‘I know why you’re so attached to your phone these days,’ said Moni. ‘Iman told me everything.’
Salma stopped and turned to glare at Iman. Her friend refused to meet her eye. Iman had told Moni about Amir when she had specifically told her not to. And here it was now, the predictable telling-off from Moni.
‘It’s wrong,’ said Moni. ‘You need to stop this, Salma. It’s beneath your dignity. It’s playing with fire. You’ll ruin your life and all that you’ve worked hard to build.’
‘Oh, the drama,’ said Salma, sitting down again. ‘It’s only texts and a few phone calls. Hardly enough to get me stoned to death.’
Iman said, ‘In your heart and thoughts you’re cheating on David. That’s just as bad.’
‘I thought you understood me, Iman,’ said Salma. She could take all this from Moni, but not Iman.
‘Stop contacting him,’ said Moni. ‘Stop it now before it gets out of hand. Can’t you see what’s going to happen? You will get so caught up with him, you won’t be able to be with your husband any more. Your relationship with him will become strained. He has rights on you and so do your children.’
‘Ah, the expert on marital bliss is talking. What do you know about successful marriages? You’ve put your son’s needs above your own husband’s. Above your own needs. How is that fair?’
‘She’s right,’ Iman said. ‘You’re not a good wife, Moni.’
Moni’s face flushed. She opened her mouth to speak, but Salma interrupted her. ‘Don’t give me lectures on a wife’s duty, Moni, when you lock your husband out of your bedroom at night.’
Iman raised her eyebrows.
Moni wished she had never told Salma that particular detail. She had been so keen to demonstrate what a devoted mother she was, sharing her bed with Adam, keeping her husband out. One night, when Murtada had come whispering her name so as not to wake his sleeping son, she had raised her head from the pillow and hissed, ‘What do you want?’ in a way designed to make him shrivel. The next time he travelled away and came back, he found that she had installed a lock. Moni drew in a breath. ‘I might not be a good wife, but I have my virtue, thank you very much. I’m not two steps away from adultery.’
‘Up to your neck in disobedience instead.’
‘I neglect my prayers for the sake of Adam. You don’t think I would neglect Murtada?’
‘Oh, the martyr,’ said Salma. ‘It’s all about motherhood for you.’
‘I can’t help it if my son is disabled.’ There it was, the pride in her position. ‘You’re the one who should be ashamed, Salma. Not me. Is it any wonder that your phone stinks, with all that disloyalty passing through it day and night? Have some self-respect.’
Iman spoke up, ‘We want what’s best for you, Salma. David is such a good husband. You say that yourself. How can you do this to him? He’s done you no wrong.’
‘I’m not doing anything to him. This is separate from him.’
‘How can it be nothing to do with him?’ said Moni. ‘How would you feel if he was having some virtual relationship with someone else?’
She would be hurt, of course, her self-esteem dropping to zero. It would matter who this other woman was, what kind of rival. It would make a difference if she was a younger version of herself. It would make a difference if she was white, or prettier, or with a better job. She would never forgive him.
‘Think of the children,’ Iman said. ‘Is that how you want them to know you? You’re their role model.’
‘No, I’m not,’ snapped Salma. ‘They’re ashamed of me. Ashamed of my accent, my background, my opinions. I’m losing them. Day by day, they get older and more British and sometimes I hardly know them any more.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ said Iman. ‘They love you. I know that.’
‘You’re the foundation of their life,’ said Moni. ‘They take you for granted. They probably take their father for granted too. But both of you, and the strong relationship between you, that’s what’s holding the family together. Don’t break that.’
Salma wished for tears of remorse, welling from a sense of shame. Instead she felt anger grow inside her. Moni couldn’t understand. Iman, who had more sympathy and imagination, was being obtuse. She had told her explicitly not to tell Moni about Amir. She turned to her now.
‘What happened to you, Iman? I trusted you. What got into you?’
Iman shrugged. When the other two stared at her, wanting her to explain, she started choosing each word with care. ‘I’ve been thinking about myself and my future, wondering what I really want. For a long time, all I wanted was a baby of my own, all I could imagine for myself was to be a mother. But that didn’t happen and it’s not likely to happen soon. It might not happen at all. No, don’t start to interrupt and insist that I must hope. It’s not about optimism or despair. And it’s not all about you, Salma, or how you treat me.’
She took a breath in and continued. ‘Every day since we’ve been here I wear a different outfit and I become someone else. Every costume has a story and comes with a way of behaving attached to it. If it’s pretty and feminine or if it’s practical. Some of the clothes in the cupboard here are heavy and some of them restrictive. They made me think about my own clothes. Why do I dress the way I do? Because that’s how my mother dressed and the women in my village. Or that’s how my husband of the time wanted me to dress. Each one had an opinion. The first wanted me to wear these long, loose abayas or plain coats. The second thought I should lighten up and wear trousers and colours, not attract attention to myself. Then Ibrahim encouraged me to copy you, Salma, and we started to go shopping together. There
