Stepping out of the bathroom, she asked Iman, ‘Do you think I’ve put on weight?’ Iman’s eyes flickered over her friend, noticed the wet hair. It distracted her from answering Salma’s question. Instead she said, ‘How come you washed your hair?’
Silence is a sign of agreement, as the Arabic saying went. So, I am getting fat, Salma thought, I am spreading out, this is exactly what they call middle-age spread. ‘I felt sweaty from my walk.’
‘You just washed it yesterday. You told me so.’
When Salma confessed about the dream, they both laughed. It felt like a true holiday then. The setting sun shining on furniture that didn’t belong to them, the smell of cooking from the kitchen. A meal they hadn’t taken the trouble to cook. Iman in clothes that didn’t belong to her. Salma’s face as hot as a teenager’s.
‘You miss your husband.’ This was Iman’s verdict. ‘Send him a message. Tell him you wish he was here.’
‘I will,’ she said. It was the generous thing to do, the right thing to do.
When Moni finished cooking, she called out for the other two. She could hear them talking in low voices in the bedroom and, guessing that Iman was upset, did not want to intrude. No doubt the hot chocolate had dented their appetite. She left the kitchen and wandered into the sitting room. Salma had put Lady Evelyn’s book on the coffee table. Making herself comfortable on the sofa, Moni picked it up and started to read.
As a child I spent the winter months in a Moorish villa on a hill outside Algiers, where my parents went in search of sunshine. There I learnt to speak Arabic and my delight was to escape my governess and visit the Mosques with my Algerian friends, and unconsciously I was a little Moslem at heart. After three years’ wintering at Mustapha Superieur we left the villa for good, much to my despair, but in time I forgot my Arab friends, my prayers in the Mosque and even the Arabic language. Some years went by and I happened to be in Rome staying with some Italian friends, when my host asked me if I would like to visit the Pope. Of course, I was thrilled, and, clad all in black with a long veil, I was admitted into the august presence in company with my host and his sister. When His Holiness suddenly addressed me, asking if I was a Catholic, I was taken aback for a moment and then replied that I was a Moslem. What possessed me I don’t pretend to know, as I had not given a thought to Islam for many years. A match was lit and I then and there determined to read up and study the Faith.
Later when Salma and Iman complimented her on her cooking, Moni was pleased. She explained her cooking methods and told them about how she had found mint leaves in the garden. Mint in the kofta mixture enhanced the flavour and looked pretty too, all those specks of green that matched the jellabiya she was wearing.
After they ate, Salma washed the dishes. The cottage felt colder, and Iman abandoned the Cleopatra outfit for the witch costume. She looked dramatic, but at least she was warm. She brewed tea for the three of them using the rest of the mint leaves Moni had picked.
They played board games. A pile of them were on the shelves that lined one wall of the sitting room. Another pile was on top of the television. It was Salma’s idea, something she and David did with the children when they went on holiday. If she was honest with herself, she was carrying out this holiday, the idea of it and the execution, with what he had taught her over the years. A British holiday. Needing a holiday. Going on holiday. All of these were expressions she had learnt from him and her co-workers over the years. The sense of entitlement. And now extending it to her two friends, who on their own would not have gone on any holiday and did not believe that they even needed a holiday without family members, especially without men. Serving our children, our husbands, our parents – that’s how our lives revolve. Once in a while, though, we need our own space, our own break. Just once in a while. Watching Moni in the dim light of the cottage winning at Monopoly, Salma felt good. She had taken Moni out of herself.
Iman was not a natural at board games. The rules confused her, and she was a poor loser, huffing and grumpy. Salma allowed her to win, but Moni didn’t. Moni played aggressively and played to win. It was getting her to play in the first place that had been difficult. Iman threw down the dice and threatened to go to bed. Frowning in her witch costume, flapping its matching silver wand, it was as if she was cursing the other two. ‘We will stop playing,’ laughed Salma. ‘We will, dear Iman. We will put all these games away, sit quietly and hear you sing.’ Iman pretended to be petulant while Salma pleaded and coaxed.
Moni left them and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. There was no need to switch the light on. None of them had pulled down the blind in the kitchen and the gloaming was enough for Moni to make her way towards the sink. The gush of water from the tap sounded excessively loud. It
