Page 99 of The Mismatch

CHAPTER 46

Neda

Liverpool, 1986

They needed to leave Liverpool, that much Neda knew.

She held on to the idea that starting afresh elsewhere was all that they needed. She worked hard to finish her PhD, her only moments of harmony and stillness in the very early hours of the morning when it was still dark out and all her family were asleep. When she grew so tired that she couldn’t justify continuing to work, she sat at the end of the bed and allowed herself to breathe. She only gave herself five minutes a day of peace and silence, and she savoured them. She had pushed herself to her limits before, but this was different. She was tired. Mentally more than anything else.

She thought back to the day Hossein had told her about his addiction.

She was surprised but at the same time not. It explained his mood swings.

Opium was common in Iran; many of Baba’s friends were opium addicts. When she thought of them, she imagined them smoking it from a pipe in dark rooms and then lying on the floor, spaced out for hours. Their wives would be expected to bring them chai on request, even light them up anotherpuff if need be. Opium use was both common and life-destroying, creating zombies out of previously able men.

She hadn’t imagined her healthy, fit husband would be among them.

And how had she not noticed? How had he successfully hidden something so large from her? It made sense, now, that his clothes always smelt so strongly of aftershave. He had been covering the scent of his sins.

‘Why?’ Neda had asked him.

He shrugged. ‘I have nothing here.’ She imagined he had rehearsed this story. His voice cold, devoid of any true emotion.

She moved her head towards the living room, to the two newborn babies, to their little Laleh. ‘Nothing?’

‘I mean job-wise,’ he said impatiently. ‘You’re thriving here … I’m not. I’m a loser in this country.’

‘We can go back! I’ve always said we could go back. Iwantto go back. We agreed we would stay until things settle down back home,ifthings settle down back home, but we can go back anytime. What are these excuses?’

‘Here is better for the kids, for you, for me, maybe … I don’t know.’

‘So that’s the real reason – you don’t know? Who do you take thosedrugswith? Huh?’

‘Ziryan—’

‘I knew it!’ Neda interrupted.

And through her forcing it out of him, she realised why he began smoking opium. To be accepted by people he deemedsimilar to himself; to experience momentary highs in which he felt happy and weightless. She understood the attraction of that, but opium? Didn’t he think of his family?

‘English people don’t want to be my friend,’ he had said. ‘And I don’t want to be theirs! Fucking bastards.’

But that wasn’t all. It was clear to Neda that she had grown thicker skin than her husband over time. Years of being called a ‘Paki bastard’, being told to ‘go back home’, being told he looked ‘dirty’, had got to Hossein. Isolated him. Pushed him towards anyone who would be his friend.Peer pressure.Was Hossein a thirteen-year-old?Neda thought bitterly. She wanted to have sympathy for him, because she knew that was what she was meant to feel, but instead resentment bubbled inside her.

The weight of responsibility, of having three children while working on her PhD and worrying about her family at home, threatened to break her sometimes. And here he was, getting high with his friends. With no support from him, she was being crushed.

‘It was only meant to be a bit of fun, but you don’t understand the feeling … the way I feel when I smoke it.’ He smiled then; it was the most genuine joy she’d seen in him in years. She was sickened by the sight.

She gripped the countertop, her fingertips pale, and turned away from him, forcing herself to feel the correct emotions. To behave as was expected of her, to be the devoted wife.

But she couldn’t.

‘I can’t look at you.’

‘Neda,’ he implored. ‘Please help me. You’re my wife and I’m begging you: help me.’

‘How can I help you? Just stop taking it!’

‘I’ve tried, Neda,’ he had said. ‘I’ve tried to go without, but that’s when I get angry and do things to you that make me hate myself. I’m not well – I’m ill.’ His expression was pleading with her to take this weight onto her shoulders because it was clear he expected her to fix his problems, relied on her to do so.