The Fall and Rise of the Amir Sisters

Over 14 million people tuned in to see NADIYA win 2015’s Great British Bake Off. Since then she has captured the heart of the nation. A columnist for The Times and Essentials, Nadiya is also a regular reporter for The One Show and presented a two-part series, The Chronicles of Nadiya, on BBC One. She is the author of Nadiya’s Kitchen (Michael Joseph), Bake Me a Story (Hodder) and has been named as one of the top five most influential Asians in the UK.

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Nadiya Hussain 2019

Nadiya Hussain asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008192327

‘I want to be an archaeologist,’ I said, ‘You can’t be an archaeologist, your parents are not rich enough, it will be a miracle if you make it to university.’ I didn’t become an archaeologist or go to university. I did something else. I remembered her words and followed every dream. Unkind words bloom the unlikeliest of passions. This is dedicated to the dreamer in you.

Contents

Cover

Abou the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

About the Publisher

Chapter One

Farah liked bustling around. She was perpetually busy when not at her job; her hands at work on a curry, washing clothes, fluffing pillows and inspecting areas of her now smaller home. At least it’s easier to manage. She was going to be positive. She paused to try and listen for what Mustafa might be doing upstairs. Maybe he was still lying in bed. It was ten o’clock in the morning but his sleeping habits were never predictable any more. Or perhaps he was just looking out of the window, like he’d taken to doing. There was a time when she’d have asked what he was thinking. Now she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to know.

He came downstairs, managing to grunt a good morning as he opened the fridge.

‘Why is it stacked with so much stuff?’ he asked.

Farah was spraying Pledge on to the coffee table, wiping it down with a cloth.

‘For the sandwiches I’m making for Mae’s party later,’ she replied.

His brows furrowed as he snapped: ‘Where’s the mango juice?’

Farah swept into the kitchen and looked inside the fridge with him. ‘It must’ve been finished.’

He slammed the door shut and she jumped. ‘For God’s sake. You have the thing heaving with stuff for Mae but no mango juice.’

She folded her arms and clenched her jaw, looking up at him. Her husband was a stranger to her in these moments, because, before the accident, in all the years they’d been married, he’d never lost his temper with her, or anyone for that matter. It hadn’t yet failed to surprise her when his mood took a turn. He opened the fridge door once more and slammed it shut again. His face was enraged as he glowered at her but she didn’t move an inch. She waited. He stood there for a few more moments before thundering out of the room and she heard him slam the front door behind him.

Farah took a deep breath, because the last thing she needed was increased blood pressure. My husband is alive. She repeated this to herself every time she thought of him lying in his coma after the car accident. He had been punished enough for his mistake. Mustafa had crashed his car after finding out that her brother Jay had lost all of the money he was supposed to be investing in their business and now here they were, living with the consequences of Mustafa’s ongoing medication. The doctors had said it’d affect his moods – to be careful of him falling into a kind of depression, but Farah couldn’t quite separate the man from the drugs. Aside from that, this little flat wasn’t theirs. She missed the open spaces of their five-bedroom semi-detached place. Farah liked having a guest room in case one of her sisters wanted to spend the night, or they had family or friends visiting. She took comfort from the idea that there was another room that would make the perfect nursery… but she had to let go of that dream anyway. Looking around the small living room, the light wood laminate flooring, wallpaper they couldn’t afford to change and paint instead – apart from her parents, who had wallpaper now anyway? – she took a deep breath, closed her eyes and opened them again. Still, there were things to be grateful for – being alive was one of them.

When Mustafa returned an hour later he came into the kitchen. She pretended not to notice him as she made a start on the sandwiches.

‘You can feel summer coming to an end,’ he said.

She ignored him.

‘Can I help?’ he asked.

She got the butter out of the fridge and slammed the door shut, pointedly, looking at him.

‘What do you think?’

His face fell. The way he looked at her always reminded her of Jay and it managed to soften her heart.

‘You’d just slow me down, anyway,’ she added.

He smiled and looked at the ground, nodding. This time his chosen mood was martyrdom: the long-suffering husband of a wife who he couldn’t seem to please, even when he tried. He left the room without another word.

Farah listened to him going into the bathroom to take a shower. She heard his footsteps come out and go into their room. He stayed in there for two hours. Farah walked towards the bottom of the stairs and paused, caught between fury and guilt. Fury won. Mango juice! Of all the things in the world that he could get angry about. The sheer audacity of it! Here they were, living in this one-bedroom flat because of his inability to manage money. Because he decided to squander it on some half-baked scheme, cooked up by Jay, and all he cared about was the contents of the fridge.

Farah went back into the kitchen and finished making the sandwiches. After she’d scrubbed down the kitchen tops she squinted and knelt down to take a closer look behind the standing lamp. Her intuition for cleanliness had become quite remarkable.

‘Sandwiches ready, or are they hiding behind our lamp?’ Mustafa’s voice came, soft and sheepish.

She frowned when she looked up at him. Farah noticed his smile falter and tried to rearrange her features.

‘It’d be a miracle to hide anything in this place,’ she replied.

He cleared his throat as he looked over at the platters in the kitchen. She began wiping the floor as she heard her husband’s body shuffling around.

‘Come on, no one cares about some dust in the corner,’ he said. ‘You can’t even see it.’

‘I can see it,’ she replied without looking up.

There was a pause.

‘Maybe you need the opposite of glasses?’ he suggested.

She sat back and looked up at him. What was the point? He was trying – he always did. All this anger just exhausted her, and she was bored of being tired and frustrated – all of the negative feelings, which seemed to wash over her on a daily basis.

‘Something to blur my vision?’ she asked.

Mustafa took a second.

‘Exactly.’

Joking was good. Joking is what Farah’s sister, Mae, did all the time and her life seemed to be a lot less complicated. Except Farah had read that it wasn’t good to compare your life to another’s – she wondered if the same was true if all you wanted was to emulate them.

‘At least then I wouldn’t have to see everything – you know, just let some things go,’ she added.

It all felt too loaded. She needed to master the art of saying things with lightness – her words should be like froth, not lead.

‘Are you ready?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. I’ll put those in the car,’ he said, indicating towards the trays.

He walked over as Farah got up and brushed down her skirt. She watched his now bulkier frame as he made sure the cling film covered the sandwiches. Despite the weight, there was still something commanding about his figure. The new beard suited him, though he’d let his hair grow longer than she liked. Mustafa looked at the two trays as if confused about how to take them to the car. He put one on top of the other and Farah stopped herself from shouting out that he’d squash the ones at the bottom.

‘I’ll take that one,’ she said, rushing towards him. ‘Thanks,’ she said, as he handed the top tray over to her. ‘I can’t believe Mae’s finally going to university.’

‘She used to be such a cute kid,’ he said.

Farah bristled. What did he mean used to?

‘We all need to grow up one day,’ she replied.

She and Mustafa stood opposite each other, trays in hands. Farah remembered, as Mae got older and went to school, learned new things, that Mustafa being their first cousin from their mum’s side was not normal for non-Bengalis. Farah recalled the face she’d make as if she were about to throw up. Even now, years later, Mae would sometimes comment on how Farah was cousins with Mustafa one minute and then sleeping with him the next. It was usually accompanied by a shudder. The whole thing seemed to perplex her completely. It was a different generation, thought Farah. Things which seemed so normal in their culture had changed so much within the space of a decade.

‘Yeah,’ said Mustafa, bringing Farah back to the present day. ‘I’m just saying.’

He was always just saying, not thinking about his words – about the effect they could have on the people around him; namely Farah.

Mustafa added with a smile: ‘And at least she’s not like…’ He paused and seemed to think better of finishing his sentence.

‘Like?’ Farah asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Like?’

‘Bubblee.’ He raised his eyebrows, knowingly, as if this was an inside joke of theirs.

But Farah knew what his jokes really were. They were grievances from before the accident, which he’d remained quiet about, but which somehow now came to the surface.

‘I mean,’ he added, ‘at least Mae likes me.’

Farah avoided his gaze. Even she couldn’t lie about how Bubblee, her twin sister, felt about him. He was on medication, he wasn’t stupid.

‘I don’t know who’s going to keep Mum and Dad company when Mae’s gone,’ she said.

‘Right.’

‘Dad’s going to miss her so much.’

Mustafa gave her a sad look – as if he wished she’d contradicted him, told him that was nonsense and that of course Bubblee liked him.

‘They’ll be fine.’ He smiled. ‘We’re here, aren’t we? And anyway, look at it this way, she’ll be making trouble elsewhere.’

Here was the problem: Farah thought she had forgiven him for his mistake, for the way in which he’d changed their lives. Being able to feel his arms around her again, it had been impossible not to. At the time. That was the other problem. Time had a way of making things changeable, including feelings, and God knows, hers never seemed to stay the same. At least that was something she and Mustafa had in common.

‘Mae doesn’t make trouble,’ replied Farah.

Mustafa gave her an incredulous look, but flinched, closing his eyes as if in pain.

‘Are you all right?’ Farah took his tray from him and put hers down too as she looked up at him.

‘Yeah,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Just a weird twinge.’

He put his hand to his temple and opened his eyes. She saw the emergence of a smile.

‘Why are you smiling? You just looked like you might faint.’

‘You look worried,’ he replied. He took her hand.

‘Oh, you like my face like this, do you?’

Where exactly had this new snappiness come from? She reminded herself more and more of Bubblee by the day. She guessed it was the result of living with the new and not-improved Mustafa.

‘Only when it’s for me,’ said Mustafa.

Farah smiled and shook her head. ‘It’s a lot easier being worried about you when you’re in this kind of mood.’

He looked embarrassed. ‘I know. I’m sorry, babe. I don’t know… Sometimes I don’t know what comes over me.’

Mustafa kissed her forehead as she forgave him again, because Farah realized that you can’t forgive someone just the once. You have to do it every time the same resentment hits you.

‘I know,’ she said.

They picked up the trays again and made their way towards the car. Farah sat in the driver’s seat and took out her phone.

Bubblee: Where are you?? We’re all already here, waiting.

Mae: Bubs is in cntrl mode. Hurryyyyyy

Fatti: Our baby’s going to uni!

Mae: Lol. Im rolin my eyes. N jus so u kno im a woman nw

Bubblee: One who can’t spell properly.

Farah: On my way. Mae, honestly. Sometimes it’s worth listening to Bubblee.

Farah looked over at Mustafa, in the passenger seat, staring blankly out of the window and tried not to think about how Bubblee felt about him. About them.

Farah: Only sometimes, though.

Chapter Two

Mae had to listen in to her parents’ room. She almost hesitated, as if she were already at university and weaning herself off the habit. She crept along the corridor, bending over the bannisters to make sure the others weren’t going to see her, and leaned in to the door. Silence. Why couldn’t her parents make eavesdropping easier for her? Then she heard her mum.

‘I am just an old woman now.’

Weird. Her mum’s tone wasn’t resigned, it seemed to ask for a reaction. But of course this was her dad they were talking about. Dad was about as responsive as a tortoise.

‘We are both old,’ he replied.

Mae rolled her eyes and ambled down the stairs, biting into her home-made cacao-and-chia-seed almond ball. Maybe she was imagining her mum’s behaviour becoming erratic. She’d probably taken a leaf out of Mustafa’s book. God, her family needed to take a chill pill. All this angst made Mae twitchy – as if she couldn’t really concentrate on her own angst, and, hello, she had plenty if this lot would ever allow her to really worry about it. She felt a rush of excitement at the idea of the unending possibilities university would bring. Her life stretched out in front of her into this magically unknown place. She forgot about her parents, her brother-in-law, Mustafa – everything family related – and skipped down the last few steps, accidentally dropping her cacao ball. Oh, well, there were worse things she could let drop.

‘Fazaroona and Mussie Mustafa. Enter, please.’

Mae bowed down low and outstretched her arm for Farah and Mustafa. For some reason Farah felt tears prickle her eyes. She had an overwhelming feeling of love for the lightness of Mae and prayed that university wouldn’t change her.

‘Salamalaikum, Mae,’ replied Mustafa.

Farah wished he’d joked back with Mae, done a little skit with her, the way he would’ve done in the past. Now Mae seemed to annoy him. He’d say things like: Not everything in life is a joke. When is she going to be serious about life? Despite the fact that Farah would sometimes share this sentiment, she wondered why everyone had to be so serious, anyway. Mae cleared her throat and looked solemn.

‘Mustafa Bhai. Deep gratitude for the sandwiches. Very much obliged. I will be eating the filling, these are defo not gluten-free.’

He handed the tray to her as he walked into the house. Mae widened her eyes at Farah as if to say: Your husband – what a trip.

‘The clan awaits,’ said Mae as she and Farah followed Mustafa into the living room.

‘Well, it’s about time,’ exclaimed Bubblee. ‘I can make it from London on time but you guys, who live ten minutes away, are late.’

‘Nice to see you too, Bubs,’ said Farah.

‘Bubblee, let your sister sit down before you start shouting at us all,’ interrupted their father.

Their mum gave him a long look, and her voice softened as she spoke: ‘Listen to your abba.’

But their dad didn’t seem to notice their mum staring at him as he took Mustafa’s jacket and went to hang it up.

Bubblee embraced Farah in a rather sturdy hug. ‘Sorry. Bloody neighbours have a new baby that cries all hours into the morning, and I haven’t slept for days.’

Farah looked at Bubblee properly and could see what she meant. She had dark circles, her hair looked as though it needed a wash and without any make-up on, Bubs looked older than usual. Older than Farah did, she was sure, and they were twins.

‘The poor baby,’ said Fatti, who pushed herself off the sofa. ‘You should offer some help to them, you know. I mean, I know you’re busy, but if you’re tired imagine how the parents must feel.’

Farah observed her oldest sister, Fatti, who was looking rather well. Marriage agreed with her. It looked as though her husband, Ash, was thinking along the same lines. Every time Fatti spoke, he seemed to think it was the most important thing being said. That’s how Mustafa used to look at Farah when they got married. She felt a pang of loss in the face of Fatti’s gain. Must not compare lives. MUST. NOT. COMPARE. LIVES. If only the heart could do what the head told it to.

‘Fats,’ said Mae. ‘I’m sure the parents of the newborn have got enough troubles without you springing Bubblee onto them.’

Bubblee smacked Mae around the head as their mum said: ‘Fatti, you must think of having your own babies and stop worrying about someone else’s.’

Fatti just looked at her hands.

‘Salam, mate,’ said Ash, shaking Mustafa’s hand.

Farah had to take a minute and appreciate the moment. After everything they’d gone through in the past few years, they were all here together. Apart from Jay.

‘Your brother is out making a delivery,’ explained her mum. ‘He is working very hard now.’

Farah had to admit that it was better than him sitting around, waiting for someone to fix his life. Even if she wanted to she couldn’t give him money. And she wouldn’t want to – not after he’d turned their lives upside down.

‘We should find him a nice wife now,’ her mum added.

‘Who’d wanna marry him?’ exclaimed Mae. ‘He’s a proper loser.’

‘Mae.’ Their mum narrowed her eyes at her.

‘But it’s true though, isn’t it? I mean, he probably needs another five years before he can even support himself, let alone some poor woman who’s got to stay married to him for the rest of her life.’

‘Five years? A man has needs,’ said their mum, pausing meaningfully, looking around the room before her eyes rested on her husband. ‘Everyone does.’

The room paused as her family looked at her.

‘Eww,’ mouthed Mae to her sisters. ‘Gross.’

Bubblee and Farah exchanged looks and Fatti never could hide her blushes. Their dad laughed nervously as he said: ‘Yes, yes, Jay’s amma. Very good. You must be hungry, Mustafa? Hmm? Ashraf? My daughter is feeding you well?’

Farah expected Bubblee to have something to say about a woman having to feed a man – as if they were incapable of doing it themselves – but she stayed quiet.

‘Can’t you tell?’ said Ash, patting his stomach.

‘Oh, please,’ replied Fatti. ‘There’s nothing there.’

Mae laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s because it’s all there.’ She gestured at Fatti’s robust frame, which hadn’t diminished with marriage.

‘Mae, you could probably do with some of this yourself. Look at how skinny you are. It’s not healthy,’ replied Fatti, unmoved at the attention brought to her wide hips and thick thighs. She didn’t seem to care whether her stomach protruded any more, and she looked the better for it. She no longer slouched or fidgeted with her hands. Farah noticed that Fatti never looked sideways any more before answering a question, as if she wanted to run away from the pressure of giving an answer. Today she was wearing a long burgundy chiffon top over a pair of tapered black trousers. She no longer wore things that were either too tight or too loose. Somewhere along the way she had managed to balance her wardrobe as well as her life. Her hair was loose and curled and she wore the golden bangles that Mum had given her when she got married, rings scattered on her fingers. Farah noticed she was even wearing earrings.

‘Fatti’s looking well, isn’t she?’ commented Farah to Bubblee as they went into the kitchen while the others tucked into the buffet already laid out on the table.

‘Yeah. Though not sure about the contents of Mum’s jewellery box being tipped over her.’

Farah simply sighed. Wearing a pair of dangly earrings might make Bubblee look a little more approachable. She watched her sister’s movements as Bubblee put some samosas in the microwave. Farah uncovered the sandwiches.

‘Are you okay?’ Farah asked.

‘Hmm? Yeah, fine.’

‘I mean, marriage has completely transformed her,’ added Farah.

‘Not marriage, Faar. Love. Apparently there’s a distinction.’

Farah felt uneasy. She began opening the cupboards but forgot what she was looking for.

‘Stupid, anyway,’ said Bubblee. ‘As if you should need another person to make you feel better about yourself.’

Farah wondered whether having another person was exactly what Bubblee needed. Not that she could tell her that without an argument breaking out.

‘What about you?’ asked Farah. She lowered her voice, to make sure their parents couldn’t hear, although there was enough chatter coming from the living room. ‘Are you… you know… seeing anyone?’

Bubblee flashed her a look.

‘I’m your sister,’ said Farah. ‘Aren’t I allowed to ask?’

‘As my twin, you should know that such things are low on my list of priorities.’

Bubblee took out some glasses and seemed to avoid Farah’s gaze.

‘Okay then.’ Farah leaned against the kitchen top and folded her arms. ‘What is important to you?’

Bubblee’s eyes flickered. She placed the glasses down carefully, each one next to the other.

‘I’m serious. I’m asking you,’ added Farah.

‘Being…’ Bubblee itched her head. ‘Being, you know… For God’s sake, just being.’