I replied. ‘Must be.’
What I wanted was squeezy cheese and mashed prawns on my four slices of toast but I couldn’t let him see me do that. I grabbed an apple and sliced it into pieces, along with some tangerines and a banana.
‘Fruit?’ I offered.
‘Yes. Please. Thanks.’
I handed him the plate of chopped fruit and made myself another one, thinking of the cheese I couldn’t eat. As I took the plate and made my way out of the kitchen, he said: ‘Sit with me, Fatima.’
No-one ever calls me Fatima like that. It’s always Fatti, Fatti, Fatti. As if even my name lives up to the expectation of who I am. I took a seat opposite him and looked at my plate, feeling my face flush again. He’s meant to marry Bubblee. Even if she won’t marry him. It doesn’t matter. He’ll never look at you after having looked at her, anyway.
‘You’re very shy for the eldest,’ he said.
I shrugged. ‘I don’t have much to say.’
‘That can’t be true,’ he said, putting a slice of apple in his mouth, munching so loudly it filled the room.
‘Did you sleep okay?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Thank you.’
When I looked up he was staring at me. Our eyes met and he didn’t look away, just smiled. I peeled off the white veins of the tangerine.
He seemed to laugh at something.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Nothing, it’s just that … well, you have your kala’s hands. My amma’s hands.’
He observed my hands carefully.
‘They’re beautiful,’ he said.
That much I knew was true, or I wouldn’t be modelling them – long, slender fingers, petite and soft, finely shaped nails that never really need to be filed. It’s the only attractive thing about me.
‘Oh. Thanks.’
‘Tell me about yourself, Fatima.’
The house felt so quiet we could’ve been the only two people there. Is this what being with someone would be like? You’d wake up in the morning and just talk casually about anything; this little space made of you and them, like a secret society of privileged members. For a moment I pretended that we were married and that it was just another day in our lives – the happiness seemed to swell inside me, until I realised that it wasn’t real and that I was even more pathetic than I thought.
‘Nothing to tell,’ I said.
‘What do you do? What do you like?’ He paused. ‘Have you had many marriage proposals?’
Many? The banana pieces were already getting black, the juice from the tangerine touching the sliced apples.
‘I er … no. I’m learning how to drive.’
He leaned forward, putting his plate to one side. ‘And?’
‘Well, once I pass, you see, I’ll be able to get around and maybe get a proper job. Right now, I just help around the house.’ I put out my hand. ‘I make money modelling my hands in a magazine.’
‘Good. I’m not surprised,’ he said, looking at my hands again. ‘Why haven’t Kala and Mama found you a husband yet? You’re the eldest – you should be married now.’
Imagine if he’d said that to Bubblee – she’d have thrown her plate at him. But it was nice being asked, because it was as if it was possible that someone like me could be married. In his eyes, it wasn’t only possible, but actually weird that I wasn’t married.
‘Maybe. One day,’ I replied.
‘Someday soon, inshallah,’ he replied. ‘There should be no maybe. Of course you’ll get married.’
It was nice to have someone believe that would happen for me, even if it was just to make me feel better.
‘And how’s your brother,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘Jahangeer? He hasn’t come home for Mustafa?’
We heard something drop and looked outside into the passage.
‘Oops,’ said Mae, bending down to get her phone.
‘Mae, if you were recording without us knowing …’ I began.
‘I wasn’t, I wasn’t,’ she exclaimed.
Her eyes rested on my plate of fruit.
‘Amazing, Fatti. Well done. Better than those hundred slices of toast you eat when you think none of us are looking. All right, Mal-meister?’ she added, opening the fridge and getting some kind of smoothie concoction out.
‘Mal-meister Baia to you,’ he replied, his back turned to her as he winked at me.
‘Ooh, yeah, of course,’ she said, making stupid hugging gestures while he couldn’t see. ‘Doesn’t Fatti have to call you Baia out of respect too? I mean, if you’re my brother then you must be hers too, right?’
I could’ve killed her, laughing like that, without him seeing, while I could do nothing but look and listen. She took a sip of her smoothie.
‘Ugh!’ she exclaimed, spitting out its contents and looking at the bottle and wiping her mouth. ‘Gross. Dad’s at it again, isn’t he? He made me this weird smoothie days ago and it tasted like he’d put a spoonful of sewage in it.’
She tipped it out into the sink and threw the bottle in the recycling bin.
‘You’re almost half her age. She deserves your respect,’ said Malik.
‘And she gets it, don’t you, Fats?’ she said, messing up my hair while she walked past.
I tried to hit her on the leg but she just about escaped out of the kitchen. He must think everyone walks all over me. I just shook my head and pretended to laugh. ‘Kids,’ I said.
He leaned forward and put his hand on mine. I was so taken aback, I couldn’t move. What was he doing? Why was he touching me? No-one’s ever held my hand before. All that fruit was churning in my stomach, and it wasn’t sitting very well.
‘She’s right, though, Fatima. You must know …’
We heard footsteps come down the stairs just then. Mae must’ve woken everyone up, as Mum walked in and Malik took his hand away from mine.
‘Oh, Malik, you must let me make you a proper breakfast. This is no good.’
He gave her this weird look. ‘No. Thank you.’
She insisted but he kept saying no and I did think, just let her make you some chapatti and lentil stew. Mum hesitated a little and then
