The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters. Nadiya Hussain

we buy everything from supermarkets.’

      ‘Yeah, but they’ve got all those e-numbers and stuff.’

      ‘E-numbers?’

      I nodded. ‘It’s unhealthy. It’s killing us.’

      ‘But there is nothing wrong with us,’ he replied, looking at his body up and down as if it was an example of supreme health.

      It was like trying to explain fashion to Fatti. I gave up.

      ‘You know what is healthy?’ he asked.

      ‘What?’

      ‘YouTube,’ he answered. ‘Very good. For the brain.’

       What the hell was my dad going on about?

      ‘Er, okay.’

      He hesitated then said: ‘You said you had scribers.’

      ‘Subscribers, Abba.’

      ‘Oh, yes. That’s what I meant.’

      ‘And?’

      He cleared his throat. ‘Just … carry on.’

      ‘Sure, Abba. Thanks.’

      We both sat in silence for a few minutes.

      ‘Oh, I know,’ I exclaimed. ‘I’ll make tofu curry tonight. For dinner.’

      Dad nodded, as if there was someone forcing the movements of his head, and patted me on my back. It’s not on the cheek. Not like it is for Fatti, or a hand on the head like it is for Farah; the pinching of the nose like it is for Bubblee. But who really cares?

CHAPTER THREE

       Bubblee

      ‘You need to get the contours right,’ said Sasha, clearing her throat and observing my latest piece. ‘It’s … it’s coming along.’

      I looked at my sculpture, Sasha’s hand resting on the hip of my centaurian woman. The idea is to subvert expectation by showing the interchangeability of sexuality.

      ‘But that’s the point,’ I replied. ‘What is right?’

      ‘Still,’ she said, walking towards the window of my poky studio flat and lighting up a cigarette. She regarded the sculpture again. ‘I’m not sure your aim is quite, you know, coming across.’

      Sasha really has nothing good to say about anything. My mobile rang and ‘Mum’ flashed on the screen.

      ‘You gonna get that?’ asked Sasha.

      ‘Later,’ I replied, looking at the sculpture.

      Something was amiss, but why should that be wrong? Isn’t it like in life, where the imperfections are hard to pinpoint and yet are just there?

      ‘You’ve go to stop over-thinking things,’ she said. ‘Your problem is you always want to create something with multiple layers of meaning, but that should be the end result, not the starting point. Art is about feeling.’

      ‘A glimpse of the world as you see it,’ I muttered, reminding myself.

      Well, I definitely see it as being amiss, so I must’ve been on the right track. My phone rang again. This time Dad’s name flashed on the screen.

      ‘How many times do they call you in a day?’ said Sasha. ‘No point in exhaling. They can’t hear you. Just pick it up.’

      ‘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.