Page 87 of The Mismatch

‘I want to be like Popeye!’

Neda stroked her daughter’s hair once more.

‘Can we go to the park?’ Laleh exclaimed, jumping off her mum’s lap. Her little legs looked strong as a frog’s as she hopped up and down, determined to get her way. Neda couldn’t blame her for being bored in their shabby flat.

Once Neda got a teaching job at the university, which she did alongside her own studies, they moved to a larger place but they still had an assortment of mismatched furniture. Hossein had saved for a year to buy a bigger television, which he was proud to own. The Persian rug they’d brought with them eight years ago was in the living room. It was important to Neda; something to remind her of her roots.

The walls were bare, with mould growing high up in one of the rooms. Neda frequently scrubbed it off but it always came back. Often she heard the neighbours on one side, either arguing or having loud intercourse.

‘Mummy’s feeling tired,’ she said, with a deep sigh.

‘Pleaaaaase?’ Laleh gave her sad eyes. She was so expressive, so honest with her emotions; it was admirable.

Neda heaved herself off the sofa. ‘OK, but we can’t stay out too late, my back hurts.’ She put a cardigan on and folded her silk scarf down the middle before wrapping it loosely around her head. Towards the end of her pregnancy she didn’t mind letting some of her hair show; she lacked the energy required to keep fixing it.

She held Laleh’s hand as they left the house. ‘Maybe your uncle will be in—’ Neda barely had a chance to finish her sentence before Laleh struggled out of her mother’s grasp and ran down the path, five doors down, to Ali’s house.

Laleh banged on the door. Getting no response, she peered through the letter box. ‘Uncle Ali! I know you’re in there!’

Neda struggled to catch up with her. ‘Laleh! Stop shouting!’ she shouted, ironically. ‘If he isn’t answering, he isn’t in. Maybe he’s at class. Come on, come on, let’s go.’

As they walked away, Neda looked back at her brother’s flat and saw a curtain twitch. Perhaps her daughter wasn’t speaking out of turn. But she knew how much her brother loved Laleh, and if he wasn’t answering the door to her it was probably because hecouldn’tanswer. Meaning he had a girl over. Neda shook her head. It seemed everyone came toEngland to transgress. All she had come for was a new learning opportunity.

The park they regularly frequented was a short walk from their flat. As soon as they walked through the gate Laleh ran off and amused herself. Neda made sure to watch over her from a nearby bench. She knew it was safe here but had heard stories of strangers in parks. Despite this, she shut her eyes for a few seconds, to let the pain behind her lids settle.

‘Neda?’ a voice said. She opened her eyes and instantly focused them on Laleh. She was sitting cross-legged in a sandpit, determinedly creating a mound. Then Neda looked at the woman in front of her. Suddenly she felt too hot, and wished she was at home and could run herself a cool bath. The sun seemed to have settled directly above her head and was beating down on her navy blue hijab.

‘Look at you! How many months along are you now?’ Simran asked, perching on the bench next to her.

Neda knew the other woman from their local mosque, though she wasn’t a friend Neda would have chosen for herself. Simran was a busybody who made Neda miss Mena even more.

‘Eight, alhamdulillah. How are you? Your husband and children are well?’

Simran bent forward, staring deep into Neda’s eyes. She often did this, as though rooting deep into Neda’s soul and extracting incriminating evidence that she would eventually share. Her long black hair was tied up in a thick plait down her back. Even looking at it made Neda feel hot; she couldimagine the clinging weight of it and scratched her own neck in response.

When Neda had reached seven months pregnant with the twins, in a fit of despair at the discomfort, she’d had her hair cut into a bob. Hossein had barely noticed.

‘They’re well, sister, thank you.’ Simran gave her another pointed look. ‘There is something I need to talk to you about.’

Neda focused her gaze on Simran’s hands and the henna pattern there. She remembered she’d once queued to have henna put on her hand by Simran at a henna party. She had shown Hossein afterwards and all he’d said, whilst laughing at her, was, ‘Why do you haveshiton your hand?’

She had ignored him for the rest of the evening while he insisted he was ‘only joking’.

‘Sister, are you listening to me?’

‘What?’

Simran took a deep breath, grasped Neda’s hands between her own. ‘Sister, people have seen Hossein hanging around with an Englishwoman. They saw him going into her house last night. Did he come home?’

It was like a sharp punch to Neda’s stomach. She needed to leave.

Simran wore a look of grim satisfaction, as though now the heavy burden had been lifted off her shoulders and placed onto Neda’s, she could rest easy.

‘Sorry, sister, I feel a bit light-headed. I think it’s the sun. I’m going home,’ Neda said.

Simran’s expression dropped. What did she expect, Neda thought, that they would discuss her husband’s indiscretionstogether? That wasn’t how it was done. Not to Neda’s way of thinking. Secrets should be kept within the family, always.

She got up with slight difficulty, gripping the back of the bench for support. Simran held her hand out to help, her face now pinched in something almost like sympathy. Neda was too embarrassed to take it. Embarrassed about everything. About her entire existence. Every imperfection became heightened; her mind had a way of pushing her even lower into the pits of despair. She was conscious of the way her stomach ballooned outwards, how swollen and fat her feet were, of the hairs she was too tired to shave from her fingers. Was it any wonder he strayed?