The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters: the ultimate heart-warming read for 2018

‘I’m busy.’

Before I knew it, Mae was FaceTiming me.

‘Is someone dying?’ I said, picking the phone up, staring down at Mae’s pixie-like face. ‘I’ll call you back.’

‘She failed again,’ she said.

‘Who failed?’ I asked.

‘Fatti.’

‘What?’

‘Tst, her driving test, of course. Don’t you remember?’

‘Oh, yeah. I forgot. I hope you hid the cheese from her,’ I said.

I glanced over at Sasha who was still leaning out of the window, puffing away.

‘One sec,’ I said to Mae, muting the phone and putting it face-down on the sofa while I asked Sasha to put her cigarette out.

‘It’s not like your family can see me,’ she responded.

‘What if they do? Then they’ll think I smoke and it’ll be something else for them to rail against. It’s bad enough I’ve left my family home and that I’m living alone in London; thinking that I smoke will give someone a heart attack,’ I whispered, even though I’d muted Mae.

Sasha sighed and shook her head, throwing the cigarette butt out of the window.

‘You wouldn’t know you’re a twenty-eight-year-old woman,’ she said as I got back to Mae’s call.

‘What was that?’ Mae asked.

I saw her scan something behind me and it was Sasha, waving at her. Mae waved back unsurely.

‘I’ll see you tonight, Bubs,’ said Sasha before leaving the flat.

‘Don’t you, like, have any other friends?’ asked Mae.

‘What do you want, Mae?’

Mae seemed to be sitting on the steps on the staircase. I recognised the green carpeting against the cream walls. I could just imagine her peeking over the railing, spying on everyone with them unaware of exactly what she’s catching on camera. On the one hand it’s an ethically dubious thing to do, but on the other, I’m glad she has some kind of passion that isn’t related to a bureaucratic, unimaginative career-choice. Thank God there must be some kind of an artistic gene in our family. She made her way down the steps and everyone’s face flashed in front of me.

‘Look who’s here,’ she said, as Mum squinted and recognised me.

‘I tried calling you – where were you? Why didn’t you pick up? I was worried.’

Before I had a chance to answer, Farah’s face was in front of me.

‘Say hello to your fave,’ said Mae.

Farah straightened up from stuffing the kitchen cupboards with God knows what.

‘Salamalaikum,’ she said.

‘Hi,’ I managed to mumble.

The sun shone from the kitchen window, right into her eyes. She shielded them as she asked: ‘How’s the big smoke?’

I shrugged. ‘Better than home,’ I said, lowering my voice.

She gave a faint smile. We might be identical twins, but our smiles are different – hers is soft and sweet. Mine? Well, not so much. She looked away but I couldn’t see what she was doing with her hands. I always did hate it when Farah looked like that; so helpless and at a loss.

‘How’s your husband?’ I asked. Only it didn’t come out in the well-meaning way I intended.

Before I knew it Farah was out of screen-shot, and swiftly replaced with Mae’s face.

‘Where’s Fatti?’ I asked Mae, pretending it was normal to have Farah walk away like that. Actually, it had become quite standard.

‘Well done,’ Mae said, ignoring my question. ‘Farah’s only gone and left now, and I needed to ask her about my tofu curry recipe. You need to let it go, it’s been five years. I mean, come on – so what Farah’s married?’ she added, looking at the leftover shopping. ‘Now I’m going to have to put it all away.’

I wanted to tell her she’s lucky she has Farah who manages to do that for her, as well as everything else.

‘So, she was helping out at home as usual. Not much change then,’ I said.

‘And handing over money from our dear brother, as per,’ added Mae. ‘Who, by the way, decided to call Mum and Dad today. Ugh.’ Mae leaned into the screen as I realised that she’d caught sight of my sculpture. ‘What’s that?’

‘A work in progress,’ I replied, turning the phone the other way.

‘What? Like you?’ She found this a lot funnier than I did and laughed as she made her way up the stairs again.

‘Wait. I wanted to speak to her,’ I heard Mum call out after Mae as she passed the living room.

Not that Mae listened. ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear. You can thank me later. Ssh.’

I saw she’d stopped outside Fatti’s room and leaned into the door. Mae put her finger to her mouth, waited for a few moments before shrugging and going into her own room.

‘How’s school?’ I asked, turning around to look at my sculpture, wondering what it was that made it seem so incomplete. What did Mae know? My sisters were so uncultured when it came to anything to do with the art world.

‘Better than your relationship with Farah,’ she replied.

‘Not now, Mae.’

Would I ever be able to say anything to Farah without her taking offence?

Mae shrugged. ‘Whatevs. I’ve got more interesting things to do than think about everyone’s crises anyway.’

Just then there was a loud knock on her door.

‘It’s Abbauuu,’ she said, smiling at our dad. ‘What’s up, Abs?’

‘Your amma needs to talk to Bubblee.’

‘Our amma always needs to talk to someone,’ she replied.

If I’d said half the things at her age that she did I’d have been locked in the cupboard under the stairs.

‘Soz, sis. I did my best but we are all veterans of our familial battles.’

‘Just pass the phone, Mae.’

Before I knew it there was Dad’s face as he spoke. ‘Fatti failed her driving test again so your amma is a little more stressed than usual. Just speak to her for five minutes and make her feel easy.’

‘She’s not going to feel easy until I move back home. And let me tell you, Abba, that’s not happening.’

‘I know, I know.’ He paused as I saw him stop at the top of the stairs. ‘Erm, what is that?’

I’d turned around again without realising that Dad could see the sculpture.

‘Something I’m working on,’ I replied.

‘Hmm.’ He furrowed his eyebrows. ‘And this is what you’re doing in London? Making sculptures of women …’ he leaned in closer. ‘Animals? What is it?’

‘Never mind, Abba. Just give the phone to Amma so I can get the conversation over with.’

I don’t mean for my words to sound short or irritable but that’s just how they come out.

‘I’ll speak to you properly later, okay, Abba?’

He was still looking at the sculpture, worry lines spreading over his features.

‘Hmm? Okay, Babba.’

By the time he’d walked downstairs I heard Mum complaining about Naked Marnie who was apparently out again, basking in the glory of unexpected sunshine.

‘It is a free country,’ I heard Dad say to her.

‘What do you want then?’ said Mum, taking the phone from him and giving me a view of the kitchen walls again. ‘For us all to go out naked?’

‘No-one wants you to go out naked,’ he replied.

‘Hello?’ I said. I had a sculpture to work on, after all.

‘Yes,’ said Mum, putting the phone up to her sour-looking face. ‘I called you two, three times and you didn’t answer.’

‘I was going to call back.’

‘When? Next week? Next month? Next year?’

I didn’t see why, between Fatti failing and Jay calling, I had to be the one who faced her aggression. This is why I make a point of calling home as little as possible. What’s the point when you’re only going to get told off? I’m an adult, for God’s sake. I bet Jay doesn’t get this antagonism. No, the golden child is probably showered with all manners of kindness.

‘Poor Fatti failed again,’ said Mum without any prompt from me.

‘Hmm.’

‘You know how hard it is for her. She doesn’t have your confidence – you should help her but you don’t even answer your family’s calls.’

‘It’s not as if I’m loafing around, Amma. I’m working.’

She looked up at my dad, presumably, and decided to mirror his worried face.

‘But, Bubblee, what kind of work? Look how beautiful you are – such a small nose and light-brown eyes. You shouldn’t take these things for granted. Maybe you should think of getting a proper job where you are making some money. Maybe banking, hmm? Whenever I have a nice boy’s amma on the phone who asks me what you do, I tell her and I never hear from them again. If you had a normal job they would see you and then your beauty would do the rest.’

‘These aren’t exactly the type of people I want to know anyway, and you need to stop trying to find me a husband. I don’t want to get married yet.’

‘Your youth won’t last for ever. Already you’re so old for marriage.’

‘I’m twenty-eight, Amma. And Fatti’s older than me. Why don’t you bug her about marriage? I’m pretty sure she cares a lot more about it than I do.’

Mum shook her head and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Allah, what have I done to deserve a girl who answers back so much? A girl who doesn’t even speak to her own twin sister?’

Which was, of course, a complete exaggeration. I speak to Farah. When we’re in the same room. Which, granted, might not be very often, because I avoid it as much as humanly possible, but that’s for her sake as well as mine.

‘And why?’ Mum continued. ‘Because she married a man?’

‘A man who’s not her equal,’ I replied, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks.

Why does everyone find it so hard to understand? Why couldn’t they see that my twin sister deserved better than this prosaic, uninspired individual? Why does a husband have to be horrible, or abrasive, or neglectful to not be right for you? Of all the things Farah could’ve done with her life, achieved or aspired to, she decided to settle down and marry the first man that asked her. Forget the first man – her first cousin. And I bet it was all because he wanted to stay in England; coming here to study and then conveniently ‘falling in love’ with my sister, who then – naïve woman that she was – decided to fall in love right back. I mean, don’t even get me started on the notion of falling in love, let alone marrying your mum’s sister’s son.

Mum sighed and muttered something under her breath. ‘And when will you visit your family? Or do we have to wait for someone to die?’

‘Jay’s Amma,’ said Dad. ‘Don’t say things like this.’

I looked as Dad seemed to be putting grass in the blender. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

He turned around as he put the lid on the blender after adding a banana to the mix. ‘Making Mae a smoothie,’ he explained.

‘With what?’

‘She likes fresh things, you know. Says that supermarkets are no good, so I took some leaves from the hedges for an extra … boost.’

‘I only say what is true, Jay’s Abba,’ replied Mum, ignoring what was happening in her kitchen.

I mean, how can I take seriously the words of two people who refer to each other as the parent of their only son? Their only son who comes and goes as he pleases, hardly ever showing his face and exists more as an idea than an actual being. Not that he gets any flack for it because, of course, he’s a boy and the same standards don’t apply.

‘Maybe at Jay’s wedding,’ I said, straight-faced.

‘Bubblee,’ said Dad, abandoning the blender and taking the phone from Mum as he glanced at her. ‘Remember she is your mother.’ He looked from side to side as if he wasn’t quite sure of this fact. Or perhaps he was just looking out for a slipper that might come flying his way if he did anything but agree with her.

‘Yes, Abba. Thanks.’

He gave a short nod and winked at me before he ‘accidentally’ hung up on me. Dad will probably end up paying for that in rationed dessert servings tonight.

I exhaled as I sat on the edge of my chair and looked at my sculpture. It was difficult to concentrate, what with Mum mentioning Farah. I turned to look at a photograph of us on my wall; it was taken on our thirteenth birthday. We were so excited about being teenagers. We thought there’d be this shift where things would change and life would somehow be more exciting. And it was in some ways; I discovered art and how a painting could make you feel things that life somehow couldn’t; how there was beauty in the stroke of a brush or the curve of a shape; the way a drawing might speak a truth that reality only hinted at because it never stayed long enough for you to capture it. But art – it kept that feeling static in time, and you could re-visit it and be moved by it all over again, in a different way. I wanted to make people feel that way with my art. And I wasn’t about to give up until I succeeded. Farah never took to art. Or literature. I waited for her to talk passionately about something. I urged her to read the same books as me, but she’d be tidying up after Jay, or straightening out her room, sewing a button on someone’s jacket. Always busy but never with the important things. Never outraged at a news story, or delirious with joy when a dictator had been overthrown, or even about something stupid, like winning fifty quid on the lottery.

‘Oh, Farah,’ I whispered, picking up the photo, rubbing my finger over the frown on my face as if that’d wipe it away.

Why does no-one understand that I wanted more for her? After all, isn’t that what sisters are meant to do? Want great things for each other? I turned my attention to my sculpture again, pleased with what I was in the middle of creating. This was going to wow people. I just had to get it right. It would be spectacular. I shook my head at my family and their ways. No-one understands: there’s nothing great about mediocrity.

CHAPTER FOUR

Farah

House cleaned? Check. Shopping done? Check. Shopping delivered to Mum and Dad’s, along with money from Jay, that’s not actually from Jay but me? Check. I needed a minute and ended up collapsing on the sofa. Bubblee’s face swam in front of me even though I tried to blink it out of existence. It shouldn’t bother me – it’s been five years since I’ve been listening to the same passive-aggressive tone. I suppose you just don’t get used to your twin’s disappointment. The doorbell rang. It was Pooja who came to give back the electric screwdriver she’d borrowed.

‘Have you seen the monstrous boutique they’ve opened up on Henway Road? The designs of the Indian suits are awful. And you know our neighbours will be queuing up to buy some if there’s a South Asian wedding within a ten-mile radius.’

I smiled and gestured for her to come in but she said she had to go and make sure her husband didn’t feed her children Tuc biscuits for dinner.

‘Oh, an email’s gone around to confirm our meeting. You’re okay with next week?’ she asked.

There was a burglary a few months ago and we’d set up a neighbourhood watch as a result.

‘Yes, that’s fine and let’s have it at mine. I’ll respond to everyone.’

‘As long as we don’t ask Marge to bring snacks, because honestly, I don’t think I could stomach it,’ said Pooja.

I laughed and told her I’d delegate with that in mind as she said goodbye. Since I was up I checked whether Mustafa had paid the bills I’d found a few weeks ago. They all still needed to be paid. I picked up my mobile.

‘Hey,’ I said to Mustafa.

‘Hon, listen, I’m on my way to an important meeting. I just know this idea’s going to be the one,’ he said.

Which is what he said last time, and the time before that, and the time before that. I’d told him before that I knew this company was his dream – a place where he and his associates would get together and think about new inventions and apps – and then try to create them. But all the money he made in the stock market, coming out of university, was being used up in this company to no avail. Still, it was his money, and he still traded, which gave us a comfortable life, so I couldn’t complain. There was just no nice way of saying that his ideas were … not good. I didn’t want to be the cynical wife, though, because maybe, just maybe, he’d surprise me. And it would make me happy to see him happy.

‘I’ll call you in a bit, okay?’ he said, sounding distracted.

‘I just needed to know when you were transferring that money into our joint account. You still haven’t paid those bills, so I thought I’d do it.’

He paused.

‘Today,’ he replied.

‘Babe, that’s what you said last week. And the week before that.’

I included the ‘Babe’ to stop myself from sounding like a nagging wife. I waited for him to speak but it took a few moments.

‘I know. I’ll sort it out today. I promise,’ he added. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yeah, fine.’

‘What’s wrong?’ he pressed.

‘Nothing,’ I said, then lost the will to pretend. ‘Bubblee.’

‘Oh.’

Why didn’t she see that despite the fact that this man’s been shunned by her, he still manages to bite his tongue when her name’s mentioned. But I suppose rage isn’t his thing. It’s neither of our thing. That’s what I love about him.

‘How is she?’ he asked.

‘Still Bubblee.’ I sighed and took out the groceries from the bag, putting them on the kitchen counter. ‘I thought going to London might soften her a bit.’

He laughed. ‘For a born-and-bred Britisher, you don’t have a very good idea of what London’s like.’

It still amuses me when he says ‘Britisher’.

‘You’ll transfer the money then?’ I said, suddenly feeling tired from having to talk about Bubblee.

I don’t need her to understand my marriage to Mustafa – I understand and so does he and that’s all that matters. I waited for him to respond. Five years with a person can help you to read their silences and hesitations as well as the intonation of their speech.

‘Is everything okay, Mustafa?’ I asked.

I just had to check – his silences weren’t normal. I don’t see how things couldn’t be okay. We had everything, after all. I looked around the house and the lack of toys cluttered everywhere; no playpen, no children’s books, no pieces of Lego or dolls left lying around. I hear people complain about what their children have or haven’t done and it stirs something inside of me – making me want to shout – not sure what I’d shout, but that doesn’t matter.

‘Everything’s fine, Far,’ he added. ‘I’ll always look after you. You know that, don’t you?’

Of course he will. He always has.

‘Have you heard from Jay lately?’ he asked.

‘He emailed last week. Why?’

‘Just wondering,’ he said. ‘I er …’ he paused. ‘I promised your parents I’d get him to help out with work. Just to give him a hand.’

‘Oh.’

It was the first I’d heard of it. Why hadn’t anybody told me? When I asked Mustafa he simply said that it was only bits and pieces Jay was doing – nothing major.

‘I’ll see how he gets on – it’s nothing permanent.’

‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘For helping him out.’

‘You’re happy with it?’

‘I know it’ll mean a lot to Mum and Dad. But take it one step at a time with Jay. I love him but it’s not exactly an ideal plan.’

‘Yeah, yeah, of course.’

‘And come home early tonight if you can,’ I added.

He replied that he would as he put the phone down, when the doorbell rang again.

‘Hi, Abba,’ I said as Dad walked into the living room and switched the television on.

‘Your amma thinks I’ve gone out to buy some things for the garden,’ he said.

He settled down on my large white sofa, giving a satisfied sigh and smiled as The Arti-Fact Show flashed on our fifty-inch screen.

‘I’ll make the tea,’ I replied, glancing at the television screen. ‘The presenter’s put on weight, hasn’t he?’

‘Look at that,’ said Dad, observing what can only be described as a painting of a swan, studded with crystals. ‘Beautiful. Even your amma would like that,’ he added, turning to me, and possibly seeing the disgusted look on my face.

I gave him his tea with a slice of cake and sat down next to him.

‘You’re okay?’ he asked, not taking his eyes off the television screen.

‘Yeah.’

‘Bubblee’s ideas are different,’ he said, sipping his tea.

I picked a bit of walnut off my cake and put it to the side.

‘London,’ Dad said, shaking his head. ‘Everyone talks about London, but we are happy here, aren’t we?’ he added, putting his arm around me, squeezing my shoulders.

‘Yes, Abba.’

‘She’s a good girl, but if she could just get married so your amma would stop worrying, it would help me very much. Now your brother, on the other hand; we might not always see him but he still thinks of us, sending us money. Plus, you know boys will be boys.’

It was useful to have the TV as a distraction, because the look on my face might’ve given my secret away. I couldn’t quite bear the idea of Mum and Dad thinking that their only son’s one redeeming feature of sending them money was actually me.

‘Before I forget,’ said Dad, taking out a letter. ‘What is this?’

I read through it.

‘It’s just about parking meters. You can read, Abba.’

‘Yes, yes, but the English sometimes is confusing.’

‘It’s nothing,’ I added. ‘Won’t affect our road.’

‘Very good.’ Dad smacked his legs with his hands and got up to leave.

‘Don’t forget to get the soil that’s on offer, Abba,’ I said. ‘Not the full-price one. Mum won’t stop telling me about it otherwise.’

He nodded, gratefully, kissed me on the head and left. When he’d gone I wandered around the house. I do this often; when all the chores are done and the kitchen and bathroom can’t get any cleaner. I look at the high ceilings and arched doorways, the mowed lawn, with flower beds dotted all around. Mum used to tell us that a woman makes a house a home. But sometimes these spaces seem so empty I’m not sure what else I can do to fill the void that seems to stretch. There are potted plants in the home, picture frames and even some organised clutter I’ve arranged, but nothing fills the emptiness apart from when my husband comes home.

I remembered the day we moved into this house. I couldn’t believe we’d be living in a place so big and beautiful, but thanks to Mustafa’s job and some help from Mum and Dad we were able to afford it. There’s nothing quite like making your own home; filling up the spaces with things you’ve been given or have bought; deciding where to put the television; disagreeing over the paint, only to settle on a colour that looks dangerously close to Magnolia. Mustafa had come up behind me and put his arms around me.

‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

‘I love it,’ I replied.

‘The small room upstairs would make a perfect nursery, wouldn’t it?’ he added.

I shook myself from the memory and sat at my laptop, looking at baby items on the Internet. If I had a baby girl I’d dress her up in pink – I don’t care what people say about the colour; it’d look beautiful on her. And my boy would be in blue. I’d want the girl first so she could play me to our baby boy, who’d obviously have some of his Uncle Jay’s looks. She’d hug him when he fell over, cover for him whenever he got in trouble with me or Mustafa – she’d call him when we asked where he was before he’d come stumbling home, careful not to wake us. Before going to sleep he’d creep into her room and plant a kiss on her forehead, which she’d accept before hitting him on the arm for making her lie again. I laughed at the memory it conjured and missed Jay so much, I wished he’d visit us. Five years ago it would’ve been Bubblee I’d have gone to, but now he’s the only one I could tell: No, Jay. I can’t have babies.

I looked through my inbox and clicked on his latest email to me.

From: Amir, Jahangir

To: Lateef, Farah

Subject: Hi

Hi Sis,

Thanks for sending through that money again. You know how much I appreciate it. I promise I’m trying to get my life together. Sometimes it’s hard, but this time I really think I’m going to get my big break. I’ve a friend who’s got a business plan and he wants me to be a part of it.