Page 16 of The Mismatch

‘Well, no, you’re a bit more timid than her.’

Soraya’s jaw tightened. She got up from her bed. Perhaps she could work on her timidness, starting with her sister.

‘OK, I’ve gotta go, bye!’

She hung up before Parvin could say anything else. Instead of dwelling on the email from the agency, as she inevitably would if it stayed in her inbox, Soraya decided to delete it.

She spent the rest of the day drawing a new illustration. She drew what she imagined her sister Laleh to look like now, and she was smiling. But despite her attempts to draw a woman in her thirties, she couldn’t help but give her teenage qualities, from the one photograph she had of her. Her cheeks were chubby, her eyes youthful and carefree. That was all she knew of her sister.

She wondered why Laleh had ruined her life, leaving her entire family for a man. Why it seemed, judging from the women in her family, that men always seemed to ruin women’s lives.

She texted Parvin then:Do you ever think about Laleh?

Parvin replied:Always.

Soraya let out a long breath. Contemplated replying, but didn’t quite know what to say. What there was to say, when she didn’t know Laleh at all, knew nothing about her.

Her mind began to wander to Magnus. And not for the first time she asked herself what she was doing. A bubble of panic rose in her stomach. She pushed the thought down, vowing to interrogate it at a later date if necessary, hopefully never.

She refreshed her mailbox again and had no new emails. Looming over her was the fact that without any income, and with her quickly dwindling student loan savings, she’d soon have to move back home.

CHAPTER 7

Neda

Tehran, 1974

Neda was acutely aware of the middle-aged men who walked past her in the streets, the way their gazes lingered on certain parts of her body: her breasts, thighs, bottom, even her wrists. Everywhere but her face. It seemed women weren’t allowed to walk down the street without being looked at, whistled at. As though walking down the street was akin to being a painting in a gallery or – depending on how you looked at it – freshly drained lamb in the markets.

She wore a knee-length skirt and a fitted blouse, attire she thought suitably conservative whilst she worked part-time in the admin department at the hospital. She wore similar outfits to university.

Skipping breakfast, she ran to the bus stop, her feet slamming against the hot ground. She swore she could feel the heat through her sandals. Beads of sweat ran down her forehead; her underarms were already damp with perspiration.

The houses down her street blurred before her eyes, their mismatched grand gates and cream brickwork merging into one. Children played with footballs in the road, their laughter ringing in her ears.

It was only when she slowed down, due to a stitch in her side, that she noticed her neighbours standing outside their houses chatting together. They turned to look at her with amused, inquisitive expressions. She gave them a wave, conscious that it was considered rude not to give them a proper greeting. This was made more embarrassing when she rounded the corner and saw her bus driving away.

She stopped again and rested her hands on her hips while she caught her breath. Grudgingly, she raised her arm limply and hailed a taxi. A red car stopped in the middle of the road and the man inside gestured for her to hurry. Dashing over, she jumped into the back seat.

‘The general hospital. Quickly, please, I’m late,’ she said, before leaning away from the driver. Her now damp back was sticky against the leather seat.

‘Sure,’ he said, looking at her through his mirror.

She breathed out, still catching her breath, making a mental note to get fitter. Looking out of the window, she saw great green trees, colourful cars with large rounded tyres, and women wearing miniskirts, which seemed to be getting shorter by the day. Murals of the Shah were painted on the buildings they passed, his angular face and dark eyebrows commanding, but despite their grandeur such murals were so commonplace it was like seeing her own face in the mirror.

The taxi driver took a right when he should have taken a left, and began to make his way down an underpass, in the opposite direction from the hospital.

‘Where are you going? The hospital is the other way,’ she said sharply, before letting out a tut. ‘How do you not know where it is?’

He said nothing, and the silence dragged on. Her hands were suddenly slick with sweat, her whole body damp in the heat.

‘Excuse me, sir? Where are we going?’

‘To my house,’ he replied gently, his gaze on the traffic ahead.

Her whole body felt cold then.

‘What?’ she yelled, looking at the meter. He was driving at 120 kilometres per hour, like all the other cars on the motorway. She looked at the door. It was not locked. ‘Why?’