She tore through the wrapping, tossing it on Iman’s lap, and gasped when she saw the new smartphone.
‘Ooh, you’re lucky,’ said Iman, starting to fold up the paper.
The screen was larger than Salma’s two-year-old one, the whole phone slimmer, its back a pure creamy white. She switched it on straight away, the button only needing the slightest touch, the lights flaring towards her in a swarm of colours.
‘He’s so sweet,’ she said, almost to herself. Last night, he had hugged her as she was packing her suitcase, pressed his palm against her lower stomach and she had felt pleased that it was flat (well, almost flat) even after four pregnancies, her pelvic floor muscles in excellent condition.
On the dashboard she placed her old phone and the new one next to each other and started the smart switch. She must phone him to say thank you. Once she put in her SIM card, he would be the first one she would call. She noted the time on the screen. ‘I’ll give Moni an extra ten minutes before I go in and get her.’
Iman said, ‘When I see what Moni goes through, when I see Adam, I’m glad I don’t have any children.’
‘You’re just saying that. You don’t mean it. Most children are healthy. Yours will be too, inshallah.’
Salma’s four children were burly and good at everything: school, sports, hobbies. She was often anxious that the evil eye would smite them. Perhaps it already had. Her quarrel with her daughter still blazed in her ears. Free to study what she wants, to turn down an offer to medical school, after all the private tutoring and the gruelling interview. To get that far then cop out for something easier. Sports science! ‘What would you become?’ Salma had reasoned with her. ‘A fitness trainer? That’s not much better than me!’ Ungrateful, lacking ambition. And David’s laissez-faire attitude towards this issue was infuriating too. Just thinking about the whole thing made her feel betrayed – the daughter she had fed through cracked nipples, taught how to belly dance, worked extra hours so that she could afford to give her the best of everything. But a girl backed by her father could not lose a fight. Salma instead was the one left smarting. Which was why this holiday was a good idea. She must forget the anxiety about her daughter’s future and focus on Iman instead, the one who was always there for her, never thwarting or challenging. The more Salma’s children grew away from her, became more British and less a piece of her, the more she found herself relying on Iman. She didn’t need to justify herself to Iman, or feel self-conscious about her accent, or put up with the roll of the eyes and accusations that she just ‘didn’t get it’. Iman was easy to talk to, easy to understand. ‘Your children will be in the best of health,’ she now said to her friend.
Iman sighed. Husband after husband and they had given her nothing. Not even a miscarriage to kindle some ‘nearly there’ hope. She had done the tests and they were all inconclusive.
Salma began her pep talk – a mixture of religion and popular psychology. Iman fidgeted with the contents of her handbag, but she was listening. She didn’t disagree with Salma but a sense of resignation was creeping in. Was that what life was about? Trotting after the carrot, if you were lucky enough to escape the stick. Fighting for what could be got by fighting. Otherwise waiting your turn with a smile. There were things she wanted – to be queen of her own household, to bring her mother over from Syria, to walk in expensive shoes. She listened to Salma’s words, which were intended to soothe and brighten but instead stoked a steady hunger. What if she never ever had a child? What would the future look like?
Salma was moved by Iman’s anxiety, the dip in Iman’s head, the darkening of her eyes. At the same time, a side of her could not help but admire the aesthetics. Sadness on Iman was like dark eyeshadow, like good mascara or smudged kohl. There was a cosmetic veneer about it that rendered Iman photogenic. Iman now took out an emery board from her handbag and started filing her nails. Only then did Salma stop talking.
Salma removed her SIM card from her old phone and put it in the new one. She called David and, when he didn’t pick up, left him a voice message, saying she was speaking from her beautiful new phone, laughing through her thanks and goodbyes. She checked for new messages. It was now lunchtime in Egypt and Amir would have had time to answer her text. But there was nothing new. ‘Remember,’ she said to Iman, speaking as if she had to choose every word with care, ‘some time back I told you about an old colleague from university who contacted me via social media?’
‘The one you were engaged to?’
‘We never did get officially engaged. But yes, him. You told me not to accept his friend request.’
‘Of course. Most people are desperate to unfriend, block and avoid seeing news of their exes, let alone adding them as friends. Don’t tell me you did?’
Salma made a face.
Iman laughed. ‘Well, I warned you, didn’t I? What happened?’
‘Nothing.’ What could possibly happen when they were in totally different countries, when they were both happily married – at least she was, she wasn’t sure about him. They were both tied down by children and jobs, continents apart. It was this sense of
