Salma, summoned by phone, was struggling to find room in the boot for all of Iman’s stuff, which Ibrahim was intent on inflicting upon her. ‘You can’t just throw her out. She has rights. What you’re doing is against the sharia.’
He shrugged, too miserable to care.
‘And you just left her on the beach! Shame on you. I should be there with her, not dealing with this.’ Where was Moni now when she could be of help? ‘I will speak to your father,’ she said. ‘Give me his number. I will go back to town and speak to him.’
Ibrahim flinched at the suggestion. ‘There’s no point.’
Salma wanted to sound reasonable. She had warned Iman against this kind of paperless marriage. One that was solely religious and not recognised under British law. Mosques were forbidden to carry out marriage ceremonies without a civil marriage certificate. Iman and Ibrahim had been married privately by a transient Arab scholar who reinforced Ibrahim’s view that such a ramshackle agreement, devoid even of the couple’s parents’ blessing, was preferable to living in sin. Not that Salma disagreed on that last point, but a token, casual marriage was not the solution. And now this was the result. A divorce on the beach!
Ibrahim tipped into the car boot a carton box filled with an assortment of clothes, a hairdryer, a shower cap, jars of spices, clothes hangers, a pair of sandals and a pregnancy kit. The poignancy of this last item made Salma raise her voice. ‘Listen, I don’t have space for all these things. I really don’t. Not on top of our own luggage. Enough. Don’t put in any more.’
‘So what shall I do?’ He had that sullen look her teenage children had when they were set chores, when they were forced away from their PlayStations, Netflix and phones.
‘Take them to my house,’ said Salma. ‘I’ll call David and he’ll put them in the garage.’ She thought ahead. After the holiday at the loch, Iman would have to move in with her. Daughter Number 1 would have to share her room. There would be tantrums and coaxing. But there was no alternative. Iman did not have anywhere else to go. Apart from the Woman’s Shelter, that is, and Salma would not do that to her friend.
After Ibrahim drove off, Salma set out to look for Iman but found her already on her way to the car. Iman got into the back seat and started to cry when she saw her things. So many things that there wasn’t any room for Salma to squeeze in to sit next to her. With the door open, she crouched instead on the ground and comforted Iman until Moni appeared.
‘I have to phone David,’ she told them and walked away from the car in the opposite direction to the catering van. It was past his lunch break. He didn’t pick up and she messaged him, telling him about Ibrahim breaking it off with Iman. She suddenly wished they were lying in bed, talking in the dark. She typed, You don’t mind, do you, that Iman moves in with us?
He wouldn’t mind. She could rely on him to be supportive and, what was even more impressive, David was the only man Salma knew who was immune to Iman’s beauty. This anomaly fascinated her and boosted her self-esteem. ‘Iman needs to become more independent,’ he texted back straight away. ‘She needs to get a job or else a reliable husband. Someone who can be trusted.’
Salma had both these things. She knew she was lucky but, somehow, now David’s decency made her feel uncomfortable. Why had she accepted Amir’s friend request? And she had messaged him today flirting about one hypothetical haram thing that wouldn’t be counted on Judgement Day. I’m loving my new phone, she wrote in another message to her husband. I miss you. She was missing how she was before Amir and the thoughts of Amir came back into her life.
Turn back, David replied.
She smiled and wrote, Too late for that. She was not one to give up. She would visit Lady Evelyn’s grave no matter what. Moni badly needed this break, and now poor Iman could do with a few days off to get over her shock.
Amir,
Didn’t want to drop off your radar without a goodbye or an explanation. The latter is obvious and this is the goodbye.
Dear Amir,
To you this might be all harmless and well intentioned and I’m probably making a big deal out of nothing. Call me old-fashioned. But I say better safe than sorry. I’m too old for a flirtation and too serious for a fling. Let’s stop before we start.
Salma deleted the first message and did not send the second one because her phone rang. It was her mother-in-law, Norma.
‘Hi Mum.’ She called her Mum because David called her Mum. And also because the word ‘mum’ to Salma did not have the same meaning as ‘mother’. It was like ‘babe’ and ‘hubby’; endearments that could not be translated.
Norma wanted her to come over and give her a massage. Her left shoulder was so stiff, she could hardly move it. It was something that Salma did for her regularly and she was happy to be of help. Given a choice between the grocery shopping, cleaning up Norma’s flat and a free treatment, Salma always opted for the latter and left David to do the other chores. They regularly visited Norma once a fortnight and spent almost the whole day with her. There was a time when Norma had enjoyed going out, when she was happy to be brought over to their place so that she could spend time with the children. But more recently she preferred the company of her own television and she contacted them less and less as the months went past. The rarity of her request
