The Secret Lives of the Amir Sisters. Nadiya Hussain

the words of two people who refer to each other as the parent of their only son? Their only son who comes and goes as he pleases, hardly ever showing his face and exists more as an idea than an actual being. Not that he gets any flack for it because, of course, he’s a boy and the same standards don’t apply.

      ‘Maybe at Jay’s wedding,’ I said, straight-faced.

      ‘Bubblee,’ said Dad, abandoning the blender and taking the phone from Mum as he glanced at her. ‘Remember she is your mother.’ He looked from side to side as if he wasn’t quite sure of this fact. Or perhaps he was just looking out for a slipper that might come flying his way if he did anything but agree with her.

      ‘Yes, Abba. Thanks.’

      He gave a short nod and winked at me before he ‘accidentally’ hung up on me. Dad will probably end up paying for that in rationed dessert servings tonight.

      I exhaled as I sat on the edge of my chair and looked at my sculpture. It was difficult to concentrate, what with Mum mentioning Farah. I turned to look at a photograph of us on my wall; it was taken on our thirteenth birthday. We were so excited about being teenagers. We thought there’d be this shift where things would change and life would somehow be more exciting. And it was in some ways; I discovered art and how a painting could make you feel things that life somehow couldn’t; how there was beauty in the stroke of a brush or the curve of a shape; the way a drawing might speak a truth that reality only hinted at because it never stayed long enough for you to capture it. But art – it kept that feeling static in time, and you could re-visit it and be moved by it all over again, in a different way. I wanted to make people feel that way with my art. And I wasn’t about to give up until I succeeded. Farah never took to art. Or literature. I waited for her to talk passionately about something. I urged her to read the same books as me, but she’d be tidying up after Jay, or straightening out her room, sewing a button on someone’s jacket. Always busy but never with the important things. Never outraged at a news story, or delirious with joy when a dictator had been overthrown, or even about something stupid, like winning fifty quid on the lottery.

      ‘Oh, Farah,’ I whispered, picking up the photo, rubbing my finger over the frown on my face as if that’d wipe it away.

      Why does no-one understand that I wanted more for her? After all, isn’t that what sisters are meant to do? Want great things for each other? I turned my attention to my sculpture again, pleased with what I was in the middle of creating. This was going to wow people. I just had to get it right. It would be spectacular. I shook my head at my family and their ways. No-one understands: there’s nothing great about mediocrity.

CHAPTER FOUR

       Farah

      House cleaned? Check. Shopping done? Check. Shopping delivered to Mum and Dad’s, along with money from Jay, that’s not actually from Jay but me? Check. I needed a minute and ended up collapsing on the sofa. Bubblee’s face swam in front of me even though I tried to blink it out of existence. It shouldn’t bother me – it’s been five years since I’ve been listening to the same passive-aggressive tone. I suppose you just don’t get used to your twin’s disappointment. The doorbell rang. It was Pooja who came to give back the electric screwdriver she’d borrowed.

      ‘Have you seen the monstrous boutique they’ve opened up on Henway Road? The designs of the Indian suits are awful. And you know our neighbours will be queuing up to buy some if there’s a South Asian wedding within a ten-mile radius.’

      I smiled and gestured for her to come in but she said she had to go and make sure her husband didn’t feed her children Tuc biscuits for dinner.

      ‘Oh, an email’s gone around to confirm our meeting. You’re okay with next week?’ she asked.

      There was a burglary a few months ago and we’d set up a neighbourhood watch as a result.

      ‘Yes, that’s fine and let’s have it at mine. I’ll respond to everyone.’

      ‘As long as we don’t ask Marge to bring snacks, because honestly, I don’t think I could stomach it,’ said Pooja.

      I laughed and told her I’d delegate with that in mind as she said goodbye. Since I was up I checked whether Mustafa had paid the bills I’d found a few weeks ago. They all still needed to be paid. I picked up my mobile.

      ‘Hey,’ I said to Mustafa.

      ‘Hon, listen, I’m on my way to an important meeting. I just know this idea’s going to be the one,’ he said.

      Which is what he said last time, and the time before that, and the time before that. I’d told him before that I knew this company was his dream – a place where he and his associates would get together and think about new inventions and apps – and then try to create them. But all the money he made in the stock market, coming out of university, was being used up in this company to no avail. Still, it was his money, and he still traded, which gave us a comfortable life, so I couldn’t complain. There was just no nice way of saying that his ideas were … not good. I didn’t want to be the cynical wife, though, because maybe, just maybe, he’d surprise me. And it would make me happy to see him happy.

      ‘I’ll call you in a bit, okay?’ he said, sounding distracted.

      ‘I just needed to know when you were transferring that money into our joint account. You still haven’t paid those bills, so I thought I’d do it.’

      He paused.

      ‘Today,’ he replied.

      ‘Babe, that’s what you said last week. And the week before that.’

      I included the ‘Babe’ to stop myself from sounding like a nagging wife. I waited for him to speak but it took a few moments.

      ‘I know. I’ll sort it out today. I promise,’ he added. ‘Are you okay?’

      ‘Yeah, fine.’

      ‘What’s wrong?’ he pressed.

      ‘Nothing,’ I said, then lost the will to pretend. ‘Bubblee.’

      ‘Oh.’

      Why didn’t she see that despite the fact that this man’s been shunned by her, he still manages to bite his tongue when her name’s mentioned. But I suppose rage isn’t his thing. It’s neither of our thing. That’s what I love about him.

      ‘How is she?’ he asked.

      ‘Still Bubblee.’ I sighed and took out the groceries from the bag, putting them on the kitchen counter. ‘I thought going to London might soften her a bit.’

      He laughed. ‘For a born-and-bred Britisher, you don’t have a very good idea of what London’s like.’

      It still amuses me when he says ‘Britisher’.

      ‘You’ll transfer the money then?’ I said, suddenly feeling tired from having to talk about Bubblee.

      I don’t need her to understand my marriage to Mustafa – I understand and so does he and that’s all that matters. I waited for him to respond. Five years with a person can help you to read their silences and hesitations as well as the intonation of their speech.

      ‘Is everything okay, Mustafa?’ I asked.

      I just had to check – his silences weren’t normal. I don’t see how things couldn’t be okay. We had everything, after all. I looked around the house and the lack of toys cluttered everywhere; no playpen, no children’s books, no pieces of Lego or dolls left lying around. I hear people complain about what their children have or haven’t done and it stirs something inside of me – making me want to shout – not sure what I’d shout, but that doesn’t matter.

      ‘Everything’s fine, Far,’ he added. ‘I’ll always look after you. You know that, don’t