Aside from that, this little flat wasn’t theirs. She missed the open spaces of their five-bedroom semi-detached place. Farah liked having a guest room in case one of her sisters wanted to spend the night, or they had family or friends visiting. She took comfort from the idea that there was another room that would make the perfect nursery… but she had to let go of that dream anyway. Looking around the small living room, the light wood laminate flooring, wallpaper they couldn’t afford to change and paint instead – apart from her parents, who had wallpaper now anyway? – she took a deep breath, closed her eyes and opened them again. Still, there were things to be grateful for – being alive was one of them.
When Mustafa returned an hour later he came into the kitchen. She pretended not to notice him as she made a start on the sandwiches.
‘You can feel summer coming to an end,’ he said.
She ignored him.
‘Can I help?’ he asked.
She got the butter out of the fridge and slammed the door shut, pointedly, looking at him.
‘What do you think?’
His face fell. The way he looked at her always reminded her of Jay and it managed to soften her heart.
‘You’d just slow me down, anyway,’ she added.
He smiled and looked at the ground, nodding. This time his chosen mood was martyrdom: the long-suffering husband of a wife who he couldn’t seem to please, even when he tried. He left the room without another word.
Farah listened to him going into the bathroom to take a shower. She heard his footsteps come out and go into their room. He stayed in there for two hours. Farah walked towards the bottom of the stairs and paused, caught between fury and guilt. Fury won. Mango juice! Of all the things in the world that he could get angry about. The sheer audacity of it! Here they were, living in this one-bedroom flat because of his inability to manage money. Because he decided to squander it on some half-baked scheme, cooked up by Jay, and all he cared about was the contents of the fridge.
Farah went back into the kitchen and finished making the sandwiches. After she’d scrubbed down the kitchen tops she squinted and knelt down to take a closer look behind the standing lamp. Her intuition for cleanliness had become quite remarkable.
‘Sandwiches ready, or are they hiding behind our lamp?’ Mustafa’s voice came, soft and sheepish.
She frowned when she looked up at him. Farah noticed his smile falter and tried to rearrange her features.
‘It’d be a miracle to hide anything in this place,’ she replied.
He cleared his throat as he looked over at the platters in the kitchen. She began wiping the floor as she heard her husband’s body shuffling around.
‘Come on, no one cares about some dust in the corner,’ he said. ‘You can’t even see it.’
‘I can see it,’ she replied without looking up.
There was a pause.
‘Maybe you need the opposite of glasses?’ he suggested.
She sat back and looked up at him. What was the point? He was trying – he always did. All this anger just exhausted her, and she was bored of being tired and frustrated – all of the negative feelings, which seemed to wash over her on a daily basis.
‘Something to blur my vision?’ she asked.
Mustafa took a second.
‘Exactly.’
Joking was good. Joking is what Farah’s sister, Mae, did all the time and her life seemed to be a lot less complicated. Except Farah had read that it wasn’t good to compare your life to another’s – she wondered if the same was true if all you wanted was to emulate them.
‘At least then I wouldn’t have to see everything – you know, just let some things go,’ she added.
It all felt too loaded. She needed to master the art of saying things with lightness – her words should be like froth, not lead.
‘Are you ready?’ she asked.
‘Yeah. I’ll put those in the car,’ he said, indicating towards the trays.
He walked over as Farah got up and brushed down her skirt. She watched his now bulkier frame as he made sure the cling film covered the sandwiches. Despite the weight, there was still something commanding about his figure. The new beard suited him, though he’d let his hair grow longer than she liked. Mustafa looked at the two trays as if confused about how to take them to the car. He put one on top of the other and Farah stopped herself from shouting out that he’d squash the ones at the bottom.
‘I’ll take that one,’ she said, rushing towards him. ‘Thanks,’ she said, as he handed the top tray over to her. ‘I can’t believe Mae’s finally going to university.’
‘She used to be such a cute kid,’ he said.
Farah bristled. What did he mean used to?
‘We all need to grow up one day,’ she replied.
She and Mustafa stood opposite each other, trays in hands. Farah remembered, as Mae got older and went to school, learned new things, that Mustafa being their first cousin from their mum’s side was not normal for non-Bengalis. Farah recalled the face she’d make as if she were about to throw up. Even now, years later, Mae would sometimes comment on how Farah was cousins with Mustafa one minute and then sleeping with him the next. It was usually accompanied by a shudder. The whole thing seemed to perplex her completely. It was a different generation, thought Farah. Things which seemed so normal in their culture had changed so much within the space of a decade.
‘Yeah,’ said Mustafa, bringing Farah back to the present day. ‘I’m just saying.’
He was always just saying, not thinking about his words – about the effect they could have on the people around him; namely Farah.
Mustafa added with a smile: ‘And at least she’s not like…’ He paused and seemed to think better of finishing his sentence.
‘Like?’ Farah asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Like?’
‘Bubblee.’ He raised his eyebrows, knowingly, as if this was an inside joke of theirs.
But Farah knew what his jokes really were. They were grievances from before the accident, which he’d remained quiet about, but which somehow now came to the surface.
‘I mean,’ he added, ‘at least Mae likes me.’
Farah avoided his gaze. Even she couldn’t lie about how Bubblee, her twin sister, felt about him. He was on medication, he wasn’t stupid.
‘I don’t know who’s going to keep Mum and Dad company when Mae’s gone,’ she said.
‘Right.’
‘Dad’s going to miss her so much.’
Mustafa gave her a sad look – as if he wished she’d contradicted him, told him that was nonsense and that of course Bubblee liked him.
‘They’ll be fine.’ He smiled. ‘We’re here, aren’t we? And anyway, look at it this way, she’ll be making trouble elsewhere.’
Here was the problem: Farah thought she had forgiven him for his mistake, for the way in which he’d changed their lives. Being able to feel his arms around her again, it had been impossible not to. At the time. That was the other problem. Time had a way of making things changeable, including feelings, and God knows, hers never seemed to stay the same. At least that was something she and Mustafa had in common.
‘Mae doesn’t make trouble,’ replied Farah.
Mustafa gave her an incredulous look, but flinched, closing his eyes as if in pain.
‘Are