  ‘I’m on the case,’ I tell her. ‘I can’t hang around though. A year isn’t very long.’

  ‘Maybe there’ll be some really lush guys at GupShup,’ suggests Eve. ‘Some nice scenery to make the day go quicker? Not like at my office. I swear Dad gave me an ugly boss to wreck any chances I might have of enjoying work.’

  Eve works for her dad’s PR company, B-D International, and for the last two hours has barely stopped moaning about her boss, Damien Oxley.

  ‘Damien isn’t ugly,’ says Nish, chomping on a prawn ball. ‘I think he’s really attractive in an older man kind of way. Very George Clooney.’

  Eve hurls dishes into the machine. ‘You need your eyes tested; he’s ancient.’

  ‘He’s forty-seven,’ says Nish. ‘Isn’t George Clooney forty-seven or thereabouts?’

  ‘George Clooney?’ Eve brandishes a fork in her direction. ‘Are you crazy? Damien has the social graces of George’s dead pet pig but that’s as far as any similarities go. The man’s Hell in Armani.’

  ‘He’s certainly got under your skin,’ I say.

  ‘He’s a bloody slave driver, that’s why.’

  Eve tosses her blonde curls, pours herself an enormous glass of wine and lights a cigarette. She inhales deeply and closes her eyes before blowing two plumes of smoke out of her nose. I’ve seen Eve do this hundreds of times; in restaurants, at the students’ union and even while she writes essays. She’s the most elegant smoker I’ve ever seen, gesticulating wildly with her cigarette and blowing smoke rings like wispy hula-hoops.

  I’ve never smoked. I don’t drink. I’ve never kissed anyone. Sometimes when I compare myself to my flamboyant friend I feel really dull. When Eve isn’t being slave driven by Damien she’s zooming round London in her BMW Z5, hood down and hair flying in the wind. My Nissan Micra just can’t compete, which is why I’ve passed it on to Roma and opted to take the tube instead.

  I love Eve, but we come from such different worlds. I want so much to prove myself and I can’t wait to start work, whereas Eve puts more energy into getting out of her job than she does actually doing it.

  After clearing up, Nish pops out and Eve settles down in front of Made in Chelsea, on the pretext of trying to decide which local reality star B-D will next represent. This leaves me to go and sort out my belongings. Fetching my suitcase I flip open the lid and rummage around for the perfect outfit for work. What shall I choose? Shalwar kameez? Or what about my latest eBay bargain, the beautifully cut suit from Karen Millen? What impression do I want to create? Asian Babe or Career Woman? I lay out several outfits and put the decision off until the morning, hoping that after a good’s night sleep I’ll be inspired.

  I’m just on the brink of dropping off when my mobile shrills into the quiet.

  ‘Mills!’ wails Roma when I answer. ‘Something awful’s happened!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Qas.’

  ‘Roma, you’re scaring me. What’s happened to Qas? Is he hurt?’

  Roma inhales shakily. ‘He’s fine, but Mum and Dad aren’t. Auntie Bee turned up this afternoon and wouldn’t push off. I had to spend hours making chai and fetching her food. You know what she’s like.’

  ‘I certainly do.’

  ‘When Mum and Dad got home, exhausted from the drive, she was ready for them.’

  ‘And what poison did Auntie Bee pour into their ears this time?’

  Roma starts to sob. ‘Auntie Bee’s friend Naseem knows a woman who saw Qas in town. He was with a girl. A white girl.’ The sobs increase. ‘He was kissing her! And bloody Bee’s told everyone!’

  How could Qas be so careless? Has he gone pagal?

  ‘Mum’s in tears, Dad’s locked himself in the office and Auntie Bee is busy being Bradford’s answer to the News of the World. It’s really awful.’

  ‘Oh crap!’

  ‘You know they’ve got a cousin lined up for Qas,’ Roma weeps. ‘Dad’s all but given his word. He went spare when Qas refused to back down and Mum’s in tears because Qas called them racists.’

  My poor parents!

  ‘Mum and Dad aren’t racists!’ Roma wails.

  ‘Of course they’re not. But they do know how difficult it is for two cultures to come together. Don’t forget there’s history there.’

  ‘History?’

  ‘Aunt Seema?’ I remind her. ‘Otherwise known as She who must not be mentioned? Dad’s sister who broke her betrothal off and married a plumber called Alan?’

  ‘Duh.’ I hear my sister slap her palm against her forehead. ‘How could I forget that? Nanny-ji hasn’t spoken to her since, has she?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, Roma. And Grandpa-ji never spoke of her again. Dad says the shame killed him.’

  We’re silent. Mixed-race marriage is a sore topic in our family. My father would never tolerate such a match, not knowing the grief it could cause.

&nb
sp; ‘I wish you were here, baj,’ Roma sighs. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘I’ll come home,’ I say. ‘I’ll get the train first thing.’

  ‘You can’t. It’s your first day at GupShup.

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’ My lovely, funny crazy family is infinitely more important than a job, even my dream job. ‘I’m coming back.’

  ‘No way,’ says Roma. ‘Why should Qas ruin everything you’ve worked for?’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Why does Qas have to be so difficult?’ Roma says eventually. ‘Why choose a gori when he knows how Daddy-ji feels?’

  I sigh. ‘If two people are in love, soul mates if you like, they have to be together. True love can overcome anything.’

  ‘Do you really believe that, baj?’

  ‘With all my heart.’

  ‘Maybe everything will be OK then,’ Roma says hopefully.

  ‘Of course it will, insha’Allah,’ I promise, with more conviction than I feel.

  ‘At least Qas isn’t a girl,’ says Roma. ‘Our izzat’s a bit dented but you’ll set that right, Mills.’

  ‘Me? How?’

  ‘With the wonderful marriage you’re going to make. Oh baj, you’ll make Mum and Dad proud and really shut that cow Bee right up. I know you’ll find a wonderful man, a barrister or a surgeon at the least, and then Mum and Dad will be pagal with joy. Only don’t take too long, will you? Things are pretty tense here.’

  Oh great. Not only is the countdown to Subhi tick-tocking away but now I’ve got the added pressure of shoring up the family izzat to contend with.

  After Roma rings off I lie awake watching the orange shadows of street lamps pool across the ceiling. I hope I find my soul mate soon. The thought of failing is suddenly too awful to contemplate.

  Chapter 7

  Why did nobody ever tell me splitting the atom is easier than negotiating London’s tube system?

  I turn my tube map upside down just in case this throws some light on the matter, but no luck. The jumble of yellow, blue, green and red lines still looks more like spaghetti than a sophisticated transport system. It doesn’t help that my eyes are all gritty and heavy from lack of sleep, or that when I should be concentrating on getting from Chelsea to Canary Wharf I’m distracted by horrible thoughts of Qas arguing with my parents. So far I’ve retraced my steps three times, going back six stops on the Circle Line, and have nearly broken my neck running down steps to my next tube only to see it pulling away.

  All in all not a great start to my first day at work.

  I stand on the platform at Westminster Station and try to get my breath back. An information board in gloating neon green tells me the next train to Stratford is eight minutes away. Eight minutes! I check my watch hoping time has somehow frozen but no such luck. It really is nine-fifteen and I’m late for work.

  I sit on a bench and put my head in my hands. If only Nish hadn’t reheated the Chinese and then spent the night regurgitating prawn balls. There was no way she could drag herself away from the loo even for Nina Singh and she’d had some very tricky explaining to do. As will I if I don’t figure out the tube pretty bloody fast. A seasoned Londoner like Nish would have no problem negotiating the route but I may as well be trying to get to Timbuktu.

  Actually I think I’d have more luck getting there. Why didn’t Eve tell me the journey from Chelsea to Canary Wharf is so complicated?

  After what feels like forever there’s a sudden gust of warm dusty air followed by the arrival of a train. Even though it’s packed I elbow my way in, wedging myself between the glass door and someone’s armpit.

  I’m relieved when several stops later most of the passengers pile out leaving me space to sit down and flick through the latest issue of Heat. I sweep a sheaf of Metro pages onto the floor and settle down onto my seat. The fabric prickles against my legs and for a moment I wonder if I should have stuck to the trouser suit rather than the flimsy shalwar kameez. But it’s too late to worry now. The train’s reached Stratford and I gather my belongings hastily, terrified of missing my stop.

  Once out of the bowels of the earth and blinking like a mole in the sunshine I try to get my bearings. It’s almost nine forty and the crowds have melted away. I rummage around in my bag and eventually locate the map Nish drew for me. The smudged lines suggest Nish is better suited to a career in journalism than cartography but I manage to decipher it enough to gather that the offices of GupShup aren’t very far from the station. Then I look up and start laughing. I don’t need a map! You can see Canary Wharf from miles away.

  I cross the square and head towards the imposing glass building opposite. It glitters in the sunlight. Up the marble steps I tip tap in my heels. Come on saheli! Don’t be intimidated! This is it. My heart’s thumping and my hands are shaking but in I go. It’s too late to be scared. I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long. This is the start of my brilliant career as a journalist.

  At least I hope it is.

  I launch myself through the door towards an enormous reception desk. Behind it sit two supermodels. Oh hey up, my mistake! I mean receptionists.

  ‘Hello,’ I say brightly to one of them. ‘I’m Amelia Ali. I’m one of the new interns at GupShup. Any road, I was wondering–’

  ‘Eighth floor, second elevator,’ she says without even looking up from her Mac. ‘Turn left.’

  Sheesh. Aren’t Londoners friendly? Not. If this was Bradford we’d be having a good old chinwag by now and discovering that we had loads of friends in common. She’d probably even brew me up a lovely strong cup of Yorkshire tea and pull out some Eccles cake. But this isn’t Bradford and the receptionist doesn’t take her gaze from her typing. Feeling foolish I cross the lonely acres of floor and call the lift.

  ‘Oooh,’ shrieks a voice in my left ear. ‘Those shalwars are gorge! I just adore the way that the neck line sits!’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  I look at the speaker and wish I hadn’t because he’s decked in migraine-inducing finery. His luminous purple pinstripe cords are teamed with a lime-green silk shirt smothered in a busy pattern of orange flowers. Around his neck is a vomit-yellow necktie, above which bobs a prominent Adam’s apple. He’s giving me the exaggerated once-over through trendy red-framed glasses. Normally I’d be horribly intimidated if a strange man scrutinised me so closely but this character is clearly camper than the Cath Kidston tents in Millets and as threatening as candy floss.

  The lift doors swish open and he follows me inside. I wish I’d borrowed Eve’s beloved Gucci shades because I don’t think my eyes can stand this for too long.

  ‘So tell me where you got those divine shalwars,’ says the walking migraine.

  ‘My tailor in Bradford made them but they’re my own design. I like to make things a bit individual, you know?’

  He raises a beautifully plucked eyebrow. ‘Darling, don’t I look like a man who has an individual sense of style?’

  ‘Totally,’ I agree, noticing he’s pressed the button for floor eight. ‘Same for me, please. Floor eight.’

  ‘So,’ he says, ‘you’re a dress designer? Just like Victoria Beckham?’

  ‘Well you know, how it is,’ I decide to play along. Who knows, if the journalism thing doesn’t work out I may well turn my hand at design and become the Rupert Murdoch of the fashion world. ‘If Victoria Beckham started off making bucket loads designing ways to make jeans look slightly different, but really you can’t tell them apart unless you go buy yourself a magnifying glass, why not me?’

  ‘Why not indeed?’

  ‘Just imagine,’ I continue, warming to my theme. ‘There she was, VB, hmm’ing and haa’ing thinking, “how about I use the light blue thread instead of the pale blue or hmm shall I use the sky blue or should I just stick to blue? Oh, who cares? No one’s going to stick my jeans under a microscope to examine the fine detail of a seam. I’ll just call it VB: Sky Blue so I don’t end up having to deal with a mob of angry jeans fanatics demanding I give back their
money because I’ve conned them into buying this season’s jeans when last season’s jeans are almost exact replicas. OK, I've made my decision; sky blue it is. That wasn’t a bad day’s work! It’s a good thing I got rid of those hair extensions because all of a sudden I’m thinking more clearly. Time to give David a call and tell him we’ll be having an Indian tonight. Hmm… How about fat-free lettuce curry [without the oil] with five and a half grains of boiled rice and one mango slice for dessert? Mmm, my mouth’s watering. I’d better go and retouch my lip gloss before my golden boy comes home…”’

  I grind to a stop because my companion’s making the oddest sound, a bit like a cross between whale music and a yelp of pain. Then I realise he’s laughing and shaking his head.

  ‘Girlfriend, you are one crazy chick! That’s so funny! I bet that’s exactly what she did!’

  Thank God he’s amused. Talk about opening my big gob and putting my LK Bennetts right in. He could work for the Beckhams for all I know.

  ‘You’re not her stylist are you?’

  ‘Do I look like I’m the Beckhams’ stylist?’ he says, offended. ‘Do I look like the kind of guy who’d wear a floral sarong?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ I fib.

  ‘Thank Christ for that!’ He fans his face theatrically. ‘I was seriously concerned for a moment. I thought I’d have to get Nina to run a makeover feature on me.’

  ‘Nina Singh? You work for GupShup?’

  ‘I’m not here for my health, angel.’

  ‘I work here too!’ I can hardly contain my excitement. ‘I’m Mills Ali, one of the new interns.’

  ‘Raj Patel,’ he shakes my hand. ‘Senior Graphic Designer. We’ve been expecting you. There’s already a very important job waiting for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  Wow! What will it be? Setting out a fashion spread? Designing the next edition’s front page? Writing the next sensational scoop?

  ‘Yes, really.’ Raj pushes open the heavy glass door. ‘It’s a very important job that we always give our new interns.’