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I love Rusholme. I love that the shops and restaurants in this part of the world stay open every day of the year, including Christmas. And what could be more festive than a sprout curry?
I have a surprise date. Sophia called me a couple of days ago to ask if I’m free. Of course I am. I could use the distraction. To my surprise, Sophia suggested somewhere beyond her toy-strewn living room. Instead, we’ve opted for the bright lights of Wilmslow road, home to Rusholme, Manchester’s curry mile.
While I never turn down a curry date, I always get frustrated when trying to park in Rusholme. The place is never quiet. Cars are squeezed in anywhere, putting two where there really should be one, edging over double yellow lines and other such terrible parking etiquette you wouldn’t get anywhere else. After going round four times, I decide to cut my losses and park a bit further up the road in a residential area.
As I walk to the restaurant, the December frost sharpens my cheekbones and the icy mist settles on my eyelashes. I’m glad for my wool Barbour coat, my second branded purchase, before I found out I was being made redundant. Had I known what was coming, I would have saved my money and just bought a scarf. Speaking of which, I could do with one now. Having spent the last few days at home in a state of self-pity/demotivation/longing for London, I’d forgotten how it’s always colder up north. I’m turning into a southern softy, yet there I was thinking I wouldn’t change.
I’ve parked a short bus journey from the restaurant, so I inevitably arrive fashionably late, to find Sophia waiting for me at a table by the window. She’s staring out into the busy road, in a world of her own. She looks better. She’s put on a little bit of weight, her eyebrows look freshly tweezed and her black check shirt dress is fitted and flattering.
To my surprise, there’s an empty seat next to her and not a high chair in sight. She’s minus baby Imran. Surely that’s a first?
“Adnan’s got him for the afternoon,” she says, having read my very open face, as I settle down opposite her. “I figured it would give us time to talk properly, without any distractions.”
I’m glad she’s the one to say that. I thought this every single time we met in the past year, when any conversation has been met with coos, blown raspberries and general ignorance to anything I have actually said.
“How are you?” I decide to initiate the pleasantries, steeling myself for a barrage of anecdotes about sleep, or lack thereof, or Imran’s development, or something else that is over my head because I am not there yet.
“I’m good,” she says. “And I’ve got some news... I’m thinking of going back to work.”
I guess we won’t be talking sleep deprivation and toddler milestones, then.
“Yeah, I just feel the time is right. Baby Imran’s not a baby anymore, and while I love being a mum, I’m getting to that stage where it’s a bit...”
She pauses. Do I fill the gap with: ‘Boring’? ‘Monotonous’? I best not.
“...I hate to say it but... it’s a bit dull.”
Close. I was close.
“The first 18 months I was in survival mode, as you know, so I didn’t have the headspace for anything, or anyone. Now it is getting easier. I’m no longer breastfeeding, he is sleeping better and the time feels right. Selfishly, I just want to get back a bit of the old me. Before I became a mum.”
“I don’t think that’s selfish,” I say. “I think I’d be the same. I don’t know where I’d be without my job -”
I stop myself as I realise that, ironically, that’s exactly the situation I’m in now.
“What is it, hon? Go on, spit it out.” I see some of the old feistiness coming to the fore already. I like it.
In one big, congealed brain dump, I tell all. About the redundancy, about the futile job search, about my occasional night sweats thinking about how we are going to be kept in central London comfort for the foreseeable future.
“Have you thought about freelancing?” Sophia asks, having barely digested the information.
“It’s something I always wanted to do when I was in Manchester but I never had the years of experience. Now I’ve got that experience but it’s so unpredictable, isn’t it? I need a regular income, so I’m not sure if freelancing is the route for me.”
“True,” Sophia says, balancing a morsel of chicken on her fork. My God, surely the intense labour of motherhood should render her ravenous? I’m nearly finished with my seekh kebab. Given that we are sharing the starter platter, I’m wondering if it would be rude for me to eat more than my half, as she certainly won’t have her share. It would be bad to waste, wouldn’t it?
She puts the fork down, chicken untouched. “What if you continued to look for work but put the feelers out for contract and freelance gigs at the same time to see what comes first?”
I ponder her idea. It’s a sensible one but I’d have no idea where to start.
Sophia reads my mind again. “You could get in touch with all your past employers, colleagues, that sort of thing, to see if they need a spare pair of hands. Or brain, in this case.”
I mentally count my network on two hands, not including my thumbs. Still, it’s a start.
“And the good thing is you’re living in central London. There are businesses literally on your doorstep that you can tap up for PR work. Just something to think about, anyway.” Sophia picks her fork up again, then rests it on the plate before it even gets a chance to brush her lips. “By the way, do you like my restaurant suggestion?”
I look around at the retro pink velvet wall and wooden carved seats with plush plum seating fit for a Maharaja. The restaurant is new (I can smell the fresh paint permeating through the intense smell of the charcoal grill in the open kitchen), yet it’s decor is old. I think it’s ironic, new stuff made to look vintage. Maybe Manchester isn’t that different to London. Maybe gentrification is everywhere.
“It’s very chic. Very you,” I say. “It makes a nice change. Not that I don’t love your lukewarm cups of tea and biscuits!”
“Oi! You cheeky cow! Just wait until you have kids! Then we’ll see how good your hosting skills are! On that note, is that still on pause?” Sophia looks at me with raised eyebrows.
“Yes it is, very much so. Even if the questions aren’t.”
“Sorry hon, I don’t mean to pry. I imagine you get a lot of that now you’re married.”
“Oh no, don’t apologise. It wasn’t aimed at you. It’s usually people that have no business asking. People I hardly know. I imagine the questions will get more frequent as time goes by.” I look back at my plate. I think it needs replenishing. I’ve just got some over-fried onions and oil-stained lettuce left.
“Probably,” says Sophia, which isn’t what I wanted to hear. “Just remember, you were a trailblazer in lots of ways. Living away for uni. Meeting your husband online. Maybe you’ll be the same with work and kids. Who says you have to have kids straight away?”
“You know what, that’s a bloody good point!” Now it’s my turn to put my fork down. “I’ve missed this. Let’s do it more often.”
Sophia smiles. “Definitely.”
***
When I get home, I run upstairs, avoiding all small talk with the many family members downstairs. We’ve got a full house, as we do every Christmas. Big sis is up from Bristol, middle sis is down from Bradford, and between them they’ve got their brood of six, which now includes a baby.
I’m on a mission so I ignore my little sis who’s sat on her bed opposite me, asking what I ate and if I brought home a doggy bag of leftovers. I did but I’m not sharing. I will keep it in the hallway, stinking out the place, until I’m ready to eat it later tonight.
I open up my laptop and begin to type a generic email:
Hi xxx,
I hope you’re well. It’s been a while and I thought I’d reach out. How is work going? I hope all is well.
I just want to let you know I have decided to go freelance, and I’m currently looking for any PR opportunities. If you know of any, please do let me know.
Is that too basic? Does it need more padding? As I’ve left out all the fluff, I will add little tidbits when I tailor the email to each person.
I’m not organised enough to have an online address book. I have to scour through my old emails to see if there are any from previous employers. Luckily, I had a habit of sending myself correspondence such as press release templates and client testimonials, should they prove useful for any future jobs. Now is their time to shine.
I manage to dig out my old boss Maggie’s email address, so send her the message with a question about how the business is going, as that’s all she really cares about.
Fiona, of ambushing-me-about-arranged-marriages-in-an-open-plan-office fame, gets the same email with an added query about her children.
Do I message Bernadette? I’m not sure if it would be appropriate. I don’t even know if she’s working. I don’t even know if... no, I won’t say it. I hate to think the worst.
I decide to scrap the formalities and send her the following message:
Hi Bernadette,
I hope you’re well. I’m just checking in to say hello and Merry Christmas. All the best for next year.
I’m not sure if the last sentence was stupid but Bernadette doesn’t want doom and gloom, sympathy, or concern.
It’s unlikely that I’ll hear from anyone over the Christmas period, on account of them actually celebrating, however, at least I know I’ve made a start to see what’s out there. Now I can get back to more important matters, the dinner that is being prepared downstairs. I know it’s only been an hour-and-a-half since I finished eating with Sophia but I can always make space for our alternative Christmas meal.
Mum is on roast chicken duty (as you have to order a halal turkey in advance, we always forget, despite us gathering on Christmas Day without fail every year). Big sis is boiling the sprouts and cutting up the parsnips and carrots, while middle sis is sat on our black plastic foldaway chair, phone attached to her ear, baby attached to her boob. She’s placed herself in the thick of the action, despite bringing nothing to the table.
“About time, lady,” says big sis as she sees me. “Are you all sorted with your job search?”
“Yeah, it’s a bit quiet now, though. Hopefully things will pick up in January,” I reply.
“I’m sure they will, lady. Anyway, if not, it’s not the end of the world. You’ve been married over a year and you are getting on a bit. So you could -”
“Dooro!” mums shouts. “No talk of babies. They not even own their own house!”
How is it that mum is even more modern than big sis?
“Oh yes, a house or flat of your own would be good,” big sis says, as though it’s that easy. “Your brother-in-law was saying how you should buy a flat in London soon. Once you’ve got yourself a little job again. He’s always telling me, you’ll never lose money in the London housing market.”
I never knew her hubby had much knowledge about property prices in London, or anywhere else for that matter.
Having offered her less than helpful advice, big sis turns to more pressing matters. “Mum said that you rub honey on the parsnips? Is that right? That sounds terribly English.”
“Well, we are having a roast dinner on Christmas Day. So yes, we are being a bit English. Even if it’s chicken instead of turkey.”
“I don’t know... next thing we’ll be pulling crackers and mum and dad will kiss under the mistletoe. I wanted to do a tandoori chicken this year. Bright red, like the ones they used to serve at weddings.”
“You love it really,” I say. “You’re always having seconds.”
Big sis smiles. “That’s usually because I’m hungry.” She squeezes the runny honey onto the parsnips. “Shall I add some spices?”
“No, let’s not asian-ify it.”
She furrows her brow. “But it’ll be terribly bland.”
“Bit of paprika do no harm and give nice colour,” mum adds her two-pence worth, holding up the brightly coloured sifter jar she pulled out from the cupboard.
“No! It’ll ruin it.” I snatch the jar from mum’s hand.
We have the same debate every year. Sometimes I give in and we have curried roast veg, other times I stand my ground. The result is always the same, it all gets eaten.
“What do you think?” I ask middle sis.
She looks up, phone still glued to her ear. “Whatever. I don’t care. I’m just hungry. I’m still eating for two.”
I hear a laugh coming from the phone.
“And you can be quiet!” Middle sis says to who I assume is her husband. “Maybe you should get your moobs out for the baby. See how hungry you get.”
I didn’t think my slim brother-in-law had man-boobs.
“How was your lunch with your friend? Is it the one that had kids quite late?” Big sis drops her filter as always.
“Well, yes but she only has the one kid and she didn’t have him that late.”
“Oh, you know what I mean, lady. Late for... you know, our standards.”
I give her the death stare, hoping she realises it’s highly likely I’ll end up having kids over 30, too.
“Not late late. I guess you working ladies have kids later now, don’t you?”
“Get married later, too,” mum adds. “At least you got husband now. We got worry with you.”
I heard somewhere that Christmas get togethers in English households often result in booze-fuelled debates, arguments and political incorrectness. Alcohol aside, we’re just the same.