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“Have I not told you about Jam?” M looks at me, astounded, on our drive to the outer edges of London, otherwise known as Beckton.
“Err... I don’t think so. Should you have? I mean, we have jam on toast up north as well, in case you’ve forgotten. We’re not that deprived.”
M laughs. “Yeah, good one. I’m sure I told you, though. He was at our wedding.”
“So were 599 other people.”
I’m not sure if it’s newlywed politeness but he seems to find every joke of mine funny. This isn’t even my best material.
“He was at our engagement, too. The guy with the hair?”
“Lots of guys had hair. Except the men in your family.”
“Ooh burn!” Another hearty chortle from M. I am on form today, without even trying.
“I can’t believe I haven’t told you about him,” M mutters, as though he’s held back on some crucial intel.
We’re on our way to meet the man, the myth, and the legend that is Jam. He is also the keeper of my mobile phone, as he kindly picked it up on the way from his mum’s house in Oldham. I’m grateful but I can’t take him seriously with a name like that. It must be short for something, and I will get to the bottom of this moniker mystery once M’s gotten over the fact that he hasn’t spoken to me at length about his best friend.
It looks like Jam lives in the middle of nowhere. He’s in an anonymous block of flats painted terracotta to add some colour against the backdrop of endless road and not much else.
After the enigma that is Jam buzzes us in through the crackly intercom, we make our way up the hollow, echoey stairs so synonymous with my memories of London. I trod many a stairwell when visiting uncle Tariq and our other distant relatives in East London. This building is in slightly better condition, as I don’t detect the smell of wee in the corridor and there’s not a cobweb in sight.
“It’s open!” is the response to our knock on the door on the second floor.
M pushes his way through the pinewood door as though he’s done it a million times before.
“How’s it going?” he says to his friend, who’s sat in navy slouchy jogger bottoms with his long, narrow feet curled up underneath his thin frame. His face is hidden beneath a heavy, full swept fringe. Now I get what M meant about the hair.
“Alright man. What’s up?” the famous Jam replies.
Got to love men and their small talk.
“This is my Mrs,” M says with a tinge of awkwardness, as though he’s as embarrassed saying my new title as I am hearing it. It’ll take some getting used to.
Jam looks at me and asks: “How’s it going?”
“Yeah, good,” is all I can think to say.
Jam turns back to M. “Oh man, I was gonna message you last night. The drive up was mental. It took me two-and-a-half hours just to get to Birmingham. People can’t even drive properly. There was one guy in the right-hand lane doing something like 50 miles an hour. Accident waiting to happen. I was sat behind him, flashing away, and he didn’t even notice. And I thought, forget it, I’ll just get back into the middle lane. Then I went to have a look at him, to take a closer look at who this dickhead is that’s about to cause a crash... and it’s like an 80-year-old man. He shouldn’t be on the road driving like that. It’s not safe.”
“Yeah it’s true,” M agrees. “Once people get to a certain age, they should be retested, just to make sure they’re okay to drive.”
“It’s not even that. I mean the man’s got to get somewhere and maybe he hasn’t got family to drive him around.” Jam goes back on his original assertion. “Then I thought, if it’s going to take me all night to get back to London, I might as well grab some food. I pulled over at the nearest service station and I was thinking of what to eat. I had curry at home, so I didn’t fancy that. There weren’t any halal options there, so it’s a bit basic. Anyway, I ended up having a cheese sandwich. When I got to the till, though, I asked if they could toast it, and the woman looked at me like I was weird.”
M says nothing. Perhaps he’s waiting for the climax to the story.
“Anyway,” Jam continues. “She toasted it in the end after pulling a face and it was actually alright. So, if you’re ever at a crappy service station and stuck with a cheese sandwich, try your luck. Ask them if they’ll toast it, it’s a lot nicer. After that, I got back on the road and there wasn’t much traffic, so it was a pretty easy journey. Then I get to Shoreditch and...”
M listens patiently, without a single eye roll, as Jam tells his long-winded story that could’ve been easily summarised by saying the drive from Manchester to London is shit.
At the end of Jam’s monologue, M asks: “Did you watch the game?”
This seems to be more mutually interesting territory as both boys discuss at length the mistakes made by men from their beloved team. Someone missed an easy penalty. Another guy was sent off unjustly. While the goalie, apparently, “didn’t have his head in the game.”
“It’s like he doesn’t care anymore. He’s lost his motivation to make it work.” M sounds like a heartbroken ex describing the man who wronged him, as opposed to a football player who wouldn’t recognise my husband even if he had a season ticket he used every single week. It’s the ultimate one-sided relationship.
“Yeah. It’s not just that. If he’d move his arse we could have pulled it out the bag.” Jam tuts and shakes his head. His hair swishes like a teen popstar to reveal very thick eyebrows. Now I get why he has a fringe. “Instead, we’re flagging.”
Who’s the ‘we’ in this? I don’t get it. I don’t get men and football.
“Speaking of which, I got the new FIFA game if you fancy a match?”
Am I invisible?
“Have you?” M then looks at me with a guilty smile. “Maybe later.”
“You can borrow it if you want,” says Jam, generously. “And we can play it at yours. Go grab it, it’s in my room.”
M dutifully goes through a white door, offering me a glimpse of Jam’s room. There’s a messy bed, with the dark duvet rolled into a ball in the corner as if he had to tussle with it this morning, and there’s a non-descript desk with an equally unmemorable lamp. The desk itself is covered in crap. An empty can, a half full bottle of water, loads of papers, receipts, letters, folders. Then, what looks to be pride of place, is an almost ceiling height stack of DVDs, a mix of computer games and movies. I’ve not seen the bedrooms of many bachelors, though I always imagined they would look just like this.
“How are you finding London?” Finally, Jam notices me.
“It’s good. There’s loads to do. We went to Trafalgar Square yesterday, there was a Thai festival on. So, yeah, I’m enjoying it. How long have you lived here?”
“Going on 10 years now,” says Jam. “My parents are starting to get on my case about moving back up north and settling down.”
Oh, now I remember. Jam’s his old school friend and his bestest mate in the world.
“Are you looking?” I laugh at myself as I say this. It’s a question that was levelled at me so many times, much to my annoyance.
Jam sighs, much like I used to. “Yeah, been looking a while. I’ve done the family introductions, and a bit of friends. I’ve done the online thing, too, with the Muslim sites. Dunno if you’ve heard of them.”
I shrug. Doesn’t he know how M and I met? Some best friend he is, then.
“Anyway, it’s a bit hit and miss right now, so we’ll see what happens.”
“Well, if I know of anyone, I’ll let you know.” It sounds so weird coming from my mouth, when I’m used to those empty words landing on my ears.
M emerges from the mess of boy’s stuff with a computer game in hand and a grin on his face.
“Where are my manners,” says Jam. “You guys want tea?”
“Go on, then,” M replies, forgetting that this was only meant to be a short visit.
“I don’t have any biscuits, mind.”
“Ah, I’ll leave it, then.” M, like me (and probably all other Bengalis), believes that tea is not tea without something sweet on the side.
“If you want, you guys can play that here and I’ll see you later,” I say.
“No, it’s okay,” says M. “We’ll head back now.”
“Honestly, you stay. I’ll go. I’ve got stuff to do, anyway.” The latter is a lie. “I’ll get the tube back. I’ve got a new Oyster card now which I’ll keep very safe.” I am the most modern, reasonable and understanding wife. I should win a wife award.
“Alright, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
“If your wife’s signing off your permission slip...” Jam interjects. “What’s wrong with you, man? Make the most of it before she changes her mind!”
I can already tell that Jam’s going to be a regular fixture in our marriage.
M looks relieved. “Cool. I’ll be about an hour.”
***
Is this a joke?
M’s been gone nearly two hours. There’s no Internet access in the flat, as M can’t get in touch with his backpacking colleague/temporary landlord. Even more annoyingly, both M and Jam forgot about my mobile phone during their football-based love-in. That was our main reason for going to his flat. Or at least it was my main reason.
There’s bugger all on regular TV and I don’t have Wi-Fi courtesy of still having to make do with M’s mums old phone. Brilliant, just brilliant. He knows all this. M knows I’ve got no form of entertainment here. Why is he taking the piss?
Or maybe something happened? M’s a bit of an erratic driver, I’ve noticed since we’ve got married. Plus, London roads are horrendous. Should I call him? No, that would be too possessive. Or would it? I don’t know if that encroaches ball busting territory. Bloody hell, this newlywed life is hard to navigate. What exactly is the etiquette on such occasions?
I know, I’ll call my mum, just to pass the time. I won’t say anything about M’s horrid lateness. Best not to get my family involved in my marital problems, however big or small.
“Heh? He made you take tube by your own?”
I really cannot keep anything to myself.
Mum’s not done yet. “What kind of man does that?”
“Mum, I’ve got planes on my own before!”
“Really? When? You never tell me. Always keep secret.”
“Secrets? I flew for work all the time. Remember, my trips to Scotland and London?”
“Ah, but that be before you marry,” she says.
I always knew my overall share value would increase after marriage, though I never realised I would be deemed more worthy of safe travel.
“I’m fine with getting the tube by myself.”
“Really? It be safe? Sometimes I scared as news show terrorist attack. Make me worry.”
“That was years ago, mum. Anyway, I have to do these things and have my own independence.”
“Okay, but when it be late take him with you. Or no go out!”
I agree with her, just for an easy life. She won’t know any different. It’s like when I was at uni and every time mum called I said I was either eating or reading.
“Anyway, that’s not the issue. I’m annoyed he’s taking this long. Has he lost track of time?”
“You need be patient with him. Men need own time for men things. He’s a good boy so give him freedom.”
This woman gives me whiplash. How is it that M is both a good husband and a reckless, neglectful one in her eyes?
“Have you eaten?” mum asks.
“Yeah, I had lunch. Hours ago. That’s the other thing. It’s gone six and we haven’t even talked about what to do for food. Do I cook? Or do I wait? Honestly, it’s so much easier for men, staying out without a care in the world.”
“Acha dooro! Enough moan! Can’t he have some fun? Don’t cause problems for this! Remember what happen to Rashda? Too much fight make big problems!”
“That’s a bit much, mum. Comparing Rashda’s divorce with me being a little annoyed.”
“This be how it start. Small thing become big thing. Don’t be like your cousin. Live with understanding. Com-per-mise. As woman you need learn com-per-mise. Being too mouthy no good. You have potatoes?”
“Wh-what? Yes. I have potatoes. Why?”
“Good. Just make aloo bazee. Nice and easy. Just fry onion, add haldi, slice potato. Give lit-ool mix. Add coriander if you got. If not got fresh no worry, probably not worth buying, you’ll never finish. Boil rice. You bought rice cooker?”
“Hmm? What?” She lost me at potatoes.
“Rice cooker? You got one?”
“No.”
“Okay. I gift you when you come home. Okay, so boil rice in pot. You need measure enough water to cover one finger joint when you put finger in rice and water. You listen?”
“Not really, mum. You know not everything can be resolved with a curry, right?”
Mum laughs. “Silly girl. One day you learn. With men, almost everything better with curry.”
***
The rice is nearly cooked. The potato is sautéed. My husband is still missing. Now I’m seriously miffed.
Then, just as I’m mid-swearing under my breath, the fire door opens in its usual way, with the sticky rubber draught excluder loudly prizing itself away from its captor, the doorframe.
“Hey, you okay?” M asks as though he’s just popped out for ten minutes.
At this point I have two options:
A) Share my raw, honest feelings, cause a scene and have a shouty, sweary showdown like you’d see in a movie.
B) Be passive aggressive about it. Let my feelings bleed out slowly, thus buying me time to put my argument together eloquently, while also making M feel as guilty as shit.
You already know I’m going down the passive-aggressive route.
“I’ve got you a surprise.” M holds up a bag that smells deliciously spicy, and dangling from his index finger is a cardboard box I recognise from that cupcake stall I visited on my first day in London.
Either he’s feeling guilty and pre-empting a bollocking and the food-based gifts are his way of pacifying me, or he’s just spontaneous and thoughtful.
I’m going with guilt.
Whatever he’s brought for dinner smells much better than what I’ve cooked but he’s not getting off that easily.
“I already made something for us.” I don’t look at him. I can’t break character.
“Awww, you shouldn’t have bothered. You got work tomorrow, so you should’ve taken it easy. That’s why I bought food.”
“I didn’t know you were getting food. I didn’t know what you were doing as I didn’t hear from you.” I turn off the rice.
Okay, I think that’s quite enough to make my point. If he doesn’t know now that I am annoyed then he is seriously tone deaf.
“Yeah, sorry. I lost track of time. Jam was telling me about this girl he met. She’s been messing him around a bit, so I think he needed to talk.”
I don’t say anything. Not sure what I can say in response to that. Instead, I go to plate up the rice. Upon lifting the lid, I see we have a problem. The top of the rice isn’t cooked. It’s still nutty hard.
M sees me poking at it with the spoon. Though I’m not making eye contact, I can sense a smirk.
“Leave that for now. Just as well I got naan bread with the kebabs. We don’t need your hard-boiled rice.”
A smile escapes from my mouth. I can’t help it. Though I’m still annoyed at him.
We eat in front of the telly and I realise how crap terrestrial TV is and how conditioned I’ve become by on-demand streaming services.
My mum’s words echo in my mind. Don’t say anything. Don’t make small matter big. But I feel I have to say something. It doesn’t feel right, comfortable or healthy to keep this pent up anger bottled.
“Are you okay?” M asks again.
Here goes...
“Just so you know, I don’t have an issue with you having a heart-to-heart with your mate or whatever and time passing. It would be good, though, if you could give me a heads up. Manage my expectations a little, then I can plan things around.”
“Yeah, sorry. I was literally only gonna stay for about half an hour. And then he got chatting while we played computer, and I was like ‘oh man’. I felt I couldn’t just leave.”
“That’s fine and that’s not really the point. It’s just, if you tell me what you’re doing, even a text saying it’s going to be a late one, then at least I know. Then I can either go out myself or do something else.”
“Fair enough,” says M. “But I thought maybe because you said you had stuff to do, you might be meeting someone. Like your friend Julia, or the girl you met in the pizza place the other day.”
M’s assumption provides a painful reminder that I don’t have that many options. At least not yet. Julia is a planner, so she isn’t the kind of girl you’d call upon last minute. As for my new friend Lena, I’ve texted but I haven’t heard back. Maybe she’s busy auditioning around the capital. Maybe she doesn’t care to meet. I haven’t told him this yet, as he was so proud of me making a new friend on my first day in the new city. I’d like him to stay proud for a little longer but I feel I have to be honest.
“Lena hasn’t returned my message.” I don’t look at him when I say this. I can’t.
“That’s a bit shit,” he says. “But that’s how people can be here sometimes. London is a transient place. Loads of people come and go, so they don’t really bother looking for long-term friends. She was probably...” He hesitates.
“Go on...” I say. He’s started, so I might as well hear it.
“Well... she was probably just passing the time.”
Ouch.
“Not coz of you or anything personal, obviously.” M scrambles for words of comfort. “It’s just some people are like that. They’ll swap numbers out of politeness but you’ll never hear from them again. Anyway, to be honest with ya, it’s her loss.”
Ah, there we are. The five words of comfort I needed to hear - to be honest with ya. It comes as a sweet melody.
“Anyway,” M says. “You’re right. I should have let you know I was gonna be late. I’ll do better next time.”
For some reason, I don’t think he will. However, as I dip the mint sauce and lettuce-laden chicken tikka into a puddle of oily curry sauce, I feel comforted that I’ve learnt a few things. First, there’s Asian timing, and then there’s M’s timing. Second, us men and women aren’t that different, as curry is managing to make things better for me, too.
“What’s Jam short for, anyway?” I ask.
“Jamshed.”
Of course it is. If I had such an unapologetically old-school Bengali name I’d shorten it to something cool, too.