‘I don’t like dogs,’ said Moni. ‘Even puppies. They are smelly and nasty. Why would anyone want them in their home, on their sofa, shedding hair everywhere? Then they take them out and let them run amok, leaping on people and frightening them.’
‘It wasn’t the dog that frightened her,’ said Salma. She was speaking for Iman so that her friend could feel babied and cosseted, looked after and safe. ‘Iman loves animals, don’t you, sweetie?’
Iman didn’t reply. But she looked straight at Salma as if she were hanging on every word.
Salma went on, ‘My children have been nagging they want a dog.’
‘Don’t give in,’ said Moni.
‘They promise they would look after it. Take it for walks, give it baths, take it to the vet, but I don’t believe them.’
‘You’ll be doing all that,’ said Moni.
‘That’s what I thought. Why add to my chores?’
‘And don’t forget having to renew your wudu every time the dog touches you.’
‘No, licks you. It’s a misunderstanding. Its saliva is what is impure, not its fur.’
‘I had no idea. Iman, did you know this?’
Iman turned to look at Moni. ‘What?’
Moni repeated her question.
‘Yes,’ said Iman.
Moni and Salma exchanged looks. Salma said, ‘You had a cat, didn’t you, Iman?’
‘Did you?’ Moni smiled. ‘Nothing wrong with cats. They’re clean. What happened to it?’
‘Got lost,’ said Iman. ‘Maybe stolen.’
‘You think someone stole it?’ Salma leant her back against the sofa. ‘You didn’t tell me at the time.’
‘There was a group of teenagers in the building. Hanging around smoking joints in the backyard. I caught them frightening her once. Being mean. Maybe they stole her.’
‘Whatever for?’ said Moni, and the other two didn’t reply. She shifted gear. ‘I know a job Iman would be good at.’
‘What job?’ Salma sounded possessive.
‘A receptionist.’
‘A receptionist? Where?’
‘At our clinic.’
‘What clinic?’
‘I’m thinking of this idea,’ said Moni. ‘The three of us could start a business together. A massage clinic for women. I have some savings that I can invest, and I can manage the business side. Iman would be the receptionist and you, Salma, could do exactly what you’re doing now, but then you’d be working for yourself. What do you think?’
Every massage therapist contemplated becoming self-employed. Choosing her own clients and her own hours. But Salma was surprised by Moni’s idea. The three of them working together, Iman as the receptionist. ‘I’ll think about it.’ Her voice sounded a little stiff, her smile not genuine.
‘I can be a receptionist,’ said Iman. It would be a role, a costume she could put on.
‘There you go!’ Moni said to Salma. It was as if she had scored a massive point or won another board game.
Salma looked at Iman. ‘You would be the best receptionist ever.’ She sounded more patronising than sincere.
‘But seriously, Salma,’ said Moni. ‘Aren’t you uncomfortable massaging men? Are you even sure it’s allowed, did you ask?’
‘I asked two scholars,’ said Salma. ‘And they gave me different answers. One said yes, it’s an extension of nursing, with the intention to heal, and one said no – only massage women and children.’
‘You got the no answer first, I’ll bet. Otherwise you wouldn’t have tried again.’
Salma smiled. ‘That’s what happened. But I work in a hospital, so I rarely had the bad experiences other therapists had. There are weirdos and perverts out there.’ She sometimes felt that her hijab protected her, made her hazy and distant, further out of reach. The signals she sent out were muffled by clothes, obscured by layers, buried out of the way. But Moni was right: to choose her clients would be a step in the right direction, to focus on women and children would make her life easier.
‘You told me once,’ said Iman, joining in the conversation, ‘that most massage therapists are self-employed.’
‘Yes,’ said Salma. ‘The pay is better if you’re self-employed. But you end up working plenty of weekends and evenings. Then again, with better pay, you can train in other methods. I’ve always wanted to learn reiki.’
‘What’s that?’
They spoke about it for some time, how the word sounded like the Arabic ruqyah, the healing prayers accompanied by touching or blowing. Iman told them about a woman in her village who was believed to have been possessed by a djinn. Ruqyah was used to cure her.
With Iman now feeling better, the other two started to drift and to contemplate their exits. Moni longing to search for the boy, Salma to text again – I’m not telling you where I am, stop asking. Finally, when they left, and she found herself alone, Iman picked up Lady Evelyn’s book, which Moni had abandoned on the coffee table. She looked at the pictures – the clothes and hairstyles. In 1895, the demure floor-length skirt and long jacket with puffed sleeves, hair held back and covered by a hat. In the mid-twenties, the soft bobbed hair and long pearl necklace. A pleated skirt, ankle length; a cloche hat, probably wool.
In a photograph taken at Glencarron, Lady Evelyn was aiming a gun, wearing jodhpurs that reached just over her knees, with long stockings underneath. Iman made the effort to read one of the captions. Her progress was slow, but she persevered. ‘Evelyn in one of her famous tweed skirts.’ Molyneux, the French fashion designer from whom she ordered her clothes, had his studio in the garden of her house in Mayfair. If only the photographs had colour! ‘Which outfit is my favourite?’ Iman asked herself. She wasn’t sure. In a photograph taken in Kenya, right outside a hut, Lady Evelyn was in a pair of high-waist, wide-leg trousers. This would definitely be Salma’s favourite because she had a maroon pair that looked exactly the same.
Chapter Eight
Moni walked around looking for the boy. She scrutinised every child she came across. It occurred to her that perhaps his holiday had come to an end and he had left the loch. This dismayed her. Not only because she
