Someone Like Her: The exquisite, heart-wrenching, eye-opening new novel from the bestselling author of No Honour E-Book

Awais Khan

• Herausgeber: Orenda Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 530

Beschreibung

A young Pakistani woman is the victim of an unthinkable act of vengeance, when she defies convention for love, facing seemingly insurmountable challenges and danger as she attempts to rebuild her life. `Stunning, shocking, compulsive reading … A breathtaking masterpiece´ Hazel Prior `Pacy, gripping and fast-moving … I literally could not put it down!´ Edel Coffey `Rarely has a writer affected me so deeply. Someone Like Her is an epic story of love, power and extraordinary courage´ A.J. West –––––––––––––––––––– Multan, Pakistan. A conservative city where an unmarried woman over the age of twenty-five is considered a curse by her family. Ayesha is twenty-seven. Independent and happily single, she has evaded an arranged marriage because of her family's reduced circumstances. When she catches the eye of powerful, wealthy Raza, it seems like the answer to her parents' prayers. But Ayesha is in love with someone else, and when she refuses to give up on him, Raza resorts to unthinkable revenge… Ayesha travels to London to rebuild her life and there she meets Kamil, an emotionally damaged man who has demons of his own. They embark on a friendship that could mean salvation for both of them, but danger stalks Ayesha in London, too. With her life thrown into turmoil, she is forced to make a decision that could change her and everyone she loves forever. Exquisitely written, populated by unforgettable characters and rich with poignant, powerful themes, Someone Like Her is a story of love and family, of corruption and calamity, of courage and hope … and one woman's determination to thwart convention and find peace, at whatever cost… –––––––––––––––––––– `Khan brings passion and a clear eye to this compelling story of female defiance in the face of corruption and violence. If you're a fan of Khaled Hosseini … this is for you´ Paul Waters `A heart-rending and compelling story. Khan treats his characters with love and respect. I couldn't put it down´ Alice Clark-Platts `Breaks your heart but then gradually heals it´ Mira V Shah `A dark and frightening story of corruption, oppression, possession and violence yet is beautifully and sensitively written by a brave, bold author´ Michael Wood `Tackles deep-rooted societal issues with brutal yet touching honesty´ A.A. Chaudhuri `An excellent storyteller´ Soniah Kamal `An epic story of love, abuse and revenge … an emotional rollercoaster as Awais Khan confronts societal injustices with unflinching honesty´ Eve Smith `Khan lays bare the trauma of women, relegated to second-class citizenship in this compelling tale of brutality and bravery. First-class writing´ Marion Todd `Tender and powerful … his best yet´ Sonia Velton `Compelling, painful and defiant´ Elyse John `Arguably Khan's best work´ Pakistan Daily `Kept me turning the pages late into the night´ Aliya Ali-Afzal `A gripping and emotive story of ambition, resilience and love´ Heleen Kist `Insightful storytelling´ Faiqa Mansab `Both timely and timeless´ Saba Karim Khan

Leseprobe

Multan, Pakistan. A conservative city where an unmarried woman over the age of twenty-five is considered a curse by her family.

Ayesha is twenty-seven. Independent and happily single, she has evaded an arranged marriage because of her family’s reduced circumstances. When she catches the eye of powerful, wealthy Raza, it seems like the answer to her parents’ prayers. But Ayesha is in love with someone else, and when she refuses to give up on him, Raza resorts to unthinkable revenge…

Ayesha travels to London to rebuild her life and there she meets Kamil, an emotionally damaged man who has demons of his own. They embark on a friendship that could mean salvation for both of them, but danger stalks Ayesha in London, too. With her life thrown into turmoil, she is forced to make a decision that could change her and everyone she loves forever.

Exquisitely written, populated by unforgettable characters and rich with poignant, powerful themes, Someone Like Her is a story of love and family, of corruption and calamity, of courage and hope … and one woman’s determination to thwart convention and find peace, at whatever cost…

Someone Like Her

AWAIS KHAN

For my Nani,

Begum Mumtaz Tarin

‘People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.’

—Maya Angelou

‘There will come a time when you believe everything is finished; that will be the beginning.’

—Louis L’Amour

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaKamilAyeshaAcknowledgementsAbout the AuthorCopyright

Ayesha

Multan, Pakistan

The mud clung to her sandals as she ran through the rain, the dirty water splashing her cotton shalwar and staining it brown. But Ayesha carried on. Nothing mattered when it came to Insaaniyat – the charity where she worked – and today was supposed to be a big day. Her friend Saira had called her saying a very rich man was coming to the office today, which could translate into a very big cheque.

‘If word is to be believed, his cheque could change a lot of things here at Insaaniyat. It could pay our salaries for life, that’s for sure.’

The overcrowded city of Multan had done its best to delay her, but Ayesha was persistent. Had been since childhood, when she would force her father to drive her all the way to Lahore for swimming tournaments, to compete with the rich kids from the elite schools. Maybe if she had become a champion, their financial situation would have been better today, but sadly that was not to be.

Her family only had one car left now, so Ayesha either had to brave public transport or dish out money on one of those ride-hailing apps. Today was supposed to be dry outside, but the moment she had boarded the bus, rain began to patter on the windows. She couldn’t help but laugh at nature’s injustice. Street hawkers had rushed to cover their goods with plastic sheets, particularly the men selling chickpeas roasted in sand and salt – they couldn’t afford to let the sand get wet. The rain fell down in icy sheets, turning the concrete buildings a dark-grey colour, making Multan look even duller than usual. Maybe it was her mood, but it was as if the rain had leeched all the cheer from the city. She had endured the entire ride through the traffic-choked city, inhaling the noxious fumes and scolding herself for not taking an Uber. They had managed to retain the family house in Cantt – one of Multan’s poshest addresses – but it was quite a trek to get to the less savoury parts of town, and that’s exactly where the charity was headquartered.

Her stained shalwar was impossible to salvage at this point, but she adjusted her sopping-wet dupatta over her chest, ran her fingers through her wet hair, patting down any stray strands, and smiled as she entered the gates of her workplace, brushing her shoes against the mats placed on the brick floor. No matter how you feel inside, there must always be a smile on your face at work. She’d learned that from her father, who’d tried to do his best throughout his tumultuous career. And so far, his advice had worked. Her fellow workers and her boss loved her, as did the people who visited Insaaniyat.

Saira was popular for her hyperbole, but that didn’t mean that she spoke falsehoods. She only embellished the truth a bit. If she said it was a rich man, it was going to be a rich man. Charities in Pakistan were always in dire need of money, not because nobody donated – it was a Muslim’s duty to give, after all – but because there was so much to do. And this organisation, committed to eradicating domestic violence, had its plate well and truly full.

‘When a country has a population of over two hundred million, is it any surprise that nothing is ever enough?’ her boss, Shugufta Raheem, always said. ‘All we can do is our best and trust the government to do the rest.’

As if that will ever happen, Ayesha thought, looking at the whitewashed building ahead, some of the paint already peeling.  Shugufta kept the place clean, but Ayesha knew that she wouldn’t waste any precious money on vanity projects, not when there was so much else to do.

Her father had frowned when he first visited the offices of the charity. ‘Girls in our family do not work, beta,’ he had murmured, surveying the place with distaste. ‘What will people say – that Safdar Khan Khakwani is now incapable of looking after his daughter?’

‘They will say that our daughter is learning to be financially independent,’ her mother had quipped, steering her husband away from the offices and towards the courtyard, where they could sit beneath the shade of a towering shisham tree. So many trees had been chopped down in Multan in recent years, such specimens had become a rarity.

‘I can still provide for the family, Begum,’ Safdar Khan had said, puffing up his chest, an indignant expression on his face. ‘Never let it be said that a Multani man cannot look after his family.’

‘Nobody is saying that, Safdar Sahab, but we need to let the girl breathe, don’t we? God knows this city is claustrophobic enough.’

‘Ah, you’re right there.’ At that, Safdar Khan had visibly deflated, and thus Ayesha had been the first in the family to be given permission to work, much to the dismay of those family members who, over the years, had uttered scathing remarks about an unmarried Multani girl working in an office – without a headscarf, no less. Ayesha had ignored them, as had her parents. Multan was changing, and if these people were going to remain stuck in the past, then so be it.

Thankfully, the murky brown water on the roads hadn’t permeated the premises of the office yet, and seeing her wiping her feet before entering, Bashir, the security guard, beamed. ‘You’re one of the only people here who bothers to clean their shoes, Bibi. Thank you for making my work easier. I won’t have to mop the floor for the thousandth time.’

She smiled at him, fishing a five-hundred-rupee note from her wallet and handing it to him. ‘Here, use this to buy your kids some jalebis today.’ He had eight children, and a security guard’s salary didn’t leave much room for treats.

Bashir’s grin widened. ‘May God bless you, Bibi. May you marry the richest man in Multan.’

His words made her laugh. ‘Oh Bashir, pray that I become a rich woman all by myself. I don’t need a man for that.’

Her buoyant spirits dipped as soon as she entered the office. It was full of commotion at the best of times, but today it was as if lightning had struck the building. People were scrambling around carrying documents and there was a bunch of police officers standing outside Shugufta’s room.

That was never a good sign.

The police officers stared at her, as if she were somehow to blame for whatever had happened. It only occurred to her a moment later that they were probably looking at how the wet clothes clung to her body. Shuddering, she pushed into the room, where she was immediately met with the sound of heart-wrenching moans. She clapped her hand to her mouth. A young woman was lying on a stretcher with her entire face bandaged. Only her eyes were visible and they were filled with tears. Ayesha knew at once what this was. She’d seen it here before. Sadly, more than once. And it never got easier. She couldn’t imagine the pain the poor girl was in. Was it acid? A knife?

Shugufta too was in tears, as were the girl’s parents, who stood on either side of the stretcher.

‘For the last time, I want an immediate FIR to be registered against her husband,’ Shugufta cried. ‘This is my cousin, for God’s sake.’

‘Rabia,’ Ayesha whispered to herself. Of course. She had seen her in the office a few times in the past. It broke her heart to see her in this state.

‘A first information report is a serious step. And why couldn’t we have done this at the girl’s residence, where this allegedly happened? Or better yet, register the case at the station.’ The investigation officer sounded weary, as if he was doing them a massive favour by just being there.

The father stepped forward. ‘It’s because we married our daughter to her cousin, thinking that if she stayed in the family – in the same house – she would be safe.’ He shook his head, tears vanishing into his white beard. ‘But look what happened. Nowhere is safe for our girls in this country. We never dreamed that my nephew would turn out to be a monster. He carved up her face with a knife. I want him behind bars!’

The mother wept into her hands. ‘Haye, what will become of her now? Her entire life is ruined. Nobody in Multan will ever marry her again. Look at her face, Ji.’

‘She must have done something,’ the police offer remarked, a smirk on his face. ‘Men don’t just cut their wives’ faces like this for no reason. I’d like to hear the other side of the story.’

‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ one of the female police officers said, her face a mask of disgust. ‘Casting aspersions on people’s daughters like that. Remember you answer to God too, just like anyone else.’

The man shrugged. ‘I’m just saying that one should look at both sides. As police, that’s our role.’

‘You have a female boss, don’t forget. Would you like me to take this up with her? I’m sure she’d be interested to hear about the contempt you seem to have for women.’

The man blushed. ‘No need to tell her anything.’

His colleague strode forward. ‘This is a clear-cut case of domestic assault. Her husband deserves to be behind bars. We will take the victim’s statement here, and then I will guide you on what to do next.’ She flicked a hand in the officer’s direction. ‘Forget about him. People like him are a dime a dozen. No wonder our country is in this state.’

The male police officer scratched his head. ‘But why summon us here? They should register a case at the police station. And apart from that, we’ll need to visit the house where the crime actually took place and get the rest of the story.’

‘Shut up, Iftikhar. Do you expect them to register the case in front of the attacker and his family? One more word and I will call Amna Habib.’ Then turning to the family, she murmured, ‘That’s the deputy superintendent of police, who we both report to. One of you will need to visit the station, though. That is necessary.’

Ayesha rolled her eyes, marvelling at the man’s stupidity. Wasn’t it obvious that pressure from the attacker’s family had already prevented them from openly registering the case? The police in Pakistan could be so dense sometimes, although money generally helped them understand things better. At least the father hadn’t turned against his own daughter. She’d seen many cases where the family abandoned young women to their fate.

Shugufta reached for her purse before calling for everyone to leave the room. Spotting Ayesha, she marched over and pulled her out into the corridor.

‘Listen, I am so sorry— ’ Ayesha began, but Shugufta cut her off.

‘Thanks, but as you can see, I will be busy here for a while. She’s my cousin, after all. Bloody monsters! Both the husband and that kanjar of a policeman.’ She flicked a tear from her cheek. ‘I will need you to handle the donor coming in today.’

Ayesha stared at her and then at her own drenched clothes. She took a step back. ‘Shugufta, I can’t. This is your domain. I’ve never done anything like this before. I work in accounts and only sit in on the meetings. I never take part. And look at my clothes.’

‘You can, and you will. Just stand under a ceiling fan and the clothes will dry.’ Shugufta took her hand in hers and squeezed once. ‘I have full faith in you. His name is Raza Masood, and he will be coming with his lawyer. These rich types like to donate for the optics, so it should be pretty straightforward. Show him the office and the centre, and get that money out of him. We need it.’

‘May I at least take Saira along with me?’

Shugufta hesitated. ‘You know I love Saira, but she can be a bit flaky. Besides, she’s running an errand for me, so it has to be you. You’ve sat through dozens of meetings, Ayesha. If anyone can do it, it’s you.’

Ayesha gulped. Handling the charity’s accounts and accompanying Shugufta to meetings was one thing, but doing it all solo was something else entirely.

But then she remembered what her father had told her once: ‘You have the Khakwani family genes, Ayesha. We can do whatever we put our minds to.’ And then he had kissed her on the forehead. Imagining him doing the same now, Ayesha walked towards her small office at the end of the hall, the one she shared with Saira, mentally preparing herself for the meeting.

She had barely had time to dry herself before someone came in and touched her on the shoulder.

It was one of the junior staff. ‘Ayesha Madam, Raza Sahab’s cavalcade has arrived.’

A sense of panic engulfed her. The police were still here. That poor girl and her family were in Shugufta’s room. What would he think?

‘Already?’ She glanced at her ruined shalwar with regret before applying a fresh coat of lipstick and running a comb through her hair.

Sure enough, when she stepped outside, there was a gleaming Beemer parked in the courtyard, flanked by pickup trucks with armed guards dressed in black.

It was Raza’s lawyer who greeted her first, a short, balding man in a grey suit. If he was surprised when Ayesha shook his hand – something most females in Multan didn’t do – he didn’t show it. ‘A pleasure to meet you here,’ he said. ‘My name is Naeem Siddiqui and I represent the Masood family, who really need no introduction.’

She tried hard not to laugh, as the man proceeded to do just that, launching into a flowery account of all the Masood family had done for Multan. Midway through his monologue, she craned her neck, saying, ‘Has Raza Sahab not come here with you?’

Naeem blinked and turned around to see the empty space behind him, only a few of Raza’s guards visible in the trucks. ‘Oh, he was right here with me. I have no idea… ’

Raza’s overpowering cologne announced his presence well before he did. A mixture of musk and sandalwood, it made Ayesha’s eyes water. She turned around to see a tall man clad in a black shalwar kameez heading their way. So, that’s where the rest of the armed guards had gone, she thought; five of them walked behind Raza, their fingers on the triggers of their guns. She shivered. This was a charity. What were they thinking?

‘There he is,’ Naeem cried, clapping his hands together. ‘The Raza Masood.’

The Raza Masood wasn’t at all what she had expected. He was over six feet tall with hair gelled back and a dazzling, thousand-watt smile that seemed genuine, but didn’t quite reach his eyes. Those jet-black pupils smouldered as they surveyed Ayesha from head to toe. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but certainly not for him to be so handsome.

He came to a stop right in front of her, a bit too close for comfort. Extending a hand in her direction, he said, ‘It’s a pleasure, Miss… ’

‘Ayesha,’ she stammered, not trusting herself to say anything more for the moment, and she took his hand. It was rough and dry in her own damp palm, and she cursed herself for being so nervous. His smile grew more playful as he realised the effect he was having on her. She shook her head. What was wrong with her? Drawing herself up to her full height, she dropped his hand and said, ‘It is an honour to have you here, sir.’

‘Call me Raza. Everyone else does.’

‘They sure don’t. They call you Raza Sahab,’ Naeem piped up.

One glance in his direction and Naeem said no more.

Trying not to smile, Ayesha gestured at the office behind her. ‘Well, Raza, if you would allow me, I’d like to give you a tour of the office and our centre, where we take care of all kinds of victims of domestic abuse.’

‘Tsk. I do despise men who raise their hand to a woman,’ he said.

Admirable, she thought, smiling to herself, imagining how incensed her boyfriend, Saqib, would be if he knew the impression Raza was having on her. He wouldn’t need to worry, though; she loved him more than she thought possible.

Raza said nothing as she showed him the property, following her with his hands clasped behind his back. Ever the gentleman. His lawyer kept babbling about how much the family donated to the poor, but Raza didn’t say a word. Whether it was pride or humility, she didn’t know.

As they passed the centre building, Ayesha paused. ‘I cannot take you inside as we always respect the privacy of the victims, but I would like you to know that every year, our charity helps thousands of women in need of a place to stay after suffering abuse at home. But we don’t just provide shelter, we also provide legal support, and we have various people coming in to teach them the skills they need to survive alone.’

‘Survive?’

‘Get jobs, housing… ’

‘Impressive,’ Raza said, but he wasn’t looking at the centre building. His eyes bored into hers. ‘Very impressive.’

For the first time since he’d arrived, Ayesha felt a prick of unease, but she dismissed it. Raza Masood was a billionaire. What would he want with someone like her, whose father had ceased being rich many years ago?

‘Thank you for this splendid tour, madam. Raza Sahab would very much like to donate a sizable sum to this wonderful charity,’ Naeem Siddiqui gushed. ‘Of course, we would like this generosity on behalf of the Masood family to be covered in all the leading newspapers.’

Ayesha hoped her cringe wasn’t obvious. ‘Err, sure. Most people like to keep their donations anonymous, but if you want coverage, then I’m sure we can arrange something.’

‘Forget coverage,’ Raza said suddenly.

‘But, sir, why else are we— ’ Naeem began, but was silenced by a look.

‘I am happy to donate thirty million rupees to this charity.’

Ayesha’s mouth dropped open. ‘Thirty million? That’s a sizable sum. Thank you.’

‘However, I would like to learn a little more about everything you do here,’ Raza continued. ‘After all, I need to know I’m getting my money’s worth, don’t you think?’ His eyes met Ayesha’s, making her flinch. ‘Would coffee next week in the city be fine?’

She’d never met a donor outside of the office, and was about to say no, but then she pictured Shugufta’s face after seeing the much-needed thirty-million-rupee cheque; she saw her father’s chest swell with pride at her salary raise, the raise she so desperately needed. Lowering her gaze, she tried her best to smile. ‘Of course, sir. Happy to. Coffee sounds good.’

He flashed her another of his dazzling smiles. ‘I think I told you to call me Raza.’

A whisper is all it takes to condemn a woman for life.

These were words Ayesha had grown up hearing. Sometimes from her grandmother but more often than not, it was her mother who drilled them into her.

‘A woman’s life isn’t her own, Ayesha. Especially not in Pakistan,’ she’d say while lining her eyes with kohl in the mornings. One quick swipe around the eye was all she could manage, with the chores of the day looming over her. They had help, but her father insisted that nothing tasted as good as his wife’s cooking. It was touching, but only served to increase her poor mother’s workload.

Ishrat was one of those women who didn’t dare question their husbands, not in private, and certainly not in public. Sometimes Ayesha was surprised her mother didn’t have a permanent hunch from the way her head was always bowed in submission.

‘Ayesha!’ she called her now, her voice brimming with the impatience she reserved only for her daughter. ‘Why aren’t you ready yet? Neelam Khala will be so upset if we’re late. It’s her only daughter’s wedding.’

As if anything could upset Neelam Khala, Ayesha thought. All she did was meddle in other people’s affairs and try and trick their daughters into unhappy marriages. Ayesha had seen first-hand just how miserable most of these girls were as they sat in their expensive designer dresses and handmade clutches from Italy, but with faces that were vacant and forlorn. She’d seen them flinch at their husbands’ merest touch. Middle-aged aunties like Neelam Khala scouted girls of marriageable age like hawks stalking their prey. These weddings were a battlefield, and the losers were girls who were gullible enough to fall for all that pomp.

She had lost count of the number of times she had been thrust towards ‘eligible’ men herself, but Ayesha was having none of it. And in a way, she also felt sorry for some of the young men. Everything would be so awkward with them standing in a room full of people, trying to make small talk while everyone watched them. Thinking back to her meeting with Raza Masood the other day, she wondered if he had ever been subjected to this sort of embarrassing matchmaking. For some reason, she doubted it. Raza Masood seemed like a man who knew what he wanted from life, and how to get it.

Shugufta had all but kissed her after hearing how well the meeting had gone, but now Ayesha had to meet the guy for coffee. There was nothing to suggest that it was a date, but that gleam in his eye when he’d asked for the meeting put her on edge. But she only loved one person in her life, and he was the one she was going to marry.

Her stomach flipped as a message from Saqib arrived on her phone at that very moment. It was as if he’d read her mind.

Lovely morning today, my love. How about some coffee in Gulgasht? I miss you.

Ayesha blew a ringlet of hair out of her eyes, and thought of what to say. She’d known Saqib for many years, but it was only last year that she’d realised he was the one. They’d gone to school together, Saqib being a round boy who was relentlessly bullied, and had subsequently continued a platonic friendship. Then, sometime after they both turned twenty-five, things started to change. Saqib asked her out for coffee one day – only her – and sitting in that cosy place in Gulgasht, they’d realised how much they had in common. He was no longer the shy, embarrassed kid she knew from school, but a tall, striking man who’d just started working at a telecom firm. However, even now Saqib had a long way to go before he could match the exacting standards of Ayesha’s parents. They certainly weren’t rich anymore – hadn’t been for a long time – but Ayesha’s father, the great Safdar Khan Khakwani, had the same aura of arrogance and pretentiousness around him his forefathers had. And when people whispered about him behind his back, he either didn’t notice or pretended not to.

‘Oh Saqib,’ Ayesha whispered, ‘If only you were rich… ’

She typed a quick reply:

Off to a wedding today. Can’t meet up. Sorry!!! Love you xxx

Her screen lit up with Saqib’s face, but Ayesha rejected the call. She had no time to waste. Their ancient Toyota Crown had started already, judging by the smell of gasoline wafting into the house. If she wasn’t ready in five minutes, her father would kick up a storm.

When she eventually slid into the car, she was proven right.

‘The world doesn’t revolve around you, young lady,’ her father remarked as the car groaned into action. ‘Neelam is your mother’s sister, your khala. She’s not some stranger whose wedding you can prance into whenever it suits you. We’ve been waiting for almost an hour.’

‘Ji, let the poor girl breathe. We’re not that late. I’m sure the event hasn’t even started yet. And besides, she’s my sister. She’ll understand.’

‘I don’t remember asking for your opinion, Ishrat.’

Her mother’s shoulders sagged, and she said no more. Ayesha had lost count of the times her father had shut her down like this. It infuriated her, but according to her grandmother, Ishrat had it easy.

‘At least, he doesn’t beat her. Your grandfather beat me to within an inch of my life and expected me to prepare dinner for him the next minute. And I did. Like clockwork. Beatings, dinner, and then some more beatings. Your mother is lucky I raised such a good boy.’

Good boy, indeed.

He ranted on. ‘You have spoiled our daughter. With her lofty ideas and devil-may-care attitude, is it any wonder that she is still single at twenty-seven? I told you to get her married as soon as she graduated from high school, but no. When has anyone ever listened to me?’

‘Marriage is not the most important thing in this world, Abbu,’ Ayesha added, her face breaking into a smile.

‘I rest my case. Do you hear your daughter, Ishrat? She says marriage isn’t important. Oh, my poor naïve fool.’

Her mother turned back to stare daggers at her.

Her father banged his palm against the aging steering wheel in frustration. ‘She’ll be thirty soon, and in a city like Multan that is akin to turning sixty. Neelam’s daughter is only twenty-two and she’s getting married. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you two enjoy seeing me hang my head in shame.’

Her mother sighed. ‘Safdar Sahab, if you’d allow me to speak, I’d tell you that I’ve approached all the rishta walis and have spread word about Ayesha far and wide among family and friends. The matchmakers have all come back with the same comments. The issue is not her age, but your expectations. The kind of money you want our daughter to marry into just isn’t possible given our own financial situation.’

‘What financial situation are you yapping about, woman? I am the son of one of Multan’s richest feudal families. We used to piss money.’

‘Used to is right,’ Ishrat whispered. ‘They see us as we are now, not as we were.’

‘The family name counts for something, Ishrat. How can you be so dense? Besides, as Amma liked to say, our fortunes took a nosedive the day I married you.’

‘Yes, Ji, of course it’s my fault. Why don’t you blame me for giving birth to a daughter as well?’

As Ayesha expected, her father’s attitude changed at these words. ‘You know that’s not true, Ishrat. I’m sorry. It’s just that I want what’s best for our daughter. I can’t help it … I just worry.’

Her mother patted her husband on the shoulder. ‘I know, Safdar Sahab. I’m sorry too. I know how much you love us.’

‘So, can I expect your famous chicken biryani for dinner?’

‘When have I ever disappointed you? I left the chicken out to defrost before we left the house.’

And just like that, her parents had made a 180-degree turn. This was how all their arguments started – her father too stubborn to accept that he had drained the family of its money, her mother trying and failing to stand up to him, only for them to make up in the end. Ayesha averted her face and leaned back against the headrest. It was too early in the day for her to cry, and besides, her makeup would be ruined. If only she could tell her parents that she had already found the right man by herself, but she knew that it was still too early. She watched Multan go by as her parents whispered to each other. Dust rose from the asphalt as their car whipped through the narrow residential roads, finally turning into one of the main arteries of Multan Cantt.

Ayesha worried because Saqib didn’t have a fancy car or a big house in Cantt. He lived in a tiny ‘seven marla’ house – hardly big enough for two bedrooms and a lounge – somewhere in old Multan and only had a motorbike. His father had saved every rupee to make sure he went to Bahauddin Zakariya University, but he was nowhere near getting the plush job they needed him to. He was stuck in the marketing department of a telecom company that undervalued his skills. Ayesha knew without a shadow of a doubt that her father would sooner die than agree to marry her to Saqib. She was his last chance to become rich again, or at least to be associated with the rich, and he wasn’t about to squander that on someone like Saqib.

He’ll just have to, won’t he, said a small voice in her head. There really is nothing else for it.

She sighed as they left the leafy boulevards of Cantt behind and joined the throng of vehicles on Bosan Road, most of them heading into Central Multan. Despite it being February, they had lowered their windows to allow the cool breeze to blow over their faces. The car had been baking in the winter sun for ages and was still rather warm.

It was a good thing they weren’t all a sweaty mess by the time they arrived at the wedding, because Neelam Khala immediately found plenty of other things to criticise.

Rushing towards them, all three hundred pounds of her, the first thing she did was tut at Ayesha. ‘Baji, I told you to make her wear sleeveless or short sleeves at the very least. Multan isn’t as old-fashioned as you think. The cream of the crop is here. So many eligible bachelors, and you’ve got your daughter covered up like a spinster. There’s still time. Before you enter the event, I say we go into the bathroom and I call my tailor. I have him here for precisely such emergencies. He’ll remove the sleeves in a second.’

Safdar drew himself to his full height. ‘Well, excuse me if I don’t want to parade my daughter around naked, Neelam. I don’t see your daughter wearing a sleeveless dress.’

Neelam sniffed. ‘She’s not the one in need of a husband, Bhai Jaan.’

‘Neelam!’ Ishrat held a hand to her chest. ‘What is wrong with you?’

Ayesha watched her father walk on with his head held high, but she knew he was smarting from the impertinence. Twenty years ago, someone like Neelam would have thought twice before taking that tone with him. She saw him sag when he thought nobody was looking, sinking into an unoccupied sofa. Nobody would deign to join him. He was a has-been and he knew it, and she felt sorry for him then.

She blinked the tears away before turning to Neelam. ‘Why, Khala, do share the number of Sabeena’s dentist. Look at how he’s fixed those horse teeth.’

Neelam glared at her. ‘With that attitude, my dear, good luck getting a suitable husband.’

‘Who said I needed a husband?’

Neelam raised an eyebrow. ‘Why, Baji. Have you taught your daughter no manners at all? Didn’t you hear what happened to poor Shaila’s daughter?’

Ayesha had never known two sisters to be so different. Neelam Khala had hated Ayesha since the day she had accidentally tripped up her daughter, Sabeena, on a mountain path with jagged stones. Sabeena had needed dozens of stitches on her cheek, which had left an ugly scar. Ayesha had only been ten, and she’d tripped up when Sabeena had, but her aunt was one to keep grudges for decades.

Ishrat took a deep breath. ‘Rabia? The girl who was married to the professor? What about her?’

Neelam looked back at the guests teeming around the stage, but Ayesha knew that her aunt wouldn’t be able to resist telling them the gossip. She adjusted the decorative tikka on her forehead before recounting the unfortunate incident. Of course, Ayesha had already seen Rabia at work just the other day, all wrapped up in bandages, her father begging the police to register a case, but she hadn’t told her parents about it. What was the point of worrying them? She wasn’t surprised when her mother clapped a hand to her mouth.

‘He used a knife on her face? Her own husband?’

Neelam nodded. ‘Of course! Who else would do it? Apparently, the little slut was having an affair on the side. Can you imagine? The good girls of Multan gone bad … The West has infiltrated our little city as well. Hardly any of the younger girls cover their heads anymore.’

‘Sabeena doesn’t wear a chaddar either, Khala.’

‘The rules are different for the rich, Ayesha. Keep up with the world, for once in your life.’

‘Maybe Rabia was unhappy,’ Ayesha offered. ‘I wouldn’t blame her given how many girls are married to complete strangers with no say in the matter. I actually saw Rabia the other day at work. I’ll tell you something, nobody deserves to have their face slashed with a knife. Nobody.’

Her mother turned to her. ‘You never told me.’

Before Ayesha could reply, Neelam gripped her arm, hard – enough to leave a bruise. ‘Listen to me, girl, these statements might look good on social media, but don’t forget the city you live in, the country you live in. A few more years and you’ll be overage. Nobody wants a girl over thirty here. And people might wonder why you’re supporting a girl who has been spreading her legs for God knows how many men.’

‘Neelam, don’t forget this is your niece.’ There was a warning in her mother’s voice, which Neelam clocked. She let go of Ayesha’s arm.

‘I tell you, Baji, we are living in dark times. This is precisely why it has become so important to find good, respectable matches for our daughters. Who knows what might happen. Ayesha isn’t getting any younger. You ought to find her a good husband or all she’ll be left with are the rotten ones, and we certainly don’t want her to fall prey to such an attack. Look at that smooth flawless skin. My dear niece.’

All Ayesha could do was gape at her. The nerve of the woman. She found it hard to believe that they were actually related. She watched in horror as Neelam abandoned her trembling sister and went skipping back to meet the other guests. Like it was all nothing.

Ayesha gripped her mother’s elbow and steered her towards where her father sat alone, lost in a world of his own. She looked straight ahead so she wouldn’t have to acknowledge their other relatives. ‘Don’t look at them, Ammi,’ she whispered to her mother.

Her mother wrapped her sari’s pallu around her shoulders. ‘They’ll all be wondering about our financial situation, and why our daughter is still single.’ She pulled herself up and added, ‘Of course, beta, I don’t mean in any way that it’s your fault. It’s just… ’

Ayesha squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘I know, Ammi. I know.’

Sure enough, as they made their way to her father, the whispers followed them. Her mother nodded politely at the elderly ladies, but they only narrowed their eyes at them, muttering to each other all the while.

‘Her mother-in-law bought her that sari decades ago,’ one of them said. ‘Very expensive, but so outdated now. Of course, these days they call it vintage.’

‘It’s obvious that money is still hard to come by, poor things.’

‘Look at the daughter. Bold as brass. As if being unmarried at her age is something to be proud of. Is that grey hair on her head?’

‘Haye, bechari. Ye toh kunwari reh gayi.’ – She’ll be a spinster for life.

Ayesha blinked back the traitorous tears that sprung in her eyes. She had to be strong, not just for her parents, but for herself. For Saqib.

Her mother collapsed on the sofa when they finally reached it. ‘I don’t think I can do these weddings anymore, Ji. It’s become unbearable.’

Safdar sat chewing at a cuticle. ‘It’s your damned sister who’s unbearable. Kanjari.’

‘It isn’t her fault that our society is like this. She wasn’t this crass when we were young, I swear. She used to be such a nice girl.’

‘If it weren’t for her connections, I’d have given her a piece of my mind. Who does she think she is?’

‘Her husband is minting money with the provincial government in Lahore.’

‘Bullshit! Last I heard, he was polishing shoes on Bosan Road.’

‘That was decades ago and he had a shoe polish factory, Ji. Not the same thing.’

‘Whatever.’

The fact that they were arguing again was healthy, because Ayesha knew that they would soon be leaning on each other for support, everything forgiven. She left them to it and walked towards the centre of activity. The fragrance of the thousands of flowers decorating the stage was overpowering. Her cousin, Sabeena, sat in a traditional red bridal dress and clunky gold jewellery, and despite how unpleasant her mother, Neelam, had just been to her, Ayesha felt a surge of love. Everyone deserved to be happy in life. She imagined how she would feel when she married Saqib. If there was one thing she knew, it was that she wouldn’t be wearing that ghastly red. She hated tradition. No, it would be a peach-coloured dress for her with fake diamond costume jewellery. Even in her wildest fantasies, she knew her parents would never be able to afford real diamonds.

Not in this lifetime.

Sabeena caught her eye and waved her over to the stage. Up close, she looked even more stunning. Ayesha could see that the salon had done a good job. Sabeena’s face hadn’t been painted white to reflect the society’s obsession with white skin; she just looked like herself. A more made-up version, but essentially herself. Even the scar on her cheek had been concealed to a great extent. Ayesha made a mental note to ask which salon had done it, before realising that her parents would never be able to afford that either.

‘Ayesha, you came. It’s so nice to see you after such a long time.’ Sabeena’s hand was cold in hers, but Ayesha could see that her cousin was happy, happier than she’d ever seen her. She nodded at Sabeena’s husband, who looked handsome enough if it wasn’t for the bulbous pimple on his forehead that he’d clumsily tried to hide with some concealer. The overall effect was quite comical.

‘Iqbal’s father owns the largest chemical factory in the city. We’re thinking of moving to Lahore, aren’t we, Iqbal? There’s enough money to go around and Lahore is … well, Lahore. The city of dreams.’

Iqbal grinned and threw his arm around Sabeena’s shoulders. ‘Anything for you, my love. I’ll buy you a house in Defence. What do you say to that? You’ll live in the best housing society in Lahore.’ His gaze slid over Ayesha, drinking her in. ‘I have to say, it seems like beauty runs in the family.’

Someone coughed behind her, and Ayesha almost sagged with relief. This was her chance to escape the scrutiny of Iqbal and his male friends who surrounded the stage. Although Multan had made a lot of progress over the decades, with some women finally being able to roam freely without heavy chaddars covering them from head to toe, there was still some way to go, especially in terms of how men looked at women. Even so, for a man to leer at other women on his wedding day…

‘Aren’t you going to introduce us to your cousin, Sabeena Bhabhi?’ a deep male voice asked from behind. It sounded vaguely familiar.

Ayesha looked around and caught a blast of heavy men’s cologne. Through the haze, she caught sight of a familiar, bearded face and dark eyes staring at her. His black hair was gelled back, which brought out the black of his eyes even further.

Of course Raza Masood would be here, she thought to herself. She gave him a small smile, which he acknowledged with a playful one of his own.

Sabeena’s hand was still clasped in hers. ‘This is Raza Masood,’ she said when Ayesha was finally able to break free from that steely gaze. ‘His family owns half the agricultural lands around Multan. Plus, they’re the textile lords of this city.’

Ayesha raised her eyebrows. ‘That’s basically the story of every person from Multan. Feudal lords, the lot of them. However, some of them can be very kind too.’

Raza smirked. ‘Ooo, I like that. Finally, someone who isn’t enamoured by my obscene wealth. It’s nice to see you again, ma’am.’

‘I thought we were on first-name terms.’

That elicited a laugh from him. ‘I was hoping you would say that.’

Sabeena’s jaw dropped open. ‘You two know each other?’

Ayesha nodded. ‘Only through work. The Masood family’s philanthropy is well known.’

‘I see.’

Her cousin seemed to have forgotten that it was her own wedding. Ayesha could see the jealousy clouding her face. It made her want to laugh, it was so misplaced.

Raza extended a hand towards Ayesha. ‘May I tempt you with a dance, though? The DJ has chosen a particularly peppy number.’

Ayesha recoiled. Her family would have a fit if they saw her dancing with a stranger. Besides, she was very much in love with Saqib. Raza might be kind, but she had no interest in becoming the subject of gossip. ‘No, thank you. I think I’m okay.’

The smile on Raza’s face slipped, and Ayesha caught a hint of annoyance cross it before he hitched the smile back up.

‘No matter. Plenty of fish in this pond.’ It was obvious that he wasn’t used to being refused.

She had to think quickly. ‘But of course, I look forward to our meeting this week.’

He gave her a curt bow. ‘Of course.’

Sabeena gave her a nudge. ‘You don’t refuse Raza Masood, for crying out loud,’ she whispered. ‘Are you nuts, Ayesha? He doesn’t ask just about anyone for a dance. This is the kind of chance every girl in Multan dreams of. God knows I did,’ she added. ‘Snag him if you can. Your parents will thank you for it. We will all thank you for it.’

Ayesha knew that her cousin didn’t mean to cause offence, but her skin still prickled from her words. Why did everything begin and end with money? So what if Raza had all the money in the world? Her father once had a lot of money. It had done him no good at all, only filling his head with lofty ideas and ultimately preventing him from finding gainful employment. They wouldn’t be in the state they were if it hadn’t been for all that wealth. She knew she was being uncharitable towards her father, but she couldn’t help it.

And what gave Sabeena the right to force her unsolicited advice on her? Her mind wandered to Saqib with his cute little Vespa and those honest grey eyes, and Raza’s leering grin looked even worse in comparison. Not that there was anything wrong with being rich, but she couldn’t change who she loved.

She pushed through the crowd, heading for the relative safety of her parents, when she felt someone brush their fingers with hers. It was a man’s hand.

‘A dance might have been too forward, but I would really like for you to meet my mother,’ Raza murmured, his cologne overwhelming her, now that he was so close again. ‘I’ve told her a lot about you.’

Before Ayesha even had a chance to think, he’d taken her hand and walked her to the front row of seats, where the richest and most influential people were stationed.

She pulled her hand away from his, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. Who was she fooling? The eyes of every single person in the front row were on her. She wanted nothing more than to turn around and make a run for it, but seeing an elegantly dressed woman get up from her seat and walk towards her, she had no choice but to stay put.

‘Mama, this is Ayesha Safdar Khakwani, the girl I was telling you about.’ Gesturing in his mother’s direction, Raza continued, ‘Ayesha, please meet my mother, Begum Rabbiya Masood.’

Rabbiya Masood’s eyes took her in, a strange expression on her face, as if she was trying not to laugh. For a moment, Ayesha was conscious of her hand-me-down clothes and local brand shoes, but then she put out her chin and said the customary greeting.

Rabbiya’s expression didn’t change, but she quietly returned her greeting before turning to her son. ‘So this is the girl you met at the charity? Charming.’ Moving closer, she ran a finger down the sleeve of Ayesha’s dress. ‘Is this dress from the famous Karachi-based designer? The attention to detail is incredible.’

Ayesha drew herself up. ‘Actually, it’s a knock-off my mother got from Anarkali Bazar the last time we visited Lahore.’

Rabbiya raised her eyebrows. ‘I see. Well, at least, you’re not a liar.’

Oblivious to the hidden connotations of the conversation, Raza said, ‘We’re meeting for coffee later this week to discuss the particulars of the donation our family will be making.’

Compelled to echo his thoughts, Ayesha added, ‘It is a very kind gesture from your family. It will change many lives.’

Rabbiya arched a neatly plucked eyebrow and tilted her head to one side, her enormous diamond earrings dangling. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you the daughter of Safdar Khan Khakwani?’

‘I am,’ Ayesha replied, instantly wary. ‘Do you know him?’

Rabbiya’s lips twitched. ‘No, my dear, I don’t know him or your mother, but I’ve heard of them. Everyone in Multan has.’ She reached out and squeezed Ayesha’s hand. ‘In a good way, I assure you. Nobody brings up your – ah – current circumstances.’

The insult wasn’t lost on Ayesha. ‘Of course,’ she replied, the blood rushing to her face. It was a testament to how much she loved her job and Shugufta that she didn’t snap at Rabbiya Masood. ‘It was lovely meeting you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to return to my parents.’

‘Would you like to meet them too, Mama?’ Raza asked, to which Rabbiya shook her head.

‘Not today. I’m afraid I need to get back to my friends, who I’ve kept waiting long enough, but have a nice coffee later in the week. I dare say I’ll hear all about it from you.’

‘Come on, Mama. Don’t be a nuisance. Meet them.’ His eyes flashed. ‘Please?’

‘Enough, Raza. I told you not today. Stop this.’

A look passed between mother and son, but Ayesha wasn’t going to stand there being insulted. She turned on her heel and walked away without saying goodbye, hurrying back to her parents, but not before she saw an entire contingent of aunties staring in her direction, whispering to each other.

‘Looks like someone caused quite a stir at the wedding,’ Saqib remarked over the phone later that night after Ayesha had told him almost everything, only leaving out the part about how handsome Raza Masood was. Saqib was insecure at the best of times. She sat in bed, painting her nails, the cell phone balanced precariously between her ear and knee. ‘I’m not surprised,’ Saqib continued. ‘It’s simply not possible not to rise to the occasion when you’re around.’

‘How disgusting, Saqib.’ Ayesha pretended to be offended, but deep down she was pleased. The bastard knew exactly what to say. ‘You know full well I am not interested in anyone else.’

‘So, you are interested in me, then? Sometimes I’m not sure how a simple man like myself scored such a prize.’

‘I’m hardly a prize. Maybe thirty years ago when my father was a rich man.’

Saqib snorted. ‘You weren’t even born then.’

‘Trust me to miss the good times. You ought to make it official before someone else does, though, what with the way Raza was eyeing me.’ She was only half joking. Raza Masood’s attentions had made her uncomfortable.

‘I’d bring my father over tomorrow if you allowed it. Just say the word.’

Ayesha hesitated. As much as she would like to make it official, Ayesha knew that her father wouldn’t agree. Not yet. Either Saqib had to rise higher in the world or her father had to fall a little lower for there to be any chance. She was ashamed of herself for thinking this, but if Safdar Khan had taught her anything, it was to be pragmatic.

Saqib took a deep breath, usually an indication that he was about to make a declaration of love. Ayesha screwed the lid on the nail polish tight, anticipating those glorious words, but a knock on the door threw her off. Somehow, she knew what this was about. Her mother’s head poked inside.

‘Are you up?’

Ayesha sighed. ‘I am now.’ She ended the call without saying good bye. Saqib would understand, and if he didn’t she’d make it up to him over WhatsApp. She didn’t even need to ask her mother the reason for this midnight visit. The journey home from Sabeena’s wedding had been uncharacteristically silent, as if her parents were digesting what had transpired. And Ayesha was sure Neelam Khala had made things worse for her.

Her mother sat down on the foot of the bed, fussing with the sheets. ‘Why is it that your room is always messy, Ayesha? What will your in-laws say when you’re finally married?’

‘You do realise that this is the twenty-first century, don’t you? I couldn’t care less what my in-laws think of my room. They wouldn’t be allowed inside.’

Ordinarily, she would be chastised for uttering such words, but today there was a twinkle in her mother’s eyes and the hint of a smile, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she was about to say.

Ayesha’s stomach fell. ‘What is it? Did Neelam Khala say something?’

‘How well do you know Raza Masood?’

Ayesha stared at her. ‘I don’t know him at all. I just met him at work the other day. He’s making a very sizeable donation.’

‘He was at the wedding too, and word is that you also met his mother, Rabbiya.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s— ’

‘Watch your language, Ayesha. One would think you were brought up in a brothel and not a respectable Multani household.’

Ayesha tucked her hands beneath her legs so her mother wouldn’t see them shaking. She did not like where this conversation was going. ‘I don’t know him at all, Ammi,’ she whispered, her bravado gone. ‘He simply introduced me to his mother. Why do you ask?’

Her mother tucked a stray lock of hair into her lilac dupatta. ‘Boys don’t just introduce girls to their mothers for no reason. Neelam says that you two were inseparable at the wedding.’

Ayesha exhaled in exasperation. She’d been right. It was the same old nonsense from Neelam Khala. ‘It was nothing, Ammi. I barely exchanged two words with him, and his mother was insufferable. She couldn’t stop judging me.’

‘Sabeena has told Neelam that he couldn’t take his eyes off you.’

‘Well, that’s his problem, isn’t it?’

‘Your father thinks we should try and take this further.’

All of a sudden, it didn’t sound like nonsense anymore. Ayesha could feel her heart rate picking up. ‘What for? So he can drive a Mercedes again?’

‘Ayesha! He’s your father.’

‘You know full well who I want to spend my life with,’ Ayesha said, tears gathering in her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but instead they slid down her cheeks. She did not want her mother to see her cry.

‘Oh, Ayesha. You’re not harbouring dreams of marrying that boy from college, are you?’ her mother replied, ignoring her tears. ‘That was a college romance. Nothing else.’ She leaned forward, taking hold of Ayesha’s arm, squeezing hard. ‘You haven’t done anything foolish with the boy, have you? You’re still a … a… ’

Ayesha lowered her head. She couldn’t meet her mother’s eye. ‘No, Ammi. I am not a virgin anymore.’

Her mother clapped her hands over her mouth. ‘Haye! How could you do this to us, Ayesha!’ she said, horror writ plainly on her face. But then straightaway she enveloped her daughter in a giant hug. ‘Bas bas. We must never speak of this again. To all intents and purposes, you’re untouched. Do not mention this to your father. Ever.’

‘Won’t he understand?’ Ayesha’s voice came out muffled.

‘Of course he won’t. He’s more understanding than most, but he’s still a man. You’ve dishonoured the family name. Never before has any girl from our family done this.’

She wanted to ask her mother if she’d been checking between everyone’s legs to see if they were virgins, but she pursed her mouth and pulled away from the hug. ‘There’s nothing dishonourable about love,’ she said instead. ‘And why does nobody question boys when they do the same thing?’

Blood rushed to her mother’s face. ‘Because it’s a man’s world, Ayesha. Uff, I just don’t understand this infatuation with the idea of love girls have today. In our time, husbands were chosen for us, and we had to make do. I just pray your father never finds out about this. Naturally, he’ll blame me.’

Ayesha sighed. ‘Give him some credit, Ammi. He isn’t that bad.’

Her mother seemed to have lapsed into her own world. ‘The only thing to be done is for you to sprinkle a few drops of hot sauce or something in bed after the first night. That should do the trick. I’ll need to make sure to keep some on hand. That way they might not suspect anything. My God, what a travesty. My daughter is not pure.’ She looked up. ‘What will I tell Neelam now?’

‘What does Neelam have to do with all of this?’

‘It’s Neelam Khala who’s arranging for you to meet with Raza.’

It was just like Neelam Khala to take the credit for everything.

‘Not that it matters, but I’m already meeting him for coffee.’ Seeing the hope in her mother’s eyes, she added, ‘But don’t get your hopes up, Ammi. It’s a work meeting, and you cannot force me to fall in love with a rich guy.’

Kamil

London, United Kingdom

Kamil had come to love the noise in the restaurant. It was familiar, and it helped to drown his more disturbing thoughts. Blinking once to clear his head, he focused on the plate in front of him. The chicken was grilled to perfection, but today it tasted like sandpaper in his mouth.

‘The chicken’s pretty good,’ he remarked, attempting to break the ice, but Madiha was quiet. Kamil’s heart skipped a beat. Madiha’s silence could only mean that an argument was in the offing. She had been subdued for weeks, taking days to reply to his texts, or in some cases, not replying at all. If he didn’t know any better, he’d have thought she was sick of him. ‘I am glad I got the rice this time and not the broccoli,’ he offered again.

Madiha rolled her eyes, pushing her chips around the plate with a fork. Kamil would have liked to help himself to some of those chips, but he dared not. She’d no doubt explode, and he didn’t want to create a scene in his precious Nando’s.

‘Food is all you care about,’ Madiha finally said, lifting her eyes from her plate. ‘You have no sense of responsibility, Kamil. We’ve been going out for three years and all you can say to me is that you’re glad you ordered rice and not broccoli? Really? Really? Do I look like I give a damn about the rice?’

He knew now why the chicken tasted like sandpaper. He gulped down some Diet Coke and attempted to make his expression friendly. ‘It’s precisely because we’ve been going out for three years that we understand each other enough to say such things.’ He covered Madiha’s small hand with his large paw. ‘What’s brought this on? Is this why you’ve been avoiding me?’

She put her cutlery down, abandoning all pretence of eating. ‘I feel like I don’t know you, Kamil. All these years and you still seem to keep me at arm’s length. I don’t know you.’ She spoke the last few words too loudly for comfort.

Kamil looked around, but it was too noisy for anyone to hear, or indeed, care.

‘Maybe you have trust issues,’ she continued. ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with you. For someone born and raised in London, you are such a Pakistani sometimes.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Exactly what you think it means,’ Madiha shot back. ‘You’re a typical Pakistani man who believes in keeping his feelings to himself and not showing any love to someone he’s been seeing for years.’

‘That could apply to a lot of guys, Madiha. Not just Pakistanis.’

‘That is not the point!’ Madiha hissed the last word.