The Wedding Countdown (3 page)

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.’

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.

She sighs. ‘Auntie Bee always knows exactly how to get to me.’

‘Yeah, she’s got a real talent for upsetting people.’

‘She does have a point though,’ says my mother slowly.

I suddenly find my toes extremely fascinating and I study the French manicured nails with great intensity. I’m not psychic but I knew today was going to end up this way. In the past my parents have been fantastic at rebuffing all the jibes, sticking up for me and reassuring the gossip-mongers that Amelia will settle down, one day very soon, and, for your kind information, that will be just as soon as our good daughter completes her studies. They trust me and they have always been sure the time will come when I prove my undying loyalty to them and to the rest of the family by marrying exactly whom I’m asked to.

But this really chokes me up because I love my parents to bits and I’ve spent the last few years working my butt off to make them proud. Straight A-starred GCSEs and A grades at A-level, and now a really good degree. Yet none of this is ever enough and it seems the only way I will ever prove myself a worthwhile daughter is by marrying.

I can’t win.

‘You’ve graduated, Mills
beti
,’ continues my mum, sipping her drink thoughtfully. ‘It’s time we started to think seriously about your future.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that, too,’ I say. I haven’t yet told my parents, but my friend Nish and I applied to
GupShup
, the cool Asian glossy magazine, for internships. We submitted a joint piece on Muslim-Hindu friendship and amazingly the editor liked it so much we’ve both been accepted. This is the chance of a lifetime, a golden opportunity for me to prove I’ve got what it takes to be a journalist. The trouble is
GupShup
is based in London – and moving there, to a city on a par with Sodom and Gomorrah as far as my parents are concerned, is not quite in line with my promise to marry now I am officially Amelia Ali BA Hons.

So I can honestly say I’ve thought of nothing else
but
my future for weeks now. However, I have a nasty feeling I’m not thinking along the same lines as my parents. I’m in a parallel universe. 

‘Hello, Auntie Hamida. Hello, Mills.’ The adenoidal voice at my shoulder makes me start. I’m so caught up in dreams of London I failed to notice Kabir sidle up to us. Mind you, he’s at least three inches shorter than me, and I’m only five three, so I can be forgiven. The sour taint of body odour should have alerted me sooner so I could have escaped to the bogs.

‘Can I say, Mills, you are looking especially lovely today,’ breathes Kabir heavily. ‘My mother says you designed that outfit yourself.’

Fan-flipping-tastic. Now Auntie Bee is busy plotting. She’ll have me betrothed to Kermit before the bride and groom depart.

Uh-oh.

Auntie Bee is smiling at us encouragingly, nudging my father to gaze over in our direction. Even my mother is looking thoughtful. Time is slipping through my hands like mercury.

I’d better get thinking fast.

Very, very fast indeed.

Chapter 3

By the time Daddy-
ji
swings the Mercedes into our drive the sun is a scarlet fingernail above the dark rooftops. Fizz, Roma and I are squashed like proverbial sardines into the back of the car, and although it will be bliss not to have Roma’s bony hip digging into my thigh, part of me wishes the journey could go on for ever. My eyes are heavy but my heart is heavier still because I know what I’m going to have to do. With a sigh I pluck my iPod headphones from my ears, plunging abruptly into the Ali family’s deconstruction of Tara’s wedding.

‘You’d have thought Auntie Zeenat would have spent more on her clothes; she looked so last
shaadi
season,’ Fizz is saying, opening the car door and uncoiling her long slim legs. ‘Sanaubar looked like a giant bogey in those green
shalwars
.’

I’m glad I’ve had my music to listen to. To hear Fizz dissect the family’s dress sense, or rather lack of it, all the way back to Saltaire would have been exhausting.

‘When I get married,’ continues Fizz, tossing hair as glossy as a thoroughbred’s mane, ‘I’m going to have my dress designed by Stella McCartney.’

‘Then you’d better stop pulling sickies and wax a few more legs,’ mutters Roma.

‘I don’t pull sickies,’ protests Fizz. ‘I can’t help being ill.’

‘Every Monday,’ I grin.

‘Girls! Girls!’ says my father. ‘Stop squabbling!’

What is it about being in with your family that always makes you revert to the old patterns and behaviours of childhood? I’m twenty-two and the twins are seventeen but stick us in the car together and back ten years we go quicker than you can say
time machine
.