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“Is that the new bridal glow I see? Tell me... is it as good as they say after marriage?” Bushra looks at me with a suggestively raised eyebrow.
I wouldn’t know what it was like before marriage but I do my best mischievous smirk. Keeping up appearances and all that.
“Ooh yes, tell us.” Emma comes into work predictably late as always. Her and Bushra are never knowingly punctual. Mornings aren’t my thing either yet, compared to them, I’m quite the early riser. Then again, I don’t have a back catalogue of nights out and subsequent sordid tales that keep me awake.
“So, how are you? More to the point, how was the honeymoon?” Emma does an eyebrow raise not dissimilar to Bushra’s.
“Well... I’ve not actually gone on honeymoon yet. Remember? I said we’d be going after Ramadan, what with it being so soon after our wedding?”
“Oh yeah. I forgot about that,” says Bushra. “I guess I’ll have to make the pilgrimage to my parents’ for Eid and get more lectures about settling down.”
“Same,” Emma chimes in. “Whenever we have a proper family gathering, my gran is always asking why I haven’t got a boyfriend.”
This time it’s Bushra and I who share the same expression, a smile of agreement that says: no, it’s really not the same.
It’s funny, we’re both Muslims, her being Pakistani, me being Bengali, but that’s where the similarities end. Bushra has more in common with Emma, her drinking buddy, than she does with me. It’s only when the never-old conversation about men comes up that we discover a commonality - Emma’s family want her to have a boyfriend. Our lot want us to bypass that stage and bag a husband.
“It’s exciting that you’ve not gone on honeymoon yet,” Emma offers. “It gives you something to look forward to. Most people go straight away and are all depressed and back to reality within weeks of marriage.” That’s Emma’s consolatory reply, offering sympathy for something I’m missing out on.
There’s another one to add to the list. The list of differences which make me the odd brownie, as opposed to Bushra the cool one. Our wedding was planned in such a haphazard way, accommodating all of the following:
Everything had to be considered, except what I wanted, of course. It was silly of me to expect any agency, it was only my wedding. I just rolled with whatever date was convenient for everyone else.
The fact that my husband and I would be fasting together within weeks of being married (which would include a whole new level of understanding, i.e. cooking on an empty stomach, making sure the yellow rice is salty enough when you haven’t been able to do the taste test, ignoring smelly Ramadan breath, which in itself would take a colossal amount of discretion) hadn’t been taken into consideration. If I had it my way, I would’ve planned things a bit better, but from memory this wedding was so riddled with logistical curve balls, I was surprised we actually made it to the big day at all. If memory serves me even better, there was a time I thought I might not get married at all. The manhunt was hard. The arranged marriage process didn’t yield any good suitors. Okay, one was good, but the feeling wasn’t mutual (and the less said about that the better).
I guess that’s why I went with the pre-Ramadan wedding, which meant being, yet again, the only person I know who hasn’t gone on honeymoon straight afterwards. It felt like a small compromise.
I don’t say this to the girls. We’re not that close. I have to show them it is okay, I’m fine with a delayed honeymoon. I must play along, like I always have. Like, how I call their bluff about having a love life of sorts, when my courtship with M was as halal as a kebab shop. Like, how I’d feign a social life of sorts when all I really could boast was a bi-monthly lunch date with Julia.
“Can I ask a stupid question?” Emma looks sheepish.
Oh God. I’d really rather you didn’t, goes my inner monologue.
“Yeah, sure,” goes my outer monologue.
“Why can’t you go on holiday... in... Ramadan?” She bites her bottom lip.
“It’s not that you can’t, but it wouldn’t be much fun when you’re fasting all day. Plus, given we’re going to...”
I’m proud of this bit.
“Kuala Lumpur, Langkawi and Singapore, it’ll be boiling, so not the easiest to go without food and water.”
“Wait, what? You can’t have water, either?” Emma can’t hide her surprise as her bitten bottom lip hangs ajar.
It’s times like this I wish that hard drinking, hard partying Bushra could be just a bit more Muslim. No judgement but it would help in spreading the cultural load if there was another brownie in the office that actually acted like a brownie in a way that’s not just skin deep. Yet again, I’m the unwilling spokesperson on issues like Ramadan and arranged marriages.
Even my modernised marriage (which I like to call a hybrid union having gone through family introductions and paid matchmakers before meeting M online), is a dicey topic. Most people don’t know how M and I met, though some do. It’s proving tricky to keep track of my various tall tales.
Just as I’m about to think of a rational and reasonable response to Emma’s concerns that I won’t be consuming food or water for 30 days straight, I’m saved by the boss.
Bernadette bounds through the double doors into our office. “Hello there, missy! Glad to have you back.”
She looks well. Very well. And I don’t just mean for someone who is fighting breast cancer.
I want to hug her and ask if she’s okay. I’m from a family of meddling women who offer support even when it’s not wanted. We provide food even if nobody’s hungry. We bring suitable marriage proposals even if nobody’s looking to settle. We raise each other up when we don’t want it, or even ask for it. We are overbearing and over sharing. Though we do mean well.
Bearing in mind Bernadette is not looking for sympathy, empathy, or even an interest in her personal life, I have to keep myself in check.
Don’t do a patronising face. Don’t do a patronising face. Don’t do a patronising face.
I guess my mug didn’t get the memo as I feel it falling into an upside-down lip grimace thing. The one mum uses when she doesn’t want to offend or is straight up lying. It’s the one I’ve been on the receiving end of many a time before. Usually when there’s an outfit she feels won’t flatter me, or someone points out my dark disposition.
“How are you, Bernadette?” Again, I don’t know why I am searching her face with thinly-veiled sympathy. God, I wish I could be more subtle.
“I’m grand. More to the point, how are you?” Bernadette smiles and flicks her fringe out of her eyes with a swift head shake. That’s her way of shutting the door on any enquiries into her health and wellbeing. It’s just as well because with my verbal diarrhoea, who knows what I’d ask next?
“All good. I’m settling into London life. Though the journey still takes it out of me,” I say.
“What? Being in the passenger seat while your husband does all the driving?” Bushra laughs, prompting giggles from Bernadette, too.
I wish I didn’t shout so much about being driven everywhere by M. I thought it would show how chivalrous he is, rather than how feeble I am.
“Alright.” Bernadette claps her hands as if to signify the end of the fun. “Once you’re over your travel fatigue could you send me the PR coverage tracker? I know you’ve secured some cracking pieces recently but it’s just to show the bods at the top that our arrangement is working.”
By that I think she means the arrangement of my working from London. “Sure, will do.”
“Good stuff. And Bushra, could you send over that PO for me to sign ahead of the GP open evening? I won’t sleep unless I know it’s all been sorted. I know how hard it’s been for you to get this moving.”
“I can give it to you now.” Bushra hands over the freshly printed sheet to Bernadette.
“Marvellous,” Bernadette mumbles, taking the briefest of glances before scribbling her signature and passing it back.
“Thanks ever so much,” says Bushra. “Planning this event has given me grey hairs.”
“You and me both,” says Bernadette. “I was a natural blonde before I joined this place.” She scratches the nape of her neck, tousling her bobbed hair in the process. “Right, well I’ll leave you lovely ladies to get on. Again, it’s great to have you back.”
Bernadette seems to say that to my desk, rather than my face, as though she’s trying to play it cool. She dashes through the double doors to her space next door, which we seldom enter.
It feels like this was my main base a lifetime ago, even though it’s only been a few weeks since I left. The office is still small and pokey. The radio still hums in the background. James, the finance director, still sits in the corner trying to ignore our often inappropriate conversations. It’s good to be back.
As I sit at my desk, my phone pings. I must be popular as I’ve got two messages from two different people. Ooh, get me.
The first one is from M:
Hey, how’s your first day back at the office? I was gonna message last night but I didn’t wanna disturb you as I got home after midnight. Anyway, missing you already. Can’t wait to see you.
I’ve been too distracted to pine for M as I stayed in the warmth of my family home. Does that make me a bad wife?
The second message is from middle sis. What’s she doing up this early?
Now you’re married you already think you’re too good, do you? Mum said you’ll be late home. It’s not like your fella is here. What are you doing?
She’s one to talk. The mantra sisters before Misters clearly went over her head as she’s terrible at returning calls and when she comes over she’s glued to her phone, texting or talking to her hubby.
Anyway, I have a very good reason for being late home tonight, I’m seeing Sophia. We got into a funny place in the run-up to my wedding. I thought she’d ditched me for mum life but I was too distracted with my shit to realise that she had plenty of her own to deal with.
***
Sophia looks well. Still a little thin but with less of that vacant look in her eye she had a few months back.
She’s still distracted by Imran as he toddles around, using the once spotless grey velvet sofa as a walking aid. At all times, Sophia remains no more than a metre away from him, like they are connected by an invisible string. He ignores her, playing happily and swatting her away as she tries to break his many falls. When she dares get up to make a cup of tea, he screams, heartbroken, and kicks his legs against the much abused sofa. After a third unsuccessful attempt at detachment, she hoists him onto her and takes him along. I should have offered to help, though I’m not sure it would have been welcome. The usual strong, proud and independent Sophia wouldn’t hear of it. That’s the thing, I don’t know which Sophia I’m dealing with right now. I’m not sure who she is.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been to her house. Was it when she was pregnant? Or before that? I wonder when it changed beyond recognition. Didn’t they used to have carpet? A light cream carpet? When did they switch to less porous wooden flooring? When was the cosy snow white shag pile removed from the front of the fireplace? When was the fireplace itself boarded up and rendered useless? Now it’s just aesthetic, not functional. Come to think of it, was the room always this impenetrable shade of olive? Wasn’t it lighter before? Brighter? More high maintenance?
“We’ve had a bit of a makeover. The walls were getting mucky with tiny fingerprints, the carpet had too much spilt milk and the rest is baby proofing.” Sophia reads my face upon returning with a mug of tea in one hand and a toddler in the other. “At least I’ve got him off my hip.” She smiles.
“How are things?” I’m tentative about asking. Sophia and I exchange the odd text message but despite her attending my wedding and our relationship seemingly better, it’s been such a whirlwind on my end that I really haven’t had much time for her. It’s ironic, really, as my main issue with her was I felt she didn’t have enough time for me.
Though this is our chance to have a real talk, I’m not sure if we will. We fall into safe conversation about sleepless nights, teething, whether M snores, but nothing about how she’s been.
Finally, I have to ask.
“So, are you... better?”
I’m so stupid at this. I know nothing of postnatal depression. I don’t know if people get better or how. I have little to offer in terms of advice or empathy but I feel that it’s an elephant in the room so I at least have to check in.
Sophia avoids eye contact, instead focusing all her attention on Imran, much like she’s always done. He’s trying to force a square block into a round hole on his toy cube. He gives up and bashes the carpet with it instead.
“It’s not as simple as that. It’s not like you take a pill and you’re fixed.”
Sophia looks at me and for a moment the old her is back. It’s almost intimidating as it’s the face she saved for when she’d run out of patience or was generally annoyed.
Then she says: “I am getting better, I think. I learnt to accept that not everything is in my control. I’m so used to being the one with the answers. The know it all. I was like that with you. Remember? When you were single? You’d always come to me for advice and I felt like a big sister. So, not having it together and not knowing what I’m doing... it was... well... I’ve been talking to someone. Not in the way you see in movies, lying on the couch and all that. Just kind of... talking. It’s over the phone, which suits me as I can be a bit more upfront, without someone seeing me and judging me. I don’t know, it’s just easier when you don’t have to look someone in the eye and tell them you’re really, really struggling.”
This is the most real I’ve seen her. Walls down, raw, open.
“I wish I’d known,” I touch Sophia’s arm.
“How could you have? I didn’t even know. It was only when Adnan noticed I wasn’t myself. He intervened. Funny thing is, he’s even more of a know-it-all than me. I’ve always said he would’ve loved to have been a psychiatrist. So he was going all in, trying to peel my layers like I’m a bloody onion,” she laughs.
“And how’s it been looking after the little guy?”
I feel so inadequate having conversations that I know nothing of but Sophia indulges.
“Imran saved my life.” She sees my face and then says: “No, really! I know you could argue that’s what’s got me in this state in the first place. But actually having him, having a purpose, was just what I needed. Not that I’m saying you don’t have a purpose without kids, it’s just... you’ll know when you have kids. Honestly, I don’t know life before him.”
Sophia turns to Imran and brings him to sit on her lap. The whole time I’ve been here she’s been sat on the floor, on his level, sometimes resting her back against the sofa, other times hunched over, unsupported. I didn’t even think to join them on the floor. I’m not ready yet. I’m not ready to swap the soft sofa for the hard wood floor.
She pulls up his sock that had started to escape from his plump foot. She tends to him so gently, with such care and love. She moves so slowly, as if there is nothing else to do, nothing else in the world. He is her world.
She shakes her head as though waking from a trance where she’d temporarily forgotten I was in the room. “Because it’s something I wanted so desperately, I really built up motherhood in my head. Then, when it finally did happen for me, it was a big shock. But, I would still say he saved my life.” She looks at me. “What about you? Are kids on the agenda or will you wait a bit?”
“Oh, God no! I mean, not yet. I’ve only just got married. I’d like a few years of it being us. And, you know, for me to figure out my career in London and that sort of thing.”
“I don’t blame you. Enjoy the honeymoon phase while it lasts.”
“Were you the same?” I ask.
Sophia looks at me dead on: “No.”
I forgot how blunt and disarming she could be, giving a straight, one-word answer without following it up with a supporting statement like most people do.
I take a sip of my now-cold tea and realise Sophia’s sweetened it with sugar. She’s forgotten how I take it but it’s okay, it’s been ages since I’ve been round and she was probably too flustered with baby Imran to ask.
“When did you start trying?” I dare ask.
“On my wedding night.”
Now it’s my turn to do the dead-on look.
She giggles upon seeing my reaction. “You know it was different for me. It was my second marriage, which I thought might never happen. So once me and Adnan got hitched, I didn’t want to hang about. I just wanted to get on with the next stage of my life. Not that kids are a stage you have to get to but you know what I mean.”
I want to ask how long she was trying for, as I knew it was a struggle, but I don’t have to. Sophia, the mind reader, adds: “It took me five years.”
I do some mental arithmetic. Sophia is six years older than me. Baby Imran is one. So when she got married to Adnan she was... oh, shit.
Again Sophia read me like a book.
“Don’t worry, my case isn’t the norm in my family. My sister got pregnant at the drop of a hat. And don’t get me started on my sister-in-law! My mother-in-law would constantly brag about how her incredibly fertile daughter could get pregnant by holding hands. Your older sisters had kids fine, so you’ll probably be the same. What I would say though...” Sophia leans forward, though she needn’t, baby Imran won’t understand - he’s busy pushing along his musical train, which lets out the occasional: ‘choo, choo!’ - “When you are thinking about it, I would plan at least a year in advance. You don’t know how long it’ll take. I’m sure you won’t have any issues but it’s not worth taking the chance.”
“Okay...”
“If you ask me...” she pauses.
I’m not asking. But go on.
“To give yourself the best chance, I would recommend ovulation sticks. They’re basically like lollipop sticks that you pee on and they tell you when you’re ovulating down to the day. That’s when you do the deed. That’s your best first option.”
What? Does she mean there’s more? I’m just getting over peeing on a stick. The very few times I’ve had to provide a urine sample I’ve missed the mark and pissed on my hand, so I’m not sure how I feel about this exercise.
“When I was getting a bit more desperate, shall we say, I bought an ovulation monitor. If you get one second-hand you then just have to buy new sticks, so it works out much cheaper.”
Well, at least she’s trying to appeal to my stingy sense.
Sophia goes into big sister advice mode. She talks of tests, monitors, positions. However, all I can think is: wait, what, what, what? All the W’s come rushing to my consciousness as I try to wrap my head around the fact that there would be any issues with getting pregnant. I thought it was easy. I come from the Bengali community, where it’s not unusual for a family to have many children. Then, I think about the big gap between little sis and I. Was that deliberate? Or was there a problem? I never thought to ask. I can’t imagine getting a helpful response from mum. She’d give a typical bullshit parent response like: ‘Dooro!’ or ‘khe zanoo’, meaning ‘who knows’? That would be mum’s way of dismissing the matter. Mum isn’t really one for discussing what she calls ‘lady things’. She didn’t even tell me about periods. I found out through school at PSE class and then came on the following week, at the tender age of 11. It’s a good job I had that one lesson, otherwise I would have thought I was dying.
Sophia is blissfully unaware of the worry-bomb she detonated and is busy playing amongst the debris of toys strewn all over the floor. She reaches for her bookshelf, once a home for carefully curated memoirs and bestsellers, and gets what looks like the only adult book amongst children’s picture stories.
“Hon, if you ever need it, or when you start trying, come to me. I have all the books about making babies. This is just one of them.”
She hands over the book, with a smug looking woman on the front, all glossy blonde hair, bright skin and big bump. I bet that’s a prosthetic belly as I doubt anyone looks that good during pregnancy.
It’s time for me to go home. Our catch-up wasn’t exactly what I expected but it’s a start. It’s progress. We’re different but at least we’re talking. Yet, there’s an invisible chasm between us. We’re separated by a seemingly insurmountable life change. I’m hoping, somewhere beneath the nappies, breadsticks, cucumber rings and new responsibilities is the worldly-wise sister from another mister. And somewhere beneath this newly married I-figured-out-the-manhunt-algorithm veneer, is the girl who would listen to her advice with open ears.
As I head out to leave, I impulsively throw my arms around Sophia. She’s startled, not least because she’s got Imran on her hip. He nuzzles his head into the embrace, so it’s an awkward three-way hug of sorts.
“Thanks hon,” she says, squeezing tighter with her free arm.
“For what?” I ask.
“For this.” I feel her fingers gripping my shoulder. “When you become a mum, everyone wants to hold the baby. Nobody even thinks to hold the mum.”