I try not think about how we must appear to the imaam. He doesn't ask any questions when he enters the room with Atif and a group of 4 other men. They all seem older than Atif and I try not to look at them. They treat Atif with fatherly affection but at the same time there is something in the formality of their manner which suggests they are not family.
Atif is dressed in a smart cream shalwar kameez. shaved and fresh faced- ready for the facade. He sits on the other side of the imaam.
I am wearing a smartish outfit in pale pink, with a scarf over my head- which Amina brought to my room after lunch, complete with matching jewellery and shoes. I look into the mirror and see someone I don't recognise. With the brown contact lenses as per Atif's instructions, I don't look like myself at all. I'm not wearing any makeup and that's ok because it is only the imaam who will really see me. I cover my head and part of my face with the matching scarf.
The whole thing is over quickly. I don't even ask about who my witnesses will be. I agree, sign the documents and then it is done. There is a short dua and the men all shake hands hug and congratulate each other. Atif silently escorts me out of the room to the foyer and I go back upstairs, relieved that I don't have to talk to anyone or say anything that could sabotage any of Atif's plans. Atif returns to the drawing room and I can hear talking and laughter as I make my way upstairs.
I don't know how long they stay. Only that Amina knocks on my door a while later and tells me that the food is ready. I feel sick as I follow her down. It's a sham, I feel like a fraud and am unsure about how to behave infront of her. She must know about what has happened: The fake marriage. She says nothing but smiles at me and strokes my face before she leaves. ok well that answers the question about whether she thinks the marriage is real or not.
I'm tired, no exhausted. I don't know how I manage to eat at the table alone, only that i do so in a mechanical way without tasting the food.
Atleast Atif isn't here with me. That would be a little awkward, after the marriage, perhaps he is still with his guests. I look out the window and see the lights in the garden are turned on and begin to move towards the french doors, which open up to the veranda.
The night is warm and the smell of the roses and jasmin is intoxicating. once on the veranda, there are steps to the left that descend into the rose garden which lead to the back of the house. I take off my shoes and walk bare foot to the top of the steps and sit down on the top one.
I think back to my marriage with Asim. How completely different it had been. The house was full of people: family, staff, beauticians, hair dressers, chefs, people erecting the marqee. There had been a hive of activity from the break of dawn. I had had an upset stomach that morning. My mother had said it was possibly nerves and had given me some immodium and a pat on the head. I was never on my own, not once throughout the day. Hair, make up, jewellery, outfits on. Then there were drums and music and the barat had arrived. Asim. Gosh the thought of him hurts. we had smiled and laughed together, even on that day, when a bride should be sad.
We had both been nervous, but it was Asim and you couldn't really be nervous nervous around Asim. He was sweet and kind and so good looking that he took your breath away. 'Wholesome golden boy' my best friends had called him. and they were right. He was the poster boy you dreamed about. A gentleman.
We had both worn matching red. It was a no brainer. Traditional, vibrant and fortuatous. For months afterwards our wedding was the talk of the town.
We had laughed so much. Been so happy. Even mum and dad who were chronic worriers had been content knowing that their only daughter was going to be in safe hands. He was their darling and as far as they were concerned there was no one better. He was respectful, kind, educated, independent and had the support of a fabulous family.
Ofcourse they were right. He was a sweetheart. Gentle and warm.
'You're in my gang now!" he had said taking my hand. I had laughed.
"Wow- thankyou!" I had said with glittering eyes, entwining my fingers in his. He had helped me with my jewellery, my hair pins and then my outfit. It wasn't a hardship being with him. Just looking at him took your breath away. Not only that, he had an easy manner that was endearing. We had talked and laughed into the night, falling asleep in each others arms. It wasn't until the following night that the fireworks had started.
The image of him appears in my mind as real as the aroma of the flowers in the garden. I imagine him taking my hand in his, casually sat next to me on the step, tucking it into his folded arms, imagine his smile as he looks from me to the garden, saying something I don't catch. His thick black hair falls over his forehead. He was always at ease. Always so relaxed. So calm. It feels so real.... my heart aches at the thought-imagining him right here next to me. Even now I'm can imagine myself leaning into him.
I wrap my arms around my knees and place my chin on top of them. It's a painful thought because it feels so tangible. And there's the problem- vivid living memories and the irrefutable truth of his never coming back are the paradox I've been living with. I see his head bobbing over the computer screen when I come into the apartment, hear the tap of his shaving blade in the sink in the morning before I'm fully awake, imagine him reaching for the volume on the dashboard of my car. But it's not him, they're phantom memories reminding me he should be here with me.
Atif is completely different. On the other end of the spectrum. Cool and indifferent. Calculated and arrogant. There is no compassion or warmth, just detached logic. He's mysterious and there is an air of formidable darkness about him. When I look at him I can never really get a hold on him. He's so difficult to read. I'm not sure if I'm an mild inconvenience or just something barely tolerable to him. It's not good either way. He's closed off and distant.
Now there is only silence. It's not real! I remind myself. It's not real. Ofcourse its going to be quiet, uneventful, unremarkable.
"Busy day!" from the shadows a shape emerges. I must have walked straight past him. I gasp in surprise and turn to see Atif walking towards me, hands in his pockets. Looking up into his hooded eyes I see only shadows. "Things are moving." He says as he stops, when he is finally stood above me. He looks out at the garden not even glancing at me.
The silence sits between us.
"Thankyou for everything" I say slowly and turn away "I really appreciate everything you are doing for me." I sit up a little taller and continue "the clothes, the ID, the wedding. Everything. I'm sorry if I appeared . . . pretenciously principled earlier. I know it is an indulgence that i have no right to expect or feel. Not in my position.. . ." I look away awkwardly.
My words die away and I feel overwhelmed into silence.
"You're tired." He says sighing. His voice has the hint of resignation and i look up to see him still looking out at the garden.
I don't know what to say, or if there is more to add at this point. Instead I stand and turn ready to leave.
"Perhaps, I'm not as charitable as I seem." he says as I am walking away.
I freeze and turn back to him. from this angle I can see the broad muscles of his shoulders which are globed like a full sail. The curve of the material around his biceps and the indent of his lean hips. He is toned to perfection. Not only is he cunning and cool but he is also formidable.
I wait for him to say more, but he is silent. I take two tentative steps back to him and stop at his elbow.
'It was never my choice to be here,in the same way i had no control over what happened in Lahore. Clearly, i have inconvenienced you and therefore am helpless against the debt you have over me. If you can give me time i will compensate you...... Whatever it is you need.' I don't say money in case i offend his sense of honour. But i can't help feel a sense of regret and disappointment, perhaps I'm not as naive as he thinks, somewhere deep down those pictures in his study had alarmed me. Now i know why.
'You don't strike me as naive- Ayla.' I flinch at the use of the name but pretend indifference. I turn to look at him at the same time he turns to me. he is atleast a foot taller and much more intimidating up close. Black eyes take me in. A lock of thick hair has fallen over his forehead.
His smile is sardonic and he lets his gaze fall to my hand with the wedding ring. My breath hitches for a moment as he looks at it hanging by my side, before he reaches down and takes it. lifting it to his mouth -kissing it. His touch is soft and slow and his lips are warm against my palm and I swear I stop breathing. My heart is racing though-unable to fully comprehend what is happening. I watch from a distance. As if it's happening to someone else.
His gaze is lazy and he shifts it slowly, taking me in, letting it linger at the apex of my neck, lips, ears, till it wanders lazily back to meet my eyes. His own eyes have turned black and I see something there I wasn't expecting: Interest. It's a departure from the cool indifference I have been subjected to. I can't for the life of me look away. I try to school my face to hide the surprise.
I meet him eye to bloody eye, hoping he'll catch a bit of my crazy there. It probably won't have the same affect, as I look pathetically broken, but i glare at him anyway. It's instinctual, and annoyingly feels a little juvenile. But I instantly feel my guard rising.
He laughs silently and then leans in till his face is millimeters from my own. Looking down at me, he holds my gaze before saying, 'I'm going to make you want me- as much as I want you." He whispers the words as he drops my hand and moves forward -forcing me to take a step back and then another, till I feel the low wall make contact with my calves, behind me. I can smell his earthy aftershave, see his pupils dialate and feel the heat of his breath on my face. He excudes sexual prowess and an arrogant charisma that I find morbidly fascinating despite everything.
Stubbornly, I hold my hands by my side. Chin up. Shoulders back, despite wanting to cower under his gaze.
'Dream on.' I whisper and lift my chin higher hoping i sound more convincing than i feel. God please don't let him hear my heart racing in my chest, because that's what it's doing. All common sense has left my mind and I can feel nothing but this sexually charged energy between us. I can feel the heat radiating from him. He shifts his gaze to a lose strand of hair which has fallen onto my shoulder, he takes it in his fingers and twists the tips before letting it fall slowly. The movement is so sensual, i stop breathing. My chest feels like it is ready to combust.
My own gaze is drawn to the exposed skin on his neck. I want to reach out and touch it. feel the muscles in his arms bunch under my fingers, taste him. My mouth is dry and I lick my lips, see his gaze fall instantly to them. There is a hunger in his eyes that is mirroring my own. What is happening to me? I've lost my mind. And just like that, I get the hell out of there.