Ayesha At Last(59)

Except I am getting what I wanted, she thought as she unravelled six yards of silk sari and held it up against the wall. I wanted nothing. And in a few short hours, all my dreams will come true.

Ayesha lifted the sari up to the corner of the wall behind the dining table, as high as she could reach. She was looking around for a stool when an arm reached above her to grasp one end of the sari.

Ayesha looked up into Khalid’s face. She dropped the sari.

“What are you doing here?”

He was dressed in a dark blue robe and white kufi, a red cotton scarf hanging from his neck. He looked so handsome with his curly black hair and soft brown eyes framed by thick lashes, a serious expression on his face. She looked away, biting her lip.

All Hafsa’s. He belongs to her now.

“I didn’t think your family would make you decorate by yourself, not today.” He looked at her pink shalwar, his eyes travelling up to her face. “You are so beautiful.”

Ayesha started, her eyes wide. “What?”

Khalid dropped his half of the sari and stepped closer. Ayesha could feel the heat from his body, smell the subtle cologne. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

“I got you an engagement gift.” He pressed a clumsily wrapped package into her numb hands, and his fingers deliberately brushed against her palm.

Ayesha ripped open the wrapping and her hands caressed a notebook bound in supple blue leather. It was the sort of notebook she’d always pictured carrying, perfect for writing poetry but too expensive and impractical. The sort of notebook nobody else had ever thought to buy for her.

When she looked up, his expression was full of want.

“Open the book,” he commanded softly, moving closer until his scarf brushed against her arm.

She lifted the front cover, reading the inscription in Khalid’s precise handwriting:

When I think of you, I see my future.

“It’s for your poetry,” he explained with a smile. “I like to imagine you writing in a notebook I gave you.” He looked at her intently. “I hope that’s not too corny.”

Ayesha didn’t know where to look. He doesn’t know, she thought wildly. He still thinks I’m Hafsa. Joy wrestled with rising panic. Joy that he still wanted her, plain Ayesha, and not beautiful Hafsa. Panic at his disappointment when he learned the truth. She wouldn’t be able to stand watching the affection and longing drain from his eyes when his real fiancée walked into the room dressed in white.

She looked around, hoping for Idris or Nana or even Hafsa to wander by and save her, but they were all alone.

“I never believed in love before marriage. At least, I didn’t until I met you,” Khalid continued. “I am so happy Ammi picked you to be my wife. I will try very hard to be a good husband.” His breath was warm and sweet on her cheek, and his thumb rubbed the silky material of her sleeve slowly, back and forth.

Ayesha felt a rising nausea in her stomach. She scrambled back, and his eyes, heavy-lidded, widened slightly in confusion.

She had to tell him, right now.

“Khalid, I’m not . . . My name isn’t . . . This is all a big misunderstanding . . .” she began.

Farzana strode over to them. “What are you doing here?” she asked her son. She looked at Ayesha, and her face shifted, from fear to determination. “Why are you standing here talking to Hafsa’s cousin?” she said.

Khalid recoiled as if slapped. “This is Hafsa. My fiancée.”

Farzana shook her head. “This is Ayesha. Hafsa’s much older, unmarried cousin. Hafsa is much prettier than her, with lighter coloured skin too.”

Khalid’s eyes snapped back to Ayesha and they stared at each other for a long moment before he dropped his gaze. Ayesha said nothing, her helplessness making her fists open and close. She heard the clock tick slowly, but her eyes were riveted to his face. Please don’t hate me. The words remained locked in her throat.

She watched him struggle to maintain his composure, jaw clenching. She took a step toward him, but he moved back, his body rigid with the effort of keeping silent. When he looked up again, his eyes were blank.

“Ayesha,” he said. It was a cold, impartial statement.

She didn’t say anything, and he allowed himself to be led out of the house, where the rest of his family waited for the engagement ceremony to begin.

“TALA al badru alayna . . .” The voice of Yusuf Islam, a.k.a former 1970s folk singer Cat Stevens, drifted into the house. As the drums began to beat over the speakers, Khalid and his mother walked inside, followed by Aliyah Aunty and a half-dozen distant relatives rounded up to inflate their numbers. Khalid’s family held large platters piled with food, Indian sweets, and gift bags filled with clothes and jewellery for the bride.

Khalid followed his mother into the living room where Hafsa sat, her face covered by a sheer white dupatta shawl. He took his place beside her, his face carved from granite.

Ayesha missed the grand entrance. She was in the bathroom, the taps turned on full blast, sobbing.

SAMIRA Aunty dragged Ayesha to the family room for pictures after the brief engagement ceremony.

“I have to help in the kitchen,” Ayesha said. “The uncles expect tea.”

But her aunt insisted Ayesha stand beside a beaming Hafsa and stone-faced Khalid.

“I’m so happy, Ashi Apa,” Hafsa said, hugging her cousin tight. “This picture will look great for my business, Happily Ever After Event Planning.”