Chapter 2
2
Gossip doesn’t bother me.
I was raised in it, surrounded by it before I even understood what my family name meant to others. The Maliks are known to be dashingly desirable, indecently rich, proudly intimidating.
We’re the exclusive tea everyone wants a sip of, and, of course, everything people are too afraid to say directly to us is said behind our backs. But the hype only adds to our image and wealth, so we welcome it.
Whispers follow me everywhere I go, and I thrive despite them – because of them. I smile, wave, pose for selfies, all the while watching my social media accounts boom and the money roll in. All the while seeing my parents’ businesses flourish and expand.
It’s a good life.
Well, that’s what I tell myself – it’s the only way to survive the reality of being Karim Malik.
Behind the mask, the truth is that … this recent gossip feels different.
More personal. Sinister. In a way that makes me question the intentions of every single person I’ve ever met – even those I’ve known for years. People are somehow getting their hands on deeply private information about me – the stuff I wouldn’t even share with some of my closest confidants – and plastering it on the internet or, more likely, selling it to Mr Ex.
This gossip makes me feel paranoid and sick and drained.
I stopped reading the comments hours ago, but somehow the nasty remarks still drift in my mind. I need to talk this through with one of my friends.
But is there anyone I can truly confide in?
How do I know who I can trust?
I’ll probably never confide in anyone about this, just like I never spoke to anyone about all the other emotions fluttering inside me, contained like moths in a sealed jar.
The loneliness was eating away at me.
It felt embarrassing to admit that I was so lonely; no one would believe me anyway because of who I am and all that I have.
But there was a gaping hole in my life that no amount of money, fame or respect could fill. A hole that seemed to be growing by the day, slowly swallowing me into its dark mouth.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a meaningful conversation with anyone. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d showered, shaved, or even brushed my teeth. Had it been three days? A week? Time had lost all meaning, as had most other things.
Today was different though. I could no longer refuse to ‘do life’. I had a meeting with the other Exes, one that would shape our future as a brand, as individuals, and, most importantly, as friends.
As I lay in bed wondering how the meeting would go, Mum rushed in and went straight for my floor-length curtains, sweeping them back. I groaned as the light flooded in and flung an arm over my eyes.
‘Get up and get ready – you’re going to meet your future sister-in-law today,’ she announced. The hint of a Pakistani accent underlying her posh London enunciation was more prominent than usual; it intensified when she was stressed.
‘Urgh. Mum!’
‘It’s afternoon, for God’s sake. Get up and make yourself look decent, Karim. Today’s food tasting with the Qureshis is important.’
Everyone at home had been going on about the wedding for a while now, but I hadn’t given it much thought. The Qureshis, my brother’s soon-to-be in-laws, had flown in from Lahore just yesterday, and my family had gone to the airport to pick them up. After dining at The Ritz, they’d dropped them off at their home in Bishops Avenue. I was the only one who had yet to meet my brother’s fiancée and her family. Mum had complained that my absence had looked bad, and I knew she wouldn’t let me off the hook today. Out the corner of my eye, I watched her come over and stand at the foot of my bed and then place her hands on her hips.
‘Hai!’ she cried suddenly.
I shot up in bed, rubbing the sleep from my left eye. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Your grimy socks just touched my feet,’ she declared, a hand shooting to her head in distress.
It was common for Mum to be this theatrical – to act as though any dirty items around the house somehow came to life in her presence and were on a mission to get her. Even after seventeen years of living with her, I fell for it every time. I relaxed back into bed, grumbling irritably.
‘Oh, the smell in here,’ she continued. ‘I’ll have one of the maids place some diffusers around the room. Would you prefer Fresh Fig it was trending everywhere. But she’d likely assumed it was all fake gossip, as a lot of the other stuff turned out to be, not even worthy of being addressed. My parents didn’t make time for me in their hectic schedules unless it was a life-or-death situation, and clearly this didn’t cut it.
‘No,’ I grunted, pushing the duvet away. ‘I’m fine. I was just about to shower.’
Now that I took her in properly, I realized how glamorous she looked. While I was in my room wasting away, her skin was glowing in a way that made her look half her age. She was wearing a floor-length silver gown encrusted with fine crystals and pearls. It was no doubt one of her own pieces; she was the owner of the world-renowned luxury Pakistani fashion brand Fouzia Faris, named after herself. The designer evening wear and bridal couture had carved its way into being a top choice for influential international shoppers, celebrities and brides. Visitor slots at our flagship store on Regent Street were always fully booked.
‘Your father and I are heading out for afternoon tea with Sana and her family, but we’ll be back soon. I need you to be present and on your best behaviour today. OK?’
‘So, with Sana …’ I began awkwardly, unsure of how to refer to the girl from Pakistan who my parents had arranged to marry my older brother.
‘You’ll be expected to refer to her as Sana baji ,’ Mum said, a touch sharply.
I didn’t even refer to my own older sister with such formality and respect, but I nodded in agreement.
‘Does Sana baji speak English?’
My Urdu was appalling, so we wouldn’t have much in the way of communication if she didn’t.
Mum sighed dramatically, raising a hand as though she simply couldn’t bear to hear me say another word.
‘You’ve spent far too many of your summer holidays jet-setting with your friends. If you’d agreed to come on at least one family trip to Pakistan in the last six years, you’d have known the answer to that. And you’d certainly know a lot more about what your community is like in your motherland.’
She made to leave the room.
‘You still haven’t answered my question.’
‘It was a stupid one,’ she responded over her shoulder as she left.
Just as I stood and stretched, my sister strolled in.
‘Urgh. The entire house smells of curry. With the amount of wedding caterers we’ve invited over today, it’ll be a while before the smell goes away.’
In a sleeveless grey kurta from Fouzia Faris, Kiran looked great too and I suddenly felt even worse about my messy state. Just like our mother, she had an incredible eye for fashion; I usually asked her to accompany me when I met with designers and stylists for important red-carpet events. But that was also because I genuinely enjoyed her company, and I was much closer to her than to our older brother, Azad.
‘Absolutely ridiculous,’ she said, sitting at the edge of my bed and holding her phone up in my direction.
Staring back from the screen was a brown-skinned man with a large round face. He was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and had a rather bushy moustache.
‘It’s Sana’s older brother. According to mum, he’s a real catch. I think she’s hoping to kill two birds with one stone and get me married off too.’
Kiran fake-retched.
‘Did she give you any further details about him?’ I asked.
‘He’s a well-established businessman in America apparently. Not that I care or want to know because I can’t seem to get over his monobrow, which is like half his face. And the other half … well, let’s just say I wish the monobrow and moustache were large enough to cover that too.’
I burst out laughing. And suddenly I regretted pushing her away for the past few weeks. Although there was a lot I couldn’t speak to my older sister about, I felt less lonely with her around. ‘I can’t believe Mum thought you’d actually agree to that .’
‘What I can’t believe,’ she said curiously, ‘is that Azad agreed to an arranged marriage with someone from Pakistan. Would you ever do it?’
We locked eyes for a moment, then simultaneously snorted. With the kind of lifestyles we lived, it was unlikely that either of us would ever agree to an arranged marriage. Even the idea of someone else choosing one of our meals or outfits was unacceptable to us, let alone choosing our life partner. Azad was more traditional in his ways and closer to our parents. Kiran and I were the opinionated younger siblings who did our own thing and drove them slightly mad.
‘Is it a full-on arranged thing?’ I mused.
Kiran’s brows shot up. ‘Did you not ask him? He’s your brother too.’
‘I’ve been busy. Besides, you know how private he is.’
‘Mum introduced them. They’ve been speaking for close to a year now. Azad had multiple business visits to Lahore, and they met up every time he was there. It may have been arranged to start with, but now it’s something more.’
‘Wow,’ I replied. ‘It seems everything worked out perfectly for him because Mum meddled in his love life.’
Kiran pouted. ‘I’m next in line, now that I’m turning twenty-five, and practically past my shelf date according to everyone. Let’s hope Mum doesn’t try to dictate my marriage too. I could never deal with it. Too many prying aunties.’
‘Who knows, it may be your only option,’ I teased.
She showed me her middle finger.
I headed towards my walk-in wardrobe to pick something out. Every suit was ironed, scented and hung perfectly.
‘What shall I wear?’ I asked Kiran, who followed me in and settled into the bronze Casa Padrino baroque sofa. She used to spend hours seated right there, curled into its arm as we exchanged stories about our lives. I’d missed this.
‘A black Tom Ford suit.’
‘Hmm,’ I grunted nonchalantly, even as I did exactly as she said.
Suit in hand, I turned to face her and saw pity in her eyes.
‘Please don’t,’ I snapped. ‘I’m not in the mood to talk about it.’
Kiran adjusted her dark hair around her pale face and gave me a concerned look that was identical to Mum’s. She looked so much like our Pakistani mother, who was from Peshawar and Lahore. I, on the other hand, was told time and time again how much I resembled our Indian father, with his rich brown skin and sharply defined jawline. He was from Hyderabad, but he’d been born and raised in England and didn’t have the same attachment to his heritage as Mum did. I related to him in that sense.
‘Are you seriously going to walk on eggshells around me all day?’
‘No, of course not,’ she said unconvincingly, then sighed. ‘It’s just a difficult situation to be in. It was hard enough to deal with it in private, and now everyone knows.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Have your PR team told you what to do?’
‘Same protocol as always. Don’t address the issue at all. Apparently it’ll blow over just like everything else in the past.’
‘It will,’ Kiran declared, walking over to me. ‘You know how quickly things move on the internet. Today is a day for family; I don’t want you stressing about anything else.’
‘But first I’m going to meet The Exes. We have things to discuss.’
‘Now? You need to be here when the Qureshis arrive!’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time,’ I said impatiently, and raised my suit suggestively. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to change.’
When Kiran reached the door, she turned around to give me one last worried look before leaving.
It had been a while since I’d posted anything on my socials, and I knew my self-imposed sabbatical had gone on for far too long. It was time to get back to work. Even though I wasn’t in the mood for it, I pulled out my phone and set it on a tripod to record a transformation video. I chose the new Stormzy song that was trending and recorded myself lip-syncing to the opening lines.
I wondered if anyone would be able to tell just how fake and forced my smile was. Well, they’d never been able to tell before, so the answer to that was a solid no.
After a quick shower and clean-shave, I donned my suit, ditching the tie and leaving the top two buttons undone. I attached silver cufflinks, clipped my Rolex on and ran a touch of organic honey-scented wax through my hair. I usually spent more time smoothing it out, creating my signature sleek Ivy League look, but I couldn’t be bothered today.
I recorded the rest of the video and uploaded it without checking it through. I’d been creating content since I was thirteen; it was muscle memory now.
As I descended the grand staircase from the third floor, I stopped to take a few selfies for my Instagram story. They came out nice enough that I decided to upload one on to my feed as well.
Caption – My sister was right. Our house smells of curry, but I kinda like it …
I tagged Kiran in the post, knowing she’d appreciate the traffic. My account had hit twenty million followers recently.
When I reached the landing, I called to one of the butlers, ‘You’re driving me out. Grab the keys for the Cadillac. Alert the bodyguards too.’
I stepped out to find the London sky a bright, promising blue. The late-August sun instantly cast a warm glow over me. This kind of weather was rare enough that I usually savoured it, felt my spirit instantly rise with the heat, but not today.
My family’s presence was the reason all the other dwellers of Upper Phillimore Gardens in Kensington had had to revamp their security systems. No paparazzi were allowed anywhere near this block. It was comforting to see the Malik family home, Number 5, loom tall and steady before me. It was a detached ten-bedroom, white stucco-fronted Victorian townhouse – classic.
This was my safe space.
Although I had security to keep unwanted people out of my life here, I knew that the moment I was sighted outside, the swarms would rush over, shoving and screaming and leaching.
I could already envision all the commotion along Oxford Street: the camera flashes that would leave me seeing double; the shouting that would sink into my mind; the crowd pushing to get closer and closer.
When the butler opened the car door and I settled into the warm red leather, the nerves kicked in. As The Exes, we had experienced our fair share of intense meetings over the years, but never over something like this: a secret with the power to break us apart.
A secret that was no longer a secret.
‘Sir?’
‘Selfridges,’ I ordered.
As we got closer, my heart pounded.
On the outside, I appeared calm, collected. But on the inside, I felt anxious and exhausted. I caught sight of a random guy – grey backpack, rimless glasses, carefree grin – hopping on to a double-decker bus with a friend, lost in their conversation, utterly uninterested in the rush surrounding them.
I wondered what it would be like to be him.