Page 88 of The Mismatch

And now everyone knew about her husband’s transgressions. He was supposed to be a Muslim man, hergoodman, and now everyone was talking about them, no doubt laughing at her stupidity for marrying a man with no morals. Every time she thought of them – the people in the mosque, his fellow takeaway workers, even her university peers – gossiping about her, she felt a physical pain in her chest. She tried not to think about it. She couldn’t in front of Simran. She would not break down in front of anyone, fuel further gossip.

After many years, Neda finally understood why gossiping was haram.

‘Neda?’ Simran called after her.

‘I’m fine, Simran,’ she called back. ‘Laleh!’ Her child looked up, no doubt about to protest. ‘Now.’ She trudged slowly towards her mother.

Neda grabbed her wrist and turned to wave goodbye to Simran. ‘Talk soon, sister.’

‘Neda, are you sure you’re OK?’ Perhaps she truly was trying to help. But better Simran had kept quiet than make Neda so painfully aware how badly she was failing in her marriage and in life.

‘I’m fine, honestly. Say hello to your husband from me.’ Neda gave a forced smile and turned her head away before a tear ran down her face. She walked away as fast as she could. Laleh had to run to keep up, little legs struggling to match her mother’s long strides.

‘Mummyyyy, stoooop!’ Laleh moaned.

Neda looked down at her daughter’s pink, perspiring face, and slowed.

‘Why are you crying?’ Laleh said. This wasn’t the first time she had seen her mum cry, and it wouldn’t be the last.

‘Your dad is a bastard.’ Although Neda said it quietly she knew she shouldn’t have said it at all. Knew she was being a bad mother. That thought dipped her deeper into sadness.

‘Do you want some ice cream?’

Laleh looked up at her mum, pleased, but didn’t reply.

‘Is that a yes?’ Neda pressed.

‘Why is daddy a bastard? What’s a bastard?’

Neda’s cheeks coloured. ‘I didn’t say that, azizam, come on.’ She tugged Laleh’s hand to make her walk a bit faster. They stopped off at the corner shop on the way home and Neda allowed Laleh to buy any ice cream she wanted. When they were home she gave the child her colouring books and pens, which busied her nicely.

Then Neda went into the kitchen, opened the cutlery drawer and emptied its contents into the sink. She filled thiswith bleach and hot, soapy water. After that she started on the plates. Whilst they were soaking, she rested her back against the door frame, breathing deeply. She wanted desperately to sweep the whole place and mop the floors. Instead Neda went to their bedroom, stripped the bedding and put the sheets and pillowcases in the bathtub. She filled it with hot water and laundry detergent. Everything was left to soak, but a voice was still nagging at the back of her mind. There were other people in her household. The women Hossein had been with,was with currently, taunted her. They were in the sheets, in the cutlery her lips touched. She wanted to scream. If Laleh hadn’t been there shewouldhave screamed, without restraint.

She settled for walking to her bedroom, opening the chest of drawers and removing a pastel pink cashmere jumper. It was her mother’s; Neda had taken it as a souvenir of home. She inhaled the warm scent, bringing back memories of her busy loving home. She buried her face in the soft fabric and let out a muffled scream.

She struggled to stop.

Then, in a moment of potential insanity, she and Laleh were in the car. It happened in a blink and Neda knew she was driving herself further into madness, but couldn’t stop.

Getting behind the steering wheel was difficult for her. The car was ridiculously cramped but she pushed the driver’s seat back and proceeded in her pursuit. Her back was in pain; everything hurt. As she struggled she knew passers-by were judging her. They openly stared, and when she met their eyes they didn’t look away. She was a foreigner, and so she would be looked at. It wasn’t anything new.

‘Where are we going?’ Laleh asked.

‘To collect Baba.’

‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So how will you find him?’

Neda stalled the car. They were still outside their flat. She tightened her grip on the steering wheel. It was too thin, too flimsy under her grip. She felt like a clown in a toy car.

‘Stop asking questions,’ she hissed. She accelerated as she drove off, the tyres screeching.

She drove, and drove, and drove. It was aimless, really. One port of call was the takeaway restaurant owned by Ziryan, a Kurdish friend of Hossein’s. It was a place where her husband liked to loiter.

As Neda waddled into the shop, rubbing her back with one hand, Ziryan looked displeased to see her.