The Wedding Countdown Read Free

plucking Emira’s trendy glasses from her perfect nose, balance them on mine for a convincing Auntie Bee impersonation. ‘University Schuniversity! Why does a girl need to go to university? Amelia Ali can’t even make a round chapatti . Why send her to university?’
    My cousins are shrieking with mirth. Why is it I always end up clowning around when I’m worrying about serious stuff? I’ve lost count of the times I’ve joked or made witty asides when the conversation gets a little too close to the knuckle for my liking. My friends and cousins may think I’m Bradford’s answer to Catherine Tate but it’s probably truer to say I’ve just perfected a defence mechanism. Basically I’m an emotional jelly when it comes to thinking about my love life.
    Hoor has tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘Stop it Mills! Have you any idea how scary that impression is? You’re so funny!’
    ‘Funny schmunny,’ I say, wagging my finger at her. ‘Have some respect for your elders. Like my Kabir. He’s a good boy. Marry him to Amelia at once!’
    ‘Gross!’ Sara pulls a face. ‘I’d forgotten you were supposed to marry him. Look, there he is, talking to your dad. How did you manage to resist?’
    Sure enough, there’s Kabir, shovelling food into his mouth as though there’s about to be a world chicken tikka shortage, and spraying bits of violent red goo all over my unfortunate dad. He is as wide as he is high, and his waistline is expanding as rapidly as my overdraft.
    ‘I think I just lost my sense of humour,’ I sigh.
    ‘I’m not surprised,’ Sara grimaces. ‘Shagging Kabir would be about as funny as a Bernard Manning gig in Bradford.’
    ‘Brad Pitt must be shaking in his boots,’ I say.
    But as far as Auntie Bee is concerned, Kabir is Brad Pitt, Orlando Bloom and Prince William all rolled into one perfect package.
    The Alis, like many Pakistanis, tend to keep marriage within the family and on the very day I was born Auntie Bee suggested I was betrothed to her son. Thankfully my dad managed to ignore that one, and she was fobbed off with comments about when I was older and all grown up, insha’Allah . Any road, around the time that I was sitting my A-levels, Auntie Bee, never one to take nahin for an answer, came waddling round and interrupted my revision by demanding it was high time Kabir and I were betrothed. I’d refused point blank and luckily my parents hadn’t pushed the matter because I’d already accepted a place at university.
    But lately I’ve been wondering if they’re biding their time after all. I bloody well hope not. I’d rather eat my own vomit than marry Kabir. This is why I have to talk to my mother sooner rather than later.
    ‘I shouldn’t worry too much,’ Hoor whispers. ‘There’s no way Uncle Ahmed would ever want you to marry Kermit. He knows that Auntie Bee and your mum don’t exactly see eye to eye.’
    This is possibly the understatement of the year. The Montagues and the Capulets probably got on better. Auntie Bee lives for gossip. Meddling and interfering is her life’s mission. My poor mum, Hamida, is always in the firing line when it comes to her dear sister-in-law, who wastes no time criticising her as a mother and wife, and generally dishing out advice on how to treat my dad the way every man in our family deserves to be treated.
    Because Sanaubar is the perfect daughter and Kabir – or Kermit as I’ve always called him, on account of his frog-like eyes and squat body – is the perfect son, my brother, sisters and I have all been compared to them for as long as I can remember. Sanaubar and I are only six weeks apart in age and we share a long history of rivalry, mostly due to Sanaubar’s superiority complex and catty competitive streak. Not the nicest combination, especially in high doses. Sanaubar and I have never got on and we never will. Sanaubar’s conversations tend to be about her amazing clothes (snore), her amazing marriage (yawn) and her amazing brat ...