Over 14 million people tuned in to see NADIYA win 2015’s Great British Bake Off. Since then she has captured the heart of the nation. A columnist for The Times and Essentials, Nadiya is also a regular reporter for The One Show and presented a two-part series, The Chronicles of Nadiya, on BBC One. She is the author of Nadiya’s Kitchen (Michael Joseph), Bake Me a Story (Hodder) and has been named as one of the top five most influential Asians in the UK.

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Nadiya Hussain 2019

Nadiya Hussain asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008192327

‘I want to be an archaeologist,’ I said, ‘You can’t be an archaeologist, your parents are not rich enough, it will be a miracle if you make it to university.’ I didn’t become an archaeologist or go to university. I did something else. I remembered her words and followed every dream. Unkind words bloom the unlikeliest of passions. This is dedicated to the dreamer in you.

Contents

Cover

Abou the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Farah liked bustling around. She was perpetually busy when not at her job; her hands at work on a curry, washing clothes, fluffing pillows and inspecting areas of her now smaller home. At least it’s easier to manage. She was going to be positive. She paused to try and listen for what Mustafa might be doing upstairs. Maybe he was still lying in bed. It was ten o’clock in the morning but his sleeping habits were never predictable any more. Or perhaps he was just looking out of the window, like he’d taken to doing. There was a time when she’d have asked what he was thinking. Now she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to know.

He came downstairs, managing to grunt a good morning as he opened the fridge.

‘Why is it stacked with so much stuff?’ he asked.

Farah was spraying Pledge on to the coffee table, wiping it down with a cloth.

‘For the sandwiches I’m making for Mae’s party later,’ she replied.

His brows furrowed as he snapped: ‘Where’s the mango juice?’

Farah swept into the kitchen and looked inside the fridge with him. ‘It must’ve been finished.’

He slammed the door shut and she jumped. ‘For God’s sake. You have the thing heaving with stuff for Mae but no mango juice.’

She folded her arms and clenched her jaw, looking up at him. Her husband was a stranger to her in these moments, because, before the accident, in all the years they’d been married, he’d never lost his temper with her, or anyone for that matter. It hadn’t yet failed to surprise her when his mood took a turn. He opened the fridge door once more and slammed it shut again. His face was enraged as he glowered at her but she didn’t move an inch. She waited. He stood there for a few more moments before thundering out of the room and she heard him slam the front door behind him.

Farah took a deep breath, because the last thing she needed was increased blood pressure. My husband is alive. She repeated this to herself every time she thought of him lying in his coma after the car accident. He had been punished enough for his mistake. Mustafa had crashed his car after finding out that her brother Jay had lost all of the money he was supposed to be investing in their business and now here they were, living with the consequences of Mustafa’s ongoing medication. The doctors had said it’d affect his moods – to be careful of him falling into a kind of depression, but Farah couldn’t quite separate the man from the drugs. 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 you all right?’ Farah took his tray from him and put hers down too as she looked up at him.

‘Yeah,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Just a weird twinge.’

He put his hand to his temple and opened his eyes. She saw the emergence of a smile.

‘Why are you smiling? You just looked like you might faint.’

‘You look worried,’ he replied. He took her hand.

‘Oh, you like my face like this, do you?’

Where exactly had this new snappiness come from? She reminded herself more and more of Bubblee by the day. She guessed it was the result of living with the new and not-improved Mustafa.

‘Only when it’s for me,’ said Mustafa.

Farah smiled and shook her head. ‘It’s a lot easier being worried about you when you’re in this kind of mood.’

He looked embarrassed. ‘I know. I’m sorry, babe. I don’t know… Sometimes I don’t know what comes over me.’

Mustafa kissed her forehead as she forgave him again, because Farah realized that you can’t forgive someone just the once. You have to do it every time the same resentment hits you.

‘I know,’ she said.

They picked up the trays again and made their way towards the car. Farah sat in the driver’s seat and took out her phone.

Bubblee: Where are you?? We’re all already here, waiting.

Mae: Bubs is in cntrl mode. Hurryyyyyy

Fatti: Our baby’s going to uni!

Mae: Lol. Im rolin my eyes. N jus so u kno im a woman nw

Bubblee: One who can’t spell properly.

Farah: On my way. Mae, honestly. Sometimes it’s worth listening to Bubblee.

Farah looked over at Mustafa, in the passenger seat, staring blankly out of the window and tried not to think about how Bubblee felt about him. About them.

Farah: Only sometimes, though.

Chapter Two

Mae had to listen in to her parents’ room. She almost hesitated, as if she were already at university and weaning herself off the habit. She crept along the corridor, bending over the bannisters to make sure the others weren’t going to see her, and leaned in to the door. Silence. Why couldn’t her parents make eavesdropping easier for her? Then she heard her mum.

‘I am just an old woman now.’

Weird. Her mum’s tone wasn’t resigned, it seemed to ask for a reaction. But of course this was her dad they were talking about. Dad was about as responsive as a tortoise.

‘We are both old,’ he replied.

Mae rolled her eyes and ambled down the stairs, biting into her home-made cacao-and-chia-seed almond ball. Maybe she was imagining her mum’s behaviour becoming erratic. She’d probably taken a leaf out of Mustafa’s book. God, her family needed to take a chill pill. All this angst made Mae twitchy – as if she couldn’t really concentrate on her own angst, and, hello, she had plenty if this lot would ever allow her to really worry about it. She felt a rush of excitement at the idea of the unending possibilities university would bring. Her life stretched out in front of her into this magically unknown place. She forgot about her parents, her brother-in-law, Mustafa – everything family related – and skipped down the last few steps, accidentally dropping her cacao ball. Oh, well, there were worse things she could let drop.

‘Fazaroona and Mussie Mustafa. Enter, please.’

Mae bowed down low and outstretched her arm for Farah and Mustafa. For some reason Farah felt tears prickle her eyes. She had an overwhelming feeling of love for the lightness of Mae and prayed that university wouldn’t change her.

‘Salamalaikum, Mae,’ replied Mustafa.

Farah wished he’d joked back with Mae, done a little skit with her, the way he would’ve done in the past. Now Mae seemed to annoy him. He’d say things like: Not everything in life is a joke. When is she going to be serious about life? Despite the fact that Farah would sometimes share this sentiment, she wondered why everyone had to be so serious, anyway. Mae cleared her throat and looked solemn.

‘Mustafa Bhai. Deep gratitude for the sandwiches. Very much obliged. I will be eating the filling, these are defo not gluten-free.’

He handed the tray to her as he walked into the house. Mae widened her eyes at Farah as if to say: Your husband – what a trip.

‘The clan awaits,’ said Mae as she and Farah followed Mustafa into the living room.

‘Well, it’s about time,’ exclaimed Bubblee. ‘I can make it from London on time but you guys, who live ten minutes away, are late.’

‘Nice to see you too, Bubs,’ said Farah.

‘Bubblee, let your sister sit down before you start shouting at us all,’ interrupted their father.

Their mum gave him a long look, and her voice softened as she spoke: ‘Listen to your abba.’

But their dad didn’t seem to notice their mum staring at him as he took Mustafa’s jacket and went to hang it up.

Bubblee embraced Farah in a rather sturdy hug. ‘Sorry. Bloody neighbours have a new baby that cries all hours into the morning, and I haven’t slept for days.’

Farah looked at Bubblee properly and could see what she meant. She had dark circles, her hair looked as though it needed a wash and without any make-up on, Bubs looked older than usual. Older than Farah did, she was sure, and they were twins.

‘The poor baby,’ said Fatti, who pushed herself off the sofa. ‘You should offer some help to them, you know. I mean, I know you’re busy, but if you’re tired imagine how the parents must feel.’

Farah observed her oldest sister, Fatti, who was looking rather well. Marriage agreed with her. It looked as though her husband, Ash, was thinking along the same lines. Every time Fatti spoke, he seemed to think it was the most important thing being said. That’s how Mustafa used to look at Farah when they got married. She felt a pang of loss in the face of Fatti’s gain. Must not compare lives. MUST. NOT. COMPARE. LIVES. If only the heart could do what the head told it to.

‘Fats,’ said Mae. ‘I’m sure the parents of the newborn have got enough troubles without you springing Bubblee onto them.’

Bubblee smacked Mae around the head as their mum said: ‘Fatti, you must think of having your own babies and stop worrying about someone else’s.’

Fatti just looked at her hands.

‘Salam, mate,’ said Ash, shaking Mustafa’s hand.

Farah had to take a minute and appreciate the moment. After everything they’d gone through in the past few years, they were all here together. Apart from Jay.

‘Your brother is out making a delivery,’ explained her mum. ‘He is working very hard now.’

Farah had to admit that it was better than him sitting around, waiting for someone to fix his life. Even if she wanted to she couldn’t give him money. And she wouldn’t want to – not after he’d turned their lives upside down.

‘We should find him a nice wife now,’ her mum added.

‘Who’d wanna marry him?’ exclaimed Mae. ‘He’s a proper loser.’

‘Mae.’ Their mum narrowed her eyes at her.

‘But it’s true though, isn’t it? I mean, he probably needs another five years before he can even support himself, let alone some poor woman who’s got to stay married to him for the rest of her life.’

‘Five years? A man has needs,’ said their mum, pausing meaningfully, looking around the room before her eyes rested on her husband. ‘Everyone does.’

The room paused as her family looked at her.

‘Eww,’ mouthed Mae to her sisters. ‘Gross.’

Bubblee and Farah exchanged looks and Fatti never could hide her blushes. Their dad laughed nervously 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.’ Mae gave an exaggerated shiver. ‘Ugh. Needs. What was that?’

It was odd, but then people were always going on about men’s needs. No one else’s seemed to matter. Bubblee scoffed. It was just typical. Bubblee noticed the colour had risen in Mae’s cheeks.

‘I hope university opens up your mind a little to feminism and sexuality.’

Mae looked at her, hesitating. ‘Bubs, can I ask… Have you…?’

‘What?’

‘Have you… had sex?’ whispered Mae.

‘That’s none of your business,’ said Bubblee, raising her head.

Mae stopped. ‘But you’re not married.’

Mae seemed to consider it, looking by turn amazed and bewildered. Living in a small village with her traditional parents had done nothing for Mae, but Bubblee couldn’t help her own heart from beating faster.

‘We’re not talking about what is, essentially, a person’s private matter,’ replied Bubblee. She walked past Mae, into the living room, adamant that she’d not let her flushed face prevent her from acting normally.

They’d all eaten, cleared the table and were sitting around, drinking tea and eating jalebis. After so much gabbing and noise that was brought about by too many people trying to fill their bellies, a quiet calm had descended upon them. Farah felt content as she watched Mustafa talk to Fatti. It wasn’t as if they had a new-found bond since discovering they were actually brother and sister, but there was a respect that they showed each other, which Farah felt comforted by. Their dad stood up, unexpectedly.

‘Okay, okay. Listen now.’

Everyone turned their heads towards him. He brushed down his brown trousers before patting his dyed jet-black hair.

‘Mae is leaving us.’

Farah noticed Mae look at Fatti.

‘I’m not dying, Abba,’ said Mae.

‘Tst tst, such things you say,’ said her mum. ‘You will give yourself the evil eye.’

‘Mae is leaving us,’ repeated their dad.

‘Yeah, rather unfairly since none of us were allowed to leave home for university,’ said Farah.

She’d have liked the chance to be alone and independent. Fatti never seemed to have the desire, but if Farah had known it was within the realms of possibility there’s no way she’d have passed up the opportunity. As for Bubblee, she didn’t care about whether the opportunity was there or not – she created it for herself, no matter how much their parents, especially their mum, had told her she couldn’t.

‘Can you let Dad speak?’ said Mae. ‘Finally it’s something about me rather than you lot. Go on, Abba.’

Mae settled into the sofa, curling her feet under her and holding on to her mug of hibiscus tea.

‘Mae, we hope you will be a good girl and come home every weekend.’

There was a pause.

‘Is that it?’ Mae asked.

Farah had to suppress a laugh. Their dad cleared his throat, seeming to struggle for words.

‘Uff, Jay’s abba. Hurry up,’ said their mum.

‘Study the media well,’ he added. ‘It is very bad and maybe you will fix it.’

‘God help us if Mae’s about to help to fix the world,’ retorted Bubblee.

Mae leapt off the sofa and gave her dad a hug. ‘Thanks, Abba.’

He held on to her and kissed the top of her head. Farah noticed Mae looking at Fatti again. Farah glanced at Fatti who was shaking her head.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Farah, her eyes darting between both of them.

‘What? Nothing,’ said Fatti.

Only now Ash was looking at her too. Fatti seemed to be suppressing a smile as her hand went to her stomach.

‘Well, the thing is…’

‘She’s only preggers, isn’t she?’ interjected Mae, beaming.

Their mum and dad seemed confused.

‘With a baby, Amma and Abba,’ explained Mae. ‘Up the duff – having a baby.’

Mae gestured a large curve around her stomach with her hands. Their parents looked at Fatti as Farah saw her mum’s eyes fill with tears.

‘Allah, you are great,’ exclaimed her mum.

Before Farah knew it everyone was standing up, hugging each other. Mustafa gripped Ash’s hand, a constrained smile on his face as Bubblee kissed Fatti on both cheeks.

‘How come she got to know before the rest of us?’ said Bubblee, pointing at Mae.

Mae put her arm around Bubblee and said: ‘A, I am a very approachable person, thank you very much, and B, I’m her favourite sister.’

Mae went and took her place back on the sofa.

‘I’m only three weeks,’ said Fatti. ‘I don’t even have any symptoms yet.’

‘We mustn’t tell anyone,’ their mum said. ‘Not until after three months or you might get the evil eye.’

Farah realized she hadn’t moved from her spot when Fatti looked at her. She got up as quickly as she could to hug her sister.

‘Congratulations, Fatti.’

Farah felt a lump in her throat. Something pushed up through her chest and caused tears to surface; she wanted to run out of the room and cry in the bathroom, on her own. She blinked them back before anyone could see but caught Mustafa’s eye.

‘It’s such good news,’ she added, releasing herself from Fatti’s grip and grabbing on to her arms.

‘Thanks, Faru.’

Fatti stared at her for too long. Farah saw the pity in her eyes so starkly that it didn’t matter how much she blinked back her tears, they still fell down her cheeks – no amount of smiling could hide them.

‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Fatti.

Farah just shook her head and tried to laugh. ‘What for? This is great news.’

Before Fatti could say anything else she was swept away by her mum who began to give instructions on how to be pregnant. There was something not quite right about their mum’s excitement in telling Fatti what to eat and what to do when she had never actually carried Fatti. Surely Farah’s parents’ first grandchild should’ve been hers – the daughter their mum held in her womb. Farah instantly regretted the thought. Fatti was their sister! Even if it was their mother’s sister who had given birth to her. It was amazing what an unfulfilled desire could do to a person; how the tendrils of jealousy and resentment could so easily dig into a person’s mind. Farah thought she was better than that. She was meant to be the contented and sensible one, after all: the glue that kept them all together. But somehow, with time, the role had been co-opted by Fatti and neither of them had even realized it.

‘I’d have bet good money that Fatti, of all people, would have been the first one of us to have a baby,’ laughed Farah.

It was meant to be a joke but everyone’s voices quietened as they looked at Farah. She realized the joke wasn’t actually funny, but had to maintain her smile. Fatti was staring at her, but with the same pity she’d shown earlier, and it made Farah want to shake her and say: You weren’t always this good and happy. Have you forgotten who you are?

‘We never thought she’d even find anyone to marry her,’ added Farah.

The words were right but the order was coming out all jumbled, or the intonation was wrong. Ash’s face was no longer open and kind – it seemed hard, daring Farah to continue.

‘Not like that. I mean, then she found you, Ash. And you took her off our hands.’

‘Far…’ Bubblee was looking at Farah. Her sister’s exhausted face seemed fully alert now.

‘What? I mean he did, didn’t he?’ Farah laughed again. ‘Remember Fats and her stuffing Primula cheese down her face? The mashed prawns and secret stashes of food in her bedside drawers? You know prawns aren’t allowed when you’re pregnant?’ She paused, the silence oppressing her. ‘Maybe Amma’s already told you that?’

‘I think you should stop.’ Ash was staring at Farah, his eyes intense, hands gripped together.

‘No,’ said Farah, trying to make them understand she wasn’t saying anything wrong – just pointing out the irony of it all. ‘We’re all happy she’s pregnant. A few years ago the only thing she had in her life was her hand modelling and now look… a husband with his own driving-school business – working with him like they’re a power couple, a whole new look as well.’ Farah’s smile was faltering; she could feel it strain under the pressure of appearances. ‘You all remember how Fatti was, don’t you? It’s against all the odds.’

‘Farah…’ began Mustafa.

‘I’m just –’

‘Stop,’ exclaimed Ash.

‘All right,’ said Mustafa, shooting a look at Ash. ‘There’s no need to use that tone.’

His voice rang out as clear as Ash’s. It was the most emphatic Farah had heard him.

‘Then she should stop.’ Ash was looking at Mustafa now too.

Before anyone could say anything else their mum clapped her hands together as if giving a round of applause. When she didn’t speak their dad said: ‘Who wants more tea?’

‘Jeez,’ muttered Mae.

‘I’ll have one,’ said Bubblee, still looking at Farah. ‘Ash?’

He was rubbing his palms, eyebrows knit together. ‘No, thank you. Perhaps it’s time for us to go.’

Farah’s stomach had turned into knots of anxiety as she looked at Fatti. Please don’t leave. I didn’t mean it like that. But the words – the ones she should actually be saying – failed to come out. She hoped her look said it all. Farah waited for Fatti to speak. The seconds seemed to stretch into hours.

‘No, we’ll stay,’ replied Fatti. ‘I’ll have one too. Peppermint.’

Fatti walked into the kitchen with Bubblee, leaving Farah behind in a room filled with silence.

Bubblee turned around and faced Fatti. ‘You know it’s because –’

‘I know,’ replied Fatti.

Fatti had been aware that it wasn’t going to be easy, not with Farah having wanted a child so badly, but she’d thought that perhaps Farah had now accepted it and let go of that want. Of course, you can’t let go of it because it’s not in your control. It holds on to you, not the other way around.

‘And she didn’t mean –’

‘Yes, she did,’ said Fatti.

Fatti turned her back to Bubblee, filling the kettle with water. The truth was that Fatti knew she’d never escape who she used to be, but at the same time she didn’t want to. It was fine with her that she used to be nervous and shy and never felt as though she belonged. It made the place she was in now all the more miraculous. What she didn’t like was the idea that her sister thought the old Fatti was still inside her somewhere. As if Fatti’s happiness, her whole persona, was a phase. Because she didn’t feel that different. It was more like being stripped of the negative stuff rather than it being buried. Fatti had peeled back the unwanted layers of who she was. And though she felt bad for Farah, surely Fatti deserved some sympathy for finding out her parents weren’t her biological ones, for going to meet them in Bangladesh, only to find out they didn’t regret giving her up one bit. But Fatti let go of that because she no longer wanted to be unhappy. Having Ash helped. It helped a great, great deal.

‘Okay,’ said Bubblee. ‘That wasn’t –’

‘Forget it.’ Fatti turned around and gave Bubblee a smile. ‘Let’s just forget the whole thing.’

Bubblee began warming some milk in a pan. ‘So, you and Ash are helping to overpopulate the earth then.’

Fatti saw Bubblee was smiling.

‘Yes. I’m sure you disagree.’

‘How does your stepson feel about it?’

‘You know, I think he’s actually excited,’ replied Fatti.

Bubblee looked incredulous. ‘Excited? Sounds a bit farfetched.’

‘Well, he didn’t stomp off to his room or tell Ash how much he hates him, so I’m going to take it as a positive sign.’

‘Gosh. I guess so,’ said Bubblee.

‘You’re going to be an aunt,’ said Fatti.

Bubblee’s smile met her eyes. She really was so beautiful, even if she wasn’t looking her freshest.

‘Will I have to babysit every time I come to visit?’

Fatti shook her head. ‘But I am going to make sure my child likes you the least.’

Bubblee looked so genuinely hurt that Fatti laughed and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

‘We weren’t made to be alone, Bubs,’ said Fatti. ‘Don’t try so hard to be different that you end up not getting what you actually need.’

Bubblee put teabags into the mugs. ‘Oh, right, what do I need then?’

Fatti considered her younger sister. There was so much there, if only she’d stop being so… well, Bubblee. As much as Fatti hated to admit it, who would put up with someone so difficult? Bubblee was lucky she was beautiful because Fatti supposed it’d make it easier for her to find a husband. Probably not Bengali, though. No, Bubblee would have to marry a non-brown person. Fatti would help her when it came to Mum and Dad. It would be good if she managed to find a nice Bengali boy, though. Someone who loved Bubblee for who she was. She’d never have said all this stuff out loud, of course – it made her sound positively backward – but she couldn’t help feeling it. Happiness comes from the people who love you, and who you manage to love back. It’s just the way it is.

‘Well, you’ll know when you find it.’

Just then, they heard Jay’s voice break the silence in the room as Mae told him that Fatti was pregnant. He appeared at the kitchen door, tall and slim, wearing a sweatshirt and trainers, hair flopping over his eyes.

‘Congratulations, Uncle Jay,’ said Fatti.

He smiled and hit Fatti on the arm before hugging her. ‘Better steal some of those kids’ toys I deliver then.’

‘This is the man Mum wants to subject some poor woman to?’ said Bubblee.

‘How’s…’ He cleared his throat. ‘How’s Farah taken it?’

Fatti just gave a simple smile.

‘Always asking the right questions, Jay,’ said Bubblee with barely hidden sarcasm.

‘And how long are you planning to stay?’ he asked her.

She looked away, turning the heat down on the hob. Fatti just about made out Bubblee shrugging before they were called into the living room by their mum. The three entered the room, puncturing the silence, as Bubblee wondered how long she could stay without her family asking her questions about where her life was going.

That night, as Farah got into bed she thought over the evening’s events. Why had she said those things? She turned over and looked at Mustafa, his back to her. He’d hardly said a word when they got into the car and she drove them home in silence. Since the accident Mustafa was no longer allowed to drive, in case he had a seizure – just another one of the many changes their life had undergone. She looked on the other side of her bed, at the empty space where a baby’s cot would easily fit. The light on her phone disturbed her as she checked it and saw the messages.

Fatti: Goodnight. Xxx

Mae: Nyt losers xxx

Bubblee: Goodnight. Mae, I can hear you on your laptop from here. Mum and Dad probably can’t get to sleep because of you.

Mae: Whatevs. Usin da old folks as an xcuse cos u hv ears lyk a bat.

Farah: Goodnight. I am happy for you, Fats. Xx

Fatti: I know xxxx

Farah is typing…

I’m dying a little inside. I want to be happy for you. But I’m too sad for me right now. I can’t find the light at the end of this tunnel.

Farah then deleted her message and turned around in bed, hoping for sleep.

Chapter Three

Farah was happy for Fatti. At least she would be just as soon as her own life caught up with her sister’s. She put her phone away and reached over for Mustafa.

‘Are you awake?’ she whispered, putting her arm around him.

There was a pause. ‘Hmm.’

Farah stroked his chest. She knew he liked the way she curled his hairs around her fingers. Farah used to like it too, until it became a bit arduous; another hurdle in the obstacle of impregnation.

‘Want to try and make a baby?’

He turned his head. ‘What?’

She attempted to give him her most seductive look.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘You look like you might cry.’

She paused, biting back her surge of anger.

‘Cry?’ she carried on whispering. ‘Only if you make me.’

Her hand slid down his torso when he turned around towards her fully. ‘I’m not in the mood, babe.’

He brushed the hair away from her forehead and planted a kiss on her brow.

‘What about me?’ she asked.

She was no longer whispering, but she tried to keep the accusation out of her voice. He looked at her for a moment and gave a tight smile.

‘It’s been a bit of a night,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you exhausted? Let’s sleep.’

How was her slim chance of getting pregnant ever going to happen if her husband didn’t sleep with her? Mustafa turned his back again but she pulled him towards her. All it took was one time. This night had to be it. It felt fortuitous with Fatti’s pregnancy. If she could get happily married and start a family, then Farah could surely get pregnant and happy too. If only her husband would let her.

‘All the night’s made me want to do is…’

She put her hand between his legs, but he moved it gently away.

‘Come on, babe. I’m serious.’

One time. Just the once and they’d be done. Her family would stop looking at her with such pity, and words that didn’t seem to belong to her would stop spilling out of her mouth, causing other people pain.

‘So am I.’

She pulled his face towards her and kissed him. His mouth tasted minty and his beard bristled on her face. She had a memory of the way they used to kiss and it stirred something up inside her.

‘Farah,’ he mumbled.

‘Mhmm.’

‘Farah, stop.’ He pulled away, looking at her. ‘What’s got into you?’

Why was he being so difficult? After the way the night had gone, how could he not want to make it better by giving her just one chance?

‘Me?’ she said, sitting up. ‘I’m your wife. How are we ever going to get pregnant if we don’t have sex?’

He took a deep breath and sat up with her. ‘I didn’t know we were trying again.’

‘We should always be trying.’

‘Listen, I know this thing with Fatti must be hard for you right now, but I told you, I’m not in the mood.’

‘Oh, of course, your mood.’

He rubbed his forehead. ‘If this was the other way around you know that I’d never force you.’

She scoffed. ‘I didn’t realize sleeping with me was such a task.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

Farah tried to relax – tension didn’t help getting pregnant, that’s what numerous articles and bloggers said. It’s all about de-stressing as well as things like ovulation and science.

‘Well then?’ She put her hand on his face, stroking his beard.

He patted her hand and went to move it away, but she kept it there, forcing it to his face.

‘For God’s sake, Farah,’ he shouted.

He pushed her away and leapt out of bed. She leaned back, pulling the covers over her. Mustafa’s shadow seemed to her foreboding and foreign in that moment, and her heart began to thud.

‘Mustafa…’

‘What the hell are you playing at? What’s wrong with you?’

He said it with such a look of disgust it brought unexpected tears to her eyes. Everything is wrong with me. I’m a woman who can’t even have a baby. She knew she shouldn’t think like this because that’s not all a woman is, but she couldn’t help feeling it. She’d wanted a family of her own since she could remember. So many years had been spent trying and dreaming of what it would be like that she didn’t know how to want anything else. It’d be like teaching herself not to breathe.

‘Don’t make me feel bad, because you can’t conceive,’ he added.

Before she could even take in the words he’d spouted, he’d left the room, slamming the door behind him.

‘Oh, God,’ she whispered, putting her hands to her face and letting the stream of tears come out.

That night she sobbed herself into a dreamless sleep.

When Farah woke up the following morning her eyes felt sore and her vision was blurred. She reached out to Mustafa’s side of the bed and when she realized he wasn’t there the preceding night came back to her. She closed her eyes again and put her head under the cover, trying to block out the all-in-one shame of rejection and accusation.

Did Mustafa not want a family any more, or did he just not want her? Did he really blame her as much as she blamed herself? She hadn’t ever imagined a Mustafa who’d say such a thing. All this culpability really did exhaust her. She kept her eyes closed until she fell asleep again.

This time Farah awoke to clattering. It was coming from the kitchen. As she swung her legs over the bed she still couldn’t open her eyes. She grabbed her dressing gown and pulled it over herself, trying to steady her feet. The words beat in her ears: Don’t make me feel bad because you can’t conceive. She opened her eyes as her face flushed in anger. She didn’t need her husband to feel the same way she felt about herself. That’s not how it worked with them. It never had and it wouldn’t damn well start now.

She ran down the stairs without even brushing her teeth or washing her face, the gunk from last night’s make-up gathered in the corners of her eyes. Farah burst through the living room that led to the kitchen, ready to point her finger at Mustafa and shout at him. She wasn’t sure what she’d say yet, but anger was best served improvised. She stopped. He was hunched over the hob, frying some eggs. Their small table was set with two plates and cutlery. Mustafa turned her head towards her, giving her such a sad smile that all her anger fell away.

‘Hi,’ he said.

She looked at the table again.

‘I made us breakfast,’ he added when she didn’t speak.

‘I see that.’

He went to the fridge. ‘Juice?’

She shook her head.

‘Coffee or tea?’ he asked.

‘Is this –’

‘I’m sorry,’ he interrupted. He paused, looking dishevelled in his shorts and T-shirt. ‘I don’t even know what I said.’

‘You said not having babies was my fault.’

Mustafa bowed his head. She thought he might let the carton of juice fall to the floor the way it dangled in his hands.

‘I lost my temper,’ he said, head still bowed.

When he looked up Farah saw tears in his eyes. She had the urge to go up to him and hug him, but couldn’t bring herself to move.

‘Yeah, you did.’

She saw the flash of something in his eyes – was that anger again? Mustafa looked as though he might say something.

‘What?’ she asked.

He paused. ‘Nothing.’

She went and took a seat at the table. ‘Go on,’ she encouraged him.

‘It just… forget it,’ he finally said.

He put the carton down and brought the rest of the breakfast to the table, setting his pills beside his plate. They ate in silence for a while. Farah kept looking at her husband, biting into his eggs and toast, taking a sip of tea with a faraway look. He downed the pills.

‘Do you still…’ Farah gripped her mug of tea tighter. ‘The baby – you still want one, don’t you?’

‘Hmm?’ Mustafa looked up at her.

‘It’s like you’re on another planet,’ she said. ‘Did you hear me?’

She couldn’t quite read his expression.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘Do you still want a baby?’

Mustafa leaned forward and took Farah’s hand as she put her mug down.

‘I want us.’

She looked at him, confused. ‘We have us. Us is sat right here.’

But even as the words came out she knew how hollow they were. Mustafa let go of her hand and just gave a small smile.

‘Fatti and Ash seem really happy, don’t they?’ he said.

She nodded.

‘She deserves it,’ he added.

‘She does.’

Farah played with the toast in her hands.

‘You want more tea?’ he asked.

Just then the phone rang. Farah went to pick it up and it was Bubblee.

‘You all right?’ Bubblee asked.

The scene from Mae’s party pushed itself to the fore of Farah’s brain.

‘Yeah, great. Fine. What’s going on?’

Bubblee paused. ‘Not much.’

‘What time are you leaving for London?’

‘You know, I thought with Mae leaving at the end of the week and all… I thought I might as well stay,’ replied Bubblee.

‘Oh. Right.’

Bubblee paused again. All this pausing didn’t suit her. Farah glanced over at Mustafa who was stabbing at his eggs and realized she wasn’t listening to Bubblee’s response.

‘. . . another week or so.’

‘Okay. What about work?’ asked Farah, turning back so Mustafa stopped distracting her.

Pause.

‘I’ve got some holidays. Plus, Sasha can cover for me at the gallery while I’m here.’

Farah wondered why Bubblee would forsake an extra week out of London to be in Wyvernage with her family, but she looked over her shoulder and Mustafa was still staring at his plate. She told Bubblee to come over later – better than going to her parents’ house and risk seeing Fatti – and put the phone down.

‘Do you want to go to watch a film later?’ she asked.

He looked up at her and smiled. ‘Yeah. That would be good, I think.’

Farah went back to the table. Perhaps if the film was good and put Mustafa in a better mood, he’d sleep with her and she’d get pregnant. Farah knew that the key was to try and make Mustafa feel normal. Those pills didn’t help, but they were necessary. Yes, they would come back from the cinema, have sex, she’d get pregnant and then all these problems would go away. With that thought Farah finished her breakfast, enjoying the toast a lot more with the hope of what was to come.

Bubblee knocked on the door.

‘Oh,’ said Farah, opening the door and looking surprised. ‘Oh, yes, sorry. I knew you were coming over.’

She looked at Bubblee as if she wished she’d do an about-turn and leave the way she had come.

‘You’re going out?’ Bubblee asked.

‘To the cinema. Come with us,’ said Farah, smiling widely.

She was rushing around the house, fluffing pillows, getting her keys and purse, talking to herself: Dishes washed, laundry out, vacuum done… Farah surveyed the place around her, looking pleased. But there was something twitchy about her movements. She looked far too keen and chirpy.

Bubblee stared at Farah. ‘Not really in the mood for it.’

‘To be honest, babe, I’ve kind of lost interest too,’ replied Mustafa, taking his jacket off.

Bubblee sat on the sofa as Farah stood in the passageway door. Bubblee looked for signs of disgruntlement. Interfering was Mae’s job but with her going away and the image of poor Fatti’s face when they were in the kitchen last night – well, Bubblee had to do something. Even if it was against her better inclination.

‘Come on, you guys,’ said Farah. ‘It’s meant to be a psychological thriller. Mus, you love those.’

Bubblee looked over at her brother-in-law whose back was turned as he’d gone into the kitchen. Even his gait annoyed Bubblee. She supposed that once upon a time he’d have been called ‘jolly’, the way he’d waltz into a room, slap people on the back and laugh so hard that his shoulders shook. Now he was like a retired comedian, or circus clown. Yes, it was a mean thing to say, but that didn’t make it any less true. Plus, at least Bubblee didn’t say it out loud. It wasn’t her fault that her brother-in-law had descended into being pathetic.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked her.

‘No, thanks. Bought any nice new things?’ Bubblee asked Farah, bouncing up off the sofa with uncharacteristic alacrity.

‘What?’ asked Farah. ‘No.’

Stupid question to ask because Farah couldn’t even if she wanted to – not with their dire financial issues.

‘Show me.’

Bubblee jerked her head towards the stairs as Farah looked on, confused.

‘I don’t –’

‘Great,’ interrupted Bubblee, pushing past Farah and up the stairs already.

‘What was that about?’ asked Farah as she walked into the bedroom after Bubblee.

Bubblee folded her arms and looked at her sister.

‘First tell me what yesterday was about.’

Farah’s eyebrows knit into a frown as she looked shiftily around the room.

‘Well?’ said Bubblee in the face of Farah’s silence. ‘Listen, I’m all for straight talk but you should apologize to Fatti.’

Farah paused. ‘Oh. Did she say something to you?’

‘Come on, it’s Fatti, she’ll never say anything to anyone. Anyway, does she really need to?’

‘I wasn’t being offensive,’ Farah replied as she walked over to the blinds and began trying to fix them.

Bubblee raised her eyebrows.

‘Not on purpose,’ Farah added. ‘God, you’re making it sound worse than it was.’

‘I think the blinds are straight enough,’ said Bubblee.

‘Me and Mus were meant to go and see a film.’

Bubblee watched Farah pause and sway so that she thought she might faint. But Farah just went and sat on the edge of the bed. Bubblee noticed she was still looking at the blinds.

‘They’re still not straight,’ said Farah.

She went to get up again but Bubblee was blocking her way.

‘What is wrong with you?’ said Bubblee.

‘Nothing, I’m…’ Farah’s voice wavered. ‘It’s just… oh, Bubs – why can’t I have a baby?’

The tears began to stream down Farah’s face as Bubblee sat next to her and put her arm around her. She sobbed into her arms for such a long time Bubblee worried that Mustafa would come up and ask what was going on.

‘Shh, it’s okay,’ said Bubblee.

She looked at her sister’s tear-strewn face and felt several pangs of sympathy.

‘It must be hard,’ Bubblee offered.

‘Hard?’ said Farah, wiping her eyes. ‘It’s… it’s…’ Farah looked around the room, frantically, as if she’d find what it was in their bedroom. Her eyes settled upon Bubblee again.

‘But you don’t get it, do you?’ said Farah. ‘You’ve never really cared about having babies.’

It was true. Finding prolonged sympathy for Farah’s problem was going to be difficult – but she could understand the feeling of loss, of not getting what you want. Wasn’t every single atom of passion that she poured into her work – her labour of love – amounting to nothing?

‘No. They cry an awful lot.’

Farah shot her a look.

‘Well,’ said Bubblee. ‘I just don’t understand the need to have them, but I do get what it feels like when you can’t have what you want.’

Farah looked at her. ‘Were you seeing someone?’

‘No. Not everything has to do with relationships.’ Bubblee looked at the ground. ‘Things just aren’t really working out. With the art scene.’

As soon as the words escaped her Bubblee knew them to be true. It was a long-held secret that could only become fact once she’d said it out loud. Now, expecting to have felt a release of some kind, Bubblee just felt numb.

‘It’s the only thing I thought I was any good at and now… I don’t know what I’m meant to do with myself. My whole life. So, no. I don’t get the need for babies, but I get the idea of needs.’ She turned to Farah. ‘That gaping hole.’

Bubblee could finally share this with someone, and what’s more, she could share it with her twin sister, who’d always been so different from her.

Farah’s brows twitched. ‘Bubs, it’s hardly the same thing.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Not being able to make sculptures isn’t the same as not being able to make babies.’

Bubblee felt the warmth of her blood rushing to her face.

‘I mean, I’m sorry to hear it. I know what it meant to you, of course. But you can’t tell me not having a family is like no longer being able to…’ She waved her arms around, scrunching up her face, presumably to impersonate what was Bubblee’s livelihood. ‘…you know.’

Bubblee’s tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. A barrage of things to say were exploding in her mind, but couldn’t make their way out as she stared at her sister: the one she’d shared a womb with, birthdays and playtimes as they grew up; the person with whom she’d shared her secrets.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bubblee, her voice even and cold. ‘I didn’t realize your husband wasn’t your family.’

She didn’t even care about Mustafa. She never thought he was good enough for Farah when they got married, and he certainly hadn’t improved in her estimation since he’d lost their money and had that godawful car crash. At least before he was tame and negligible. Now you never knew what might come out of his mouth.

‘Husbands don’t make families – children do,’ said Farah.

Farah’s eyes went to the bedroom door, and there was Mustafa, standing with his hand on the doorknob.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I just wondered what you guys were doing.’

Bubblee saw Farah swallow hard.

‘I’m going to go out, okay?’ he said.

Without waiting for a reply he turned around and closed the door behind him.

‘Oh, God, do you think he heard?’ asked Farah, looking at Bubblee in despair.

‘Doesn’t seem like you really care either way.’

‘What? Of course I care. I just need more than him. Is that so bad?’

Bubblee barely recognized her sister. When did she go from being the foundation of this family, the go-to person with the ever-straightforward-yet-wise advice, to this woman who couldn’t see past her own ovaries? Bubblee stood up and went to leave.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Farah.

‘Home.’

‘Are you annoyed because of what I said about your art stuff?’

‘You feel how you feel.’ Bubblee looked at her sister. She wouldn’t waste time trying to justify her needs and wants and losses. ‘I don’t know why I’m expected to feel more for you, though.’

She followed in Mustafa’s footsteps, out of the bedroom, closing the door behind her, before leaving the house.

Mustafa didn’t come home until late and Farah was already in bed, pretending to be asleep. She felt him slide in beside her and wondered if she should turn around and say something. What would she say, though? Sorry? If he had any sense in him he’d know what she meant, and he couldn’t possibly feel that just the two of them was enough. Not any more. It was a missed opportunity in terms of trying to have sex, but she couldn’t bear looking at his doleful face. Tomorrow Farah would go to the doctor because every problem has a solution, and she had to find theirs.

‘Have you considered other options?’

Farah wished the doctor was female. The greying man looked at her as if he were her teacher and she hadn’t prepared for her class quiz.

‘I know you tried IVF before, but you might like to –’

‘No,’ interrupted Farah. ‘We can’t afford to try again.’

She remembered the hormone injections, the failed pregnancy tests, the spiralling of hope that would expand and contract but never amount to anything. The doctor cleared his throat and adjusted his navy tie.

‘What about surrogacy?’

He wasn’t getting it at all.

‘Our finances. We can’t.’

And another woman carrying her child? No, thank you.

‘Well,’ he continued. ‘Let’s put you in for a transvaginal scan. The last lap-and-dye wasn’t successful, but let’s check that again and see what results we get. In the meantime, take some time to think about what I’ve said. Speak with your partner. Also, here are some leaflets with numbers for counselling. Trying for a baby can take its emotional toll on a couple.’

I don’t need more leaflets; I need you to tell me how to conceive. Maybe the results this time would be different? Her heart beat faster at the thought – a knot of anxiety forming in the pit of her stomach. She took the leaflets he was handing to her and left the surgery.

Farah looked out into the cloudy sky and the town that seemed as oppressed under the bleakness as she felt. She took out her phone and waited a few moments before pressing on Fatti’s name.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi,’ Farah replied.

‘How are you?’ said Fatti, as if nothing had happened between them.

Farah had to admit her sister was a better person than her. She really did deserve to be happier.

‘Fine, fine. You?’

‘Not so – not so bad. Good. Oh, God, sorry…’

‘Hello? Fatti?’

Where had she gone?

‘Fatti? What’s happening?’

Farah hung up and then dialled the number again. She had to do this a few times before Fatti picked up.

‘What happened?’ Farah asked.

‘Sorry, it’s just this… morning sickness,’ she mumbled.

Farah stood by her car, ready to open the door, but paused. ‘Oh.’

‘Sorry.’

She leaned against the car door and closed her eyes. This couldn’t go on indefinitely. She was going to be an aunt.

‘Don’t be, Fats. I’m sorry you’re getting sick.’

‘It’s fine. Part and parcel of it,’ replied Fatti.

There was a long pause.

‘Well, I’d better go,’ said Farah.

‘Where are you?’

‘Just some errands before getting back to work. I wanted to call and see how you were.’

‘Oh, God, sorry. I have to go again.’

Before Farah could say anything Fatti had already hung up, leaving her with the taste of bile in her own mouth.

That evening Farah went straight home after work, rather than popping in to see her parents, which she often did.

‘What happened at the doctor’s?’ asked Mustafa when he walked through the door.

‘More tests.’

Mustafa threw his house keys on the table as he collapsed on the sofa. The smell of manure had already reached Farah who was standing on a chair, dusting the curtains. Every time she looked around the living room it seemed so worn, no matter how clean she kept it. The black leather sofa had rips in it and the flooring was scratched and dull.

‘You need a shower,’ she said. ‘Maybe you should try and see what other jobs there are. You know, instead of cleaning out stables.’

‘What else is there around here?’ he said.

Farah paused. ‘I don’t know. We can have a look.’

When there was silence she looked over her shoulder and saw that Mustafa was staring at her.

‘You know you’ll be all right,’ he said.

If he could just have said we’ll be all right, she wouldn’t, that moment, have wished he hadn’t bothered to come home at all.

‘What’s for dinner?’

He went into the kitchen and saw that there was no dinner. She’d started cleaning as soon as she got home and wasn’t even thinking of food. Farah was about to retort with something when he said: ‘Don’t worry. Shall I make us some pasta or something?’

This was the thing: at times like these he was so different from what anyone would expect from a typical Bengali husband that she couldn’t be annoyed at him for too long. His moods were just a glitch. This was the real him. Farah got down from her chair and sat on it.

‘The doctor said we should think about IVF again,’ she said.

She decided not to mention the counselling. They’d get through this together. He was about to say something when she added: ‘Don’t worry. I’ve already told him we couldn’t afford another round.’

Suddenly, she realized Mustafa’s eyes were filled with tears.

‘Sorry, babe,’ he said, wiping them away. ‘I just never thought it’d be this hard, you know?’

She went and put her arms around him – he did want a baby, after all. It was ‘we’, not just her.

‘I know,’ she said into his ear. ‘The doctor even suggested surrogacy if we have no luck.’

Mustafa looked at her and frowned. ‘That would be weird. I don’t like the idea of some stranger carrying our baby.’

‘No,’ she agreed. Still, she half wished he’d try to talk her around the idea, but who knew what the test results would show? Perhaps they would get good news after all.

‘No, you’re right,’ she added. ‘Nor do I.’

Mae: Its lyk no1 evn cares im leavin in 5 DAYS.

Mae: Helloooooo??

Mae: None of u can com to my campus.

Fatti: Been sick all day. In bed. Will come and see you on Friday xxx

Bubblee: Mae, stop being so dramatic.

Mae: I think Im gonna take a module in drama

Bubblee: God help us all.

Mae: Helloooo, Fazzler? Rmba us? Ur sisters?

Farah: Had errands. I’ll pop over Friday too. GTG X

Chapter Four

Mae opened the door and saw Farah shifting on her feet, carrying a box.

‘Why didn’t you just use your key?’ said Mae, rolling her eyes. ‘I’ve got too many boxes and Mum says I can’t take my juicer. I mean, hello? It’s not like any of you lot are going to be making kale smoothies.’

Farah walked in and simply greeted this with: ‘Oh.’

‘Thanks for the sympths. Hope your packing powers are better,’ Mae said, striding up the stairs, leaving Farah behind.

‘Well, she’s here at last,’ said Mae, going into her room where Bubblee was throwing some of Mae’s clothes into a black bin bag for charity.

‘Oi, no! I want those,’ exclaimed Mae.

Bubblee held up the beige cargo pants in disdain. She just shook her head and chucked them back in the cupboard. Fatti was lying down, her eyes covered with her arm and a leg dangling off the edge of the bed.

‘I’ll be better in a minute,’ she mumbled.

Mae went over and put her hand on her forehead.

‘She doesn’t have a temperature,’ said Bubblee. ‘She has a baby.’

Mae looked at Fatti, her brow knitted in concern.

‘You were all right last week,’ she said.

‘Evil eye.’

The three girls turned around to see their mum looming at the door and watching Fatti with a look Mae didn’t quite recognize.

‘Yeah, thanks, Amma. That’s gonna make her feel loads better,’ retorted Mae. ‘And who’s given her this evil eye?’

As if on cue, Farah appeared next to her mum, holding a box and looking into the room. Under normal circumstances Mae would’ve laughed. Only, it was a bit of a coincidence and it made her feel uneasy. Because Farah was not being Farah. That wasn’t to say she was going around cursing people with bad health, obviously, but still.

‘You’ve not got very far, have you?’ said Farah, eyeing Mae’s room: the empty boxes stacked in a corner, bin bags that were half full, clothes splayed everywhere.

‘I’ve got markers and labels in here,’ she added, lifting the box.

Fatti was leaning on her elbows and attempting to sit up.

‘Hi,’ she said to Farah.

Farah smiled at her and wedged her way past Mum, setting the box down at Fatti’s feet.

‘Still not feeling great then?’ she asked.

Mae looked at Bubblee. She knew she’d had a talk with Farah and maybe it had worked because at least she wasn’t behaving like a bit of a cow. On the one hand, Mae couldn’t wait to leave all this drama behind her and start actually living her life; on the other hand, she knew this was also her life, and she wouldn’t be around to tell them all to get a grip and sort it out.

‘No, I’m fine, really,’ said Fatti, looking as though she might throw up there and then. ‘I’m just… for a second…’ and she lay back down, covering her eyes with her arms again. ‘Just a few seconds.’

Then their dad appeared.

‘All right, Pops?’ said Mae. ‘We needed more people in my room.’

He gave Mae a faint smile. His lack of ability to get her jokes now filled her with an affection that doubled because she wouldn’t witness it as often.

‘What is wrong with Fatti?’ he asked.

‘I’m fine, really,’ she replied without moving.

‘Father of mine,’ said Mae, patting him on the arm. ‘Have you forgotten when your dear wife was pregnant with her children?’

‘Tst,’ said her mum. ‘Don’t talk about such things with your abba.’

Her dad looked at her mum and smiled, but she wasn’t meeting his gaze.

‘What’s for lunch, Jay’s amma?’ he asked her.

‘Dal, porota, rice, fish curry, chicken curry, meat curry and potato curry,’ she replied, looking determinedly at Fatti.

These people, seriously. But Mae didn’t want to think about what drama was unfolding in her parents’ lives because they were old enough to sort it out between them.

‘All right, all right,’ said Mae, clapping her hands. ‘Can my lovely parents leave us to the packing since I’m leaving in under twenty-four hours and Bubblee’s erasing my identity by binning all the clothes I like. Thanks!’

With which she pushed her parents out of the door and looked at all her sisters. Bubblee was shaking her head with a smile and even Farah managed to laugh.

‘Don’t speak like that to people when you get to uni,’ came Fatti’s voice. ‘You’ll never make friends.’

Mae emptied out the bin bag that Bubblee had filled and said: ‘I’ll make the ones worth keeping, thanks. Plus, you can’t choose your family but at least I’ll get to choose my mates.’

The sisters got to work as Mae passed the clothes she’d be taking to Farah, who put them in a box and labelled them. They spent the next hour or so in relative silence, Fatti excusing herself in a rush to use the bathroom, and occasional conversations revolving around how petite Mae’s clothes were, which didn’t mean they should be worn in public.

‘Whatevs,’ she’d reply.

‘Books,’ said Bubblee, picking up a stack from Mae’s shelf, and one that seemed to have fallen behind the rest of them. ‘Which ones are you taking?’

‘Oh, wait.’

Mae leapt up and took them from Bubblee’s hands, putting them back.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ said Bubblee, still holding the one that had fallen.

She looked at it. The Myth of Choice: Female Sexuality and Getting it Right.

‘What kind of book is this?’ said Bubblee.

‘Nothing, leave it,’ replied Mae, snatching it from her. ‘Just, I’ll sort out the books last.’

Bubblee raised her eyebrows and turned back to Sellotape a box shut. Mae felt the colour in her cheeks rise. She didn’t even know why it mattered what books she did and didn’t read. Some things just interested her more. She didn’t have to justify anything, but that didn’t mean her family wouldn’t always try and make her.

She and her sisters looked up when they heard their mum’s raised voice. Mae scampered towards the door and opened it to get a better listen.

‘Mum never raises her voice,’ said Farah, also leaning in closer.

‘Don’t eavesdrop,’ added Fatti.

‘You lie back down, preggers,’ retorted Mae.

‘What are they saying?’ whispered Farah.

‘Shhh.’

Mae crept to the top of the stairs, leaning over the bannister for better earshot.

‘Calm down, calm down, Jay’s amma,’ she heard her dad say.

Silence. Then there was clattering in the kitchen. Mae waited for more but nothing else came. She walked back into the bedroom to her sisters’ expectant faces.

‘Useless. They stopped as soon as I got to the stairs. Apart from Dad telling Mum to calm down, I got nothing.’

‘How odd,’ said Bubblee. ‘Although hardly shocking, a man telling a woman to calm down.’

Mae smiled fondly at her sister. There was something to be said for people who were annoying all the time, because at least they were consistent. Their mum appeared at the door again, this time with some kind of drink concoction for Fatti. She went and handed the cloudy, dishwater-type stuff to her eldest and then sat on the bed.

‘Thanks, Amma,’ said Fatti, barely touching the mixture with her lips before running to the bathroom.

‘Poor girl,’ said their mum, looking after her.

Farah, Bubblee and Mae looked at their mother who seemed to have made herself quite comfortable.

‘Don’t worry,’ she added, looking at Farah who’d already begun folding clothes again and looking resolutely at the floor. ‘Your time will come somehow.’

Mae wanted to shake her head. Her mum still didn’t get that Farah didn’t want vague platitudes, she needed concrete solutions. Fatti came back in and sat on the bed, closing her eyes. She picked the glass up again.

‘Now,’ said their mum, ‘are you and Mustafa having the sex?’

Fatti spewed out bits of the cloudy drink, covering her top with it.

‘Amma,’ exclaimed Farah.

‘Zi, you can’t get a baby without the sex.’

‘Oh, my actual God,’ said Mae.

‘Mae, you leave the room. You are too young for this talk. Bubblee, you too.’

‘Mum,’ they both exclaimed.

‘I’m in my thirties,’ said Bubblee.

‘You are still unmarried.’

‘This is why I’m going off to uni. At least there I’ll be treated like an adult,’ said Mae.

‘Only if you act like it,’ said Bubblee.

‘No one has to leave the room,’ said Farah, ‘because we’re no longer having this discussion.’

Their mum looked unimpressed. ‘You are just like your abba. He never talks about things either.’

‘Listen, I’ve been to the doctor again…’

Farah looked at everyone. Mae noticed her voice waver. ‘He started going on about IVF and surrogacy and God knows what, but I’ve gone for more tests. Perhaps something will be different this time.’

‘Oh, Faru,’ said Fatti. ‘Things might change.’

Farah smiled. ‘Well, let’s not get our hopes up.’

The evenness of her voice suggested to Mae that Farah’s hopes were already sky high.

‘Make your prayers and Allah knows best, but don’t worry about the results. The answer is so simple,’ said their mum. ‘Fatti, you have this child now and give the next one to Faru, just like your amma gave you to me. Finish story.’

‘Bloomin’ ’eck,’ said Mae. ‘Talk about pass the baby parcel.’

Farah paused. ‘Sorry, Amma, but there’s no way I’d put a baby through what you put Fatti through.’

Their mum looked at all of them, confused. ‘What did I put her through? I loved her more than any of you.’

Fatti’s face looked flushed as she stared at her hands.

‘Knew it,’ said Mae.

‘Of course you did, Amma,’ replied Fatti, taking her mum’s hand.

‘No,’ interrupted Farah. ‘No way.’

‘Fatti,’ said their mum, looking at her. ‘You will give her your next baby, won’t you?’

‘It’s not like she’s giving me her old winter coat, Amma,’ said Farah, glancing at Fatti.

There was silence. Everyone’s eyes rested on Fatti, whose gaze was still firmly on her beautiful hands. She looked up.

‘Anyway,’ said Farah. ‘Like Fatti said, the doctor might have some good news.’

More silence. Mae wasn’t keen on silences.

‘You girls think I am a bad mother,’ said their mum. She was looking around at all of them as if in accusation. ‘You have your what’s-happening group and talk about these things, I know.’

‘WhatsApp,’ corrected Mae.

‘Of course not,’ said Fatti, looking horrified.

Bubblee chose to carry on filling the bin bags.

‘I see you,’ continued their mum, looking at Mae, ‘always on the phone, messaging and laughing. When I ask who you are speaking to you say it is your sisters.’

Maybe Mum was having a late-life crisis? She looked around at all of them.

‘What do you talk about?’ she asked.

‘Nothing,’ replied Farah. ‘Just… stuff. Like sisters do.’

‘Yes, you are lucky,’ said their mum. ‘So many of you. Ask me. I am alone.’

More silence. It wasn’t like their mum to talk about feelings. Thank God Fatti was there, who insisted that she wasn’t alone.

‘But you don’t put me in your group,’ their mum replied.

Mae glanced at Bubblee from the corner of her eye. Bubblee looked at Farah.

‘Look,’ exclaimed Mae, lifting up a floral summer dress. ‘Remember when Fatti and Farah got me this to try and make me dress more like a lady.’

Mae needn’t have bothered to try and change the subject.

‘Jay’s amma!’ came their dad’s voice.

‘Your abba and me are going for a walk.’ Their mum sounded exasperated at the very thought as she got up. ‘I would rather stay here and sit with you, but…’ She sighed and looked at Farah. ‘Remember, as long as you are having the se–’

‘God, no, Amma,’ the girls exclaimed in unison.

Their mum got up, gave them all another look, and left the room.

‘What the hell just happened there?’ said Bubblee.

Farah and Mae shuddered. The sooner Mae got out of this house, the better it’d be for her brain and self-awareness. To be told to leave the room at the mention of sex! She looked at Bubblee.

‘Bubs,’ she said, laughing, ‘looks like you and me aren’t so different.’ She threw her cargo pants at her sister.

‘Do you think Mum’s okay?’ said Fatti.

‘She’s probably just having a bad day,’ said Bubblee. ‘Unless you want to add her to our WhatsApp group?’

‘Well, no, but…’

‘The problem with Mum,’ said Mae, ‘is that her youngest is leaving the nest and she doesn’t know what she’ll do without me. Obvs.’

Bubblee rolled her eyes.

‘Or maybe she’s really sad,’ said Farah, sealing another box. ‘Maybe she does feel alone.’

‘But she has Dad,’ said Fatti.

Farah raised her eyebrows. ‘I love Dad, but it’s not as if her needs come first. I mean, I know something about that,’ she added pointedly.

‘Trouble in paradise, eh?’ said Mae.

Fatti shot her a look. Farah pushed the box to one side.

‘It’s as if you’re expected to be a mind-reader,’ said Farah. ‘One minute everything is fine and happy and the next…’ She shook her head. ‘And it’s always about them. Why is it that when women have problems we manage to go about things just the same, get on with it, but men? When they have problems the whole house comes to a standstill. Everything’s about what they want. What they need.’

Bubblee was nodding, vehemently, while Mae was considering it all as if it were marginally interesting.

‘Since the accident, it’s always about Mustafa,’ added Farah.

Fatti cleared her throat. ‘Did you want to start taking these boxes downstairs?’ she said to Mae.

‘I know, I know,’ continued Farah, ignoring Fatti. ‘His life changed, but so did mine and all because of him.’

Mae saw Fatti shifting uncomfortably. She and Mustafa might not have become close since realizing they were brother and sister, but she never did like talking about him behind his back.

‘This is why marriage as an institution is so flawed,’ said Bubblee.

‘Here we go,’ said Mae.

‘You’re bound to one another into this state and there’s this focus on compromise and having to make allowances, but why?’

Farah sighed. ‘Because it’s adult life.’

‘Says who?’

Farah looked at Bubblee as if she were crazy. ‘The world?’

‘The old world,’ corrected Bubblee.

‘I’m so glad Mum left when she did,’ said Fatti. ‘Bubblee would’ve given her a heart attack with all this anti-marriage talk.’

‘Women needed men back then,’ said Bubblee. ‘But we don’t need them for money any more. We can make that ourselves.’

‘And what about babies?’ asked Farah, the colour in her cheeks rising. ‘Where do we go for those?’

Silence ensued again as Farah looked away and the others glanced at one another. After a few awkward moments, Mae said: ‘One of your sisters, obvs.’

She jabbed her thumb towards Fatti. ‘Just like we got her.’

They all paused. Fatti laughed, so did Bubblee, and before they knew it they were all laughing. After a few minutes Farah shook her head.

‘Still needed a man, though.’ Farah stared at Bubblee. ‘Are you really okay with being alone for the rest of your life? Really?’

‘Better than being with someone and still feeling alone,’ she replied.

Mae wondered what it was like to think of such big questions in life. She looked at each of her sisters and knew that whatever questions they were asking each other, or themselves, they weren’t her type of questions. They heard the front door close, then footsteps come up the stairs. Jay poked his head in, said hello, and went into his little room to sleep for the rest of the day since he’d been doing deliveries all night.

‘Although things could be worse,’ said Bubblee when he left. ‘A person could be married to someone like Jay.’

Mae laughed as they spent the next few hours finishing up the packing, her heart fluttering at the idea of all the possibilities opening up in front of her.

The following day there were tears. Bubblee had to dab the corners of her eyes in case someone saw. She remembered when she was going to university and how different it had been. How she had to fight with her parents, especially her mum, in order to follow her now ambiguous dream. Was it even worth it? As she watched Mae get into her car and wind down her window Bubblee realized that she was the most alone out of everyone. If she had actually craved some kind of love, she might’ve tried to find it. But she never did. The idea of going back to London simply filled her with dread, the way staying at home in her prime years used to fill her younger self with fear. The only person worth going back for was her friend Sasha, and she was actually moving ahead in her career as an artist. Sasha, she heard and saw with her own eyes, actually had talent. Bubblee felt the familiar twinge of envy. It used to be a rampant jealousy that drove her to stay up late at night, working on her own sculptures. Bubblee wouldn’t sleep for days, believing that she had created something extraordinary in the end. But no one seemed to see it that way. Her self-belief couldn’t withstand the constancy of other people’s indifference. Indifference is worse than hating something. Now, here she was, back at home and she wasn’t sure to which place she really belonged. Things had changed yet she felt weirdly unchangeable, as though she was set in stone – a misshapen sculpture. There was irony.

‘Love you, losers,’ said Mae, as she waved from the window and drove down the road. Farah, Fatti, Ash, Mustafa, Jay, Bubblee and her parents all waved until Mae turned the corner and was out of view. Fatti blew her nose into a tissue that Ash handed her.

‘She’s going to be fine,’ he said.

‘I know that, but what about me?’ she exclaimed. ‘My little baby.’

‘That’s why we’re getting a new one,’ Ash replied, winking and putting his hand on her stomach.

Their dad cleared his throat and looked away. Bubblee had to shake her head at how ridiculous he and all Asian people seemed to be at any display of affection. Perhaps this had scarred her? Perhaps that’s why she focused so much on her work and creating something, that she didn’t even think about the fact that she was alone until now? Maybe things would’ve been different if someone had fallen in love with her. Even then, she felt unmoved. Assigning blame to her parents didn’t make her feel much better so she decided to stop.

‘What time are you leaving tomorrow?’ Farah asked Bubblee as they walked back into the house.

Their dad sighed. ‘All my daughters are leaving. Stay a little longer,’ he said to Bubblee.

Their mum shot him a look.

‘Abba, she has work to get back to,’ replied Farah. ‘It’s a shame we can’t keep you longer.’

Bubblee wasn’t sure whether Farah was being honest or if she felt bad for the way she’d spoken about her work the other day. She decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.

‘Hmm,’ replied Bubblee.

‘You should stay,’ added Fatti. ‘I could do with some help getting to the toilet bowl.’

‘Great.’ Bubblee collapsed on the sofa. ‘Time well spent for me.’

Mustafa got up. ‘I think I’m going to go home.’

Bubblee’s mum said they couldn’t leave without having dinner.

‘No, Farah, you just stay here if you want,’ he said.

‘You’re going to get a bus?’ said Farah.

He shifted on his feet. It seemed as though he still hadn’t quite got the hang of not being allowed to drive.

‘Bubblee will drive you home,’ offered their mum.

Bubblee refused to move. Why should she be lumbered with this task?

‘Don’t worry. I’ll get the bus.’

Everyone paused and looked at Bubblee. Their look was so obvious: Uncaring, Bubblee.

‘The bus comes every two hours,’ exclaimed their mum. ‘Especially at this time.’

He looked sheepish and Bubblee would almost have felt sorry for him if he weren’t being such an inconvenience. She gave as audible a sigh as possible, got up and grabbed her car keys.

‘Sorry,’ he said as he buckled himself into the seat of her car.

He looked at the back seat of her Fiat, surveying the mess.

‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘As long as you don’t comment on the junk.’

‘I was just thinking how different twins can be. If Farah saw this she’d be cleaning it up before she drove anyone anywhere.’

Bubblee simply nodded as she set out onto the main road. She didn’t often find herself alone with her brother-in-law and now that she did she wasn’t quite sure what to say to him.

‘How’s your…’ She glanced at him, flicking her head.

‘Brain?’ he said, smiling.

She smiled back. ‘Yes.’

‘It has its moments. Medicine’s keeping things in check but it’s medicine, you know?’ He paused. ‘It makes me…’

‘Yeah, Farah’s mentioned.’

‘Oh, she has?’

‘When I’ve asked how you’re doing.’

He didn’t have to know that Farah had complained to Bubblee over the past few years about his increasingly erratic moods. Bubblee wasn’t callous.

‘I didn’t think you ever asked how I was,’ Mustafa said with a smile.

‘Once in a blue moon,’ Bubblee replied.

Their mutual indifference had never really been acknowledged out loud – Mustafa’s comment was the closest they’d ever come to it.

‘Which is probably more than you ever ask about me,’ she added. ‘So there we have it.’

‘I ask about you.’

He said it so matter-of-factly that it surprised Bubblee.

‘Well. Good to know. Maybe the meds are making you a concerned brother-in-law as well as keeping you alive,’ Bubblee added.

‘Maybe.’

He looked out of the window and they spent the rest of the journey in silence as Bubblee pulled up in front of the house.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

He walked inside and Bubblee thought she saw him lean his back against the door as he closed it behind him. She waited a few moments until his figure moved and he was out of sight.

When she got back home, Bubblee said: ‘He seems to not feel great a lot of the time.’

‘Is he okay?’ Ash asked Farah.

‘He’s fine,’ she replied, not quite meeting his eye.

It didn’t seem as though Farah wanted to tell anyone else about his mood swings. Bubblee felt a sense of solidarity with her sister. Ash paused and then glanced at their parents. ‘That’s good. I just thought maybe he’s still not quite over the accident.’

‘Honey,’ said Fatti. ‘That was a few years ago now.’

‘Well, some things change people. Not that I knew him before the accident, but… anyway. I’m glad he’s fine.’

Farah gave a tight smile. Bubblee, Fatti and Farah’s phones buzzed simultaneously.

Mae: I’m freeeeeeeeee

Mae: Crap got stoppd by po-po 4 lukin @ fone. Told em I ws runnin away 4rm opresiv brown fam. Hahaha. Msg l8r xxxx

They were all smiling as Bubblee looked up. ‘She thinks she had it bad?’

‘I know,’ said Farah.

The sisters laughed as their mum asked: ‘What is so funny?’

‘Just Mae being Mae,’ said Bubblee.

‘How is she going to get through uni?’ added Farah.

Fatti put her phone away – she looked pale and sickly. Nothing like the way she had appeared a week ago. ‘She’s going to be just fine. I know it.’

‘Fats is right,’ said Bubblee. ‘She’s going to outshine us all.’

Mae’s gaping absence rendered everyone silent for a moment.

‘So, tell me, how does this what’s-happening work?’ asked their mum.

Sometimes Bubblee forgot how little her mum knew of the world and how little she tried to rectify it. How could her mum (just about) use an iPad but think an android phone was too complicated? It would be Bubblee’s worst nightmare for her life to become her home, and for that home to become an impassable bubble. And even worse would be their mum, carrying on, trying to encroach on their private group.

‘WhatsApp, Amma,’ corrected Fatti again, getting paler by the minute.

‘Do you want to go home?’ asked Ash.

‘I’m so sorry,’ replied Fatti, looking at everyone. ‘The nausea just won’t…’

She wasn’t able to make the end of the sentence before leaping up to run to the bathroom, Ash following her.

‘My poor daughter,’ said her mum. ‘But she has a good husband.’

Bubblee thought she saw Farah bristle. Perhaps she was imagining things?

‘You girls never answer me,’ said their mum. ‘I will learn to use this WhatsUp myself.’

‘Firstly, you’d need a phone that was made this century,’ replied Bubblee.

‘Hmm?’ Her mum looked confused. ‘Can I use my iPad?’

‘Well, yes, but…’ Bubblee couldn’t be bothered to finish explaining. ‘Don’t worry, Farah will get you a new phone when I leave.’

Her mouth went dry as she said this; her stomach twisted in an all-too-familiar knot of anxiety. It felt like an overreaction but she’d begun to have a physical reaction to going back to London.

‘Or maybe I will just stay.’

Farah frowned. ‘What about work?’

Bubblee moved uneasily on the sofa. There was nothing for it. She had to tell her family the truth.

‘Actually… well, in all honesty I resigned.’

‘What?’ said Farah.

Fatti and Ash walked into the room, Ash supporting Fatti as he said they were going to go home so she could rest.

‘Sorry,’ said Fatti.

‘Stop apologizing, honey,’ said Ash. ‘They understand.’

They both left.

Farah had hardly taken her eyes off Bubblee. ‘But your work is your life.’

This didn’t make Bubblee’s stomach settle very well.

‘Bubblee,’ said their dad, leaning forward. ‘You don’t have your job?’

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ asked their mum with a look that was far too much like satisfaction.

‘Because of that look,’ Bubblee mumbled.

‘What?’ said her mum.

‘Because there was already enough going on here, wasn’t there?’

‘What about your flat where you were living?’ asked Farah.

Bubblee paused. ‘I’ve given it up. Couldn’t afford to stay without the job.’

‘Oh,’ replied Farah.

‘So then you must stay,’ said her dad, hardly watering down his smile or his pleasure.

Her mum cleared her throat. ‘Yes,’ she said, apparently unsure. ‘Maybe one week? Two?’

This was different. Normally her mum would’ve been ecstatic at the idea of Bubblee staying home for as long as possible – moving back home, in fact.

‘You don’t sound that pleased, Amma?’ said Bubblee, a smile on her lips.

Wasn’t that just the way? There was a time her mum would’ve begged her to stay home and now it was Bubblee who was the beggar. How could she afford to live in London without a job? What was she meant to do with her life?

‘Of course she is pleased,’ said her dad, rubbing his hands together. ‘We both are.’

Their mum played with the edge of her paisley-patterned sari. ‘Your abba likes to answer for me.’

Farah and Bubblee looked at their dad. He shifted his gaze to the carpet before looking up and smiling at Bubblee.

‘One daughter gone and another is back.’

‘Not permanently,’ said Bubblee, leaning forward. ‘It’s just until I sort out what I want to do. I won’t be here for ever. Anyway, I can stay with Sasha in London as long as I need when I decide to get back.’

He just met this with another smile. There were parents in the world who’d have been steeped in disappointment at their child leaving a job; asking why they left, pushing for future plans and giving lectures on responsibility and motivation. But no, Bubblee’s mum felt the only important thing to say was: ‘Maybe now you will have time to find a husband and settle down at last.’

Bubblee gave an exasperated sigh. ‘No, Mum. I have not given up one dream just to follow yours.’

She felt her face flush, her heart beat faster. Why couldn’t her mum be a friend to her the way she seemed to be to Fatti? Why did she never understand things? It shouldn’t matter how different a bunch of sisters were, their mum should be able to have a relationship with each of them, irrespective of differences of opinion or beliefs.

‘So what are you going to do?’ said their mum.

‘Jay’s amma,’ her dad interrupted, putting out his hand as if to tell her to wait a moment.

‘You ask her then,’ she replied.

He cleared his throat, his voice much softer. ‘Bubblee – what are you going to do?’

There was a pause as Bubblee looked at her parents in pure hopelessness. What was she going to do?

‘Why don’t we have some dinner?’ said Farah. ‘Abba, Amma, let’s talk about this later, okay?’

In that moment Bubblee’s heart swelled with a gratitude for Farah that she couldn’t remember having felt for a while.

As Farah and her mum went into the kitchen she heard their muffled conversation, while her dad just kept giving her encouraging smiles.

‘I’m okay, Abba,’ said Bubblee.

‘Don’t worry, don’t worry.’

Her dad was very good at vague affirmations, at least.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Her mum made some allusions to weddings and decided to cite as many women as possible from their community who’d got married recently to ‘very good men’.

‘Jay’s abba, shall we go to bed?’ asked their mum after they’d cleaned up, had tea and settled in the living room again.

Their dad was watching the news, eyes glued to the television.

‘Hmm? Yes, I’m coming.’

‘Fancy watching a film, or are you going home?’ Bubblee asked Farah.

Farah hesitated. ‘Actually, I’ve just messaged Mus to say I might stay over here tonight.’

‘Farah, you shouldn’t leave your husband alone like this,’ said their mum.

‘No,’ added Bubblee. ‘Grown men never know how to look after themselves.’

‘Bubblee, when you are married you will see,’ said their mum.

Bubblee simply sighed and pretended to read something on her phone. It was actually the job vacancy at her gallery that she was looking at. At first it was a tab she opened every day. Now it remained open and she refreshed it every time she picked her phone up.

‘He’s fine,’ replied Farah. ‘He’s already in bed, anyway. I suppose he’s tired.’

‘Jay’s abba, do you hear that? Bed.’

He looked up for a second. ‘I will be up.’

Their mum paused, giving him not quite so pleasant a look, before leaving the room and walking up the stairs.

It was half an hour later when their mum’s voice came booming from upstairs, calling for their dad. He sighed, switched off the television and looked at Farah and Bubblee.

‘Goodnight, my girls.’

Before leaving the room, he turned around and said: ‘Farah, one night here is enough, yes?’

With a smile, he turned back and walked towards his waiting wife. Bubblee raised her eyebrows at Farah.

‘It just never stops annoying me,’ said Bubblee. ‘The backwardness of this place.’

Farah shrugged. ‘You can’t change people’s views when they get to that age.’

Bubblee paused. ‘But you were in the kitchen with Mum, trying to change her views on my getting married anyway, weren’t you?’

Farah stood up and adjusted the cushion from the sofa their dad had just vacated. She looked around the room for other things to fix.

‘Mum’s Mum,’ she replied before her eyes settled on Bubblee. ‘That’s a big decision you made. Leaving work.’

‘It made itself.’

Farah turned the sofa her dad had been sitting on away from the television and opposite Bubblee. ‘You didn’t tell me, any of us.’

‘In the grand scheme of things it’s not important, is it, Farah?’ Bubblee knew this could lead into another silent argument, leaving things unsaid while feelings brimmed.

‘You’re still angry about what I said that day, aren’t you?’

‘What do you think?’

Farah crossed her legs at the ankle, looking so composed Bubblee thought that no matter what happened, Farah would never fall apart.

‘Bubs, I didn’t have enough sympathy in me for both of us. I’m sorry.’

She looked earnest.

‘Yet I managed to have some for you,’ replied Bubblee.

Bubblee felt like a miser; an emotional Scrooge. Never had she really considered her lack of compassion, not until this moment when she was recounting how she had managed to give some to her sister who was unable to conceive a baby. Perhaps she was always too engrossed in her work and becoming an artist. The two shouldn’t be mutually exclusive but compassion also required the time to listen and she had very little of that when she was in London.

‘You know that feeling that you were made to do something?’ said Farah.

Bubblee raised her eyebrows.

‘Sorry, yes, you do. I feel as though my life’s somehow incomplete, that there’s this gaping hole that can only be filled with a baby.’

‘Are you sure it’s just the baby?’ said Bubblee. ‘I know you said you felt like this before the accident, but since then it just seems… like you’ve become obsessed in a way.’

Bubblee could see Farah retreat; an invisible barrier appeared. But she couldn’t stop now – she had to say it or what was the point?

‘In a way that feels… not wholly present.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Just that you’d never have let Mustafa go home alone like that before, or stay the night here.’

‘So? Why is everyone making such a big deal of this?’

Bubblee quietly sighed. ‘Okay, it doesn’t matter.’

Her own refrain surprised her.

‘I guess you think you also failed at creating something,’ said Farah.

‘Created plenty – just nothing worth anyone actually seeing,’ said Bubblee wryly.

‘You might find something else?’

‘Will you do the same if you can’t have a baby?’

They both fell silent and heard muffled voices come from their parents’ bedroom. Farah looked at Bubblee.

‘I always had this idea that I could give this baby a life that was different to ours.’

‘It was… is a bit challenging sometimes. They’re on another planet,’ replied Bubblee.

‘I know, bless them. I never really felt like I had much choice when I was growing up – and I’m not blaming you or anything at all, I wish I could’ve been as daring as you, but… it sort of felt like I couldn’t really think about what I wanted because I was always trying to be the good one, lessen the upset that…’

‘That I caused?’

Farah gave her an apologetic look. ‘I suppose there’s no other way to say it, but I promise there’s no resentment there. But maybe I want a baby for that reason too: to fulfil a part of life that never quite… you know.’

Bubblee did know. A baby could be like a second chance. She’d never thought about it that way – a baby always seemed to her an obstacle in the face of her own chances.

‘Hmm,’ she simply replied. ‘A second chance.’

The two sisters sat like that for a while, with Bubblee wondering about second chances and where, if anywhere, she was to find hers.

Mae: Im here losers! V weird nt hvin mum & dad to eavsdrop on bt its time 2 party!!!!

Fatti: Don’t go crazy, please. I already have one child making me ill xoxoxoxoxo

Farah: Are you sure you packed enough jumpers? What did you have for dinner? We miss you Xx

Bubblee: Actually we’re enjoying the quiet. Be good. But not too good Xxx

Chapter Five

Farah had already had the scan and it was time for the results. She walked into the doctor’s surgery, heart practically in her throat as she was called into his room. He swivelled in his chair and as soon as she saw his face she knew.

‘I’m afraid there’s been no improvement, and actually it’s got worse.’

There was a way to deliver the news. Farah hadn’t realized how much hope she had of the result being different until that hope was crushed. Not only that, but the situation had got worse.

‘Now, are you very stressed?’

What a question! Of course she was stressed. She couldn’t have a baby.

‘No more than usual,’ she mumbled.

What was she going to do? How was life ever going to work out? It all felt too helpless, too hopeless.

‘And have you and your husband had sex since our last appointment?’

She felt her face flush. ‘We’ve been busy.’

He tapped his pen on the table. ‘Well, the chances of conceiving are very slim, but they’re nil if you don’t have sex.’

Farah wanted to cry. It was ridiculous. She knew this, Mustafa knew this, even her mum had told her this, and yet he just didn’t ever seem to be in the mood.

‘Have you given counselling some thought?’

‘Sorry? No. Maybe.’

‘Now surrogacy is still an option. It can be very successful if done through the right channels. Here are a few websites you should look at to help get your head around how it works and what it’d involve.’

‘I’ve already said we can’t afford it.’

‘I understand, and that’s something you’d need to work on, but the chances of actually getting a baby at the end of it are higher than with IVF.’

Farah drank in the word chance. Had she been too quick to dismiss the idea? She could always get two jobs to help save money, and her parents might be able to help them. It was just the idea of not actually carrying the baby that made her stop short.

‘It would be your baby, with your genes,’ he said, as if reading her thoughts. ‘I know the concept isn’t very easy to grasp, but it’s a scientific feat and worth exploring, in my opinion.

I’ve given you the websites, so think about it and speak to your husband, of course.’

Farah’s mind buzzed. It would be their baby. But she wouldn’t carry it. Mae would call her crazy, but Farah couldn’t help but look at Fatti and envy her the sickness she was going through. Well, perhaps not to the same extent, but she wanted to know the feeling of growing something inside her and that connection that comes because of it. Farah picked up her phone and dialled Fatti’s number.

‘Hello?’ came her muffled voice.

‘Are you in bed?’

There was a pause. ‘That obvious? What’s going on?’

Farah wondered why she’d even called Fatti – to ask her what it feels like to have a baby inside her and whether that was reason enough to reject the idea of surrogacy? Then she heard sniffling.

‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.’ But Fatti’s voice sounded nasal and thick.

‘Do you have a cold?’

A few moments passed before she replied: ‘No.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Don’t worry, I’m fine, I’m sorry, I’m just…’

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Farah, getting ready to jump in her car and see her sister. She’d taken a late doctor’s appointment and had finished work for the day.

‘No, it’s fine, really.’ Fatti seemed to be gathering herself before she cried out: ‘I can’t say this to you.’

‘Say what to me?’

Farah thought she heard Fatti sob. She waited, confused and unsure of what to do or say.

‘It’s just so… so…’ Hiccup. ‘So awful.’

‘What is?’ exclaimed Farah.

The sobs began again.

‘The baby,’ Fatti cried. ‘I know I shouldn’t say this to you of all people. I know. I’m the one who’s awful.’

Fatti paused, perhaps waiting for Farah to say something, but she had no words. Certainly no sympathy.

‘It’s just that I’m always feeling sick. I wake up all through the night. The other day I didn’t even make it to the bathroom and threw up on Ash’s slippers.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry. I’m grateful, really. Honestly, I am. You don’t need to hear this.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ replied Farah. ‘Listen, I should go. I’m actually driving.’

Farah got into her car and started the engine.

‘Okay, of course. Hang on, why did you call?’ asked Fatti.

‘Oh, nothing. Just wanted to see what you were up to.’

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come out with all of that. Not when yo–’

‘I really should get off the phone,’ interrupted Farah.

‘Okay, I’ll speak to you later, then?’

‘Yeah, fine. Bye.’

Farah put the phone down and rested her head on the steering wheel of the car. A sense of panic rose in her chest – she had to wind down the window for some fresh air as she switched the engine off.

‘Pull yourself together,’ she said to herself. ‘Just pull your self together.’

It was so much easier said than done.

It would be your baby, with your genes.

The doctor was right, of course. Pregnancy was the beginning but it wasn’t the end. Holding a baby in your arms, tending to it, watching it grow, its features morphing in and out of recognition. The way it would reflect some of her, some of Mustafa and something new altogether was all still possible. This time when she switched the engine on again there was an urgency. She sped down the street all the way home to tell her husband. They would have a baby. It would be theirs. It’s just that someone else would carry it.

When she walked into the house Mustafa was fixing the light bulb in a lamp.

‘Oh,’ she said, watching him with his tools sprawled all around him. ‘You’re home.’

‘Finished the day early so I came home and started this. I’ve fixed the bathroom tap too,’ he said. ‘It was driving me crazy. Do you know where my screwdriver with the green handle is?’ He was looking around for it.

‘No,’ she replied.

‘Oh, here it is,’ he said, bringing it up and looking at it. ‘It was right there. I must be going blind.’

He laughed at his own observation. She wondered how the things that had needed fixing around the house for the past three months were only just occurring to Mustafa. He looked up at her with such child-like satisfaction she decided not to point this out to him. Plus, she needed him on side, and his mood hadn’t been this positive for a while. When she looked into the kitchen she saw that all the dishes and plates had been taken out of the cupboard.

‘What’s going on there?’ she asked.

‘Hmm?’ Mustafa glanced into the kitchen before returning to his light bulb. ‘Hinges on the cupboards were loose.’

Farah wondered whether there were any other hinges loose as she stared at her husband. But she must stop all this negativity and appreciate that today was the day he felt like being productive.

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