Page 3 of The Mismatch

She knew how painful it was to attempt to readUlyssesin just one week, about the layers of symbolism inA Doll’s House, could compare the different portrayals of misers in seventeenth-century literature, even knew Ronald Knox’s ten commandments of detective fiction by heart. But all of that was useless to her here.

‘Through social media …’ Soraya began but wasn’t sure how to finish. They looked at her, waiting. ‘And online engagement …’ These buzzwords meant nothing to her.

After four more similarly painful interactions, they thanked her and said they would be in touch in the coming weeks.

‘Before you go, I have to ask,’ the portly man began, ‘where are you from?’

Her smile faltered for just a second.

‘Oh, I’m from Brighton,’ she said.

‘Really?’ he said, leaning forward. The other man was gathering papers, ignoring the conversation around him.

‘Well, some people say I have a bit of a Northern accent because my family used to live in Liverpool, so I guess I might have a Northern twang …’

‘I meant more your name. Soraya Nazari.’ He said it with the emphasis on the wrong letters, putting his Western spin on it. ‘It’s different, rather … exotic.’

There was a short silence.

How many times recently had Soraya been called ‘exotic’? Too many. And yet, she couldn’t remember anyone calling her that back home when she was younger. She remembered frequently being called a ‘Paki’, however.

At first, she didn’t mind the term ‘exotic’, preferred it to racial slurs anyway. But it was only when she told her friend Priya this and her immediate reaction was to spit out, ‘We’re not fucking fruit!’ that Soraya realised it wasn’t a good thing, but rather an act of othering.

A dictionary definition of exotic is:

Introduced from another country: not native to the place where found

Foreign, alien

Strikingly, excitingly, or mysteriously different or unusual

Of or relating to striptease

So, with the above in mind, it stung to be called exotic. But she was desperate; this was the first graduate interview shehad been invited to, and she had applied for jobs all summer, so she pretended to be unbothered by his comment.

‘Ah, yes, my family came over from Iran,’ she said. ‘But I’ve only been a few times.’

‘Anyway,’ the older man said, standing, perhaps saving his colleague from making any further remarks. ‘Thank you, Soraya, for coming in.’

She shook their hands in turn, remembering to use a firm grasp as though they’d hire her based on her above-par handshake despite the interview being a flop.

As she waited for the lift, an awkward experience in which she pretended she couldn’t see everyone working around her as there was no corridor, the office being just one room, she felt an unfounded sense of hope. Maybe she didn’t do so badly, she thought. Perhaps it was like in exams when she thought she did terribly, but in reality got a respectable B.

When the lift eventually arrived Soraya quickly walked in and pressed the close button. She looked at herself in the mirror, straightening her Zara trouser suit. She had red lipstick smudged on her front teeth, which she wiped off quickly with her clammy forefinger, hoping they hadn’t noticed.

Exiting the building onto Old Street, she was met by an onslaught of workers rushing back to their offices post-lunch. As she walked towards the station, she became increasingly irritated: by the strappy kitten heels she’d decided to wear, by London’s uneven pavements, by the people hovering behind her, trying to get around her. In London, you couldn’t just walk at your own pace to your destination. The streets weretoo overcrowded and you were either slowed down by those in front, or, like now, bothered by the people breathing down your neck. There was no space simply to enjoy a leisurely walk. She felt the urge to stop, quite suddenly, and create a human domino effect of people piling into each other and toppling over.

Ultimately, though, she was irritated because she had nowhere to be, no purpose, and she had never had this feeling before. Education had always been at the forefront of her mind, and there was always something she should be doing – an essay to be written, a book to be read, notes to be revised.

Now, her future lay ahead of her, with no plan, no timeline of what was to come, and she was falling face first, ungracefully, into adulthood.

CHAPTER 2

Soraya

London, 2014

The Richard Hoggart Building stood tall and not quite proud. The building was newly renovated, its exterior now featuring a gleaming white entryway with gold accents. By the front was no longer a shabby car park, but instead landscaped grounds with benches, the perfect place for pre-graduation photos. Families stood with their phones out, encouraging their soon-to-be graduates to pose by the grand university building. It was strange, Soraya thought, that people she had once seen snort MD and pee out of open windows (girls included) were now in suits and heels with their families. Everyone looked older since their final exams in May, three months ago now. Many stayed in their London houses over the summer, but she had only seen a handful of people from her course since university had ended.