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“So, you’re on countdown now,” says Bernadette. “How do you feel?”
“Good,” I say, in complete honesty. “These last few weeks have flown by. Thank you so much for being so accommodating.”
“Not at all. It’s my pleasure. Like I’ve always said, you’re one of our shining stars and though we’ll miss you in the office, we’re so glad that we’re not quite saying goodbye and you’ll still be part of our team.”
Bernadette then gets back to business. “Right, so, as it’s your last day, I need to check, is there anything you need to hand over?” She runs hers fingers through her freshly dyed hair.
“No, I think I’m done. The PR team at HQ have been fantastic, agreeing to take on some of the press release distribution. Bushra and Emma have been amazing too, offering to field any media queries. So I’m all set. If there’s anything at all though, I’ve got a handover which I’ll email to basically... everyone.”
Bernadette looks on in surprise as I pull a four-page word document out from my folder.
“Gosh, you have covered all bases. Like I knew you would. So there’s just one small thing...”
Oh dear.
“I hate to put this on you so close to your wedding but, as you’ll be missing our quarterly meeting, there’s a webinar I’d like you to attend. It’s one of those HR things that offer minimal value in the real world but you have to be seen to be doing it.”
Bernadette sees my face and quickly adds: “The good news is you don’t have to attend live as there’s a replay that will be available for a week. So all I ask is that at some point between 2nd and 9th September, if you could just log on so it’ll track that you watched the webinar. And honestly, even if you just log on and get on with your wedding planning stuff or whatever else you need to do, that’s fine. It’s just a tick box but it’d be a big help if you could.”
“No worries Bernadette, I’ll make the time,” I say, though I’m already terrified I’ll forget.
“Good. Like I say, don’t stress about it. I’ll be watching the replay myself as and when I can fit it in,” she says.
I’ve never known Bernadette to miss our quarterly meeting. Since we’re kind of friends now, I dare to probe.
“Are you off anywhere nice?” I ask.
Bernadette smiles, running her fingers through her hair again. “Nowhere special.”
As I get back to my desk, I see a card waiting for me, along with a smiling Bushra and Emma.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” I exclaim as I pull open the envelope expecting to see a card and some gift vouchers, as is customary in this company when someone leaves.
Oh, they didn’t.
There’s a card, signed by Bushra, Emma and Bernadette and nothing else.
Emma quickly says: “As we’re going to your wedding, we’ll be giving you money then, so, erm, we can’t gift twice.”
“And I’m skint since I’m off to Ibiza next weekend,” adds Bushra. “And it’s not like you’re really leaving. You’re just moving offices.”
“Of course,” I say, more than a pinch disappointed. I mean, I’m sort of leaving.
***
WHEN I GET HOME, I eat my dinner (I always have to eat as soon as I get in, even though it’s only 5.30pm) and have a cup of tea before heading upstairs to examine my lehenga. As I bust open the tight metal briefcase clasp to lift and reveal its contents, the outfit is just as beautiful as I saw it last night under the dining room lights. It’s like uncovering treasure.
I climb into it, still wearing my black work leggings and pull it up over my hips. There’s lots of material weighing heavily around my feet so I pull it up a little higher around the thinnest dip of my waist, the heavy stone and wire work now digging into my straining hands. That’s random, it’s still too long. How do brides wear these things? Do they fasten it to their chest? I guess I’ll need extra high heels. I’m hoping M’s family have bought some stilettos. I’ll find out when they send over the rest of the wedding gifts. I grab the hook and eye fastener and join the two together, then pull up the side zip. When I let go the skirt immediately falls lower than my hips.
Hmmm.
I sit down on my sister’s bed to stop it slipping further, then reach with an extended hand and pull the top out of the briefcase. The silk top, the colour of golden syrup goes perfectly with the deep, dark maroon skirt. It slips over my body with ease. It’s good to know I haven’t piled on any timber since my one and only fitting. It’s almost too roomy, like a t-shirt. Still, that’s what the corset-style back drawstring is for. I tug at each string as hard as I can and as far as it’ll let me. Hmmm, still loose. I get up to examine myself from behind in the mirror, at which point the skirt starts sliding, slowly and heavily down my legs. Without grace, I climb out of it, leaving it like an elaborately decorated open sack on the floor. I notice that there’s no room to make the top any tighter. All the loops of the corset back have met in the middle, yet the top is still hanging off me, shapeless. I’ve probably lost a couple of pounds with all the wedding stress though not quite this much.
Something’s not right.
***
“JUST WHOSE MEASUREMENTS did you send exactly?” I shout down the phone, my voice trembling in anger. “In fact, did you even use anyone’s measurements or just send us the outfit straight off the mannequin?”
“No sister, we wouldn’t do that. We send it all to special tailor and they make the piece from scratch to your exact specifications. Did you get the free clutch bag?”
“Yes I did! Thank you for that,” I say in response to the small bag they fashioned with the leftover material from my top. Nice touch but precisely bugger all use when my outfit’s like a tent. “What are you gonna do about the lehenga being massive? I’m getting married in less than a fortnight!”
“Okay sister. Let me go check with my tailor to find out exactly what’s happened. I’ll call you back.”
“When?”
“In an hour, sister. Bear with me.”
An hour and a half later and nothing. I’ve been more than generous. Meanwhile mum is freaking out.
“I knew it be a bad idea to go all the way to London to get outfit. What you do now? What if you can’t get it fixed in time?”
This isn’t helping at all. I call the saree shop but, after six rings, there’s no answer.
“I got idea! We buy the lehenga you liked from that other place? The red one? I’ll pay for it. We don’t even need to trouble your in-laws.”
I ponder the idea. It was a beautiful lehenga but... no. “We’ll have the same problem, mum. It’ll still need to be resized and adjusted to fit and that will take however many weeks.”
“Right. Call them again! They have to fix this.” Mum means business.
Finally, an answer. “Okay sister, I’ve been speaking to my tailor and there might be some mix-up with the alterations. So here’s what we can do... my tailor comes in on Fridays. If you come in then, we can fit you in, take the measurements and get the lehenga adjusted for you to take away that day.”
“So how long will it take?”
“You’d have to leave it with us for the whole afternoon. So, do you want to do that?”
I need to think. “Erm, could you give me an appointment slot or some kind of receipt or something I can show on the day?” I’m totally thinking on the spot here but, given that they made such a mess in the first place, I’m not sure if I trust them to even know who I am if I turn up on the day without any proof of purchase.
“No sister. No need. I’ll be there to take care of you.”
What choice do I really have? “Okay. See you Friday.”
***
“I’VE BEEN THINKING about this all day,” says mum.
Nothing good can come of mum thinking.
“Well... it be not possible for you to go all way to London with huge suitcase to get alteration.”
“What else can I do? We don’t know any tailors in Manchester!”
“You find someone. Otherwise you’ll have to get train to London carrying that thing weighing more than you, then get tubes or taxi. Then do all of it, all the way back. You no be able to do that.”
“I have to! I have no choice!”
“Dooro! It’s a stupid idea! It was stupid in the first place for your in-laws making you choose from one shop in London. Most girls get to choose themselves from where they want. Hmmph!”
“How is this helping me now! You always have to find fault! Any excuse to say something bad about them!”
“What do you mean?” Mum looks at me, surprised.
“You have to be negative about everything! Moaning about how much money they’ll give. Not wanting to send out the wedding invites until last week or something bad will happen. Leaving everything to me so you can say ‘I told you so’ or moan when it’s not good enough. And you don’t even help! You telling his family not to rush bringing the lehenga over! This is exactly why they needed to rush it over! Now I’m stuck!”
“I thought it would be fine. They took all your measures,” says mum, her voice trailing off.
“Eh-heh. What’s going on?” asks dad, coming in from the other room, newspaper still in hand.
“And you don’t help! Why did you tell them they didn’t have to hurry bringing the outfit over?” I shout.
Dad looks like a rabbit in headlights.
“I don’t know what you say,” his voice is quiet, like a chastised child.
“Don’t be rude to your father! He was just saying what we are supposed to say. Anyway, you no worry, we make calls and find new tailor,” mum comes to dad’s defence for the first time ever.
“These stupid traditions! These formalities! Look where it’s got me now! Useless! You’re both useless! Saying we’ll call tailors, who’ll call tailors? It’ll be all on me, like everything is. Because all these years here and you don’t bother to learn English!”
“We never had the chance,” mumbles mum.
“Yeah right! More like you couldn’t be arsed. Figured your kids would sort everything out.”
I rush out of the door leaving two parents, open mouthed, hurt, offended and unsure of a response.
Frustratingly, I know mum’s right. It would be impossible for me to make the journey with that hefty suitcase. In my stressed out state, I don’t even trust myself. I’d probably leave it on the train.
I need to cool my head. However, I look down and realise that I’m wearing my home uniform of a cheetah print salwar kameez. What was middle sis even thinking, buying this from the open cloth shop that was closing down in Bradford? And why oh why do they make the comfiest clothes in the most hideous designs? I can’t go for a walk in this get up. I just can’t.
I retreat to my car, where I realise that I am literally and metaphorically alone on this. I can’t call Sophia as I’m still annoyed with her for crying off on my hen do and generally being flaky this whole year. I’m still annoyed with my sisters too as they’ve been no help throughout all this wedding planning. Julia and Reena are never available when I call them and, despite inviting them to my hen do, I’m just not close enough to Bushra and Emma. Plus, after getting Bushra involved in watch-gate, I don’t think she’s gonna be much help on this. She’ll probably suggest some other kind of dodgy shortcut.
There’s only one thing for it.
M: “Hey, you okay?”
Me: “Well, not really. I didn’t want to burden you with this... but I’ve been having a bit of a nightmare.”
M: “Oh no. Why?”
Me: “So it turns out that my lehenga is massive! I don’t even think they customised anything. Or at least they didn’t use my measurements. So I’m really stuck. I’ve called them and they say they can fix it but I’ll have to go there with the eff-off suitcase, get measured again and... it’s too short notice and...”
I break off as I can hear my voice trembling as tears come running down my face. This is a first, crying on the phone to my fiancé.
M: “Awww, don’t cry. We’ll figure something out. Even if that means me picking you and the lehenga up and driving to the shop to get it fixed.”
Me: “No... I couldn’t get you to come all the way from London just for this. It’s on a workday, too.”
M: “Don’t worry about it. If there’s no other way, that’s what we’ll do.”
Me: “Well, let’s see. I just need to think it through and -”
M: “What is it?”
I can’t help but let out a pained cry. I’m embarrassed for myself.
Me: “It’s just... it’s the favours! I’ve not even had a chance to sort them.”
I’m so thankful he can’t see me ugly crying right now.
M: “Let me take care of them.”
I pause mid wail.
Me: “How? I mean, do you know what to do?”
M (laughing): “I’ve seen a fair few wedding favours in my time so I’ll figure something out. I can’t promise Tiffany’s boxes, that’ll be pretty expensive for 600 people. Plus, what would I do with all the jewellery inside? Actually, don’t answer that but yeah, leave it with me to work something out. I’ll make it happen. And as for anything else, I’ve said this before, lean on me. I know traditionally the bride and groom’s family do their own thing but sod all that. We’re a team. Let’s do our own thing together. You’re not alone on this.”
My cries of anguish suddenly turn to tears of relief and even a little joy. Things might be going pear shaped for my wedding but at least I’ve picked a good groom.
***
NAZAR, OR THE EVIL eye, is a big thing in our culture. It’s one of the reasons we don’t have long engagements. It’s also why we don’t brag about anything. Ever.
As humans we can’t always be happy for each other unless we are completely happy ourselves. Yet we’re never completely happy, are we? There’s always something missing. Before I started the world of work, I thought £30,000 a year was a huge salary. That would surely mean I made it, right? Then I got promoted and got that salary earlier than I’d anticipated. Did I feel happy? Did I feel content? No, I moaned about having to pay a higher rate of tax and a bigger contribution towards my student loan debt. Beyond that, I didn’t feel any different. Another girl, who started out as my friend, had a bee in her bonnet when she got wind of my quick promotion. That was the end of our friendship.
I couldn’t be happy for Hassna. To me, she was having the bigger wedding, she had the more functional family. If I was to dig deep (heck, I don’t even need to dig that much - these were surface feelings), maybe a part of me wanted something to go wrong. Her wedding plans, her fancy engagement party and her bigger diamond ring brought out the envy in me. Maybe I contributed to this thing we believe in. The nazar that threatens to destroy a girl’s happiness.
***
I CAN’T SLEEP SO I decide to text Hassna, just to say sorry for what she’s going through. I’m actually surprised I even have her number as I never ring it. We used to always play together growing up. We used to look forward to the annual sleepover at our respective houses, camping out on the floor or sleeping three in a bed. When did that change? When did we go from being innocent girls playing hide and seek to never speaking? I think I have a hunch. It’s when we grew up and our inevitable comparisons and competition crept in.
It started with Rashda, who was often compared with middle sis. Hassna and I got off lightly in comparison, with the odd one-upmanship when it came to exam results and first jobs. However, the damage was done. The foundations for future dislike had already been laid. My sisters would love a good old gossip about her entire family. Mum would flit between telling them off and joining in with the bitching. It felt like harmless gossip. I mean, who doesn’t do it?
I look at the time on my phone. It’s 12.10am. I doubt Hassna will still be awake. I’m not even sure what to say. What do you text somebody who’s engagement has broken off?
Me: Hey, mum told me what happened. I’m so sorry. I can’t even begin to imagine how you’re feeling. Sending hugs X
My phone vibrates a minute later. I guess I’m not the only one who can’t sleep.
Hassna: Hey, thanks for reaching out and don’t worry, nobody really knows what to say.
Me: I’m sure. I know we don’t talk much, but I’m here if you do want to vent.
Hassna: Thank you. It’s appreciated. Maybe we should stay in touch more. It’s been ages. I hope your wedding planning is running a little smoother.
Me: You know, these things are always a bit frantic towards the end.
Hassna: Oh, why?
I don’t think I should get into this. Before I have a chance to think, my fingers are already typing.
Me: Well, you know you have in your head this perfect wedding. Mine might be anything but.
Hassna: Why? What’s happened?
Me: Sorry, I shouldn’t bore you with it all... It’s not about me I just called to check on you.
Hassna: No, try me. After all, it’d be nice to hear that someone else hasn’t got it all figured out.
It’s funny, that’s what I always thought about them. The perfect cousins. Maybe that’s a false narrative that we were fed, on purpose or by mistake, by our respective parents. I tell Hassna about the lehenga. Maybe she could use the comic relief.
Hassna: Well, I could help you with that. I can give you the number of a local tailor. She’s an Indian lady that used to work for Panache.
Panache? That’s where I tried my other dream Lehenga the first time. If she used to work there she must be good.
Me: Thanks so much. That would be amazing. And also, I’d love to see you on the 9th but I totally understand if... anyway, I’d love to see you at some point.
Hassna: I’ll try and be there but I’ll see how it goes. You know how these weddings are, there will be a million questions from everyone there and I’m not quite ready to talk about it.
I don’t blame her. I know exactly how these weddings are.