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“Did you call the wedding venue?”
“What? Lady, I’m still in bed. What time is it?”
“It’s half eight. Aren’t you getting the kids ready for school?”
“It’s the summer holidays, silly. Hold on.”
There is a rumbling and rustling sound on the phone. No doubt big sis is attempting to get her brain in order.
“You mean for your mehendi. I haven’t called yet. I forgot, to be honest. Since your brother-in-law’s been in Bangladesh, I’ve been overrun with the house stuff. Everything is on me.”
I forgot that he’s been in Bangladesh for the last week but that’s beside the point. Everything is on her? She doesn’t know the half of it.
“I’ll call them tonight, lady. If you still want me to.” That’s my big sister’s way of saying she’d rather I just did it.
“Just forget it. I’ll do it myself.”
“Oh, don’t say that, lady. I told you I’m sorry. I’ll do it later.”
“Don’t bother. You’ve had long enough. If it’s something you needed, I’d be on it. I always am.”
“Gosh lady, there’s still time. I’ll call them now then. Actually, they won’t be open yet. I’ll call them around 1ish.”
“No, leave it. I’ll be quicker doing it myself. All the things I do for you and you can’t do one thing for me. I’ll remember this the next time you need a favour.”
“Don’t be like that,” says big sis.
“Like what? Honest? Annoyed? I can be how I like!”
I hang up without saying goodbye. Of all the times I’ve gone out of my way for her. For both my sisters. Carpooling when they stay over. Cancelling catch-ups with Julia last minute because they’re visiting last minute. When I need something, everyone is busy. They haven’t had the time. I’m sure when it’s one of her kids’ turns to get married, she’ll find the time.
“Who are you talking to so early in the morning?” asks mum as she comes down the stairs.
Dad is fast asleep. As is my little sis as I now realise it’s the summer holidays. Mum still gets up for me to ensure that I have breakfast before I go to work. Even though I’m going to be 27 in three days and I’m totally capable of pouring milk into my own cereal.
“Oh, it’s big sis. She’s being a right lazy cow. I told her to call the restaurant for me to book the mehendi venue and she still hasn’t done it. She’s had loads of time! Worst thing is, she forgot. So if I hadn’t called her and assumed she’d done it, I’d be without a venue. I’d have to hold the ceremony in our bloody front room.”
“You mean like your other sister did,” mum reminds me.
“You know it was different back then. You said yourself you want me to have a good wedding. Nobody holds their mehendi ceremonies in the house anymore.”
“Well, if you just agreed the price with restaurant and no be so stubborn, you would have no problem. Always have to make things long and be difficult.”
I’m not in the mood for an I told you so. I head to the hallway to put my shoes on.
Mum is not done. “Have you had breakfast?”
Should I lie? No, it probably wouldn’t work. Mum will deduce that I haven’t eaten by how much milk is left in the fridge.
“No, I haven’t had time. I was too busy calling my useless sister.”
“Dooro! Don’t be rude. You shouldn’t call her so early. The restaurant wouldn’t be open now anyway. Not everything about your wedding.”
If I wasn’t pissed off enough, mum has to lay it on thicker. I need to leave the house before I say something I’ll regret, again.
I open the door before mum shouts back. “Hold on, let me get you something. You can’t go to work hungry. You’ll have headache. And you’re getting so skinny.”
“Mum! There’s no time. You always make me late.”
“Dooro! It will take a second. Just wait.”
“I don’t have a second!”
“Don’t be silly. You can tell your work that you haven’t had breakfast. They no mind you being bit late.”
“Of course they’ll mind! Just because you’ve never worked a day in your life... I can’t just rock up when it suits me.” I rush outside and climb into my car, desperate to escape.
As I’m about to start the engine, mum runs out, still wearing her cotton maxi nightie, having hastily wrapped a scarf around her head. There is no need for the latter addition as there is literally nobody around to see her this morning. Most of our OAP neighbours are still asleep.
“Here, take this.” She shoves a blue plastic bag through my half open car window. “Stubborn girl.”
I pull into my work car park five minutes late and grateful for the fact that Bernadette rarely sits in our office. It dawns on me that I am really going to have to call back the restaurant myself. Oh the shame! I blundered out of there all high and mighty and principled. Now I’ve got to blunder my way back into their good books, quite literally, their booking book. I’m still going to try for some kind of discount, though. It should be their obligation as I’ve already booked with them previously. If nothing else, they better offer everyone one free soft drink.
I bundle together my work laptop, handbag and the stupid plastic bag mum burdened me with. Then I notice the contents. Mum’s curated for me an orange juice carton, a brioche bun and a small yoghurt. She’s thought of everything to see me through the day. Even though I have a work canteen that offers copious amounts of food options at a reduced rate. Even though I’m a grown ass woman on the wrong side of 25. I actually don’t like brioche but that’s not her fault. She shuffled it together in a rush. I don’t think anybody else would ever do that for me. Probably not even M.
Bushra pulls up in the parking space next to me. Predictably, she’s late too. I have to hide my face, as I don’t want her to see me crying ugly tears, triggered by a juice carton.
***
I’VE NEVER DONE PRETTY sobbing. Mine are always full-on injured animal whimpering. My face and eyes will be swollen and puffy for hours afterwards. Luckily, there’s only Bushra in the office today, as Emma and Amy are out on site visits. Though she keeps darting the odd nervous stare in my direction. She probably thinks I’ve been dumped by M or something.
Anyway, there’s no time to explain my moment of emotion, I’m too busy for that. I’ve spent the last 25 minutes sourcing three quotes from printers for personalised chocolate favour wrappers. Now it’s time for some real work. Beautifying work.
It seems like finding a makeup artist to paint me beautiful for my wedding is harder to come by than a man. I mean, my hunt for a husband was easier, wasn’t it? I forget now.
After Rania and her dismally minimal makeup palette, I found one bridal makeup artist via Facebook. She had a flashy website and impressive portfolio and claimed to initially offer a phone consultation. Only this never happened. I was promised a call, which was rescheduled twice. I finally gave up. I mean, how could she tell I’m stingy before we’d even had a phone chat? We hadn’t even got to the stage of talking money. Or talking at all.
The great thing about having autonomy at work thanks to a missing in action manager means I’ve got plenty of time to scope out makeup artists online. In between doing actual work, like writing press releases and covering the arses of half-arsed business development managers and such like.
Thanks to the exhibitionist social media world in which we live, I managed to track down the makeup artist Hassna used for her engagement party. I know that makes me sound like a desperate copycat but it wasn’t that hard to find, really. I just had to set up a fake account and send Hassna a follow request, which she’d accepted. Silly girl. Of course, she had multiple photos of her engagement ceremony, including close ups of her big rock, which I’m happy to report was bought in an anonymous sounding jewellers in Manchester. Hardly the prestige of Hatton Garden. That aside, in one of the pictures she tagged her makeup artist and a host of other people she called her glam squad, posting the equivalent of an Oscar’s acceptance speech. Yes, I’ll probably post the exact same fake-gushing thank you on social media after my wedding. They say if you don’t document something online it didn’t happen. There is no way I’m letting the fact I’m marrying a boy I like ever be questioned.
Anyway, I messaged Hassna’s makeup artist, Shazna, and we’ve now taken our courtship to the next level - messaging on Facebook.
Me: Hi, I’m getting married on the 9th September, are you free to do bridal hair and makeup?
Shazna: I am.
Me: Great. Do you offer a trial? And if so, how much do you charge?
Shazna: Yes.
Okay, looks like we’ve got ourselves a woman of few words here and possibly a confused one at that. That’s okay, she must be very busy and in demand.
Me: Would you be able to come to my house for a trial? Or do I need to come to you?
Shazna: No, I can’t come to your house, you come to me.
Me: Okay. What about on the day itself? Would you come to my house then?
Shazna: No. You come to me, as I have other clients that day, before and after you.
Me: Okay, how much is it for a trial?
Shazna: Yes.
Erm... maybe English isn’t her first language. Her makeup skills are good, though, so I’ll soldier on with this.
Me: No. Sorry, how much do you charge?
Shazna: Come have trial and then we talk prices.
“Oh, this is just ridiculous,” I say, a little too loud.
“What’s that?” Bushra looks up from her screen.
In my previous company I’d be worried about being seen to skive. Not here though. Bushra and Emma have clocked up many work hours cyber stalking men they met from the weekend before. It’s a good thing we all work in-house rather than at an agency. I’m not sure how we’d bill all the client time spent on personal admin.
“I’m having a nightmare looking for a makeup artist. They’re basic at best, or bloody elusive. I should’ve got it sorted by now.”
“I know someone. Well, actually, it’s my cousin. She’s really good.”
I’m wondering why she never mentioned this before, then she answers my question: “She’s just arrived from Pakistan and she worked for a big beauty parlour in Lahore,” Bushra adds, rather proudly.
She can stop right there. At the risk of sounding like a self-hating Asian (yet again) beauticians from back home (or in this case, Bushra’s homeland), don’t fill me with confidence. I’ve seen their handiwork first hand when I went to Bangladesh for my sister’s wedding. They painted her ghostly white. They even used talcum powder on her arms. Luckily big sis is naturally fair, so could just about carry it off, though she did have a hint of Queen Elizabeth II about her. Darker complexioned brides didn’t fare very well at beauty parlours. Indians, Pakistanis and Bangladeshis all bond over the belief that fair is beautiful and are willing to attain this at any cost. In this case, the cost is a chalked-up face. No thanks.
“Do you want her number?”
“Erm... I’m okay at the moment as I’ve got a couple of others lined up. I’ll bear her in mind though, thanks for suggesting.”
“You’re alright. The offer is there if you need it. Anyway, are you all set for your one-to-one on location?”
Oh crap! I totally forgot it’s one-to-one day today. I’ve got to drive to Rochdale to meet Bernadette at a hospital site. Why she can’t just meet me here, our actual office base, I’ll never know. I hate driving to new territory and the stress of finding a makeup artist and looking for a mehendi venue combined with predictable hunger from skipping breakfast, has left me with a stinking headache. I’m also worried that Bernadette hasn’t mentioned any feedback from HQ regarding my request for a transfer. I knew it was a long shot but I started to get my hopes up, especially with M’s talk about us meant to be together and fate working in our favour and blah blah blah. Bernadette’s silence is deafening so I’m not so sure.
***
AFTER A MISSION DRIVING to Rochdale (which is just a bit too north of Manchester for my liking) and a scary parking situation (why is Lancashire so hilly?), I tried my best to compose my out of puff, dishevelled self in front of Bernadette. There was simply no time for a bathroom stop to mop my brow, or my sweaty upper lip. I must fix that air con in my car.
Bernadette manages to go through everything pertaining to my job - my PR calendar, upcoming potential crises in the hospitals, even the key points raised in my appraisal. She is thorough, though sadly not thorough enough. She’s not mentioned anything about my transfer request. Not a peep.
Just as I’m about to pluck up the courage to ask her outright, Alistair, the hospital’s executive director, pops his head round the door.
“Don’t mind me Bernie, just a quick one to say hello. Ooh, ‘ello you!” says Alastair upon spotting me. “To what do we owe the pleasure of you visiting our little old hospital. Is there a photocall I don’t know about?”
I think Alistair’s being a bit bitchy about me visiting rarely. In my defence, I do have 17 hospitals to get around. Plus, it’s not like I need to be on site for the sake of it. At least that’s what I’m banking on, as it’s my main ammunition to get Bernadette to agree to me working remotely from London.
“No, don’t worry. No photographs today,” I reply.
“Ooh, that’s a relief.” Alistair clutches his chest, fake gasping for air. He is so theatrical. “And what’s that I see there? Is that a special ring on your special finger?”
How did he even spot my engagement ring? It’s hardly big or flashy. I’m not sure what to say. Thankfully, Bernadette rescues the situation.
“Oh yes, this one is getting married. A handsome man is making an honest woman of her,” she says. Not that she knows if he’s handsome or not. She’s never asked to see a photo.
“Amazing love!” With that, Alistair’s quick hello turns into him parking himself down on the chair next to me for a good old gossip. He’s very familiar for a man that I’ve met about four times since working here. “I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone.”
“Well, I don’t really talk about my private life,” I say, which was true up until about a year ago.
“Well, I best fix that. ‘Ooh is he? What does he do? How long have you been seeing him?”
I start with the thing that will make it sound the least like a forced marriage. “We’ve been seeing each other a few months now.”
“A few months! Well, are you sure about him? Sounds quick!”
“Come on Al, leave the girl alone,” says Bernadette, keen to get back to the agenda.
“Ooh, I’ve gotta ask these things, Bernie.”
Bernie purses her lips at being called by her much-loathed nickname, again.
“It’s just living in these parts, you hear all the stories.” Alistair’s not mincing his words. “Is it arranged?”
Aaannd we’re back to that. I thought I’d left such nosiness in my previous role. I’ve had such a good run at this workplace that I forgot people are still wary of the dreaded A-word.
“Erm, no, it’s not. We met through friends.”
“Ooh, thank God for that,” another fake gasp and chest clutch from Alistair. “I wouldn’t be doing my civic duty if I didn’t check. My courtship took a lot longer. I was with Mike for eight years before we made honest men of each other. To be fair though, four of those years were trying to get his old man on board with the whole thing. Thankfully he died before the wedding. God rest his soul.”
Bernadette stares intently at her silver Gucci watch. Not only is this eating into our protected one-to-one time, it’s also put her completely out of her comfort zone discussing life outside work.
Despite her eagerness to continue, Alastair isn’t done. “Do you love him?”
My face turns a flash of red I haven’t experienced for a long while.
“Oh, leave her alone Alistair! That’s not really any of our business.”
Alistair ignores her and continues trying to delve into my soul with his piercing blue eyes. “Do you though?”
“Yes... I do.” I’m not sure why I feel so awkward to say it out loud. It occurs to me I have not said the L word to M at all. Even when he said it to me that night he proposed, I didn’t say it back. It just feels too awkward.
Alistair looks at me, still unsatisfied with my response. Then I do something even worse, something that should never be uttered. “Whatever love is.”
Why did I say that? What does it mean? It’s the words from the world-famous engagement interview of Prince Charles and Diana. That didn’t turn out well and he was panned for his comment forever. Heck, we even used it as a PR case study on how not to answer personal questions. That must be where I got it from, it crept into my sub-consciousness. The worst kind of subliminal message.
Of course, that gives Alistair all the ammunition he needs. “Whatever love is? What does that mean?”
“Right Alistair, I’m really sorry but I have to push on. I’ve still got my three o’clock with you, so can I grab you then?” Bernadette’s clearly as eager to end this interrogation as I am.
“All right boss. I’ve been told.” Alastair throws his hands in the air, rolls his eyes and heads out.
As soon as he closes the door behind him, she mumbles to me: “He’s a bloody nosey so and so.”
“He’s just curious,” I say, rather diplomatically as my thoughts are exactly the same as hers, albeit a little more sweary.
“There’s curious and there’s bloomin’ invasive. Just because he’s an open book with his life, doesn’t mean everybody else is.”
Why do I feel like this is more to do with Bernadette rather than my personal life?
“Anyway, I’m sorry to cut the conversation short, though I imagine you are delighted. It’s just that I didn’t want him to delve into your future plans before we finalised them. For your role here, that is. At least not before I’ve had written confirmation from HQ.”
“Right, okay.” I’m desperate to know more but don’t want to push my luck. Thankfully, Bernadette reads my mind.
“Just so you’re in the loop, HQ are fine with you being there in principle. They’re just working out the logistics. I’m pushing for you to be sat in the thick of it with the PR team. I don’t want them to pull a fast one and just shove you in a broom cupboard.”
I’d probably go for a broom cupboard if it means I can move to London with a job in hand.
“That’s so good to know. I’m glad they’re okay with me going there. I think I can really make it work.”
“Oh, I know you can. I’ve always said to all the exec directors, you’re one to watch. You’ll be going places. We just have to be a bit careful politically, just so that the likes of Alistair don’t get twitchy about the fact that you won’t be able to offer hands-on support. It’s more of a perception thing, really.”
There was me thinking she’d forgotten about my request, when in fact she’s been working some serious logistics behind the scenes.
“Thank you Bernadette. You’ve always had my back.”
“And I always will,” she says.
I bloody love Bernadette.