| |
Message from M: 83 days and counting. Does it feel like a long wait for you? Or is it flying by?
Me: A bit of both, really. On one hand 83 days is a lot of days, but then there’s still loads to do.
M: Don’t worry. You’re not doing it by yourself. I’m here to help remember, as it’s my day as much as yours. So you can offload stuff onto me.
Well, it’s not quite as much your day as it is mine, I think but don’t say. And secondly, do you want to trial the makeup artists for me? You do have lovely long lashes.
***
“I PROMISE I HAVEN’T been elusive on purpose,” says Julia as she sips on her latte.
“Well, it started to feel that way. How did you forget to tell me that you were going on holiday with Miles?” I ask, chugging down my now room temperature hot chocolate.
Yep, I’m the classy one in this relationship.
“Honestly, I’ve pulled that many all nighters with work that I actually thought I told you.” Julia leans over the table. “I’m not supposed to say this but we’re handling the divorce of a Premier League footballer. I can’t tell you his name though.”
Julia’s just dying for me to press her on the subject. I won’t, as I know bugger all about football and footballers. Unless it’s involving the Beckhams, it’ll be totally over my head. I doubt it will be anyone properly famous though. I’ve known Julia long enough to learn that she’s the biggest tease. It’s probably a Premier League footballer that isn’t a household name and spends most of his time on the bench.
Realising I’m not taking the bait, Julia moves onto more important matters. “The holiday was a bit of a surprise. He basically told me he’d booked an AirBnB cottage in Cornwall for my birthday...”
Oh no! I forgot her birthday. I’ve never forgotten her birthday in the last 20 years. I’m hoping I can pull out my getting married card as an excuse for everything I’m forgetting and will continue to forget moving forward.
“So anyway. I was a bit deflated about the Cornwall bit but hey ho, a holiday is a holiday.”
“You are so middle-class!”
“Shut up! I said hey ho, didn’t I? Albeit reluctantly. The point is, I was game. Packed my bags, met him at Kings Cross. So imagine my surprise when we weren’t getting the train to Cornwall, we were getting the bloody Eurostar to Paris! So in the blur of it all I didn’t even congratulate you about your engagement! How are you feeling?”
“Whoa whoa whoa! Let’s rewind it back a second. First, sorry I forgot about your birthday.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, you’ve got much bigger things going on.”
Phew, my impending marriage card is working itself.
“Second, he surprised you with Paris! Isn’t that amazing? How did you even know to bring your passport?”
Julia slowly and carefully takes another sip of her latte before placing it down and cupping it with her delicate, French manicured fingers.
“That’s the thing. I didn’t pack my passport. He sneakily took it from my room.”
“Wow, that’s pretty...” I can’t find the words.
Julia attempts to fill the gaps. “Obsessive? Weird? OTT?”
“No! I was going to say super romantic. I mean, the guy went to great lengths to surprise you, Miss Can-never-be-pleased, with an amazing all-expenses paid trip. Isn’t that what you always wanted? The old-fashioned chivalry? Or is he not brown enough?”
Julia stares at me open mouthed, before bursting into a giggle. We both know she’s got a type and blonde haired, blue-eyed Miles isn’t it.
“Oh shush. I’ve had plenty of... English boyfriends.”
“Yeah, but that was out of circumstance more than choice. As soon as you went to uni and there were Asian boys to pick from, you never looked back. Anyway, this one sounds like a keeper. I would love it if M did all that for me.”
“I’m sure he will, after you’re married.” Julia knows our halal modus operandi all too well. I’ve always said she is the brownest white girl I have ever met.
“Anyway, before marriage comes your birthday. So... lunch here?” she asks. “I’ll come up for the weekend. Unless of course you’ve got plans with your man. I suppose I have to share you now.”
If only. I’m currently avoiding him, though I hope to have figured something out by the time I turn 27. I don’t think I could cope with a whole month of lying.
“I reckon I’ll be free,” I say.
“Perfect. Second and arguably more important - the hen do. I would like to personally take it upon myself, as your oldest friend, to organise the shebang. It’s my way of making up for being so shit recently. So, what would you like to do? A spa weeke -”
Julia stops in her tracks. “Or a spa day? Or a night at the Palace Theatre?”
Like I say, she is a sister from another Mister. She knows that weekends away are only acceptable when it’s work-related.
I’m so relieved that Julia is stepping up. Truth be told, I don’t think there’s anyone else that would organise it for me. My sisters are too busy with their own lives. Though they made a valiant effort to be available before my engagement, they’ve not been so forthcoming recently and have so far ignored the pictures I’ve sent them of taals and wedding favour inspiration. Plus, hen dos aren’t really how we roll. Even middle sis, who’s probably the more modern of us all, didn’t have a hen do. Or at least not one I was aware of. Who knows with that one?
I’m not sure about her suggestions, though. With my dad being a constantly silent but looming presence, I don’t think a late night will be in order. I also doubt Sophia would want to leave baby Imran for a whole evening. Then again, she probably couldn’t commit to a spa afternoon either as she seems to be a hostage to nap times and breastfeeds. She’d probably be more comfortable somewhere she can duck in and out depending on her bubba’s needs. That doesn’t leave many options.
“I was thinking something... maybe more low key? I mean it’s not what you do, it’s who you do it with, right? So how about lunch or dinner at this place?”
Julia looks around at the exposed brickwork of the Italian restaurant we’ve been dining at for the last seven years as though she’s appraising it for the first time. “Here?”
“Yeah. Why not? It’s easy, we know the food is good. It’s pretty cosy. I don’t want to have one of those hen dos that gets out of hand and starts growing arms and legs. Then it becomes a logistical nightmare for anyone to get to.”
“Okay, I can look into that.” Julia doesn’t sound too sure. “Speaking of logistics, do let me know who you’re thinking of inviting, as I don’t know many of your other friends.”
She is being polite. She doesn’t know any of my other friends that aren’t from our school. I’ve segregated them. The brown friends from uni with whom I talk about the endless quest for a man. The friends from school with whom, up until now, I avoided boy talk like the plague because I never had a love life to speak of. Then there are the new work friends, with whom I talk a good talk.
Also, there is the small fact that I don’t have too many other friends. I’ve never been the one with the big group, though I’d have loved that. I’ve always been a cluster kind of girl, with small pockets of friends here and there from different facets of my life. I’m not sure if I want to piece these fragments together, even for one night.
“Obviously I’ll liaise with your sisters too,” says Julia. “Would your mum want to -”
She stops herself as she remembers that:
a) Mum is Bengali
and
b) Bengali mums do not attend hen dos however halal they are.
Julia remembers all too well the few lunches she had at my house when we were younger. We dined on beige oven food but the smell of curry mum was eating secretly in the kitchen, was unmistakable. From there I think she made the educated guess that mum wouldn’t be into pizza or pasta. She was also a witness to the domestic mum and dad had when my usually genteel father stormed out of the house with a 20kg bag of Tolly Boy long grain rice, grumbling how he wishes he had sons. I never knew what the argument was about, though I suspect it had something to do with dad getting lumbered with all the heavy lifting. Julia saw it all and was savvy enough, even at the age of eight, to deduce that mum and dad weren’t exchanging pleasantries in Bengali.
I’m glad she brushed over the sisters bit, too. We’re just not that kind of family. My friend Reena and her sisters are more like mates. Their friends all know each other. Heck, even their boyfriends past and present know each other. Whereas me, with my double, sometimes triple, life has to draw a firm line between friends and siblings. In fact, I even cut the mates into three different pieces. I’ve got one limb in all the different worlds. Sometimes it’s hard. Usually it’s lonely.
“I guess I’ll just stick to friends,” she decides. “Right, so lunch here for your hen do. Brill. Leave it with me.”
I’m embarrassed for both of us.
“Cool. Just keep me in the loop, that’s all I ask. Plus, as I missed your birthday, let me get this. It’s the least I can do.”
I grab the receipt from Sergio, who’s probably relieved that Julia and I won’t have a bill-fight like I did during my last visit with Reena. I bet he can smell the awkwardness as we try to plan what would essentially be a glorified pizza for my hen do. Annoyingly the cost of this lunch is £38. Julia had two coffees, one with her meal and another afterwards. Oh well. It’s not like I’m saving for a wedding or anything.
***
WITH UNCOMFORTABLE hen do planning out of the way, I’ve got more exciting things to look forward to this evening. I found a makeup artist on Instagram and she’s coming to mine to trial some wedding makeup. She’s not hugely well known. I did initially enquire into the work of Aisha Khan, a top MUA influencer type person who boasts 500k followers. However, I made a hasty retreat upon realising that she charges £1,000 for wedding and mehendi makeup. One... thousand... pounds. Four figures. For that price, I’d want them to create a prosthetic makeup mask that I can wear on any occasion at will. Not some face paint that can be smeared off with a wet wipe.
The lady that’s coming round today, Rania, is more modestly priced at £300 for bridal makeup and hair. After stalking her profile, I was glad to find that her makeup was pretty on point, which is always a comforting testimonial. Though I suspect, like everyone else on social media with the exception of myself, the photos have probably been touched by the magic filter.
***
RANIA, A PETITE WOMAN with a childlike frame, arrived with a disappointingly small silver makeup box. It’s not dissimilar to the metal cosmetic briefcase I was gifted by M’s family for my engagement. I’m paying 30 quid for this trial. So, if that trinket doesn’t spout products like Mary Poppins’ bag, I’m going to be miffed.
“Have you thought about your hair?” asks Rania as she starts laying out some eyeshadow pallets on our dining room table.
“Erm, well I was thinking maybe some kind of updo...”
“Do you want pieces?”
“Pieces? Of what?” Should I know this?
“Hair. Hair extensions. That way you won’t just look good for your wedding day, you’ll have great hair for your honeymoon, too.”
“Oh yeah, that sounds nice. Is that something you do?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m big on Russian hair extensions. Real hair.”
I’m not sure how I feel about having a Russian head of hair on top of my Bengali mane. “Is this included in the price?”
Rania looks at me with flared nostrils and a raised eyebrow, as though I’d just farted.
“No love. It’s extra. What about your lashes? Have you thought about those?”
“I didn’t know I should be thinking about my... eyelashes.”
Clearly this makeup business is some seriously deep shit.
“Well...” Rania claps her knees, “I would recommend... rather than going for a strip lash, you use individual lashes. They’ll stay in much longer. So even after the wedding, when you’re taking photos you want to look your best, right? You won’t even need that much makeup as your lashes will do the job for you. Where are you going on your honeymoon?”
“Oh, I don’t know yet. It’ll be a surprise.”
“Well wherever you go, odds are there’ll be a beach. So just imagine, going makeup free but having these insane lashes.”
“Are they from Russian women too?” I ask.
“No love. Fox hair.”
Nasty. I’m not even going to ask if that costs extra. My stingy-sense tells me that the fox won’t be cheap.
Rania holds up a paltry three lip liners for me to choose from. “So... shall we go for a brown, red, or pink lip?”
Is that it? Is that her range? Three lip liners? No shades in between? I’ve got more lip liners than that, and I hardly wear makeup.
“Maybe red,” I reluctantly reply.
She lines out my lips and then begins taking out the rest of her lip products. It doesn’t take long. There aren’t many. I also notice that there is an absence of the big name brands I’m familiar with. That’s disappointing. When I’m forking out hundreds of pounds for a makeup artist, I expect them to have premium makeup.
“Did you know your husband?”
Oh... I see. She is doing the hairdresser thing, making small talk.
“I did, yes,” I reply like I’ve won some kind of marriage lottery.
“Oh, that’s lovely, love. I knew my man, too. Met him when I was 18. We’re still going strong 20 years later.”
She looks a lot younger than her age. It must be the fox lashes and Russian hair.
“Awww, that’s great. How did you meet? College?” I ask.
“No love. I didn’t bother with college. Neither did he. Not that we’ve done too bad. Right, what colour do you want for your eyes?”
“I think I’d like to go traditional. You know, like a maroon or deep red.”
Rania hunts through her limited product range. “Oh, I don’t actually have either of those colours.”
An Asian makeup artist without the traditional red bridal eye colour? Surely that’s blasphemous?
“Let me see... let me see. Okay, I’ll do a workaround. I’ll just mix a few shades together. I’m sure I have maroon but I’ve just not packed it with me.”
Sure, Rania. Sure.
This makeup mixing and making do goes on for another 30 minutes. She largely works in silence, with the odd punctuation of a prompt for me to start having facials as my skin is rather dull. Apparently every bride-to-be needs a good buffing before their big day.
I have zero patience for these makeovers. I’m anxious to see what she’s doing but I’m under strict instructions not to look in the mirror. She says I’ll be scared if I look midway through her work, as though I’ll be painted like Pennywise - just for her amusement - before she does a proper job.
I busy my mind hatching a plan for M’s watch. He hasn’t mentioned it again and neither have I. However, it’s only a matter of time before he brings it up, likely coordinated with his next visit. There’s only so much I can avoid meeting him before he thinks I’m having second thoughts about marriage. I wonder if I could pay an Asian jeweller beforehand and get them to fix the links? Nah, that’d look proper dodgy. That bribe could get lost in translation and I’d be rumbled. Maybe I could just take the watch off him and get it done? But then I won’t know how many links to remove. Why, oh why didn’t I buy a leather strap watch? Bloody Bushra and her iffy recommendation. Bloody me and my bargain-hungry ways.
“All done!” Rania interrupts my thoughts with a final sweep of blush.
She holds up a round mirror for me to see her handiwork. The makeup looks very pretty. Though the look is a little gothic for my liking. It’s not quite the bridal look I want and I think that’s more to do with her missing a few vital shades of red.
I really need a second opinion. I arranged for Rania to visit when there’d be an empty house. After mum gave me a huge complex on the day of my engagement because she didn’t like my makeup, I decided she wouldn’t be the best person to have as a wing woman when trying artists. More fool me.
As Rania fiddles with her three lip liners, I send a sneaky selfie to Naila. She’s a makeup artist, after all.
She texts me straight away: Nice but a no-no for your wedding. Dark, vampy makeup = slutty. Save it for your honeymoon ;).
I see her point. I’ve seen enough of mum’s Indian dramas on Star Plus to know that the darker hues are the reserve of the wanton harlot, or the evil stepmother. The heroine is always painted in the lightest, brightest shades to symbolise innocence and purity.
Mum, dad and my little sis come through the door. I don’t think I’ll be using Rania so I’m happy for mum to interject with her specific blend of sass.
Mum takes one look at my made up face and does her lip grimace thing. “It’s a bit dark,” she says in Bengali, safe in the knowledge that Rania, being Pakistani, won’t understand. For once, mum’s not talking about my complexion but is referring to the overall dark aesthetic created by the eyes and lips.
“Salaam auntie, what do you think?” asks Rania.
This is dangerous territory.
“Pretty but maybe litool bit dark on eyes. But pretty. Yes, pretty.” Mum perfected the art of delivering a shit sandwich before it became a thing.
Rania looks unperturbed by mum’s critique. “We were just talking about the lashes. I’ve put full strip ones on for now. I think the way to go on the day would be to have lash inserts that last for up to two weeks. He na, auntie?” She’s looking for support in the wrong place.
Mum furrows her brow. “Won’t that stop namaz?”
Ooh, good call mum.
Rania’s eyes dart from side to side as she searches for her comeback. We might be the first potential clients that use the need to be makeup free and clean of soul for prayer, as a reason not to buy her fox hair eyelashes.
“Oh... well... it’s just that’s what the customers want. Girls demand long-lasting lashes these days, so what can I do?” Rania looks at me, pleading with her eyes for help.
“Well, thank you so much for coming over. I love what you’ve done. It’s pretty autumnal. And I’ll definitely think about my hair and lashes.”
Rania folds in her metal case, deflated. We both know this is the end of the road on our fledging relationship.
The search for a makeup artist continues.
