as he said: ‘Yes, yes, Jay’s amma. Very good. You must be hungry, Mustafa? Hmm? Ashraf? My daughter is feeding you well?’
Farah expected Bubblee to have something to say about a woman having to feed a man – as if they were incapable of doing it themselves – but she stayed quiet.
‘Can’t you tell?’ said Ash, patting his stomach.
‘Oh, please,’ replied Fatti. ‘There’s nothing there.’
Mae laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s because it’s all there.’ She gestured at Fatti’s robust frame, which hadn’t diminished with marriage.
‘Mae, you could probably do with some of this yourself. Look at how skinny you are. It’s not healthy,’ replied Fatti, unmoved at the attention brought to her wide hips and thick thighs. She didn’t seem to care whether her stomach protruded any more, and she looked the better for it. She no longer slouched or fidgeted with her hands. Farah noticed that Fatti never looked sideways any more before answering a question, as if she wanted to run away from the pressure of giving an answer. Today she was wearing a long burgundy chiffon top over a pair of tapered black trousers. She no longer wore things that were either too tight or too loose. Somewhere along the way she had managed to balance her wardrobe as well as her life. Her hair was loose and curled and she wore the golden bangles that Mum had given her when she got married, rings scattered on her fingers. Farah noticed she was even wearing earrings.
‘Fatti’s looking well, isn’t she?’ commented Farah to Bubblee as they went into the kitchen while the others tucked into the buffet already laid out on the table.
‘Yeah. Though not sure about the contents of Mum’s jewellery box being tipped over her.’
Farah simply sighed. Wearing a pair of dangly earrings might make Bubblee look a little more approachable. She watched her sister’s movements as Bubblee put some samosas in the microwave. Farah uncovered the sandwiches.
‘Are you okay?’ Farah asked.
‘Hmm? Yeah, fine.’
‘I mean, marriage has completely transformed her,’ added Farah.
‘Not marriage, Faar. Love. Apparently there’s a distinction.’
Farah felt uneasy. She began opening the cupboards but forgot what she was looking for.
‘Stupid, anyway,’ said Bubblee. ‘As if you should need another person to make you feel better about yourself.’
Farah wondered whether having another person was exactly what Bubblee needed. Not that she could tell her that without an argument breaking out.
‘What about you?’ asked Farah. She lowered her voice, to make sure their parents couldn’t hear, although there was enough chatter coming from the living room. ‘Are you… you know… seeing anyone?’
Bubblee flashed her a look.
‘I’m your sister,’ said Farah. ‘Aren’t I allowed to ask?’
‘As my twin, you should know that such things are low on my list of priorities.’
Bubblee took out some glasses and seemed to avoid Farah’s gaze.
‘Okay then.’ Farah leaned against the kitchen top and folded her arms. ‘What is important to you?’
Bubblee’s eyes flickered. She placed the glasses down carefully, each one next to the other.
‘I’m serious. I’m asking you,’ added Farah.
‘Being…’ Bubblee itched her head. ‘Being, you know… For God’s sake, just being.’
Farah paused. ‘You know, your life in London as an artist has made you…’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Is Jay behaving himself here?’
Bubblee shrugged. ‘Mae’s the one to ask about that. I haven’t even seen him yet. Mum and Dad say he’s working hard and Mae hasn’t contradicted them, so maybe he is.’
‘That boy used to tell me everything,’ said Farah, staring into space.
‘But now you don’t want to know. I mean, he never did deserve being your favourite, and now he definitely doesn’t.’
‘No,’ replied Farah.
‘It’s really quite amazing that Mum and Dad never seem to mention how he messed up this family. Especially when Mum still hasn’t let go of the fact that I decided to move to London for uni and never came back. That was ten years ago.’
Farah gave a vague answer in response and went to leave the kitchen with the sandwiches laid out on plates when Bubblee asked: ‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’ said Farah, turning round.
‘What’s important to you?’
Bubblee’s look seemed to be challenging Farah to something, though she wasn’t sure what. The chatter from inside got louder as she heard Mae laugh.
‘Family, of course.’
Bubblee raised her eyebrows and for a moment Farah wanted to slam the kitchen door in Bubblee’s face. Because she didn’t want to admit that her words seemed hollow. That even though her answer was honest, there was something gaping in it. Instead, she tried to look resolute before turning around and walking out of the door.
The truth was that Bubblee had just wanted a reaction. She knew she gave everyone a hard time and that it somehow distanced herself from the family – shaped her as the black sheep – and yet she couldn’t help herself. She was, as one would say, her own worst enemy. Perhaps it wouldn’t have annoyed her as much if she didn’t want to be a part of what seemed to be everyone’s camaraderie. She listened to Mae’s cheer as Farah must’ve entered the living room and thought about the question her sister had asked her. What’s important to you? She used to think it was her art. She would spend every day trying to create something innovative and brilliant, and after so many years in London, after so many tried and failed starts, she realized the stark truth of it all: she was a hack. She put her hands to her eyes because the last thing she needed was to fall apart in her parents’ kitchen. Bubblee was no longer sure whether she was ashamed because she’d failed herself, or because she didn’t want to hear I told you so from her family. The two had somehow become inseparable and she wasn’t able to untangle them, or herself, it seemed. She thought of Fatti, the one who’d probably gone through the most in the past few years, only to come out on top, really. She shone. The one who used to cast shadows now cast light. Bubblee laughed at the ironies of life. The sheer inconsistencies that could make a person stumble from the shock of change.
‘Yo! Bubs. You gonna stay in here all day? Thought you feminist types hated the kitchen.’
Mae was chomping on a celery stick.
‘Just eat a samosa, you brat.’
Mae laughed. ‘No, thanks. I’d rather let my arteries breathe.’
‘Arteries don’t breathe,’ replied Bubblee.
‘Whatevs.’
Bubblee regarded her little sister. So slight and pretty, pixie-like – full of energy and life. She envied the way the future was laid out in front of Mae. There was no doubt she’d thrive. Things would fall into place for her because nothing seemed to bother her – there were no insecurities, no second-guessing. God, how depressing. Bubblee wanted to be Mae. She shook her head.
‘Are you, like, having a spasm?’ said Mae, scrunching up her face.
‘Shut up and take these samosas in.’
‘Sure thing.’
They were leaving the kitchen as Bubblee asked: ‘What’s wrong with our mum, by the way? She’s acting a bit weird.’
‘God knows.’