Iman wandered into the room Salma and Moni would be sharing. She guessed which bed was Salma’s and sat on it. The room, furnished for a couple on holiday, highlighted her failure. Another marriage ending. After all the times Ibrahim had kissed her feet and said he was devoted to her. The little gifts, when he had been at her beck and call – running to McDonald’s at 2 a. m. because she wanted a strawberry milkshake, holding the hand shower so that she could wash her hair over the bath, borrowing money so she could send it, through Western Union, to her mother. All this had ended or been a mirage.
And what lies ahead for her, how will she live? Everyone had predicted she would marry a rich man and never have to lift a finger. Her beauty had pointed towards this. Marriage versus prostitution. Marriage a way to legitimise the oldest profession? It need not be like this. She knew this, glimpsed it in the lives of other couples. Two things could look alike and feel alike and seem alike yet be profoundly different. One was blessed and the other doomed. The intentions that led to each were different. The resemblance was superficial but understandable. Man pays and woman serves. He houses, clothes and feeds her to get something in return. Put love in the equation. He gives because he loves her and would give regardless of whether services were rendered or not; she gives because she loves him and would keep giving even if he didn’t pay. Or they both give and receive in a flow generated by love with neither one keeping tabs, with neither one viewing the relationship as a transaction.
She looked up when her friend walked into the room. ‘What am I going to do, Salma?’ Tears started rolling down her face.
Salma sat next to her. ‘You’ll be fine. He isn’t worth it. And how can you possibly cry when you’re wearing this amazing outfit. Look at you, a queen!’
Iman rested her forehead on her knees and Salma continued talking. ‘Everything happens for a reason. Earlier today, you were upset that you weren’t pregnant. Imagine if you were, it would have been an added complication.’
‘Ibrahim wouldn’t have left me if I was pregnant.’
‘Really?’ said Salma with sarcasm. ‘He wasn’t up to the responsibility of a wife, let alone a child. Don’t fool yourself.’
‘You warned me against him,’ said Iman, looking up and wiping her face.
Salma was pleased to hear this. She had been restraining herself from saying, ‘I told you so.’
‘You insisted on him,’ she said gently.
‘He was so nice to me, I can’t believe it.’ She remembered how he could scarcely keep his hands off her during the daylight hours of Ramadan, how he gave her everything she wanted – a Netflix subscription, a new coat, a weekend away in London. ‘His parents are to blame.’ She was musing now, looking for justification.
‘You deserve better than him. Mark my words. This time next year, inshallah, you will be married to the right man and with a baby on the way.’
Iman shook her head. ‘I want to depend on myself. To work, like you.’
Salma tried not to laugh. Iman’s greatest asset was her looks, her finest skill was in drawing men to her; zero qualifications, English language minimal. What sort of job could she do? Iman was lazy too. With Salma’s children, she watched children’s TV and never got bored. Imagine being told, you’re too beautiful to ever toil, you’re to be kept home in a fine state, you’re created to be pampered and adored – all that Iman heard as she was growing up. Salma said, ‘I’ll make you hot chocolate and you’ll tell me the kinds of jobs you can see yourself doing.’
Iman perked up. The two of them sat side by side, their backs resting on the headrest, drinking the chocolate and Iman rambled on about work. Maybe she should have stuck to that job at the supermarket. Maybe improving her English was the way forward. Salma listened, indulging her from time to time, challenging her with questions or suggestions to help her formulate more realistic goals. Then Iman lurched back to talking about Ibrahim, reminiscing. ‘Once, he had a friend over, spending the night on the sofa. In the morning I got to the shower first and washed my hair. As soon as I came out, Ibrahim said I had to go back in there and make sure I hadn’t left a single stray hair down the plughole. He wasn’t worried about the plug being blocked. He didn’t want his friend seeing a strand of my hair.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘No, I’m not. He was that possessive about me!’
‘That’s daft, Iman.’
‘He said one single strand was enough to determine the length of my hair, its colour and texture.’
Salma burst out laughing and Iman said, ‘It’s true. I’m not making this up.’
Outside, dusk was gathering and although the ground was dark and hidden, there were still dabs of orange and pink high in the western sky. I am happy, thought Salma, sitting here with my friend. I am happy being of use to her, being needed. Already Iman was in a more settled if not cheerful mood. When she slid down and stretched out on the bed, Salma felt free to leave her.
At last, after running around all day, she could take off her scarf and shower. In the bathroom she combed her wet hair. She was conscious of its thinness compared to Iman’s luxuriant tresses. In terms of looks, there was no point in competing. Enjoying Iman’s beauty without succumbing to envy was the only sensible thing to do. But a month ago, at Salma’s house, Iman had said with genuine surprise, ‘Your hair is getting so thin, Salma!’ Salma was not prone to overreacting, but from that day on she had become self-conscious about her hair. She started using an expensive scalp foam, volumisers and fillers. She
