‘It wouldn’t have been a better life,’ said Iman. Her tone was careless, like tossing back her hair or flopping onto a sofa. ‘You have a good life, Salma. A lot of people envy you.’
The word ‘envy’ irritated Salma. Roused her anxiety for her children, and for her successful life too. David was a Scottish convert and that meant she was treated better by him than her friends were who were married to Arab, African or Asian men. David gave her all the freedom she wanted. He respected her opinions. He shared all the household tasks. She had nothing, not a grievance small or large, unless you counted the latest quarrel, to complain about. Only perhaps the occasional feeling of greed, of wanting more, more of David’s time and touch. More of his undivided attention. But surely that didn’t count. Perhaps she should have listened to Iman, who had more experience with discarded partners. A mixture of curiosity and feigned innocence had made her accept that friend request.
Salma said, wanting to be clear, wanting to justify herself, ‘Maybe not a better life. But completely different.’
‘So what?’ said Iman.
Salma was disappointed. There was an intellectual satisfaction in pursuing that ‘what if ’ parallel scenario. Why was Iman so pedantic and literal? But she regarded her younger friend as a useful sounding board. She said, ‘I’ve started to imagine that other life clearly, like I’m watching a film. A film about myself.’ The other Salma would have been Dr Salma for a start. Not a massage therapist. When Salma had first come to Britain, she found that her medical degree was not sufficient. After failing her qualifying exams twice, she had sat herself down firmly and taken stock of the situation. Not enough money, baby on the way and David, himself the first in his family to go to university, was not exerting undue pressure on her to practise as a doctor. It was time to pursue other alternatives. Changing sheets and bedpans would have been too much of a blow to her ego. She said no to nursing. The qualifications and training to become a massage therapist were affordable and accessible. She surged ahead. She didn’t look back. Until last month when, in their very first exchanges, Amir addressed her as Dr Salma and she had to say, ‘I’m not a doctor.’ And because he wasn’t as polite as David, he contradicted her and said, ‘Nonsense. You are. We graduated in the same year and you got better grades in the exams than I did.’
‘Told you Moni would take ages,’ Iman drawled. ‘Bet you, she’ll now say she doesn’t want to go on this trip at all. It won’t be easy for her to leave Adam.’
Salma hadn’t thought of this. Surely Moni couldn’t back out now, not after all the preparations. Not after having got this far. She hurried into the nursing home.
Iman stepped out of the car. She walked a few steps and stood under a tree. The tree hid her from the road. She took off her coat and felt the breeze through her clothes. She felt submission wafting towards her from the nursing home, as if it were tangible and elemental. The submission to imperfection, to illness, to fate. It didn’t make her sad. Instead she understood it as if it were an old language she had practised, as if it were as basic and solid as the ground beneath her feet. She closed her eyes and heard the distant traffic, a few soft sounds coming from inside the home, then the caw of seagulls. The sunlight played on her closed eyelids, she smelt the leaves of the tree and the fresh air. Existence without feelings or desires – nothing to complain or brag about. She smelt the grass and heard a bird sing hoo poo hoo poo again and again. She opened her eyes and saw it on a branch of the tree. Gold necklace around its neck, a delicate crown. There was something reassuring about it, a weight and a balance. Iman reached up her hand as if she wanted it to settle on her wrist. Instead it fluttered and hopped further away up the branch. ‘Come back,’ she said in Arabic, her voice sounding foreign in her ears. But would the bird understand English better? What language was the speech of birds?
Moni was sniffling into a tissue when she and Salma walked out of the nursing home. Iman took up her place in the front passenger seat and pretended not to notice. She didn’t want to embarrass Moni. It was a shame, but what was the right thing to say in such a situation? It was obvious that Salma had pulled off a miracle in persuading Moni to leave Adam. Iman admired Salma’s perseverance, her confidence in doing the right thing. This was why she felt safe with Salma. Someone who knew all the answers, who filled in the gaps for older cousins and young aunties left behind. Last year, when Iman married Ibrahim, Salma had helped her with all the preparations, hosting the henna party at her house and even sugaring Iman’s legs for her.
Salma led Moni into the back seat behind Iman. She buckled up the belt for her. Moni started saying the travel prayer even before Salma got into the driver’s seat, ‘. . . we are returning . . .’ Spread out in the back, she could see Salma skirting the bonnet of the car, the definitive bounce in her step, the way she sat up straight and punched in the destination on the GPS.
Iman answered a text from her husband. All her husbands, one after the other, were possessive. Even Salma was a possessive friend. Iman, surrounded by this tight grip of adulation and
