Page 46 of The Mismatch

At this Neda scoffed. ‘I know what people think – that I’m old-fashioned.’

Hossein stopped, so Neda did too. A couple behind weaved their way past, mildly irritated by the obstacle in their way, swinging their clasped hands as they walked.

‘Well, I don’t think that. You’re taking action, standing up for what you believe in … it’s admirable. I wish I were like you. In fact, I have something I need to—’

A man selling single red roses cut him off. ‘Buy one for the beautiful khanum?’

Neda opened her mouth to refuse, though secretly she hoped he’d buy her one. Hossein gave the man money, his back to her. When he turned around in his hands were a dozen or so roses.

She grinned; it was the most genuine smile she’d given in a very long time. As he handed them to her he swore under his breath. ‘The thorns,’ he explained. She looked down and realised he hadn’t got the roses wrapped, so his palm was encircling the sharp barbs. She laughed, and then they were both laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation.

Racing around Neda’s mind in that moment was the wordloveand how easily, she realised, she could fall in love with this man.

CHAPTER 21

Neda

Tehran, 1977

‘Are you sure about this, Neda?’ Baba’s voice startled her, causing her to spill water from the can she was holding, onto the cracked tiles in their garden. She moved it back towards the flower beds she had been watering, paying particular attention to the red roses that were in bloom.

‘Sure about what?’

The silence that followed made her pause in what she was doing. Her father had a worried look on his face and his hands were folded together, which she knew was a sign that they were itching to fidget. She had seen him peel the skin from his fingers when he didn’t realise she was looking. As she grew older she realised the man she thought was the fountain of knowledge and wisdom had cracks underneath just like everyone else.

‘Baba?’

‘I have a bad feeling about Hossein,’ he said slowly. ‘But you seem so certain, so sure. I didn’t want to say anything before, but now I feel I have to. He doesn’t seem good enough for you, Neda.’

‘What? You didn’t say anything at the khastegari—’

‘You looked happy. I thought maybe I was being overprotective …’

‘So, what’s changed since then?’ She shifted on her feet, feeling almost dizzy, as though the one thing she wanted more than anything was close to being snatched away. She hadn’t realised she felt as much as that for Hossein until this moment. ‘Maman loves him, why can’t you?’

Baba’s face hardened and he tutted sharply. ‘Watch your tone.’

Neda muttered an apology that she didn’t mean.

He stepped closer to her, but instead of looking at her he watched the roses she had just watered, brushing his fingers over their petals.

‘Of all my children you’re the most intelligent, you know that, don’t you?’

She said nothing in response.

‘I know your mother gives you bother because of your ambition. It’s because she doesn’t understand. You’re destined for things much greater than this.’ He pointed at the small garden they shared with the other residents of their building. ‘When you first said you wanted to wear a hijab, I couldn’t understand it. You’d be making your life so much harder. But you were so determined, just like you are with your studies, like you are with everything you do. I want to make sure you’re happy. As your father it’s my duty to advise you.’

‘But, Baba, I will be happy with Hossein. You don’t understand, he’s had such a hard life. After his dad died he had to be a father to his sisters, to look after his whole family. He’s a good man. I know I’ll be happy with him.’

She knew what she was doing, knew if she mentioned Hossein’s hard life it would soften her baba.

Or so she thought.

He snorted in response. Neda smiled automatically until she realised he was laughing at her.

‘You’re young, azizam, marriage is hard, you don’t know the other person until you’re living with them and then it’s too late. There’s something not quite right about him – he seems very melancholy, no?’

‘What do you mean, melancholy?’