Over 14 million people tuned in to see NADIYA win 2015s Great British Bake Off. Since then she has captured the heart of the nation. A columnist for The Times and Essentials, Nadiya is also a regular reporter for The One Show and presented a two-part series, The Chronicles of Nadiya, on BBC One. She is the author of Nadiyas Kitchen (Michael Joseph), Bake Me a Story (Hodder) and has been named as one of the top five most influential Asians in the UK.
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First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright Nadiya Hussain 2019
Nadiya Hussain asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition January 2019 ISBN: 9780008192327
I want to be an archaeologist, I said, You cant be an archaeologist, your parents are not rich enough, it will be a miracle if you make it to university. I didnt become an archaeologist or go to university. I did something else. I remembered her words and followed every dream. Unkind words bloom the unlikeliest of passions. This is dedicated to the dreamer in you.
Contents
F arah liked bustling around. She was perpetually busy when not at her job; her hands at work on a curry, washing clothes, fluffing pillows and inspecting areas of her now smaller home. At least its easier to manage. She was going to be positive. She paused to try and listen for what Mustafa might be doing upstairs. Maybe he was still lying in bed. It was ten oclock in the morning but his sleeping habits were never predictable any more. Or perhaps he was just looking out of the window, like hed taken to doing. There was a time when shed have asked what he was thinking. Now she wasnt sure whether she wanted to know.
He came downstairs, managing to grunt a good morning as he opened the fridge.
Why is it stacked with so much stuff? he asked.
Farah was spraying Pledge on to the coffee table, wiping it down with a cloth.
For the sandwiches Im making for Maes party later, she replied.
His brows furrowed as he snapped: Wheres the mango juice?
Farah swept into the kitchen and looked inside the fridge with him. It mustve been finished.
He slammed the door shut and she jumped. For Gods sake. You have the thing heaving with stuff for Mae but no mango juice.
She folded her arms and clenched her jaw, looking up at him. Her husband was a stranger to her in these moments, because, before the accident, in all the years theyd been married, hed never lost his temper with her, or anyone for that matter. It hadnt yet failed to surprise her when his mood took a turn. He opened the fridge door once more and slammed it shut again. His face was enraged as he glowered at her but she didnt move an inch. She waited. He stood there for a few more moments before thundering out of the room and she heard him slam the front door behind him.
Farah took a deep breath, because the last thing she needed was increased blood pressure. My husband is alive. She repeated this to herself every time she thought of him lying in his coma after the car accident. He had been punished enough for his mistake. Mustafa had crashed his car after finding out that her brother Jay had lost all of the money he was supposed to be investing in their business and now here they were, living with the consequences of Mustafas ongoing medication. The doctors had said itd affect his moods to be careful of him falling into a kind of depression, but Farah couldnt quite separate the man from the drugs. Aside from that, this little flat wasnt theirs. She missed the open spaces of their five-bedroom semi-detached place. Farah liked having a guest room in case one of her sisters wanted to spend the night, or they had family or friends visiting. She took comfort from the idea that there was another room that would make the perfect nursery but she had to let go of that dream anyway. Looking around the small living room, the light wood laminate flooring, wallpaper they couldnt afford to change and paint instead apart from her parents, who had wallpaper now anyway? she took a deep breath, closed her eyes and opened them again. Still, there were things to be grateful for being alive was one of them.
When Mustafa returned an hour later he came into the kitchen. She pretended not to notice him as she made a start on the sandwiches.
You can feel summer coming to an end, he said.
She ignored him.
Can I help? he asked.
She got the butter out of the fridge and slammed the door shut, pointedly, looking at him.
What do you think?
His face fell. The way he looked at her always reminded her of Jay and it managed to soften her heart.
Youd just slow me down, anyway, she added.
He smiled and looked at the ground, nodding. This time his chosen mood was martyrdom: the long-suffering husband of a wife who he couldnt seem to please, even when he tried. He left the room without another word.
Farah listened to him going into the bathroom to take a shower. She heard his footsteps come out and go into their room. He stayed in there for two hours. Farah walked towards the bottom of the stairs and paused, caught between fury and guilt. Fury won. Mango juice! Of all the things in the world that he could get angry about. The sheer audacity of it! Here they were, living in this one-bedroom flat because of his inability to manage money. Because he decided to squander it on some half-baked scheme, cooked up by Jay, and all he cared about was the contents of the fridge.
Farah went back into the kitchen and finished making the sandwiches. After shed scrubbed down the kitchen tops she squinted and knelt down to take a closer look behind the standing lamp. Her intuition for cleanliness had become quite remarkable.
Sandwiches ready, or are they hiding behind our lamp? Mustafas voice came, soft and sheepish.
She frowned when she looked up at him. Farah noticed his smile falter and tried to rearrange her features.
Itd be a miracle to hide anything in this place, she replied.
He cleared his throat as he looked over at the platters in the kitchen. She began wiping the floor as she heard her husbands body shuffling around.
Come on, no one cares about some dust in the corner, he said. You cant even see it.
I can see it, she replied without looking up.
There was a pause.
Maybe you need the opposite of glasses? he suggested.
She sat back and looked up at him. What was the point? He was trying he always did. All this anger just exhausted her, and she was bored of being tired and frustrated all of the negative feelings, which seemed to wash over her on a daily basis.