Ayesha At Last(25)

Khalid silently mopped up his spicy tomato and egg curry with the second paratha and washed it all down with the watery chai his mother had made.

He hadn’t slept well last night, and he’d almost missed getting up for Fajr prayer. His head was pounding, so he got up to go in search of pain medication.

“Khalid where are you going?” Farzana asked him. “You haven’t eaten the kheer I made.”

His stomach flipped over at the thought of spooning down too-sweet gelatinous rice pudding. “I should leave now if I want to catch the bus.”

“Imam Abdul Bari thinks the conference is a good idea, and the treasurer, Sister Jo, agrees. I have to get President Aziz on my side. That shouldn’t be a problem. He’s easy to persuade.”

“Ammi, the imam knows what he’s doing. The conference will be good for the community, and the mosque can use the money. Please don’t try to take over everything.”

Farzana narrowed her eyes and looked at her son with suspicion. “The mosque doesn’t need money. Everybody knows the Shamsi family makes a big donation every year to cover all the expenses. Did you know there are four daughters? The eldest is Hafsa. She is very beautiful and modest.”

Khalid froze. His mother must have heard about the conference meeting from one of her friends, maybe Aliyah. “I have to go,” he said, and he made his way to the foyer.

Farzana followed him to the front door. “The family is quite prominent and wealthy too,” she said. “They have almost as much money and property as we do. Make sure you say salam next time you see them.”

“Yes, Ammi,” Khalid said. He hated it when his mother talked about the family fortune; he was very aware that the money belonged to his mother, inherited when her own father had died and left a vast estate in India for his children. Khalid didn’t really think about money very often, so long as he had enough to send to his sister and pay his few expenses.

Farzana beamed at her only son. “You’re such a good boy. I’ve never had any problems with you.”

WHEN Khalid arrived at work, Sheila was waiting at his desk. “You’re late,” she snapped. “I asked you to be here at seven thirty for a very important meeting. Don’t you check your email? Or do you think you can ignore me?”

Khalid looked at her blankly. He had checked his work email that morning after he’d prayed Fajr, at five thirty. He must have missed her message.

Sheila sighed loudly. “Well, thanks to your lack of response, we had to move the meeting to eight thirty. Don’t be late again.” She stalked out, her stiletto heels stabbing the tile floor.

Khalid scrolled through his inbox. “She never sent me an email,” he said out loud.

Amir rose like a costumed Egyptian mummy from the sofa, enveloped in a blue blanket. “K-Man, she’s snapping you.”

“What?”

“She’s snapping pics of you to paint a picture. You know, like the politicians do. Take a photo of a guy shaking hands with the wrong person, and then run it in every attack campaign.”

“What do I do?”

Amir shrugged. “Make powerful allies. Boast about your success. Buy some dress shirts. Throw someone else under the bus.”

Khalid sat down at his desk. “They promoted me to manager. The last director said I was the most diligent and hard-working employee he had ever hired.”

“None of that matters if the Shark is out for blood.”

Khalid walked to the meeting in the conference room like a condemned man. The room was filled with middle-aged women in colourful pantsuits. They turned to face him when he entered.

“How nice of you to join us, Khalid,” Sheila said in a nasty tone. “Better late than never.”

Khalid checked his phone. It was 8:25 exactly.

“I’d like to introduce you to your new client, WomenFirst Design. You’ve read my emails and the report I attached, so you’re familiar with their portfolio.”

He looked around, bewildered. “Sheila, what email? I manage e-commerce. I’m not the right person for client-facing meetings.”

“Don’t be so modest.” Sheila smiled at him. “Your resumé clearly states that you are proficient in numerous programming languages, including Java, Python and Urdu.”

“That last one is actually not a coding lang—” he began, but Sheila interrupted.

“At Livetech, everyone must be comfortable wearing different hats and working in flexible roles. I’ll leave you to it.” She walked out of the room, smiling grimly.

The suited ladies turned to look at him.

“Oh, honey,” a heavy-set white woman with blond hair and red glasses said. “Now you’re in for it.”

The ladies laughed, and Khalid considered running after Sheila. “I assure you, I have done nothing wrong.”

That set them off again, into more gales of laughter. After they calmed down, the blond introduced herself. “I’m Lorraine. This is Vanessa.” She nodded at a black woman who was smiling at him. “You don’t know who we are, do you?”

“Umm,” Khalid stammered.

“I never liked that woman,” Lorraine said to Vanessa. “Never trust a skinny woman in stilettos.” She turned back to Khalid. “Honey, we’re your clients, WomenFirst Design. We design and sell lingerie for plus-size women, and you’ve just been put in charge of setting up our entire online sales structure.”