The Wedding Countdown Read online

‘Cool.’ I say. Raj is clearly bonkers but I want to impress my new colleague with my enthusiasm and willingness to learn. ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘See that kettle?’ Raj points to the sink in the corner of the office. ‘Make us a coffee, darling!’

  I’m taken aback. ‘Why should I make you a coffee?’

  ‘Because,’ smiles Raj, ‘it’s my role to make sure new interns are busy little bees and I’ve strictest orders from the boss to keep you well occupied until she’s out of her editorial meeting. Chop chop with that coffee! I’ve got an absolute mountain of photocopying for you next!’

  And off across the newsroom he shimmies, blowing kisses and shrieking excitedly at people, leaving me standing in the doorway totally and utterly lost for words.

  Chapter 8

  By half eleven I have RSI from making coffee and photocopying. Raj wasn’t joking when he said it was a mountain. Nina Singh is going to see me at some stage and this thought fills me with terror. I feel like I’m waiting to see the dentist.

  Raj breezes over and plonks another wodge of copying down.

  ‘See her?’ he stage whispers, waving a languid hand in the direction of a girl dressed in the oddest mixture of Burberry and Kappa. ‘That’s Kareena. She holds the title of Office Gossip Monger.’

  ‘Really?’ I’ve only known Raj a couple of hours but I would have tipped him for that position.

  ‘Never tell her anything personal unless you want it to be public knowledge before lunch time.’

  ‘I’ll try to remember that,’ I say. ‘What’s her role here?’

  ‘Her official title is PA. And no, that actually doesn’t stand for Public Address, which of course it should, but for personal assistant.’

  Kareena, sensing she’s being talked about, glowers at us. Undeterred, Raj blows her a kiss. ‘She’s about as much use as a chocolate kettle but wildly entertaining. Her dearest ambition is to be a WAG so she’s just biding her time until some Premier League hunk whisks her away to a life of shopping.’ He looks thoughtful. ‘You don’t think there are any gay footballers who’d want to whisk me away for a life of hedonism, do you?’

  ‘Um. No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Pity,’ sighs Raj. ‘I suppose I’d better get on with doing some work while I wait for Johnny Depp to realise he’s gay. Keep busy, darling girl!’ And off he flounces, back to his desk.

  Feeling flat I begin the next pile of photocopying. Most of the office staff have followed Raj’s lead and given me theirs too. So much for the exciting assignments I’d been hoping for. The office is buzzing with the rumour that Celina Roshan, the stunning Bollywood actress, is buying a house in London with a mystery man, and two reporters have already been dispatched to root out the truth. That’s where I want to be! Following leads and hunches and breaking big stories. Not flipping photocopying.

  I suppose even John Humphrys had to start somewhere.

  I sigh heavily and then start because I’m no longer alone.

  ‘Sorry,’ says the guy who’s joined me, his voice as rich as chocolate fudge cake. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump but you looked like you needed rescuing.’

  I open my mouth and for a moment no sound comes out because the sight of him has stolen my powers of speech. He has café au lait skin, dark just-out-of-bed hair and cheekbones so chiselled that you could ski off them. The whole effect is shockingly sexy.

  Eve would be so jealous of this office view!

  ‘Rescuing?’ I croak. ‘What from?’

  ‘Your photocopying! It’s the favourite staff gag, giving the newbies a mundane task like photocopying or filing. Everyone plays along; we’ve all been there.’

  ‘You mean I don’t have to do all this?’ I glance at the Everest of paper stacked alongside me.

  He smiles and I notice the dimple in his cheek. ‘Kareena’s supposed to do this kind of stuff but she and Raj aren’t talking at the moment.’

  ‘But Raj doesn’t like her,’ I say, feeling stupid as I realise I’ve been stitched up good and proper. ‘He said to give her a wide berth because she’s the office gossip.’

  His green eyes crinkle. ‘To be fair, Raj and Kareena share that title. They bicker but they’re thick as thieves most of the time. My advice is don’t trust either of them! They’re great fun but they take working for a gossip magazine very seriously – bitching and rumour mongering are their true vocation.’

  ‘Oh crap,’ I groan. ‘I believed him. I assumed photocopying is what new interns do. That and coffee making, of course.’

  ‘Actually I think coffee making probably is on your job description. I’m Darwish by the way, Chief Photographer, but everyone calls me Wish. Welcome to GupShup!’

  Wish holds out his hand and I shake it, hoping none of my auntie-jis have set up Big Brother-style cameras in the office. Shaking hands with a strange man would be a scandal they could milk for months.

  ‘Mills Ali,’ I tell him. ‘I’m one of the new interns.’

  ‘You’re not from round here?’ Wish perches on an adjacent table and gives me another crinkly smile.

  ‘Bradford, up in Yorkshire? I suppose my accent’s a giveaway?’

  ‘Just a bit, but it’s very cute and makes a great change from all the mockneys round here.’

  He thinks my accent’s cute! Feeling absurdly pleased I lose the plot a bit and end up jamming the photocopier. Lights flash, there’s a horrible crunching sound and the whole thing grinds to a halt. I fling open the door and peer inside, frantically trying to locate the stray piece of paper that’s caused the poor machine to have a nervous breakdown. ‘I’ve broken it!’

  ‘No you haven’t. It’s seriously temperamental.’ Wish moves me aside and pokes his head into the machine. ‘Let me try.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  He plucks out some paper. ‘Here’s the culprit. All mended.’

  ‘Phew,’ I breathe. ‘Thanks.’

  The copying resumes and Wish leans against the machine. Even though there’s a good foot of space between us I don’t think I’ve ever been more aware of another person’s physical presence. Although good (and decent) girls don’t let their eyes wander on the male form I can’t help noticing that there’s a buff body beneath the faded Levis and tee shirt. Determined not to gawp like some northern hick I concentrate on my photocopying as though it’s the most fascinating task imaginable.

  ‘Bradford must be really different to London,’ says Wish. ‘Is that where your family live?’

  ‘Apart from my brother Qas. He’s training to be a doctor at Bristol Uni,’ I say. ‘Or at least he was. I don’t know if he and my dad are still talking.’ Annoyingly my eyes are filling and I dash the back of my hand against them, furious with myself for being so emotional.

  ‘Here.’ Wish offers me a hankie, clean and folded neatly. ‘My mum,’ he adds, seeing me look at it. ‘She still likes to take care of me.’

  ‘Don’t all mums?’

  ‘They certainly do. You must really be missing your folks. It’s OK to be a bit homesick.’

  ‘It’s not that. It’s my brother Qas.’ I blot my eyes on the hankie. ‘He’s really upset my dad.’

  ‘Sounds just like my brother, Jamal,’ says Wish. ‘Arguing are they?’

  ‘Nahin.’ I try not to sniff. ‘Qas is seeing an English girl and Dad’s furious. He’s not keen on the whole mixed marriage thing. It’s a long story. I’m sure you don’t want to hear it.’

  Wish looks sympathetic. ‘It can’t be easy starting a new job with that hanging over you. But I totally understand where your parents are coming from. Mixed-race marriages are never easy, especially for Pakistanis.’

  ‘Are you Pakistani? You don’t look–’ I just stop myself in time. ‘Sorry, that sounded really rude. I was just going to say you don’t look like the average Pakistani guy. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  ‘I’m not offended,’ says Wish. ‘You’re right anyway. I’m not your average Pakistani guy. My mum’s white and British.’

&
nbsp; Great. I’ve known this colleague all of ten minutes and already I’ve contracted Foot in Mouth Disease. ‘Please don’t think I have a problem with my brother’s relationship because she’s white. It isn’t that, at all! But he’s their only son and…’

  ‘Of course I don’t think that,’ says Wish swiftly. ‘My parents would be the first to point out the situation isn’t ideal. They’ve had a hard time over the years and I don’t think they’d recommend it to anyone. Dad’s parents were vile to Mum. Things weren’t always easy for him either, but the point is they’re still together after almost thirty years and they really love each other. So it can work. True love really does overcome all, if you want it to.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’

  ‘With all my heart,’ he says.

  For the first time since I stepped into the office I start to relax. Wish Rahim surfs on my wavelength. Insha’Allah, I’ve made a friend, my first new friend in my new place of work.

  And I can’t tell you how much better this makes me feel!

  Chapter 9

  Wish is about to say more, only Raj fast-forwards to the photocopier and tells him Nina requires his presence.

  ‘She simply has to know if you got those pictures of Celina Roshan and her mystery man!’ squeals Raj. ‘Did you?’

  Wish pats the camera bag beside him.

  ‘Oh! My! God! You did!’ Raj’s hand flies to his mouth. ‘Is it really Simon Cowell? Or was it Paul McCartney after all?’

  But Wish simply taps the side of his nose. ‘As if I’d tell you! I may as well just ring the news desk at The Sun.’

  ‘I’m hurt.’ Raj places his hand on his heart. ‘How can you say such cruel things? I’m as silent as the grave! Well, if you won’t tell me, maybe you’ll tell Adolf Nina!’ Grabbing Wish’s arm Raj drags him towards the big door that marks the entrance to Nina’s lair. Wish mouths, ‘Laters,’ and with a smile I return to my work.

  While I finish off the photocopying – don’t worry, I’ll take Raj to task about this the very first opportunity that I get – I ponder about Wish and can’t comprehend why his mixed heritage bothers me so much. It’s been great to talk to someone who has a real-life perspective on the Qas situation. But I can’t help admitting I wish he were one-hundred percent Pakistani.

  Not because I’m racist or prejudiced. No way!

  I totally believe in equals, harmony and unity. Nahin and no bloody way to segregation, divisions or war. But it doesn’t matter what I think because at the end of the day this fact means Wish doesn’t quite fit my parents’ ultimate criteria for a prospective son-in-law, and that’s a man of blue-blooded Pakistani stock, no two ways about it. The family has splintered before and Daddy-ji won’t allow that to happen again. I’ve got a difficult enough task ahead trying to convince them that the one-hundred-percent Pakistani I eventually find will be perfect marriage material, and even then my father will make the bechara guy go through the heavy Pakistani Parental Inquisition. He’ll only give my hand away if the suitor in question fits all the preset hubbie-to-be criteria.

  As Roma said last night, the family honour is resting firmly on my shoulders.

  And it weighs a bloody tonne.

  Then I laugh out loud. Talk about getting carried away! Sheesh! I was only talking to the poor guy for a few minutes and already I’m hearing wedding bells. I need to calm down. It must be because time is tick-tocking away and I haven’t made a start on my search. I need to get on with it. A good Pakistani husband won’t find himself and I’d better apply myself before I start developing crushes on all the single men in the office. When I start to fancy Raj I’ll know I’m really in trouble!

  ‘Hands off Wish,’ says Raj, materialising with even more photocopying. ‘He’s mine, darling!’

  I can’t help chuckling at this.

  ‘What are you laughing for? It’s only a matter of time before he realises I’m the love of his life,’ says Raj.

  ‘I’m laughing because you’ll be doing all your copying from now on.’

  ‘Wish told you. Spoilsport,’ Raj has the grace to look shamefaced. ‘You can’t blame a boy for trying can you, angel?’

  ‘I blame you for taking advantage of a new girl and I fully intend to lodge a complaint with Ms Singh. Bullying new colleagues is totally unacceptable.’

  ‘Really?’ Raj’s kohled eyes widen.

  ‘No, not really, but it would serve you right if I did.’

  He exhales. ‘You had me going there, you meanie! If I promise to never give you any photocopying again can we be friends?’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Come for lunch,’ wheedles Raj. ‘I know the most divine noodle bar. I’ll buy. We can call it repayment for all your help today.’

  Right on cue my tummy rumbles, reminding me that it hasn’t been fed since yesterday. Nish ate my dinner and I was far too nervous to face breakfast this morning.

  ‘OK. You buy me lunch and I’ll think about forgiving you.’

  ‘Fabbie,’ says Raj. ‘Ooh! Here comes the Boss, I’d better fly! I’ll meet you at one,’ and he tears across the office and dives for his desk, his timing perfect because Nina Singh is emerging from her lair and scanning the room like The Terminator.

  ‘The new intern. My office,’ she barks.

  I gather up my bag and, hoping that my make-up hasn’t slid right off, I charge into the office in a panic, cannoning into Wish on his way out.

  ‘Easy, tiger,’ he grins, steadying me.

  I blush right to the roots of my hair. I can’t believe I’ve accidentally touched him twice today.

  ‘Deep breath,’ advises Wish. ‘Nina doesn’t bite. Not hard anyway.’

  Then he’s gone and I’m left dithering in the doorway.

  ‘Enter!’ she barks and my legs obey instantly, carrying me in to the dragon’s den.

  And what a den it is. The wall facing me is a sheet of glass, which frames perfectly the stunning view of London. Tower Bridge, Big Ben, the London Eye and the plump dome of St Paul’s twinkle in the sunlight while the sluggish Thames winds through like a pewter ribbon. But what really takes my breath away are the acres and acres of sky, all scudding clouds and silent planes stacked neatly above Heathrow, and the sharp clear light which pours into the room. I feel like I’m perched on the top of the world.

  ‘Wow!’ I gasp. ‘What an amazing view!’

  My new boss is seated in a big white leather chair behind the mother of all desks. She draws deeply on a cigarette nestled in a diamante holder and then blows two plumes of smoke through her nostrils. She’s so Cruella de Vil I’m almost surprised she’s wearing a black suit rather than a black and white spotty fur coat. I’m certainly as terrified as any Dalmatian puppy.

  ‘It is rather marvellous,’ she agrees, in a voice rendered husky by years of tobacco. ‘One does tend to take it for granted.’

  I open my mouth to say if this was my view I’d be looking out that window all day long, but shut it quickly. Daydreaming out of windows doesn’t sound like the behaviour of a keen new journalist and I really want Nina to see how dedicated I am to this job.

  Nina flips through some documents on her desk, ‘Amelia Ali?’

  ‘Everyone calls me Mills.’

  ‘I’m not everyone.’ The red slash of a mouth sets in a grim line. ‘What’s wrong with Nisha?’

  ‘Nish has got food poisoning.’

  ‘Not hung-over or oversleeping then?’

  ‘No, no! She was really poorly.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Nina doesn’t look convinced. ‘Take a seat.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I perch onto a teeny weeny chair. I just about manage to squeeze one buttock on, and arrange my features in what is hopefully an intelligent and not too sucky-uppy expression. I feel like a specimen in a lab.

  ‘You don’t need me to tell you how well you’ve done to get this internship,’ says Nina. ‘We had over five hundred applicants, all of whom came highly recommended. Some,’ she pauses dramatically, ‘even ca
me from Oxford.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say, because this is clearly expected.

  ‘Indeed,’ she agrees. ‘However, I like to evaluate each applicant on their own merits, not just by looking at what university they attended. I was especially impressed with how passionate you were about the magazine in your letter of application. You really share our vision.’

  This wasn’t hard. I’ve been a devoted reader for years.

  ‘But what really made your application stand out,’ continues Nina, ‘was the superb project you and Nisha did on Muslim–Hindu friendships. It was fresh, original and very funny. I was also most impressed that it was published in the Bradford Echo.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I feel all warm and fuzzy. Nina Singh is impressed with my writing. How cool is that?

  ‘It isn’t our usual policy to take on two interns but I was intrigued. Interfaith friendship is a fundamental ideology of GupShup and you two embodied that. You are also aware that we intend to launch a desi lad mag, Kya Yaar, next year and that we’ll be looking for well-trained and talented young writers?’

  I nod.

  ‘So there are excellent opportunities for young people who share our values, which is why I decided to offer internships to you both.’

  Excitement ripples through me. This is it! My career really is beginning!

  Nina describes the responsibilities that will now be mine. I’ll be assigned to general office work necessary to create the magazine. Running errands, sorting mail, photocopying (but I won’t tell Raj), and on the publishing side I’ll assist the staff with advertising, editing, copyediting, proofreading and circulation.

  I’m starting to feel quite exhausted just thinking about all this.

  ‘To gain editorial experience you’ll also be given an opportunity to carry out research projects for the magazine,’ continues Nina. ‘Will you be up for that?’

  ‘That’s what I’m dying to do! I can hardly wait to go out and start looking for stories.’

  Nina considers me thoughtfully. ‘Amelia, are you engaged?’

  I’m taken aback. ‘No.’

  ‘What about Nisha?’