Chapter Nineteen
The next couple of weeks raced by. Work was extra busy, as it always was after Christmas and New Year’s when clients suddenly woke up to the fact that they hadn’t done anything in the past month and were behind on their deals and contracts. Between work, Arabic classes, Arabic homework and running, there was very little time for much else.
Zak and I hadn’t hung out after class again. The week after my first lesson, I saw him briefly as we were entering the building and then Nadira and I went for dinner after class. The two weeks after that, I didn’t see him at all. I had lost count of the number of times I picked up my phone to text him to see if he was OK, but I always stopped myself. Desperate wasn’t a good look on anyone, least of all me.
Lucy and I were also on day twenty-two of the Whole 30. We had become used to the restrictions and our complexions and hair were beginning to look brighter and more lustrous. We had also got to a point where we stopped accidentally adding dairy to our tea and feeling hangry all the time. I had, anyway. Lucy still looked weary and was less patient than usual. I had asked her more than once if she was OK, but she claimed it was because she missed sugar and alcohol. I couldn’t force her to tell me what was on her mind, so I decided to let her come to me whenever she was ready.
‘Maya, check this out,’ she said one day, entering the little kitchenette where we often ate lunch together. I was in the middle of devouring my baked salmon and avocado salad and put my fork down to take her phone from her.
‘You did it!’ I cried, taking in her brand-new Instagram page. The first post was a stylish black and gold logo with the name StyledByLucy in simple lettering. ‘It looks amazing! So classy and elegant. Congratulations, Luce!’
My grin faded when I opened the next post. On the screen was a before and after picture of me and it was simply horrifying.
I stared at the screen, at the girl on the left. Me. Did I really use to look that bad? I couldn’t have done. But the photographic evidence was right there, in my hand, my shortcomings highlighted by the ‘after’ picture on the right. Dry, frizzy black bush on the left. Sleek chestnut waves on the right. Blotchy, discoloured complexion on the left. Smooth, glowing brown on the right. Unruly, uneven eyebrows versus perfectly manicured beauties. Drab, ill-fitting, functional jumper and jeans combo beside a tailored, flattering, stylish trousers and top ensemble. The left me – the old me – oozed misery and insecurities. The one on the right radiated confidence and happiness.
Neither were me. Both were me , depending on the day and circumstance. But the picture didn’t paint a 3D, layered, nuanced story of me. Maybe the caption did, I thought in desperation. Maybe the caption conveyed that I wasn’t a miserable ogre before the makeover and while I loved my new look, it didn’t completely change my life as the photo implied. My eyes anxiously scanned the words, my heart pounding:
Hey everyone, let me introduce you to my lovely client, Maya, who came to me for some simple style advice and ended up going for an entire image makeover! Maya was a beautiful woman hiding beneath boring, dull clothes that did nothing for her figure. She had thick hair that was in desperate need of some TLC and needed a little guidance on what makeup worked best for her and what clothes would suit her fuller figure. Six hours was all it took to transform Maya’s life. And here’s a secret – she went home with a mysterious man later that evening! I saw her climb into his Mercedes myself. DM me if you want to be #StyledByLucy #fashionblogger #style #london #selfridges #MACCosmetics #fashion #OOTD #imageconsultant #makeover #beforeandafter #makeup #trends #glowup #glow #hotgirlwinter
What. The. Hell.
‘Lucy!’ I squeaked, my face turning pale. As pale as it could get, that is. ‘You need to edit this! You can’t put the bit about me going off with Zak. My mum will kill me!’
‘Oh, Maya, don’t worry about stuff like that. I’ve hardly got any followers. Is your mum on Instagram?’
‘Well, no, but what if—’
Lucy laughed and casually put her arm around me. ‘Trust me, babe, no one you know will see this. You know how the algorithm works. Now let me show you the TikTok I made.’
I didn’t know anything about algorithms. And I doubted she did, but I didn’t protest further. I didn’t want to upset her or seem ungrateful after everything she had done – and was still doing – for me. I let her show me the video she made of the transformation. It was really good, with upbeat music and smooth transitions. If I wasn’t looking at myself waddling through Selfridge’s and sitting on the salon chair with a hundred pieces of foil sticking out my head like Medusa, I would have liked the video. It was me, though. It was my very personal, very private life that was now online for everyone to mock.
‘Can you at least un-tag me?’ I implored once I could speak again.
‘Oh, OK, sure,’ Lucy said, her voice losing some of its enthusiasm.
‘Lucy, you’ve honestly done an amazing job and I’m so grateful to you and proud of you at the same time,’ I said when I realised that if I didn’t explain myself, our friendship could easily go down the plughole. ‘It’s embarrassing for me, seeing myself looking so frightful. It’s really unforgiving and I’m not used to putting myself out there like that. That doesn’t mean I’m not excited for you, I am. It’s my own insecurities.’
‘Oh, babe, I’m so sorry you feel like this. You were beautiful before, Maya, you just needed a bit of help figuring out how to make the most of what you had.’
‘If you say so,’ I shrugged. I couldn’t see an ounce of beauty in the ‘before’ Maya. And the more I looked at it, the more stupid I felt. There was no way Noah was remotely interested in me that day on the Tube. How could he have been?
‘I do, but I’m going to delete the posts. I don’t want to upset you or stress you out.’
‘No way!’ I interjected. ‘You can’t. This is your business.’
‘ You’re my business,’ Lucy shrugged. ‘It’s fine. Maybe one day I’ll find someone else who can help me. But I suppose I could post pictures of my own outfits and stuff.’
‘No!’ I insisted again, firmer this time. ‘I said I would do it and I meant it. I needed a moment to get over the initial shock and shame. I’ll be fine in a bit.’
‘Are you sure?’ Lucy looked at me doubtfully. ‘Honestly, Maya—’
‘I’m sure,’ I said resolutely. ‘Please. It’s fine.’
That evening, when I got home and prayed, I asked Allah not to let anyone I knew see the picture or video of my transformation. If Network Aunty thought I was gallivanting around London with a random man in a Merc, then my reputation would be shot to pieces. I had managed to get through my teenage and university years with it intact and I had zero desire to ruin it now.
I got into bed earlier than usual that night and as I was about to switch off my bedside lamp, my phone pinged with an incoming notification – a new follow request. I was about to ignore it and go to sleep, but then I decided to check it out. ZakHussain16 had requested to follow me! What the actual hell? How did he find my account? There were numerous Maya Rahmans online – how did he find the right one? It took me a millisecond to decide whether to accept his request. In that fraction of time, I weighed out the pros (I could stalk his own accounts, we could become better friends, I would learn more about him) and the cons (he could stalk my account, he would learn more about me). There were thirty-three per cent more pros. Maths didn’t lie, I had to accept based on hard facts.
Accepting his request, I followed him back and waited anxiously for him to accept. About an hour later, I was into the semi-private Insta world of Zakariya Hussain and then spent the next hour going through all his content. I didn’t have a huge amount of experience with the accounts of Muslim, Bengali men. In fact, my entire frame of reference was based on Malik’s social media, which was full of the usual: hanging out with the boys, food, holidays, snapshots of the City. You wouldn’t be able to tell he had a girlfriend from his social media. Or that he had a sister. It was a carefully curated archive of the Malik he wanted outsiders to think he was.
Zakariya’s was different. It seemed less intentional than my brother’s, a mishmash of quotes, books, food, travels, Islamic stuff. His sisters featured prominently – weddings, Eids, family outings – and I wondered why my brother never included me in his, even though there was a picture of him on mine. Was he ashamed of me? Did I not fit the image of himself he was trying to portray? A suave, finance man with money to blow, living his best life, etc., etc.?
I wondered what Zak would think of my page. It was sparse, with no pictures of me. I never felt like my photos were good enough to be immortalised online. Instead, there were lots of scenes of London and the odd food post. It was pretty boring, actually. Now that he followed me though, I would have to think of interesting things to share. It felt like pressure.
Before I put my phone away and went to sleep, I did yet another Google search for Noah. I did it every week or so, in case something new popped up. It hadn’t. He was fading faster than I had anticipated. The arrival of Zakariya had shifted my focus away from the stranger on the train, who I felt I knew intimately because of his list. A part of me felt guilty for thinking of Zak when I had been carrying a piece of Noah around with me for over four months. That piece of him had become a part of me. We were forever intertwined because of the experiences we had shared.
Maybe that was all it was ever destined to be. Maybe Allah put him in my path so I could find the notebook. Maybe it wasn’t about Noah himself.
I contemplated DM’ing Zak, asking him how he found me, but I didn’t. If he wanted to talk to me, he knew what to do. Putting my phone on silent, I switched off my lamp and snuggled under my heavy duvet. It was still freezing and my dad was being tight about when we could turn the heating on. He had it on a timer to come on for an hour at Fajr time, just before dawn and an hour in the evening. Whenever we complained, he reminded us that he was the one paying the bills. I wondered if he would ever stop acting like he was still poor; the boy who had come to the UK at twenty-three with nothing but twenty pounds in his pockets and the naive belief that his Queen’s country and its people would welcome him, as a member of the Commonwealth. He was born after India became independent, but British values, the language and the belief in monarchy remained in the region for a long time afterwards. Baba never realised that he would be seen as a dirty pest when he got here; the lowest of the low.
And so we wore socks at night in the winter and we let my dad do whatever he needed to feel safe.