 
IF I SAY YES

Love & Alternatives Book 1

Copyright 2020 Neha Yazmin

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Translations

"Amma": what we call our mothers (derived from "Ma", which means mother).

"Abba": what we call our fathers (derived from "Baba", which means father).

"Apa": what we call our elder sisters (and female cousins that are older than us, because we're supposed to treat cousins like siblings).

"Bhaiya": what we call our elder brothers (and male cousins that are older than us; derived from "Bhai", which means brother).

"Bhabi": what we call our elder brothers' wives (and also our elder male cousins' wives).

"Dhulabhai": what we call our elder sisters' husbands (and also our elder female cousins' husbands).

"Fufu": what we call our paternal aunts (and also our father's female cousins).

"Khala": what we call our maternal aunts (and also our mother's female cousins).

# PROLOGUE

Shell

You know the story where the girl-next-door-type is getting married to a jerk—and she's only marrying him because she's given up on finding Mr. Right—only for the man of her dreams to crash-bang into her life days before the wedding?

This is not that story.

How about the story where the girl is engaged to the nicest guy in the world, but the appearance of a mysterious hunk rocks her world off its axis and makes her wonder if she should select sexy instead of sweet?

This isn't that story, either.

My story does, however, include a man I'm going to marry and a man that...

Well, you'll find out soon enough...

# Part One—Meet Cute (ish)

# Chapter 1: Shell

God, I probably look terrified. I am. I'm so tempted to break the rules right now.

Imran waits, patience and understanding in his dark eyes. He's figured out that he's the first guy to ask for my phone number. Can he tell that I'm considering it—giving him my number? Breaking the rules for a guy I met just this morning?

"Um, err..." is all that comes out of my mouth as I reach into my bag, rummaging for my iPhone.

Am I really doing this? What if he doesn't like me like that? If he's only asking for my number for the sake of networking—after all, we both work in the same sector. We 'graduated' the same leadership training course a few minutes ago, in the posh hotel behind us.

But I've taken to Imran more than I have to any other male I've ever met. If it's just business for him... then my nervousness and hesitation when he said, "We should exchange phone numbers," is a really embarrassing reaction.

Yet, if he does like me like that... it's scary to think what'll come of this swapping of contact info.

Giving my phone number to a boy is against the rules.

Pre-Marital Relationships are against the rules.

I'm breaking the first rule which might lead me to break the second one.

My heart is boom-booming in my chest as my thumb punches in the wrong passcode for my phone two times. Happens when I'm anxious. When someone's watching me enter my passcode and I instinctively type faster, I end up pressing the wrong letters.

Before I attempt it a third time, Imran asks, "Do you know your number off by heart? I could give you a missed call..."

That's what I'd planned to do—let him recite his number for me to give him a missed call. If I could only unlock my damn phone!

My number stumbles off my tongue and Imran enters it in the keypad of his iPhone.

"So, you didn't set-up the fingerprint touch ID thing?" he murmurs, a smile in his tone. The new iPhones—the ones Imran and I have—are kitted our with fingerprint recognition technology.

I shrug. "Didn't have the patience to set it up," I lie.

Truth is: I'd feared that people would unlock my phone by touching my thumb to the home button when I'm asleep. When I say people, I mean my little sister.

"I might sound paranoid," Imran says with a grin, "but I worry that my little sister will unlock my phone with my fingers when I'm asleep."

I just smile because I can't say, "Same here".

The next second, the vibration of my phone makes me jump. Imran chuckles before mouthing the word, Oops. I glance down at the screen, an unfamiliar number flashing on it.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he murmurs. The vibration stops.

While he glides his fingers over his phone, I calmly—and therefore, successfully—unlock mine and save his number.

First name: Imran.

Last name: Khan.

Company: Buxton Jones.

Normally, I wouldn't enter anything in the Company field, but I need to make it look like a work-related entry in my contacts list.

"Did I spell your name right?" Imran holds up his phone for me to see. He's only filled in the First name field: Shel.

"Two Ls," I tell him as I put my phone away.

"Oh." He adds the second L to Shell and saves my profile. "And by the way, I didn't ask whereabouts in Bangladesh you're from," he asks as an afterthought.

My forehead creases in surprise. People of our generation—you know, early twenties—don't ask such questions; it's usually the people of our parents' and grandparents' generation that are interested in our Bengali roots.

"My dad won't forgive me," he adds, "if I tell him I met a fellow Bengali professional at the training and didn't ask where they're from."

Nodding as though that's exactly what my dad's like—though he isn't—I tell him our address in Bangladesh.

He nods as though he's heard of it. "My dad probably knows it," he says quietly. "He seems to know at least one person in every village in Bangladesh! What's your dad's name—he's probably heard of him, too?" He chuckles, rolls his eyes.

I laugh with him. But he's waiting for an answer... "Aminul Hoque," I tell him eventually.

"Yep, he'll definitely say he's heard of him, or someone related to him." Imran laughs.

He's very good-looking—fair skin, wide jaw, thick fluffy hair—and the same height as me. Doesn't mean he's short for a guy. I'm just very tall for a girl.

I'd never be able to wear heels when I'm with him. I mentally shake my head—where did that errant thought come from?

"So, are you going to the station?" he asks, jerking his head in the direction of Great Portland Street Underground Station.

"No, I'm meeting a friend," I answer; the disappointment in my voice mirrors the look on his face. "She works near Euston. I'm going to take a bus there..."

No longer looking forward to meeting up with Hailey—even though it's been ages since we've met up—I'm regretting that I won't get to commute with Imran. I'd be getting off at Forest Gate Station, a few stops before he gets off at Chadwell Heath—if he goes straight home—but we would've been able to take the underground tube to Liverpool Street together and then the TFL Rail service from there, too.

"Oh. Well, enjoy it, then."

"Thanks. It was nice meeting you, Imran."

"It was nice meeting you, Shell."

He doesn't say "I'll call you" and he doesn't.

He doesn't call.

Not the next day or the next.

Or the next.

I hate the fact that I wait for him to call—every time my network provider sends me a text, I wonder if it's Imran—but more than that, I hate admitting that he took my number as a mere formality. Nothing more. Yes, we'd gotten along really well, connected over a lot of things we ended up discussing during the training course, but it hadn't meant anything to him.

Not what it had meant to me.

The friendly, good-natured, and easygoing guy that he is, he probably makes friends everywhere.

And never calls them afterwards.

# Chapter 2: Shell

"At least you didn't sleep with him."

"Hailey!"

Hailey giggles at my offended and scolding tone. "It's true," she insists. "You'd have felt worse if you'd slept with him and he didn't call you afterwards."

Hailey and I have been best friends since Uni—we were really close back then—but after we graduated and entered full-time employment, we haven't been very good at keeping in touch. Too busy being boring workaholics. It's not cool. Bad Shell. Bad Hailey. Yes, we check up on each other via Facebook, but we hardly call or see each other. Unless one of us has a leadership training course near the other's workplace. That's when we make an effort to catch up over a coffee.

Since that coffee date near Euston Station, Hailey's been calling me everyday to ask about Imran.

I really wish I hadn't told her about him. Not because I'm embarrassed that it's been five days and he still hasn't called—and probably never will—but because I'm embarrassed over something else. My stupidity. I'd told Hailey that I'd really liked Imran. As much as one can after spending a day together. I'd made it out to be a Thing—or a Thing in The Making—and I feel humiliated.

"I'd have died if I'd slept with him and he didn't call afterwards," I hiss. I'm sitting in the stairwell of our office block and luckily no one's passing by right now. Our company is on the fifth floor of the building, so most people in my company take the lifts up. "In fact, my family would've killed me before I killed myself." They wouldn't have—they're not monsters—but I would've been metaphorically disowned. In our religion, Dating is prohibited.

Why? Two main reasons:

One: It involves touching, kissing, and so on, which could lead to Pre-Marital Sex, all strictly forbidden.

Sins, really.

Two: If the girl got pregnant and the guy rejected her paternity claims to avoid marrying her, the child wouldn't have a father's name next to his and might get victimised because he's illegitimate.

My parents instilled this reasoning into me from a very young age and I'd never sought to question or challenge it. Knowing our culture and the community mentality, it all made sense to me. Still does.

"They won't kill you," Hailey says seriously. "Your folks are cool. They're not even bothered that their 24-year-old daughter has no intentions of even considering marriage right now."

Though this attitude is changing, there are many in my community that think girls my age should be married by now. My family, thankfully, are in the forward-thinking camp. They wanted me to have an education, a job, a career, live a little, and get married when I was ready.

"And when you do consider it," Hailey continues, "you're so lucky that your family will find a nice groom for you." There's a moan in her tone.

I chuckle. Whenever we've discussed Arranged Marriages, Hailey's always been positive about it. But not for the reasons you'd think. Her next few words pertain to her reasons:

"Do you know how hard it is to find a good guy these days?"

Hailey was a late-starter in the Dating Game. Or the Dating Race, as she sometimes refers to it, because "it feels like a race. A race to the nearest half-decent single guy before someone else gets to him!" At Uni, she'd been just as shy and quiet as I was, and hadn't put herself in situations where she'd meet lots of guys. All the guys she did meet, she didn't like, or vice versa.

Nowadays, she's always between relationships.

It's not that she's switched personalities dramatically, but she's less picky about the guys she agrees to go on dates with. But because she doesn't like them all that much in the first place—and only agrees to start seeing them in the dim hopes that they'll grow on her—she quickly realises it's no fun being with someone when there's no spark, or a chance of a spark. And she ends the relationship swiftly.

"Yes, I'm lucky that my family will find me a good husband." I sigh. "In time. When I'm ready."

* * *

"I told them you weren't ready," insists my 17-year-old sister Shayla—"rhymes with TYLER not TAYLOR" she'll tell you if you're struggling to pronounce her name. "But they think he's too good a guy to not... investigate."

"But they've already done their research!" I argue, my temper rising.

According to Shayla, photographs and CVs have been exchanged with a nice family that would like to make me their daughter-in-law. My parents have even asked around about the guy, garnering as much information as possible about this would-be-groom and his family.

"Now, they want me to meet him."

It's Saturday afternoon—eight whole days since my leadership training on that summery Friday before last—and Shayla's sitting on my bed, one leg folded under her, the other planted on my dark blue carpet. I'm sitting exactly the same way, but on the other side of the bed, facing her. Our eyes are on the same level because we're both roughly the same height. That's where the similarity ends.

My little sister's hair, unlike my sleek, straight tresses, is naturally wavy and is tied in a high pony-tail, stretching her milky-white skin tight across her face. She's starting to look more and more like Amma—that's what we call our mums—as she approaches adulthood. Although my skin is also considered fair, mine has a yellowy undertone to it. I don't have her killer cheekbones and my face is narrower than hers, my frame slimmer. I'm quite reminiscent of my dad—Abba.

Personality-wise however, Shayla and I are like chalk and cheese. I'm the calmer, more mature, and quiet one, a deep-thinker, whereas Shayla wears her heart on her sleeve, her brain on her lips. She always speaks her mind and doesn't mince words. She's brave and funny and I love her to bits.

"I don't want to meet anyone; I'm not ready," I spit through clenched teeth.

Really, I'm not angry at my parents. I'm not even angry. I just can't deal with meeting a potential husband. It's too soon after meeting a potential forbidden boyfriend that never was.

Hailey's stopped asking about Imran now, but to me, the wounds of his rejection are still very fresh. It wasn't even a rejection! It was a nothing. A non-Thing.

"Final answer?" Shayla asks, tone serious.

My eyes narrow as she gets to her feet. "Final answer."

"Shall I take these, too?" She holds up the A4-sized white envelope that she'd brought with her. It contains the groom's CV and photographs. I haven't looked inside. If I did, it'd suggest, quite inaccurately, that a small part of me is willing to consider this alliance.

"Tell them I saw the photos and didn't... you know."

She nods and leaves my room.

Only for Amma to come in a few minutes later!

My cheeks heat up. She's come to convince me to meet this stranger who's seen my CV and photos and has agreed to meet with me in person. I respect my parents too much—and know they wouldn't push this hard if they didn't truly believe that they'd found a good husband for me—so I reluctantly promise to think about it.

I'm going to say no in the end.

So what if he is a really good catch? I'm not ready to get married to a stranger.

Am I ready to get married to someone I do know, someone like Imran? No. But I'm definitely not ready to marry someone who isn't.

# Chapter 3: Shell

Would I be so dead set against meeting a potential groom if I hadn't met Imran? Are my embryonic feelings for him making me this stubborn? It's Saturday night and I've told Shayla to tell my parents that my answer is still no.

This time, it's Abba that pokes his head through my door. I groan. If it had been awkward earlier when Amma was explaining why I should just meet this guy, it'll be ten times as uncomfortable with Abba trying to do the convincing.

And it is.

My face feels hot as he begins to reason with me. I feel so embarrassed that I mumble that I'll think it over some more. He seems just as relieved as I am when he leaves me to my thoughts.

My thoughts keep returning to Imran.

When Shayla told me about the marriage proposal this afternoon, I'd immediately thought of Imran. It wasn't so much wishing that the proposal was from him, it was more a case of me thinking, "What about Imran?" as though he was already Something. Like in the films where the heroine's getting married to a guy that she doesn't love—he could be nice or a complete jerk—and days before the big day, she falls in love with someone else. Like Imran could be the man I fall in love with while preparing to marry another...

If he hadn't taken my number, I would've crushed on him for a few days—or weeks, who knows?—and then decided to forget about him. I don't know if I would've succeeded. When we swapped numbers though, something inside me changed. He wasn't going to be some nice face with a nice personality that I'd never see or hear from again. He'd be Something.

Turns out, the first time I considered breaking the rules with a guy, he had no intentions of breaking them with me.

*

Hi Imran! It's Shell—we met at the leadership training. How are you, how's the new role? These are the words I end up sending him that night after drafting and redrafting the text several times.

I don't know what's come over me.

I guess I just want to know for sure where I stand. Regardless of what he says, I'll still tell my family it's a no with regards the groom they found—contacting Imran has nothing to do with the marriage situation.

It takes him thirty minutes to reply:

Hello! Nice to hear from you. All good on my end. How are you?

I get back to him instantly:

Need an outsider's take on something, and you'd been so easy to talk to...

Ten minutes later, he writes:

Can't talk right now.

My heart sinks. He's fobbing me off. And quite insolently, too!

I know I only spent a day with him, but I think myself a good judge of character, and I didn't have him down as the type to be so blatantly rude.

Two minutes pass before he follows up with:

Text me and I'll try my best to help.

His attempt to redeem himself. I'm not placated, though. I'm liking him less and less now. In my head, I plan to say this:

Leave it, it's alright. Take care and goodnight.

What I actually send is:

My family's seriously considering a marriage proposal for me. I'm not ready to marry someone I don't know. But if this guy really is as good a catch as my parents' research suggests, am I mad to let him slip away?

When there's no reply for a whole minute—which passed really slowly for me—I quickly type:

Who knows if I'll be able to marry someone I do know?

That's very impulsive of me, out-of-character, but it's easy to become bold when I'm writing e-mails and texts. Unfortunately, Imran isn't the same.

He doesn't text back at all.

*

The next morning, I wake to find his name on my phone screen.

I need to know one thing before I can give my opinion.

This SMS came late last night—early morning, in fact—after I'd fallen asleep.

Such as? I prompt, biting my lip.

I don't know if my message will disturb him, seen as he was up so late... Or maybe he woke in the middle of the night and couldn't fall back to sleep and thought he might as well give my dilemma some thought?

In actual fact, his reply comes instantly—like he'd written it in the night and saved it as a draft. Or not.

Is there someone you do know that you want to marry? he asks.

No. I know Imran, but I don't want to marry him. I'm not ready.

His verdict arrives a few seconds later:

I think you should meet this groom. Then you'd know him.

To that, I say, You know that's not the same thing.

I know is Imran's prompt response.

My eyes sting with tears that won't fall. I won't let them. Not for a guy who probably didn't give me a second thought in the last nine days. I need to forget him.

Then, a few seconds later:

Meet him, Shell. You have nothing to lose...

And for that final nail on the rejection coffin, I ask, You really think I should meet him?

He hammers it down for me with, I really think you should.

Heartbroken and quite certain that I like Imran a lot more than I thought, I go to wake up Shayla in the box-room next door.

"What?" she moans sleepily.

"Tell them... tell them I'm happy to meet this... would-be-groom."

# Chapter 4: Shell

Westfield, Stratford City is one of my favourite places in London. I snoop around my favourite shops in the mall on the way home from work at least once every fortnight. My office is near Liverpool Street Station, and I take the train from there to Stratford, shop to my heart's content, before using the same TFL Rail service to go further east to Forest Gate.

This evening, I left the office half an hour early—I took a shorter lunch break to make up for it—to meet my sister-in-law at the shopping centre. I call her Bhabi—what we call the wives of our older brothers and older male cousins. It's the first time Bhabi and I are at Westfield together, and it feels a bit awkward. Though she and my one and only brother have been living with us since they got married three-and-a-half years ago, I wouldn't say I've become friends with her. It's not that she's not cool or anything, but her lively, chatty personality doesn't mesh well with my quieter one.

It doesn't quite mesh with Shayla's, either; they end up clashing a lot because they're both so open and strong-willed.

I stumble over my words when I try to keep up with Bhabi's chatter, and my shyness makes her feel loud. Over the years, we've just settled into only talking to each other when we need to. We're not here tonight to right that wrong, though, to bond over a shopping trip. No, we're here to meet the guy who's considering making me his wife.

Based only on my photograph, CV, and what his family have told him about me and mine.

Clever guy. Not.

I, on the other hand, am armed neither with his CV nor his photograph—I didn't look through the contents of the white envelope. I felt slightly sick just thinking about doing it.

The meeting place is a coffee shop inside the shopping centre. Bhabi and I have arrived just in time. Mr. Would-Be-Groom isn't here yet. Good. I don't like making an entrance.

"What'll it be?" I ask Bhabi as we settle around a small table with four chairs. "Cappuccino, mocha, hot chocolate?"

"It's the guys that should buy the drinks," she says with a frown.

The guys are:

Mr. Would-Be-Groom and his brother-in-law—his older sister's husband.

"I'm not going to sit around, waiting for them, drink-less," I mumble as I go to cue up at the counter.

"Fine. I'll have a latte," she calls out.

Make-up immaculate, she's wearing an elegant black maxi dress, a black cardigan, and is rocking a very elaborate hijab-style, all folds and volume. In simple terms, hijab is the name assigned to the covering of one's hair with a scarf. Her black and white viscose scarf—in an inverse zebra-print—is wrapped around her head just the once, but due to the fluffy scrunchie on her bun and the folds she's created with the fabric up top, she appears to have a huge Afro underneath the hijab. A very stylish Afro.

It's Wednesday today, which is when my work attire is usually in transition-mode—shifting from smart and professional to casual but respectable. Mondays and Tuesdays, I wear my smartest dresses with matching cardigan and black leggings. Boring, I know. Wednesdays and Thursdays, I add a splash of bold colour via my cardigans and shoes. Fridays are dress-down, so I bust out my floral and print-dresses and my skinny jeans.

Today, because of the after-work coffee 'date', I've mixed things up a little: A royal-blue dress made from soft, flowing material, black cardigan, and leggings. My parents wanted me to take a change of clothes with me to work, so I could turn up at the coffee shop in a salwar-kameez—a knee-length dress with matching trousers—but I'd refused.

"They should see me how I normally dress for work or when I go shopping," I'd insisted.

And my usual look is: knee-length dresses—sometimes longer—with leggings and flat shoes. Our office is always cold from the air con, so I, and most of the girls in the company, wear a pashmina around my neck to stay warm. I don't do make-up. A nude lipstick or tinted lip-gloss, yes, but I don't count that as 'make-up'. Luckily, my light skin behaves most of the time, so concealer and foundation aren't necessary additions to it. Mascara just makes my eyes tear. And I don't wear a hijab.

So, I've turned up as me, just the way I am.

Once I return with our hot drinks, Bhabi suggests I pull my pashmina over my head, reminding me of what my parents had requested. I normally cover my head at family gatherings—not fully, just over my bun—but today, I say, "They should see me as I am on a typical Wednesday evening. I don't want to mislead them or mis-sell myself."

Secretly, I'm hoping that the lack of hijab might put off the groom and his companion. If they reject me, it'll save me from more embarrassing conversations with my mum and dad about how "we don't really know if we're ready for something until we do it". How "nice grooms from good families are so hard to come by these days".

When Bhabi doesn't push the headscarf issue, I wonder if she knows of my secret agenda. Don't get me wrong, I'm not on sabotage-mode. I'll be myself and that should be enough to put anyone off: I'm not exactly a catch. Imran's the only guy that's ever asked for my phone number, remember? If I'd been desirable in any way, he'd have been one in a long line of many admirers, right?

Well, there was one... I shake my head; I don't want to think about that.

That's when I catch something through the glass partitions of the café.

I swear it was...

No, it can't be.

I scan the area but there's nothing of note.

I imagined it...

Ever since that training course, I've been looking for Imran in the crowds. Seeing him in the faces of strangers. Even though I know he works in West London and has little reason to be around my office, I repeatedly think I see glimpses of him everywhere.

"The groom's already losing brownie points," Bhabi murmurs as she stirs brown sugar into her latte. "You have a thing for punctuality and he's running—"

She's come to a halt because I've jumped at the vibration of my phone trembling on the chunky wooden table. I have to stop thinking that every time I get a text, it might be Imran. That he's following-up to see what I've decided to do about The Proposal.

My eyes widen at the screen.

Heart stops.

Think of the devil...

Gulping, I unlock my phone. My thumb hesitates over the 'Message' icon, my heart bouncing on a trampoline. Imran texting me this instant feels ominous.

I feel like he's going to wish me luck with whatever I've chosen to do and that'll propel me to impress the hats off the guy I'm here to meet. Just to get back at Imran. My being here is a direct result of my retaliation to Imran's last text, isn't it? Will this new message from him seal my fate?

Pretend you don't know me. PLEASE.

My head snaps up in confusion, my eyes fix on Bhabi like she can translate or interpret Imran's words for me.

"What?" she queries, sipping her coffee. "Who texted you?"

"Wrong number," I mumble.

Surely, this message was meant for someone else. Not for me. Pretend you don't know me. Bhabi looks at me suspiciously and I turn to stare out the glass to avoid her investigative gaze.

That's when I see him.

Imran.

He's here.

He's walking into the café, a taller man beside him. My heart starts to thump-thump in my ears, my throat tightening.

"What was the name of the groom, Bhabi?" I whisper, leaning across the small table towards her.

"Imran Khan."

Heart pounding, I ask, "Is that him?" I jerk my head at the two men approaching our table.

She turns in her seat and when she sees them, she gets to her feet to welcome them.

Mr. Would-Be-Groom and his brother-in-law.

# Part Two-- The Best Friends

# Chapter 5: Shell

"They're here, Shell!" says Shayla as she pops her head round my bedroom door. The 'they' she's referring to are the very people I've been thinking about all day and now it's early evening—Imran and his family.

They've come to see me.

See me and decide if they'd like me to be their daughter-in-law. Marry their youngest son. Marry Imran... The thought makes me giddy.

Mistaking the shiver that ripples through my frame as nervousness and dread, Shayla says, "If they like you, they like you. If they don't, it's their loss. Don't sweat it." And she heads downstairs to help with the refreshments for our guests, closing my door behind her.

The Bridal Viewing—the name I've come up with for the event that's taking place tonight—is a tradition in Bangladeshi culture (and Indian and Pakistani culture), whether the marriage is an Arranged one or a Love Marriage. It's one of the necessary hurdles us girls have to leap over when our parents decide that our time has come. The height of this hurdle depends on various factors:

If you're really gorgeous, well-educated—though, education has become a serious requirement only in the last couple of decades—and come from a Good Family, the hurdle might be just an inch-high. Easy to cross.

The hurdle might be lying on the ground if you're having a Love Marriage. With Love Marriages, the Bridal Viewing is just a formality; the two families simply meet, shrug, and say, "What can you do? The kids have chosen each other!" Meaning: They've been dating for a while and want to get married now.

On the other hand, if you aren't thought to tick a lot of the boxes when it comes to what people are looking for in a wife, a daughter-in-law, then the hurdle will be higher. A mountain to climb.

Either way, the Bridal Viewing is one of the most nerve-wracking experiences a girl has to go through.

Anxiety and fear are the emotions that would've made me nauseous all day if I didn't already sort of know Imran, if I didn't know that he'd already decided to marry me. However, if his family are dead against it—in other words, if they hate me tonight—he won't push the issue. He won't go against his parents. And so, my heart speeds up each time I think about what they'll think of me.

Imran's family—his parents, his older brother and his wife, his older sister and her husband, his younger sister—are walking through the front door right now. With a Mystery Guest.

I'll be bringing a mystery guest.Hope you don't mind, Imran's text informed me this morning. It was his first message since he'd begged me to pretend that I don't know him.

The more the merrier. Yes, I'd actually replied with those four words! Lame Shell. Lame.

Then, I deleted the message thread and they joined the other messages in that unnameable place where deleted text messages go.

You might be wondering why it matters now if we're caught texting each other when we're so close to getting engaged. After all, Imran and I already met in a supervised setting at Westfield a couple of weeks ago. Imran had jokily blamed their lateness to his Dulabhai. In our culture, we call the husbands of our older sisters and older female cousins Dulabhai instead of calling them by their names, as a sign of respect. The same way we call our older sisters and cousins Apa, and our older brothers Bhai, Bhaisaab, or Bhaiya (which is what I call my brother Shuhel). Whereas Bhai actually means brother, Apa isn't the literal translation for sister.

So, why does Shayla get away with calling me Shell and not Apa, despite my mum and dad's repeated scolding? Her argument is that she technically isn't calling me by my name. "Her name is Shelly, not Shell," my cheeky sister always retorts. "Shell is something you find at the seaside."

It doesn't bother me in the slightest if my sister doesn't call me Apa. I like being called Shell—I tell everyone to call me that—because the shell is indeed something that you find at the seaside. Where there's sand, see, and a refreshing sea-breeze. Shelly on the other hand... I never liked the name.

Anyway, back to Arranged Marriages. These days, parents are placing more importance on finding a bride or a groom that will be a good fit for their son or daughter. As a result, chaperoned meetings prior to the Bridal Viewings are becoming more and more common. It's just so that the guy and the girl can meet and chat—albeit awkwardly, and by chat I mean asking and being asked random questions and lots of nervous silences in between—in an informal setting with no family pressure. If the boy and the girl approve of each other, and the chaperones give a thumbs-up as well, they move to the next phase of the process:

The Bridal Viewing.

It's at—or directly after—the Bridal Viewing that the groom and his family decide if they want the girl to become a part of their life and family.

And it then becomes a Thing.

Official almost.

I gulp as I hear the noises suggesting that Imran and his family, mystery guest in tow, are being seated in the living room downstairs. It'll be the third time Imran and I see each other. One extra time than everyone thinks. And that's linked to why Imran and I delete our messages to each other. Ours will not be a Love Marriage by any means, and we don't want anyone to assume otherwise. Yet, that's exactly what everyone will think if they find out that we'd met before the Wedding Talks began and have each other's phone numbers.

# Chapter 6: Imran

I'm surprised at how nervous I am. I feel a mixture of dread and buzzing excitement. Dread because there's a chance that someone will say something and everything could go up in smoke.

Excited because, well, I get to see Shell.

She's probably worse off than I am. I'm more anxious than I've ever been in my life, so that's saying a lot about what Shell's going through. I feel for her. As I sit down in her living room, my fingers itch to send her a quick text to see how she's holding up. My hand even reaches into my trouser pocket. No. Best not.

If my eldest sister's testimony is anything to go by, tonight's going to be the most intimidating night of Shell's life. My Apa even threw up her lunch on the day that her boyfriend—now my beloved Dulabhai—and his family came to see her.

I'd laughed. "You know, we're doing this just for the sake of it," I'd told her that day. "No one from the groom's side is going to refuse this alliance." The two of them had been going out for three years before they told their families about each other. And they revealed their secret because they wanted to get married.

"You'd understand if you were a girl," she'd retorted. But I knew it wasn't the usual butterflies you get when you're about to be judged by strangers.

She wasn't even worried that the inevitable—her marriage to her boyfriend—might not happen. Apa was scared to death about what would happen after she got married. Based on what did happen, she had every reason to feel sick at the thought of living with her boyfriend-turned-husband's family.

You see, although love marriages are deemed by the West as progress for our culture, with a lot of Asian people of my age seeing it as the way to go—some even frown upon arranged marriages altogether—in a lot of peoples' eyes, love marriages still have a stigma attached to them. A shame. Loads of people of my parents' generation view love marriages as the least preferable way for a person to find their life-partner, for a family to find a son- or a daughter-in-law. In such families, it's worse for the daughters-in-law that have a love marriage.

Like Apa found out.

They're never treated the same as the daughters-in-law that are hand-picked by the parents. They're seen as having a sordid past—after all, they were in a relationship with a man for all that time!—and despite their qualities, they're always thought of as second-choice by their in-laws. Even if she's thought to be prettier, more educated, and comes from a family that has a better social standing than the daughter-in-law that came via an arranged marriage, the woman that had a relationship with her husband before her nuptials is never good enough for her in-laws.

Time never seems to iron out the kinks that come with having a love marriage.

People find it hard to see you for who you are, once they've seen you in a certain light based on something in your past.

And seen as Shell and I met each other before my family contacted hers to begin talks of an alliance, our marriage will be incorrectly labelled as a love marriage if it gets out that we weren't complete strangers when we met for coffee in Stratford. Regardless of how many times we'd tell everyone that we met just once at a leadership training course, people will still say, "Oh, but Imran and Shell knew each other from before!" Or, "They say they weren't dating, but can you really know for sure, in this day and age?"

Marriage in our culture is not just between a man and a woman, it's between two families. More importantly, Shell will become a part of my family, our household. She shouldn't be judged by my parents and relatives based on something she didn't partake in. Even if she and I had been seeing each other, it still shouldn't be something that determines how my family treat her.

Don't get me wrong, my parents are wonderful people. I love them immensely. A part of me thinks that if they knew the truth, they won't read any more into it and will treat Shell just as well as they treat my Bhabi. Yet, there's a small part of me that asks, "Can you really know for sure how they'll react? After all, they haven't been in a situation like this before." My elder brother had an arranged marriage—we found Bhabi's details through an internet marriage site—and everyone had approved of her. The decision unanimous.

In the end, I accepted that there's a chance my family will see Shell differently to how they see Bhabi, and decided to keep the truth under wraps.

As my family and I are handed cold drinks by Shell's Bhabi—an attractive woman in her late twenties, the only female of Shell's family that I've met so far—I appraise the minimalist-look living room with the dining table at the other end. Magnolia walls. Light-brown laminate flooring. Chocolate-brown leather sofas of the non-chunky variety. Mahogany-effect shelving unit scattered with a handful of vases and candles. I like it. It has Shell written all over it.

Uncluttered.

Elegant, sophisticated.

Simple.

But very, very special, nonetheless.

She's exactly the kind of daughter-in-law my parents want. The kind of wife I thought I'd never be lucky enough to find. That's why I'd acted so out of character and asked for her number at the end of the training course. It was the first time in my adult life that I'd asked for a girl's phone number.

Her reaction—surprised yet flattered, reluctance mixed with longing, hesitation and nervousness—made clear that it was the first time she was considering giving a guy her number. I got the feeling that she wanted to say, "No. Best not. My parents will be disappointed." Then, sheepishness and worry crossed her face. She didn't want to seem uncool or backwards by turning me down.

So, she acquiesced.

As luck would have it, we both work in sales—me in Business to Business sales (B2B) and she sells the online databases that her company produces—and we were promoted to Team Leader roles around the same time. As a result, we ended up in the same leadership for managers training course. We'd ended up sitting at the same table at the fancy hotel where the course was being taught—a standard Dale Carnegie course tweaked slightly for those in sales-based roles—and hit it off straight away. The two of us always ensured that we'd be in the same team for group activities and picked each other when we had to work in pairs.

It was during the motivation Q&A right at the end of the day where we had to pretend that the other was a subordinate that we were trying to get to know better—to understand their needs, strengths, and what motivated them—that I became one-hundred per cent certain that Shell was the girl I wanted to marry. What she said about family, friends, work, religion, her beliefs, and aspirations, they were all in-line with mine. In-line with what I want in a life partner. She could've been reading from the list I made years ago about my ideal wife. I'd forgotten about that list because I didn't think any girl would be able to match my hopes and expectations.

But Shell... well, she exceeds them.

# Chapter 7: Seb

When are we going to get to the finale? I wonder as little glass dishes containing dessert—mishti; milk and nut-based Indian sweets—are distributed around the room alongside strong cups of golden-brown tea. It's almost 11pm and no sign of the bride yet...

We've had the introductions—yours truly didn't need any; the hosts were told beforehand that the groom's English (meaning: white) best-friend Sebastian would be coming along—and we've had the small-talk, the fried snacks—somosas, spring rolls, puris; all of which, if you ask me, needed a much hotter chilli sauce to accompany them than the one in the tiny bowls alongside the ketchup and mayonnaise—and the dozen-course dinner.

Well, Bengalis don't do courses—and thank god for that!—they bring out the numerous dishes all at the same time and let the table overflow with serving bowls steaming with tandoori chicken, pilao-rice, white rice, curries—fish, chicken, lamb— stir fries—mixed vegetables, potato, cabbage—and daal. Thankfully, there's only just the one daal.

The aromas of the various spices and herbs that went into the lip-licking food still hang heavy in the air. It doesn't bother me; I love the smell of Bengali food. Oily, earthy, exotic, and in-your-face. It takes me back to my childhood just as fast as my mum's moussaka reminds me of going over to Yaya's—Greek for grandmother; my mum's ma was Greek—and stuffing myself with Greek treats. Cheesy tiropites, spinach pie, syrupy-sweet baklava.

The food tonight was almost as good as Khala's, albeit a bit too mild for my palate. I said as much. Imran's future in-laws laughed, thinking I was joking. I don't joke about food.

I call Imran's mum Khala, the word Bengalis use to call their aunts on their mum's side—the word for your dad's sister is Fufu—but she treats me like a son rather than a nephew. I think she likes me more than she likes her actual nephews. Khala's spent more time cooking and cleaning up after me—Imran in tow, of course—than she has her real nephews and nieces, seen as her brothers and sisters hardly visit. So, it's no surprise that she prefers me to the relatives she only sees at family weddings.

We've been neighbours since Imran and I were five-years-old. From the first day of Year 1 in primary school—a couple of weeks after the Khans moved into my street, two doors down from me—Imran and I were inseparable. We've remained like that since. I added the cool factor to his geeky personality and he taught me all about Bangladeshi culture and tradition. So much so that I find myself saying things like, "Oh, it's a Bengali thing", "you know how Bengalis are..." or "that's the Bengali way."

Not everyone knows this, but it was Imran's sister that first drew me to the Khans. The older one, Reshma, not his little sister Reha—she was just a baby at that time. I'd had a huge crush on Reshma from the moment I saw her. She was hurrying into her new house, a cardboard box labelled, 'Reshma's stuff. Keep Out!' in her arms. When I saw Imran trailing in after her, I'd hoped he'd be enrolling in my school, prayed that if he was the same age as me—and it looked like he was—that he'd be in my class. So I could know his sister's name. She'd be going to the same school yes, but there's no way I'd be able to go up to her, ask her name.

A goddess like that would just wave me off like a mosquito buzzing about her.

Back then, I wasn't as cool and confident as I am now.

When I quickly became a part of their family, I'd thought my prayers had been answered. I got to hang out with Reshma all the time. Well, I hung out with Imran and she'd be there. Upstairs in her room.

It was almost the same thing.

Of course, my feelings for her faded with time, but my friendship with her little brother grew stronger. We were like brothers. The fact that I'm an only child and Imran's only brother is six years older than him and slightly aloof, made it inevitable that we should look for someone to fill the brother-sized hole in our lives.

Sceptics wagered that the two of us would grow apart, especially when they saw that I was becoming a loud, brash, and brazen young man, and Imran was still the shy, quiet, and thoughtful-type.

Our interests changed. Common hobbies were discarded. Lives pointed in opposite directions. Yet, our friendship endured. Survived going to different Universities. Working in different parts of London and my moving out of mum's house in Chadwell Heath and living in East London.

Whether our friendship will survive tonight's outcome is another matter altogether. You see, I'm on a mission. A mission to save my best friend from making the biggest mistake of his life.

Marrying this Shell.

From what he's told me about her, she's all wrong for him. She's too much like him. Similar personality. Same job. Essentially the same person in a different body.

What Imran needs is someone who's the opposite of him. Like me. I'm loud and shameless, he's reserved and gentle. We bounce off each other. He takes me down a notch and I bring him out of his shell.

This Shell will only tuck him back inside his cocoon. They'll do that to each other. That's not the recipe for a successful marriage.

In marriage, laughter might be the crucial ingredient, but contrast is just as important. It keeps things fun, interesting.

My theory is that we're attracted to, and have better relationships with, people who are nothing like us. Why? Well, aren't we constantly longing to be a different person? We're never satisfied with the way we are. Being with someone that's our polar opposite gives us a taste of that other life we could've led, the alternate persona we could've adopted. We glory in their successes—"she made it because she's this, that and the other!"—and in their failures, we find self-justification—"it's a good thing I'm nothing like him, or it could've been me that's going through a, b, or c."

No doubt about it. Opposites attract.

I've never been married, but I've had relationships and assessed many from afar. The longest-lasting of them all have been the ones where the duo was worlds apart. Chalk and cheese.

My parents' marriage lasted only 2-and-a-half-years. Both were passionate and impulsive, outgoing and fun. The few good times they shared were really, really good, but the bad times outnumbered and outweighed everything else by quite a lot.

They just clashed too often. Fought for hours.

Drove each other nuts. The best thing they did for each other—after conceiving yours truly—was set each other free.

Their second marriages lasted much longer, thanks mostly to the fact that they'd sought out people that were calmer, quieter, more rational. People that were the opposites of them.

For that decade or so, my parents were the happiest I've ever seen them. I was glad that they were apart.

What went wrong with the second marriages, you ask? Well, the thing about passionate people is that they get very passionate very quickly, especially in the presence of others like them. Though mum and dad were in successful partnerships, they cheated on their spouses—they couldn't help themselves; they're incredibly impulsive!—and that was their downfall.

The moral of the story here is: Don't Cheat On Your Partners. Don't Be So Impulsive. Like my parents were. Like Imran was when he decided on a whim that he wanted to marry a girl he'd known for just one summer day.

There's no flaw in my Theory of Love: Opposites Attract.

And I'm going to prove it.

# Chapter 8: Shell

There's no hush at my entrance. They don't stop talking as I walk in and sit on the chair by the living room door, placed specifically for me, for this moment. I'm not sure what they're talking about—the only sound that's clear to me is the drumming of my heart in my ears—or who's doing the talking—my head is bowed, eyes on my lap. The preferable posture for the girl on view.

When Bhabi came up to my room to bring me downstairs, for the Bridal Viewing, my stomach had lurched. My heart leapt into my throat, my ears. Climbing down the stairs beside Bhabi, I was vaguely aware that she was whispering words of calm, encouragement, but I didn't hear any of it. My heart was beating in my ears—thud-thud, thud-thud—and it drowned out the quiet chatter in the living room, the noises in the kitchen where my mum and Shayla were washing up after dinner.

Finally, the room quietens. My heart becomes so loud that I think everyone's shut up to listen to it pounding away. And when the first question comes, it has to be repeated by Bhabi, for I don't catch it.

"Imran's mum is asking you about your studies," Bhabi says in my ear, bending down. Well, I think that's what she says. Needing confirmation, I lift my head up to face her.

That's when I see him.

The corner of my right eye catches a glimpse of him, sitting on the sofa opposite me. The sofa facing the door. This means he had a very good view of me descending the stairs, walking into the room. He looks nothing like he did the first day we met—he'd been in a snappy grey suit, all professional and dapper—and nothing like he did two weeks ago at Stratford Westfield—blue jeans, dark blue sweater. Tonight, in smart black trousers and a smart light blue shirt, tucked in, Imran looks small and nervous. Awkward energy bubbles around him. I wonder why my presence isn't having the same effect he's having on me... That one peek at his handsome face and I felt a wave of calm pour over me, settle my swirling insides. Peace. I feel at peace.

It's the only reason I don't stumble on my words as I answer the question I think his mum has asked. "I studied History at UCL. After I graduated, I—"

"She got a First," Bhabi chips in when I don't mention my grade.

When the impressed oohs and aahs die down, I continue, "After graduating, I got a job as a researcher in a company that tracks the stock markets."

"Don't you work in sales?" The suspicion in this questioner's voice makes my head snap up automatically.

If the tone had been friendly, I still would've sought out the speaker. Why? He's not Asian. I can tell from his voice. Ah, the Mystery Guest. A white friend of Imran's, perhaps? Yes. And he's sitting next to Imran. They must be really close for Imran and his family to let him tag along tonight. Not common in our culture to bring friends along to these things.

He's fair-skinned, fairer than Imran, and has raven-black hair, more stylish and pretentious than Imran's.

He's smirking derisively at me.

His light blue eyes, in what would've been a pleasant-looking face if it wasn't holding a mocking expression, narrow in my direction. Challenging.

"Dulabhai said you work in sales..." He trails off, waiting for me to speak.

Bhabi doesn't chip in this time. I think she's just as shocked as I am at how good his Bengali accent is. When he said Dulabhai, it sounded like how we'd say it.

"I changed departments," I say eventually. Politely. I am in the presence of Imran's family. Though I haven't let my eyes wander around the room to see any of them. "I moved to the Client Services side," I continue, "account management to be precise. So, I look after the clients that subscribe to our products and services."

"Shelly was recently promoted to a Team Leader," Bhabi adds informatively.

Mumbled "Congratulations" are sent my way. I mentally shoo them away. I hadn't been too elated by the promotion. There are a number of small teams in the sales department and I've succeeded a guy that left last month. So, it never felt like I'd earned it. But the subsequent training course brought Imran into my life, and for that, I'm grateful.

The next few questions they ask me are a repeat of some of the things Imran's Dulabhai wanted to know over coffee the other day:

"Can you cook?" (Imran's mum)

"Do you pray?" (His dad)

"How do you feel about living with your in-laws?" (His Bhabi)

"Do you intend to work after you're married?" (His brother)

They're asking these questions just for something to say; I'm sure they know what answers I gave at the coffee date. The last question before Imran's dad says I can go upstairs now is from Imran's little sister, Reha. She's the same age as Shayla, I think, and asks, "What's your favourite colour?"

Everyone laughs. I'm not sure why. This is the first question that's solely to know a bit about me personally, not about how I'll fit into their family.

"Black and white," I tell her with a quick, small smile.

"The most boring colours in the world," says Mr. Mystery Guest. But he says it in a jovial voice and the group laughs as though he's joking.

The quick glance I throw in his direction tells me he didn't say that to get laughs. He said that to wind me up. Hmm. Is he jealous that his friend's getting married? Worried it'll ruin their relationship? Or does he have feelings for Imran? He doesn't look gay... I shake my head at my ignorant thought, mentally slap my wrist.

"Clearly, you disagree." Mystery Guest again. He mistook my head-shake as a response to his comment on black and white being boring colours.

Calmly, I say, "I don't find them boring. All colours look better on a white or black background."

"Ah, so is that how you see yourself?" he asks, a hint of curiosity behind the mild hostility. "Someone in the background, someone that lets others shine?"

For a few seconds, I'm stumped. Though I never thought of myself in that way, I realise now that I sort of am the one that's always letting others have the limelight. In my group of friends, I'm the least talkative one, the one that does the listening. At work, people think I'm private, but the truth is, I never have anything interesting about my personal life to share. If someone's talking and I have something to add more light to it, I'll say it only if the speaker pauses. Otherwise, I don't make a contribution.

"It's absolutely fine if you are, sister," says Imran's brother. "My brother stays in the background, too." I follow the sound of his voice and look up in that direction. Imran's brother is smiling warmly at me. He looks a lot like Imran—light skin, thick fluffy hair, thick but arched eyebrows, sharp nose, wide mouth—only he's slightly bulkier and a few inches taller, I think. Then, his smile is cheeky as he adds, "I don't know if he's always been like that or if it's Seb that's constantly pushing him into the background." He throws a brief glance at the white guy.

Seb.

"I can't help being a star," Seb says overconfidently. "I was born to shine."

"Go shine somewhere else," Shayla would say if she was here, "not at my sister's Bridal Viewing!" Unlike me, Shayla doesn't place much importance on what's socially acceptable, what's inappropriate during a marriage-related event. If she thinks you're talking rubbish, she'll call you out. That's not the reason she's prohibited from meeting Imran and his family tonight. No. Even if my little sister was as timid as it gets, she still wouldn't have been introduced to our guests.

Why? One reason:

There's this age-old fear in all parents' hearts that a potential suitor will come to see one daughter but end up wanting to marry the younger one. It's happened before—I'm sure it still happens now, occasionally—and the only way to avoid that awkward situation is to not let any unmarried women meet the would-be-groom or his family during the Bridal Viewing.

Little does anyone know that the chances of Imran hopping from me to someone else are very slim. After all, the two of us have already decided to marry each other.

My parents were right: I didn't know I was ready for marriage until I saw that Imran was the guy that wanted to marry me.

# Chapter 9: Imran

As Shell is escorted back upstairs by her Bhabi, I throw a cautioning glance at Seb. He just smirks in that way only Seb can. It's endearing and at the same time, annoys me like mad.

Especially at times like these.

Sure, Bengalis have this tradition where they joke around with their Bhabis and Dulabhais—Seb winds up my Bhabi and Dulabhai all the time; they say that Seb riles them up for the both of us since I never wind them up at all. But Shell isn't his Bhabi. Yet. He shouldn't try to aggravate her, tonight of all nights.

After we're married, he can let all hell loose. But on an important occasion like this? It's suicidal. For me. Seb was introduced to Shell's family as my best friend. My mum even said that he's like a third son to her. His making a prat of himself reflects badly on me and my family.

I'm extremely glad and relieved that Shell didn't retaliate to Seb's teasing. He would've had no qualms about escalating the situation, making a complete donkey of himself. And that would've made Shell's family wonder about the company I keep.

The next second, my dad says that we ought to be leaving. It's almost midnight, and though it's Saturday, and as far as I know, no one in this house has work tomorrow, it's very late.

"Have one more cup of tea," Shell's father pleads—the usual response of the host when guests talk about leaving.

"Another time," replies my brother.

"Insha'Allah," Mr. Hoque says—God willing—and gets to his feet with us, shaking our hands.

He's younger than I expected—early to mid-fifties, I think—fair-skinned and handsome. And very tall. Like Shell. His hair has a brownish-red tint to it in the light, making me wonder if he dyed it with hair colourant or henna. Covering the greys or making a fashion statement?

Shell's mum comes to see us out. She isn't as tall as her husband, but she's tall for a woman. Like Shell.

My mum's really short in comparison, so is Apa. I'm glad I inherited my dad's average height and so, when Shell isn't wearing heels, I'm not shorter than her.

Walking out of her house, I recall that Shell had been wearing flat shoes the last two times I saw her. Tonight, she'd been in flat sandals and an elegant dark-green salwar-kameez, its matching shawl draped over her pony-tail. She looked gorgeous. I wanted to stare and stare at her, memorise the way she looks in traditional attire, but I didn't want to put anyone off. So, most of the time, I'd just stared at her feet. She has nice feet...

Seb nudges me in the ribs and points at Reha approaching the backseat of his car. Uh-oh. Seb and I make dubious faces at each other behind Reha's back.

On the way here, Apa and Dulabhai had driven over to our house first and Reha had hitched a ride with them to Shell's. Mum, dad, and Bhabi had been in my brother's car, and Seb offered to drive me in his. I was glad; I was too preoccupied to drive a vehicle and too self-conscious to squeeze into Dulabhai's car.

Now, my little sister will ride with me and Seb because Apa and Dulabhai are going straight home. This will be interesting...

"All buckled-in, Reha?" Seb asks as he pulls out of Shell's driveway.

Reha stuffs the earpiece of her phone in her ears and swipes her fingers over its screen. Seb rolls his eyes at me. I punch his arm.

"Ow!" he complains.

"Can you pretend to be a bit sensitive, please?" I hiss at him when I hear the loud music blaring out of Reha's headphones.

"Hey, I'm only doing as you asked!" he reminds me, a moan in his tone.

Yes, I'd suggested that if he acted like an even bigger prick than usual, Reha would get over him sooner.

Of course, my teenaged sister would have a crush on Seb! Almost everyone seems to have a crush on him.

Seb has his fair share of crushes, too—including Apa back in the day, which he thinks I don't know about but I do—but nothing ever comes out of them. He takes pretty girls on a few dates but always finds a reason to stop seeing them. He's only had two relationships that lasted longer than six weeks.

Both of them lasted almost a year!

I never knew those ex-girlfriends—he'd been with them during Uni and we didn't see much of each other then; I'd stayed in London, he went to Warwickshire—but I'd like to have a word with those chicks if I could. They broke Seb's heart.

Well, it hadn't been Seb that ended the relationships, and he'd been pretty cut up when they were over. He refused to tell me the specifics of those failed relationships so I assumed it was the girls breaking his heart and not the other way around.

And they wounded him so deeply that he now keeps women at arm's length. Never letting them get too close. Not letting them stick around for too long.

"What about all the things you said to Shell?" I whisper, fearing that Reha might hear. "Who asked you to do that?"

"My conscience," he answers with a shrug.

Shaking my head, I turn to look out the window. I hope he gets that this means I don't want to have that conversation with him now. Still, I can't help but recall the things he said when I first told him about Shell. It was two days after the leadership training course and I'd just confided in Dulabhai about the girl I'd spent the most amazing day with. I made him swear that he wouldn't tell another soul, not even Apa, and I trusted him when he promised to keep my secret. That's the thing about Dulabhai, you can count on him to do the right thing, take the side of the truth.

That, and the fact that he'd experienced first-hand how our elders can treat women that have love marriages. He didn't want me and Shell to suffer the same fate as him and Apa. He cooked up a genius plan:

He mentioned in passing that a relative of his knew of a very nice girl who'd be perfect for me, for our family, and asked if he should investigate.

My dad said, "Why not?"

Amma added, "But check with Imran, first. The last time we talked about marriage, he said he wasn't ready." I'd been a bit snappish, too!

Dulabhai couldn't go straight to Shell's father, it'd be too random. I gave him her address in Bangladesh—that's why I'd asked Shell for it, making myself look really weird in the process—and that helped him track down a distant relative of Shell's that he could approach.

And the rest, as they say, is history.

Seb thought I ought to list Shell under 'history', too. Apparently, she's wrong for me because she's too much like me. He was angry I'd spoken to Dulabhai before consulting him and spent almost an hour trying to convince me that I was going to ruin my life if I married her. When he told me about his so-called theory of love—"Since when do you have a theory on love? Since when do you have a theory on anything?"—I'd burst out laughing. But he persisted, going on to say that my friendship with him was evidence for his opposites attract theory.

"So, you're saying I should marry the female version of you?" I'd asked sarcastically.

Very seriously, he'd replied with, "That's exactly what I'm saying."

I shook my head, laughing at the conviction in his words.

"She's the female version of you," he said, "and trust me, that's not going to work in your favour. From what you've told me about this Shell," he added in a more reasonable tone, "she sounds like a nice girl. But she's not what you need. You're not what she needs."

"You're right," I said with a nod. "You're what she needs."

"What?"

"It's simple isn't it?" I grinned. "According to your theory, I should be looking for the female version of you. Since Shell's the female version of me, you're the type of person she should be with."

# Chapter 10: Seb

"So what happens next?" I ask.

Imran shrugs. "I guess the families will get in touch and give each other the verdict..."

We're outside my car, parked in Imran's driveway. Reha and the others have gone inside. I stopped Imran before he followed them indoors.

"They'll ask you for your verdict first..."

He nods at my words, a stern look on his face. Imran's always wearing a serious expression, like he's deep in thought. A lot of the times he is. I got the feeling he was thinking about my theory during the drive home, and from the set of his mouth now, I can tell he isn't budging. He wants to go ahead with this. Idiot! He'll only regret it later. When he comes crying to me about how there's no spark in his marriage, no passion, I'm going to tell him, "I told you so!" And then I'm going to tell him that he has no choice but to live with it.

Imran won't divorce his wife. He doesn't have it in him to turn his back on someone because they're boring. He'll be stuck in an empty-shell marriage for the rest of his life and I'll have to watch. It'll kill me because he really is the best guy I've ever met. I want the best for him.

I'm thinking of him, of his future, as I say, "Before you give your decision, just think again about what I said."

"About your theory?" he scoffs.

"Yes. You saw how reserved she is, how... contained. I only managed to elicit a flicker of irritation from her, and that was it. You won't be able to get even that."

"Thanks for your faith in me, Seb." He's only mildly sarcastic, mildly offended.

He doesn't think I have a point, so isn't taking anything I say personally. He's good at checking himself, his emotions, and I saw tonight that Shell is the same. If the two of them are constantly in control of what they feel and say, how the hell are they going to have any fun?

Imran needs someone who'll throw caution to the wind and not be afraid to speak her mind. Shell needs someone who can get under her skin, make it crawl, draw her out from the background and shove her into the light.

Not keep her out of the limelight.

"I have faith in you, Imran," I tell him genuinely. "All I ask is that you have faith in me—"

He holds up his hands and I can't finish my speech with how I'm only looking out for him.

"Goodnight, Seb. Thanks for coming with us tonight." And just like that, the conversation, the debate, is over.

Typical Imran. Whenever we argue—most of the time, it's me driving the argument—and he wants to stop—which is when the majority of people would be scrambling to get the last word, the victory—Imran will just raise his hand or walk out of the room. His parting lines would be along the lines of, "Can we talk about this later?" or "This isn't going anywhere, so let's stop it now." Really boring, if you ask me.

I sigh as he turns towards his front door. "Goodnight, man."

*

It's on Monday lunchtime that I next speak to Imran.

When I got to my flat in Bethnal Green after dropping him and Reha off on Saturday night, I did think about texting him an apology. For making him and his family uncomfortable at Shell's house. But he'd see right through it. See that I'm not sorry for the things I said to Shell. I hadn't even said anything that bad, anyhow.

"Any news from that investor?" he asks after we exchange pleasantries.

"Not yet." I sigh. "They're in the US though, so I'm going to give it until 5pm before I follow-up."

"Hope they get on board, man," he says.

"So do I."

Yes, I really need this foundation to commit to my private equity fund. Once I land this mid-sized limited partner (LP), all the smaller foundations will feel more secure about investing in my vehicle. If they pull out at this stage—and they can because they haven't agreed to anything; I'm just schmoozing them while they're asking loads of questions—I might have to abandon the fund.

Abandon won't even be the right word.

My fund—my maiden foray into the alternatives industry—didn't even get off the ground!

I've exhausted all my contacts and networks and don't have anyone else to turn to. This NYC-based foundation, a consistent investor in alternative assets, is my last hope. And in all honesty, they were the only hope I had. You see, I'd done this summer work placement at a PE (private equity) firm after Uni and struck up a really good friendship with one of the partners, Russell Jones.

Well, I sucked up to him big time.

He saw me as the son he never had—a lot of people do that with me, don't they?—and we kept in touch ever since. When he relocated to the US and started working as an Investment Officer at this foundation, I'd e-mailed him about my plans to set-up my own fund. "You'll be the first investor I pitch to," I'd joked.

"I'll be offended if I'm not," he'd joked back.

The first thing I did after my lawyers set up my fund was to try and make our joke a reality. Humouring me, or stringing me along, I guess I won't know until I get a final answer from Russell, he's been reluctant to put his money where my fund is. I'd really thought he'd put in at least a million dollars—I'm only looking to raise 10 million pounds in equity for my first fund; the rest of my expenditure will be leverage—and I could brag about it to the US foundations that I haven't had the guts to pitch to yet.

"Imran," I say with another sigh. "Do you think I've bitten off more than I can chew here?"

A short pause.

"You're following your dream," he answers evasively. "See it through. You've taken a gamble, sure—this one-man PE firm, one-man fund—but your website's great and your PPM makes sense. Don't give up till you really think it's over." Imran always knows what to say.

"Thanks, man. In return, can I give you some advice?"

"I'm not done advising you yet," he tells me strictly, correctly assuming I was about to bring up the topic of his choice in life-partner. "I think you should get in touch with Shell... Well, her company."

A pause on my end. I wasn't expecting that.

"I'm in private equity, Imran. Her firm tracks public equities," I remind him eventually. "She deals with investors in traditional assets. My domain is alternative assets."

"She might know someone—"

"She might not." Shell might have good relationships with PE investors, but the suggestion that I should ask her to... what? Put in a good word for me? That's ridiculous! And I'm sure it goes against her company rules.

Imran sighs heavily. "You're right," he admits reluctantly. "Shell might get into trouble if she even mentions your fund to her clients. I just... I want this to work out for you. You've put your all into it. Regardless of what happens, I'll always be proud of what you've achieved. Proud of you."

I'm a little choked for a half-second. "Thanks," I tell him genuinely. "Pray for me?"

"Always." Then, just when I think he won't say it, he adds, "You know, you could always pray for yourself..."

"I know," I chuckle. Whenever I ask him to pray for me, he indirectly invites me to join his faith. Islam.

"Sorry, man," he says quietly, even though he knows it doesn't bother me. "As a Muslim, it's my duty to extend the invitation..."

"I know, and I'd accept it in a heartbeat if I thought I'd be a good Muslim." I mean that. Islam is a peaceful religion. I admire a lot of what it stands for. But I'm just too much of a bad-boy to embrace a faith that I'll end up giving a bad name to with my antics. I'd convert if I was worthy. "So, your new role still boring you?" I ask him.

Managing a team of salespeople hasn't panned out the way he'd expected. Apparently, it's just analysing call-logs, call-times, conversion ratios, and not a lot of managing or training. Even if he was the best salesman in the company, it turned out that he didn't have a lot of tricks or tips to pass down to his team. They already knew what he knew.

"In my last role," he begins in a quiet voice, "I got used to seeing an end result that was directly related to me, my communication and selling skills, for example. Now, I don't think I'm making a difference to anything or anyone." He exhales loudly. "No one's stats have gone up," he adds sadly. "We're not bringing in extra profits—"

"Give it time, man. You're just starting out."

He laughs. "Guess we're both in a similar boat now."

"Guess we are," I agree. Yes, we both need time.

And to make it count.

# Chapter 11: Shell

Mondays are always busy. Clients have brainwaves over the weekend and get in touch with me or my team with their brilliant ideas about how to land new investors for their products, and my team have more questions for me. Questions to which they know the answer, but with the Weekend Feeling still clinging to them, their brains are too fogged up to recall stored-away knowledge.

Today, I'm joining the Slow Getting Back to Reality Club. I'm not doe-eyed or anything, but that peaceful feeling I got when I saw Imran on Saturday is wrapped lovingly around me, comforting me, calming me in this fast-paced new role of mine.

Whenever I recall how his friend Seb had behaved... I do feel a few pricks of irritation, but then I shrug it aside and let Imran's face fill my head and the peace blankets me once more.

Much to my surprise, my family had been quite taken by the white guy. They found him "funny and honest".

"Apart from the face and the voice, he's pretty much Bengali," my brother had said during lunch yesterday.

"Yes," agreed his wife. "Seb was teasing Shell as though she was already his Bhabi."

I bit my lip, annoyed by the praise Seb was getting when it felt like he was... not attacking me, but challenging me.

Later, Shayla told me that everyone had really liked the Khans, and if I liked Imran, they'd take things further. "Of course, they're going to wait for the groom's side to make the first move," my sister had added. "But if they call and say they liked you..."

"You've been entrusted to get my decision?" I assumed, working hard to conceal a grin.

She nodded. "I was the one that told you about this proposal when it first came. It's only right I see it to the end." For a second, my louder-than-life sister sounded so mature.

"Well, the fact that I'm not saying no straightaway..." Shy all of a sudden, even with Shayla, I couldn't bring myself to finish the sentence.

Shayla waited, suppressing a grin, wanting me to say it out loud. I opened my mouth to scold her but a smile broke through and I threw my pillow at her.

"Fine. Yes. My answer is yes. Now get lost."

She broke into laughter.

I joined in.

Around 8pm last night, Shayla and Bhabi came to my room and told me that Imran's family had called and invited us—me included—to their house this coming Saturday.

"They want to move things forward," Bhabi said. "And apparently, it's only right that their future daughter-in-law gets to see the house she'll be making her home. Soon."

"Yes," Shayla seconded, grinning. "They liked you so much they want to set a date for the wedding as soon as possible."

"Any objections?" Bhabi asked.

I fought a smile and shook my head before demanding that they left my room. Alone, I let a happy smile grace my face. It could so easily not have worked out this way. Imran's brilliant plan to make ours appear to be a normal Arranged Marriage could have backfired. If I hadn't texted him about my dilemma and if he hadn't supposedly fobbed me off, I would've turned down the proposal without knowing it was from him. Plus, he must've had a lot of faith in my acting abilities to expect me to successfully pretend that he was a stranger when we met at Westfield.

"What was that about?" I'd demanded over the phone when Bhabi and I got home from Stratford that day.

"Are you alone?" he'd asked.

"I'm in my bedroom. Door's shut."

"Good. Listen."

And he explained about the stigma and long-term consequences of Love Marriages, how he didn't want us to be accused of having a Pre-Marital Relationship when we hadn't.

"And by not calling or texting me after the training day," I said through my teeth, "you ensured that we wouldn't have any kind of relationship before marriage."

"I felt horrible the whole time," he told me. "If you knew how much I longed to call you, to see you, that note of anger in your voice would fade away."

And it faded away just like that at the sound of his voice.

"Shell, I think... No, I know you're the one for me. Will you marry me?"

I hadn't expected him to come out with it like that. "What?"

"I want us to be married, if you'll have me," he said in a confident tone. "But I want to do it the right way. Do what'll ensure the least amount of drama and difficulties for us in our marriage. That's why you have to delete my texts, the log of this call, everything. Save my number under a different name. No one should know we met at the training. Will you do that, Shell?"

After a short pause, I'd said, "Who is this?"

"Sorry?"

"Seriously, who is this?"

"It's... Imran."

"I don't know any Imran."

"But—"

Then, realisation dawned on him. "Thank you," he breathed, realising I'd agreed to his No Communication Pact.

"Welcome," I said with a chuckle and ended the call.

The ringing of my work phone now jerks me out of the memory. It's the receptionist. "Hi, Becky."

"Hiya. I have a Mr. Lowe from PE firm Lowe Capital UK on the line for you."

A PE firm? It's not strange to get PE fund managers contacting us, but very rare. Rarer still is their being put through to me and not to the Inbound Sales team, which is where Becky should've directed Mr. Lowe's call to.

"Doesn't ring a bell..." I murmur, confused. "Chris's team can—"

"Mr. Lowe asked for you personally," Becky tells me. "Says he's liaised with you before."

I'm pretty sure he hasn't. But I don't argue further. "Okay, thanks." When I hear the click of her receiver being replaced, I know she's transferred Mr. Lowe's call to me. "Good afternoon, Mr. Lowe. You're speaking to Shelly Hoque. How can I help?"

"Oh, is it only your friends that call you Shell, or is this just your phone manner?"

I choke on air.

I don't believe it!

It's Seb.

# Chapter 12: Imran

I know I shouldn't have suggested that Seb get in touch with Shell about his fund. It was stupid, and I'm glad Seb isn't desperate enough to enlist her help. What I'd really meant to say was that he should get in touch with her to apologise for his rude behaviour on Saturday and have a nice chat with her. Get to know her. See for himself what she's really like. He'll quickly realise that he's wrong about her.

Shell really is perfect for me.

Outside my family, Shell and Seb are the two most important people in my life. I want them to get along. They shouldn't be against each other. The three of us should be a team.

The date of our engagement will be decided this Saturday when Shell's family come over to my house for lunch; hopefully, they'll bring Shell too. Who am I kidding? The bride-to-be never visits her in-laws' house before the wedding.

I pack up my things to leave the office after another boring day. Well, not boring per se, just not fun. I miss the adrenalin rush you get when you're closing a sale, the feeling of triumph when you see the number of sales you've made so far in the month, the commission that you've earned through perseverance and hard work. Now, I just sit and watch others enjoying it.

"You sure it's not your expectations that are clouding your judgement?" Seb had asked when I first confided in him about the anti-climax that was my promotion.

"Perhaps..."

"A word of advice about expectations: Don't have them."

"Sure, that'll be easy."

"It's not," he'd argued as though my sarcasm was non-existent. "I'll rephrase: Don't feel deflated when life doesn't meet your expectations. It'll happen all the time."

"Thanks, Seb. My outlook on life is so much more positive now."

So... my marriage to Shell, will that be a disappointment simply because I'm expecting it to be amazing? Seb will say it'll be a disaster regardless of what I expect, but he doesn't know Shell like I do. Yes, she is very much like me. That's why we're a good match. We'll be happy together. I don't need to spend a hundred more days with her to figure that out.

Seb on the other hand... In all honesty, I was expecting him to be over the moon that I'd finally met someone. I didn't think he'd judge them before having a proper conversation with them. But he means well, and so, I can't bring myself to get irritated by what he says to me. Saying those things to Shell and her family however, I will not tolerate.

Therefore, when Shell's family come over this weekend, I'm going to make him promise to behave. Or not speak at all. When Seb opens his mouth, trouble usually follows.

I could politely ask him not to come or not mention the event altogether—I'd left it out when we spoke on the phone earlier today—but he means more to me than that. We've been through too much for me to exclude him from the most important journey of my life. From doing our GCSEs and A-Levels together to learning how to drive and talk to girls, Seb and I discovered life together. In all these years, we've never had a falling out. Yes, we've argued, mocked and upset each other, we've even had violent fights, but we resolved them instantly, easily.

We just couldn't bear to hold anything against each other.

Getting close to Seb these days isn't easy, but if you're one of his favourite people, you know he'll come running if you call him at 2am with an emergency. Seb will do anything for me, and I him.

When we were 10-years-old, we snuck my brother's cricket bat and ball to the park when I was expressly prohibited from doing so. I was rubbish at batting, you see. Uncoordinated. Seb was a decent bowler though, and when I finally managed to get bat on ball, the shiny red orb hit Seb right in the nose.

It bled for hours.

Seb didn't tell anyone how he ended up with a broken nose. He didn't even say anything to me.

In our teens, I went through the rebel-phase before Seb did—boy did he embrace that phase in his late-teens!—and I wanted him to try marijuana with me while my family were out for the morning. I'd stumbled upon the offending substance when I'd visited relatives in Shadwell the previous week.

Seb had never been into drugs or cigarettes and told me to forget about it. "Experimenting isn't what it's cracked out to be, mate," he argued.

"Sure it is."

Seb sighed in defeat.

Later, he told me he only agreed because he didn't want me to get high by myself and end up doing something stupid. In the end, we both did something really stupid: We got high and fell asleep before opening the windows. When my parents came home and caught the smell...

Of course, Seb told them it was his joint. That I'd been trying to get him to quit drugs and he wanted to get me hooked on it so that I would stop nagging him. It was months before my family forgot that incident, and even longer for them to treat Seb the way they used to.

Those are just some of the countless times we've backed each other up, lied for one another.

We're more than friends. We're brothers.

I can't keep him away from my wedding. It would be an insult to him and our friendship.

# Chapter 13: Seb

Hmm, so maybe not so predictable after all...

When it comes to Shell's behaviour, I just need to ask myself, "What would Imran do in this situation?" If she reacts like he does, then I rest my case about them being practically the same person.

If one of Shell's friends invited Imran for a coffee after work, I know he wouldn't accept. He's become too much of a goody-two-shoes to meet strange women in unsupervised, non-work related settings.

But Shell's agreed!

To meet me.

Yes, I'd billed it as a coffee to make up for my rude behaviour on Saturday and said, "the two of us have a lot to talk about, if you know what I mean", but I hadn't expected her to take me up on the offer.

Imran wouldn't have.

So, there might be just a smidgen more to Shell than meets the eye... Not enough to change my mind about her compatibility with my best friend, though.

Or perhaps Imran would've agreed to meet Shell's friend after all—he likes Shell and chances are he's curious about what others have to say about her. Imran however, would've asked me to tag along. Shell's meeting me alone.

It just so happens that the two of us work in the same neck of the woods. I just need to walk five minutes from 'my office' to the coffee shop by the main entrance of Liverpool Street Station where we've agreed to meet. Shell needs to walk less than that to join me there.

Times like these, you realise just how big the world can be, and just how small. Shell and I work in the same area, she and Imran commute via the same rail service, but we only met very recently.

Unfortunately, it's hard for me to not look up every time someone enters the café, and I don't recognise the woman that walks in now and looks around. When her eyes settle on me, she nods, smiles tentatively, and approaches my little table. I can't quite place her as she says "Hi" and pulls out the chair opposite me to sit down.

My brain tells me it's Shell, but my eyes can't believe it. She looks nothing like the girl I saw on Saturday night. From what Imran's told me about her, I knew she'd be wearing Western clothes this evening. I was even expecting her to be in a trouser-suit; after all, she's coming straight from her office. I just didn't count on her looking like a completely different woman.

In a plain black frock made from stiff-looking fabric, black leggings, and flat black shoes, she takes her phone out from her beige and gold DKNY bag and places it on the table. She puts her bag on the floor by her feet, loose shoulder-length hair curtaining her face as she bends down, before settling her hands on her lap. Like she's on a job interview.

"Hi," I say eventually. "Thanks for coming."

"Free coffee," she says with a shrug. Then she smiles. "I'm glad you called, actually—"

"You are?" I don't believe that for a second.

She nods. "It's obvious you're very close to Imran and his family—you wouldn't have come with them on Saturday otherwise. So, I guess I'm wondering why you seemed to be..." She searches for the right word but fails. "Well, it seemed like something about me didn't quite sit well with you..."

Sit well? God, she's extremely polite, isn't she? And she's wearing black in this heat. Well, it's not that hot—when are British summers that hot?—and I'm in a suit, as always...

"It's not you," I begin but can't continue because she starts chuckling.

"It's me?" she finishes my sentence for me, raising an eyebrow. There's only a hint of sarcasm in her tone. Hmm, very Imran...

"Yes, but before we get to that, let me get you a drink. What'll it be?"

"Latte, please."

Figures. Anything stronger would probably be too much for her.

She sees something in my face—perhaps my unimpressed thoughts—and adds, "Vanilla latte." Like that makes her braver, bolder. It only makes her more... more vanilla, ha!

When I return with her drink, my second Americano, and a chocolate-chip muffin, the corners of her lips curl up. Almost like she's mocking me for buying the cake.

"The muffin's for you, not me."

"What did I say?" she asks innocently as she sweetens her latte with brown sugar.

"Vanilla latte not sweet enough for you?" I query, arching an eyebrow. I lift the other eyebrow as she chucks in the second sachet of sugar, this time white sugar.

"I get the feeling that my drink needs to be as sweet as possible because you're about to deliver some bitter truths. Please, speak freely."

Speak freely? Imran didn't mention anything about Shell coming from a different century. Guess he didn't notice it, considering he's just as formal as her.

But I don't need to be asked twice about saying my piece. "Look, Shell. Can I call you Shell?"

"Please."

"You seem like a nice girl, great even."

"Thank you."

"And Imran's the best judge of character I know. He thinks you're amazing, and I believe him. But I don't think you guys are right for each other."

This stuns her.

Mouth slightly apart, her hand freezes in the middle of stirring her drink. Either she wasn't expecting me to come out with it like that, or she wasn't expecting me to come out with something like that.

"Sorry, this has nothing to do with what kind of person you are—"

"I see." She nods, returns her hands to her lap. Suddenly, she looks small and scared.

Feeling awful all of a sudden, I still plough on. "Well, it does," I sigh. "It has everything to do with the kind of person you are. You're exactly like him."

"Imran?"

I nod and relay my thoughts to her just like I did with Imran. And just like Imran, she listens quietly and waits until I've finished.

"What does Imran think about all this?" she asks eventually.

"So far, I haven't managed to make him see sense."

"Therefore, you've come to me..."

"I've known him since we were 5-years-old, Shell," I stress. "I know what works for him and what doesn't. I'm doing you both a favour—"

"Thank you," she says, getting to her feet. "I appreciate you looking out for me." There's no anger, hardly any emotion as she says that. It's almost cold, this polite, calm exterior.

"Shell, wait. Sit back down. Please."

"I would, but I'm just going to disagree with everything you say, and I'd rather not get into an argument with you."

How sensible. And again, very Imran.

"Just think about what I said," I urge her.

She purses her lips as I look up at her. She really is tall. Too tall for Imran.

"It would be a crime against nature, if you two married," I add. "Not to mention a crime against governmental, societal, and Islamic law."

Her eyes widen. "How do you figure that?" she asks, bewildered.

"It's because you're so similar—"

"That again?" She rolls her eyes.

"The two of you," I say, "could be long-lost twins for all we know. And the last time I checked, incest is illegal."

She bursts out laughing, her head snapping back. Yeah, it was a funny joke. But not that funny. "You're funny," she says when she calms down. "I like that." She starts gathering her things to leave.

Eyes narrowing suspiciously, I wait for the insult. It doesn't come.

"You're also very ambitious and determined," she continues. "I like that, too. But the thing I like most about you, Mr. Lowe, is that you really care about Imran and won't stop at anything to do what you think is best for him."

I nod, still not sure if she's about to attack me.

"But you and Imran aren't 5-years-old anymore," she tells me, tone a tad more grave now. "He should decide what is good and right for him. And it looks like he has. You should respect that."

"I do," I assure her. "I just don't have to accept it."

"In that case," she sighs, "we don't have much more to discuss."

And just like Imran would, she gets up and walks away.

# Chapter 14: Shell

I cannot believe the cheek of that guy! I'm so proud of myself for not retaliating. For keeping a cool head.

Inside, I was seething.

Who does he think he is, deciding who's right or wrong for me? Best friend or not, he has no right to openly try and sabotage our pending nuptials. Well, I doubt anyone other than myself and Imran knows what Seb's up to. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been allowed to come to my house on Saturday.

I guess Imran's just humouring him...

I replay our short conversation over and over on the overground train and I can't take it any longer. I call Hailey. I have to talk—or rather, vent—to someone. Someone outside the family.

"I only agreed to meet him to see what his deal is," I say after explaining everything to Hailey. "I thought we'd end up talking about Imran."

"This Seb sounds like an arse," Hailey murmurs.

I'd e-mailed her before Seb called and told her what happened on Saturday and what's going to happen this coming weekend. Seb had been a small part of that message. Now, he's all I can talk about!

There's something very wrong with that!

"What kind of person does that to their best friend, Hailes?"

"The jealous, sad type."

"He didn't seem envious..." In all fairness, Seb seemed like a confident, independent professional. Not the type that wrecks things for his best friend because he feels left out. "The thing is, he knows our secret, just like you do. If he tells everyone..."

"What? Your families will forbid you from getting married because you liked each other from before? Hardly," she scoffs.

"It could make things awkward for us going forward," I remind her, "which is what Imran wanted to avoid."

"Did Seb seem like a guy who'd do that to his best friend?" Hailey asks. "It's one thing to try and get the bride and groom to back out of the wedding, but to get them in trouble with their families is quite another."

I sigh. "He didn't seem the type to go that far," I admit. "It's just that our families have been getting along really well. I don't want Seb's silly campaign to ruin it. I'm sure he'll be there when my folks visit Imran's house this weekend, and I don't know if he'll behave."

"Don't worry. I'll keep him out of trouble." Her voice is serious, thoughtful.

"What are you thinking, Hailes?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? I go to Imran's house with your family. Be there to wipe clean any mess Seb Lowe makes. Thwart any schemes he cooks up."

"I couldn't ask you to do that." Even as I think about it, it sounds impossible. How could Hailey do anything in this situation? Seb seems like a force to be reckoned with if he sets his mind on something. And his mind seems to be dead-set on ruining my chances of happiness.

"You're not asking me, Shell. I'm offering. In fact, I'm insisting."

"Hailey..."

"Listen to me, Shell," she says in a strict voice. "If someone's trying to sabotage your wedding, what kind of best friend would I be if I stood by and did nothing?"

* * *

The kind of best friend that can't stop gushing about her latest crush. You've guessed it: Sebastian Lowe. The loveable rogue strikes again!

So now, he not only has his best friend eating out of the palm of his hand, he has my best friend licking it. To make matters worse, she calls him Sebastian, as though it's significant that she calls him that. Like he prefers her to call him by his full name when everyone else calls him Seb.

"So much for you being my eyes and ears there, Hailey," I say into the phone, stifling a moan. Hailey falling for Seb while trying to protect me from him was not part of the plan.

"I was there for you, Shell, trust me." She sounds far away because she's on speakerphone, driving home from Imran's.

My family are on their way home, too—it's a short drive from his house to mine—so I need to wrap this call up fast.

"Okay, so apart from charming your pants off, did Sebastian cause any trouble?" I ask in a tight voice.

"Haven't you been listening to anything I've said?" she complains.

"Unfortunately, I have." All she's been talking about is how wonderful Seb is, how good-looking he is, how he seemed like the Khans' third son, Imran's second brother, and an entertaining yet attentive host.

"Then, you would've heard me say how essential Sebastian was in making sure the lunch went smoothly."

"He behaved?" I ask sceptically. "No snide remarks, no disguised digs about how incompatible Imran and I are?"

"Absolutely none," she assures me. "I think it had a lot to do with me."

"How so?"

"Well, when he wasn't in butler-mode, he was too busy chatting me up."

I sit up on my bed. "He was?"

"Unequivocally," she announces, proud and elated. "We even swapped phone numbers." I can hear the quiver of excitement in her voice.

Normally, I'd be happy for her. She hasn't had the best of luck with men, and if someone that looks and dresses like Sebastian Lowe flirts with her, it's an indication that her luck might be changing.

I'm just not sure what Seb's intentions are.

Is that really bitchy of me? To suspect ulterior motives if a guy like Seb takes an interest in my best friend? Oh, I feel horrible even thinking along those lines.

But...

I can't ignore my gut instincts screaming out, "Seb's up to something".

I just can't voice it to Hailey, though. So, in my most reasonable of voices, I say, "If Seb wasn't trying to push me away from Imran, I'd say he's a great catch."

"But..."

"But he is trying to wreck things for me, Hailes, so I'm finding it hard to accept the fact that he's won the heart of someone as lovely as you. You deserve to be with a great guy—"

"And maybe Sebastian is that," she argues, her tone lined with hostility.

"Maybe," I sigh. I should really stop here, but the next few words leave my mouth unbidden: "But great guys don't go around trying to prevent their best friends from marrying the girl they want."

Long silence.

Then, Hailey says something that pulls fat, stinging tears to my eyes. "Have you ever wondered whether Sebastian has a point?" Her voice is tight. Like she's speaking through her teeth. "What if you and Imran are a match made in Boringville? What if the two of you are making the biggest mistake of your lives?"

Another long silence, which I break with a lie:

"I think I hear my family in the driveway..." I don't sound convincing, what with the tremble of my lips, the crack in my voice. "I'll speak to you soon, okay."

I was wrong about Seb having my best friend licking the palm of his hand. He has her sucking on it big time.

It's late that night that I receive the first text message:

I can't believe you're getting married! it says. How could you do this to me?!

# Chapter 15: Seb

She's probably the... plainest girl I've ever asked out on a date. The only girl I've asked out when I didn't really like her. Don't get me wrong, she seems like a sweet girl, but she really isn't my type. For one thing, she's not the opposite of me. Not by a long way.

Secondly, I'm just not attracted to her.

Hailey on the other hand, is beet-red from just sitting across the small table from me. Her racing heart is almost audible over the chatter of the mid-week crowd at this Italian pizza place. She's so hot and flustered I can almost feel the heat of her skin.

If I was crass, I'd feel embarrassed for her.

As it is, I'm not the jerk that Shell seems to think I am, and I honestly feel guilty about what I'm doing, regretting it even. Dating Shell's best friend simply because it's going to annoy her.

Wait, I am the jerk that Shell thinks I am.

As Hailey tells me about her job—she works in project management, but my attention wavered when she started telling me about her latest project—I wonder what Shell's doing. Fuming over my wooing of her best friend, most likely.

I was surprised Shell's family brought Hailey with them to Imran's the other day, but I figured it was Shell's attempt at keeping me out of trouble. And my first instinct was to lure Hailey over to my side.

The Dark Side.

Really rub it in.

So, I'd called Shell on Monday, this time giving my full name to the receptionist rather than saying I was a Mr. Lowe from Lowe Capital UK like the first time I'd called her office.

"Hello Mr. Lowe, how can I help?" she'd asked very politely.

"Please, call me Seb."

She chuckled once. "I'll try."

"Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot last Monday," I began in a remorseful voice. "This Monday, I'd like to start over."

"So, you're abandoning your fundraising efforts?"

"Ah, so you Googled me. Good, good. I can assure you that I have no intentions of abandoning anything."

I eventually got through to Russell last week and he promised to discuss my fund at the foundation's next investment committee meeting. That's not for a few weeks, but I'll take whatever I can get. Beggars can't be choosers, and all that.

What Shell was actually referring to was my efforts in bringing Imran to his senses, and though no progress has been made by me on that front, it's still on my to-do list.

"Then, this Monday won't be any different to last Monday," she said, lowering her voice. "Like I said last week, I don't think I can help you."

"Wait—are you in an open-plan office?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Oh." I'd figured this out the first time actually, but it was fun making her uncomfortable and seeing what she came up with. It was impressive how she got her point across to me while making it appear like we were talking business. "If I give you my mobile number, would you be able to give me a call?" I asked casually. "I need to discuss something important, during which I'd appreciate it if you could speak freely."

She chuckled without humour. She got that I tagged on "speak freely" to tease her because she'd used that term the other day. "I don't know if I'll be able to help you..."

"This has nothing to do with Imran," I assured her. "Or you," I added when she hesitated. "I swear it has nothing to do with your wedding or my theory. So, will you note down my number, please?"

"Okay, go ahead," she replied after five whole seconds. "I'll see what I can do, but I can't promise anything."

She ended up calling me when she finished work, probably thinking that it was the polite thing to do.

"Thanks for calling, Shell."

"Don't mention it." She sounded like she meant that literally. Like don't mention to anyone that she and I were talking. "So, you needed to discuss something..."

"Yes." I didn't continue, just to irritate her. See if I could get her to at least snap at me. She didn't. So professional, it's almost cold.

"And this important matter is?" she asked sweetly. Fake-sweet, but not rude. I could almost hear the fake-smile on her face.

"Hailey."

"Hailey?" Her voice rose then, unintentionally I'm sure. "What about her?"

"I was hoping to ask her out this week, but wanted to clear it with you first."

Long silence.

The kind of silence that makes you wonder if you've said something so bad that the other person hung up without warning.

"Shell, are you still there?"

Voice dull and somewhat disappointed, she said, "I'm here."

This time, it was my turn to be all sweet and smiley as I asked, "Well, is it okay with you?"

Quick pause.

Then:

"Who you take out on a date is none of my business." Just a hint of irritation.

Just a hint.

"But she's your best friend..."

"And a grown adult that should decide for herself who she goes out with," she almost snapped, professional mask slipping ever so slightly.

I'm not vain enough to assume that it was jealousy that rattled her. It was something else. I vowed to find out from Hailey what that was.

That's why, as Hailey sips her wine, I'm asking her, "Are you sure Shell's okay with me and you... doing this." I gesture at us and the table that's piling up with our starters. Mozzarella garlic bread, dough balls, olives...

She doesn't look at me as she says, "Why shouldn't she be?" Her tone is casual, carefree, but as she tucks her dirty-blonde hair behind her ears and takes a large sip of her wine, I can tell I'm onto something.

"Well, Shell's not exactly on-board with my theory," I probe.

"I don't think I am, either," she laughs.

Her over-lined lips catch my eye again—they've been a distraction since we sat down for dinner, and not because I find them sexy or seductive. It's oddly annoying, actually, don't ask me why. I think the over-lining wasn't intentional. In other words, she messed up her make-up, a classic case of someone who doesn't usually wear make-up slathering it on in a rush. There was hardly anything on her oval-shaped face and pug-nose the other day at Imran's, but today, it's clear she made a real effort to doll herself up. She doesn't look hideous, but she doesn't look particularly attractive, either.

God, I sound like a right old bitch, don't I?

"And you don't have a problem with my... interference in your friend's nuptials?" I ask tentatively.

Hailey shrugs and says, "She's a big girl, she can handle it." This doesn't sound like the words of a best friend. I wonder if Shell has any idea that Hailey doesn't have her back. Not like Imran and I have each other's. "That's not to say that I fully agree with you trying to break them up," she adds as an afterthought, probably because she's seen the disapproval on my face. "You're quite the trouble-maker, aren't you?" She tries to make her voice sound stern, scolding, but it ends up sounding comical.

Seriously, what am I doing here?

Hailey doesn't seem like the sweet girl I thought she was. Unless the girls had a fight over me and she's now a woman scorned...

I'm not sure what she makes of my silence, but she fills it with, "They're not really together, so I guess you're not actually breaking anything..."

"Is that the wine talking?" I arch an eyebrow. She's nearly emptied her glass of red. "Because that doesn't sound like something the bride's best friend should say." I sound, and probably look, quite offended by her.

She lowers her eyes. "It probably is the booze," she admits quietly. "I get tipsy really quick." She bites her bottom lip like she shouldn't have divulged that. Like I'm going to take advantage of that fact.

Fat chance!

"And you haven't had a single drop," she points out, glancing at my glass of lemonade, "so my behaviour is looking twice as bad to you... Remind me why you don't drink, again?"

Remind her?

I never told her!

When she'd ordered her wine and I asked for lemonade, she'd given me a questioning look. I told her I don't drink. She seemed too shy and self-conscious to ask me to elaborate. Bold with the red wine inside her now, she's voiced her curiosity. Normally, I wouldn't answer with the truth, but I feel like giving Hailey an idea of what it means to be a best friend.

"I promised Imran I'd never drink again."

# Chapter 16: Seb

The story is a shameful one. Despicable even. It reflects very poorly on both me and Imran. The only redeemable aspect of this episode of my life is that it proved that Imran and I will do anything for each other.

"It's the worst thing I've ever done," I say to Hailey, mouth dry as I recall one of the darkest times of my life. I take a long drag of the lemonade before continuing. "Imran won't admit it, but it's the worst thing he's ever done, too."

"It can't be that bad," Hailey murmurs softly. She reaches her hand out to stroke mine, but I move it away before she makes contact.

"I had bit of a drink problem when I was 17, 18," I begin quietly. "Imran was desperately trying to get me to cut down, if not quit completely. He feared I'd get worse at Uni, especially without him looking out for me. I'm sure I would've gotten a lot worse..." I shake my head at myself. "Anyway, the summer before going off to Uni... I messed up on a colossal scale. I was drink-driving—"

"You didn't!" Hailey gasps, eyes wide.

I nod. "I hit someone," I admit in a shaky voice. "I was so drunk I didn't even know if it was a man or woman, child or adult. And I..."

"Hit and run," she whispers what I couldn't even mouth.

"I panicked and I ran." I shake my head at myself again, shame and self-loathing chewing me up from the inside.

I knew there was a car behind me—the driver called 999 and gave a description of the car I was driving—but he didn't catch all of the license plate. I didn't know that.

"I went straight to Imran's house, to tell him what I'd done. Khala was having a bath and everyone else was out. We went to his bedroom but I just couldn't bring myself to tell him."

I stayed with Imran all afternoon, but my confession wouldn't come. The whole time, I waited for the police to come knocking and I didn't intend to leave Imran's room until they came to arrest me. I didn't want my mum to see that...

"Did the police find you?" Hailey asks tentatively.

I realise I've been staring at the table. When I look up at her, Hailey's eyes are wide with shock.

"They came looking for me at Imran's that evening," I reply. "My mum told them that if I'm not in her house, then there's only one place I could be... Her exact words."

Because I don't continue, Hailey asks, "What happened, Sebastian?"

I hate it when she calls me Sebastian.

"There were two police officers and they asked me to go with them for questioning. Before I could react, Imran asked them what it's all about.

"The cops didn't answer him, but did start asking me my whereabouts at the time of the... accident."

Closing my eyes, I can hear Imran's voice saying, "He's been with me all afternoon, officer. Why? What's this all about?"

I didn't know he had such a good poker-face. That he could act so well.

"He was with you all afternoon?" they probed.

"Yes," Imran answered confidently.

"Can anyone else confirm that?"

"No." Again, his voice was unwavering, self-assured. "Only my mum and I were home when Seb came over. My mum was upstairs, cleaning the bathroom. She didn't see him until she brought me a cup of tea a little while ago. Then she handed hers to Seb before going to make herself another cup." Imran followed the officers' gazes to the two mugs on his desk. One empty.

The other full. My one.

"And he didn't leave your house during that time?" the stricter-looking cop asked.

"He didn't leave my room, officer," Imran scoffed.

"We'll need your mother to confirm that."

"Sure."

He called Khala and she joined us in his room.

After the introductions, the strict officer asked her what time I arrived at the house.

"I don't know," she answered truthfully. "I didn't hear him come in. I was having a bath."

"You weren't cleaning the bathroom?"

"I cleaned it before. I always clean the bathroom before I have a bath or shower. Why—what's happened?"

Ignoring her question, the second officer asked her when she started cleaning the bathroom.

"I don't know the exact time," she murmured. "About an hour after lunch, I think," she added when it looked like the cops were going to press her for a guess.

"And what time did you have lunch?" strict cop asked, slightly annoyed. I wanted to punch him for the look he was giving Khala. Funny, how I could feel protective of her when my future was about to go up in flames.

My future was hanging on what she'd say.

Imran's family, typically have a late lunch. No earlier than 2pm.

The... incident took place just after 3pm.

If Khala said lunch was around 2.30pm, which is the usual time the Khans eat, and she went into the bathroom at half-past 3, then she would've known if anyone had come to her house.

And she'd know I hadn't been with Imran all afternoon.

That I'd arrived at his house around 3.30pm.

Imran was looking at her intently, inwardly praying that she said they'd had an early lunch, like at 1.30pm. I didn't harbour any hopes or recite any prayers. I'm not sure I wanted to get away with what I'd done.

I'm certain I didn't want Imran—or his mum—to lie for me in that situation, but I couldn't find my voice to correct him.

To confess.

What did she read on Imran's face? On mine? Khala ended up saying, "I honestly can't remember the exact time we ate."

Perhaps it was the truth? I never asked Imran.

We never talked about it again.

"Do you remember when you had lunch?" the strict officer asked Imran with a resigned look on his face. He knew Imran would give him the earliest time possible.

"What time does anyone have lunch?" Imran chuckled. "Some time between 1pm and 2pm, right? Today, I got hungry earlier than usual, and since everyone else was out, mum and I had a quick bite around 1pm, probably."

The cops asked if that sounded right to Khala.

She said, "I really didn't keep track of the time... So, what's this about, anyway?"

The officers told Khala about the accident.

She nodded when they asked her to get in touch if she remembered anything and then ushered them out. If she suspected that her son had lied for me, she didn't let on.

Once the two of us were alone, Imran asked, "Was it you?" He didn't look at me. Didn't wait for me to find the courage to answer him. "You will not drink again, Seb. Do you hear me?"

He turned to face me. Looked in my eyes. Held my gaze a long time.

"Promise me."

I'd expected a lecture. Expected him to remind me that I'd just proved why alcohol is prohibited in Islam. But it never came. He just waited for my vow.

"I promise."

"Swear it," he insisted. "On something that means anything to you." Because nothing seemed to mean anything to me during that phase of my life.

Apart from one thing.

"I swear... I swear on our friendship that I won't touch another drop of alcohol ever again."

He nodded. "If you do, there won't be a friendship left."

I explain all that happened that summer afternoon to Hailey in short, sharp sentences and she looks winded afterwards.

"Wow," she breathes. "I didn't have Imran pegged as that kinda guy." The type that'd lie to the police to cover up a friend's crime.

"He isn't that kinda guy."

"You're just that kinda friend, right?" she asks, trying to lighten the mood. She fails. To my grim expression, she says, "You made a mistake, Sebastian. You're not the first person to do that. Imran covered for you because he didn't want your bright future to be jeopardised by one stupid mistake."

"Don't you even want to know what happened to the... victim?" I ask through clenched teeth.

She sighs. "Tell me if it's not too hard for you."

All this is hard for me!

"She didn't die," I tell her, barely moving my lips. "But one of her legs... She'll have a limp all her life. She wasn't that much younger than me..."

"Sorry," Hailey says for no reason.

"I keep meaning to go see her," I whisper. This part wasn't supposed to be shared. "But I can't face what I've done to her. Not yet. She deserves more than a silly apology, and right now, that's all I have to give her."

But one day soon, I'm going to give her everything I owe her.

And more.

# Part Three-- Stalked

# Chapter 17: Imran

It's the smile that gives her away. Forced. Trying not to look uncomfortable. Not to shrug the guy's arm off her rigid shoulders.

And the body language. It's stiff and formal and on the edge of her seat. Like she's about to leap out of it the next second. As though she does leap out of it the next second, as soon as the camera flash fades away and she no longer has to hold that fake smile in place.

The guy's body... is angling towards hers. His eyes smiling more at her than at the lens. The admiration in his eyes is the most vivid part of this photograph, even in its grainy, low-resolution form.

What's in her eyes, apart from chagrin? Does it seem remotely possible that she reciprocates the desire in his? Is there a chance that the chagrin is more to do with not making obvious she likes him?

Stop. Why am I torturing myself?

And where the hell is Seb? He should've been here by now!

Think what you will about him, but he's always punctual, always turns up when I ask him to, rarely queries about the why and the how. All I need to do is text him the time and place—in today's case, Westfield Shopping Centre in Stratford—and I know he'll drop whatever he's doing and mean it when he texts back with On my way.

Because he knows I wouldn't summon him for anything that wasn't important. Gleaning the truth about this photograph is very important. I know it's Saturday and he likes to sleep-in but he'd replied promptly to my text, which means he was awake when I—

"Imran."

I hear Seb's voice and look up. He's swerving around one or two customers in this café, lifting his eyebrows as he gives me a small smile. When he arrives at the small table I've hogged in the M&S Café and slips into the chair opposite me, I'm not surprised by his verbal greeting:

"Not Pret?"

"No, not Pret," I murmur.

As he was making his way over to me, I'd placed the photograph back in the yellowy-brown envelope it came in.

Through my letterbox.

At my house.

Sliding the envelope towards Seb, I say, "It didn't feel right doing this in Pret, the coffee shop where Dulabhai and I met Shell. Open this,"—I look pointedly at the envelope housing the incriminating photo —"and you'll see why."

My friend flips the unmarked envelope over and over in his hands, not opening it.

"Bhai found it with the rest of our mail the other day," I tell him, my voice informal. Detached. "He opened it. Showed it to Bhabi and then—"

Seb has finally slid out the photograph. His eyes widen at the sight. Then he shakes his head. Places the photo back inside the envelope. He lifts his eyes to my face but says nothing. Knowing Seb like I do, I know his mind is working on deciphering this mystery. A mystery I haven't been able to solve these last couple of days since my brother came into my room and showed me the photo.

"Just let me, or your Bhabi, know what you want us to do," he'd said before leaving my room. I'd become silent from the moment I saw the snap of Shell and the white guy perched next to her. His arm around her shoulders...

Rigid shoulders, I remind myself.

But at the time, I'd felt heartbroken and lied to. I'm not proud of thinking—for the tiniest of split seconds, mind you—that Shell had lied to me during our training day about never having a boyfriend before. Well, she hadn't said those exact words, but that's what she'd implied. And then I receive a photograph of her sitting next to a guy who has his arm around her and a happy smile on lips and a triumphant twinkle in his eyes. It wouldn't look out of place if someone attached a speech bubble to his mouth with the words, "This is my girlfriend, people. Aren't I a lucky guy?"

What else am I supposed to think—for the tiniest of seconds—but that this guy is an old flame?

Thankfully, I got a grip and told myself that the guy in the pic could be anyone. Friend. Colleague. Client. And that I trusted Shell and believed everything she'd told me and that there's definitely a reasonable explanation behind this.

That's where Seb comes in.

He's going to unearth that reasonable explanation.

But first, I need to fill the silence with, "Before you ask, Seb, the answer is not once. Not once did I think you had anything to do with this." Seb tilts his head a little to the side. "You'd never do anything that would drag a perfectly respectable girl's name through the mud."

"That's right," he says, voice tight. I'm not entirely sure, but he looks angry. Not at me, because he knows I'd never suspect him of stooping to these levels to sabotage my relationship with Shell. I know him. This is not what he's about.

So what—or who—is the anger directed towards? The loser that hand-delivered this... compromising photograph through our door? Yes, definitely.

"But when I ask you whether you suspected Shell of... whatever... is your answer still not once?" His question is loaded with accusation and his eyes are narrowed.

At me.

Hang on a minute. He's angry with me. For having doubts. Momentary doubts. Fleeting ones. Doubts that I've dislodged from my mind long ago. Of course, I deserve to be scolded for having them in the first place, but he sounds like... Like he's on Shell's side. Like he's Shell's best friend, not mine.

"That's a turn out for the books," I chuckle. "You taking Shell's side." Finally, he feels something positive about her!

His face softens at my words, changes completely. Before I know it, the real Seb is back.

"I'm not on her side. I'm on yours," he tells me, smiling his trademark smile. "And because of that, I'm going to tell you that the fact that you doubted her, if only for a second, means that you most likely don't feel what you think you feel for her."

"Not that again." I roll my eyes.

"Yes, that again. Always that." No, he's not on Shell's side, now. Nor on mine.

"Seb—"

"Maybe receiving this photo is a sign," he suggests, tone persuasive. "This guy's probably just a colleague and it's likely to be completely innocent but... Perhaps the photo says nothing about Shell, at all. What if it's about you? If you truly love her, you wouldn't doubt her based on a grainy photo printed on bog-standard A4 paper."

Did I not mention that this is a printout of a colour photograph on flimsy printer paper? Sorry.

"I trust her, Seb," I insist, raising my voice a little. What he's saying is hitting a nerve. A nerve I wish I didn't have. I rein myself in with a deep breath. "I just panicked for the tiniest second before realising that there's a perfectly good explanation—"

"But you're not satisfied with that realisation, are you?" he deduces. "You want to make sure."

"Of course, I do. Wouldn't you?"

"If I trusted her completely and knew that I wanted to marry her regardless of what this photograph is about, then no. No, I wouldn't ask my best friend to... investigate." His tone is very matter-of-fact. "I'd settle with what I knew in my heart. In my gut."

"Well, I guess you and I are different," I mumble, reaching for the envelope.

"Guess we are," he agrees in a whisper as he places his hand, palm down, on the envelope, not letting me retrieve it.

Meaning: he'll... investigate. Even if he thinks its wrong of me to do this, to ask him to do this, he'll do it without me having to ask him. Because that's what Seb does. He does whatever I need and want him to do.

It's only when I'm leaving the shopping centre, Seb nursing a cappuccino and plotting his next moves, that I realise I should've told Seb the following, instead of saying that the two of us are different:

It's not just about my heart. Or my gut. My family's seen this picture. Whatever they made of it, led my elder brother to tell me, in not so many words, that I could decide not to marry Shell. Regardless of the fact that our engagement is imminent. Despite the fact that most of our relatives—both Shell's and mine—know our marriage is being arranged.

No, it's not just my heart and gut that's at stake here; my family's worries need to be eased as well.

They need to trust Shell again.

# Chapter 18: Shell

I stare at the final draft of the text I'm going to send Imran:

Are you aware of

just how LOW your

best friend will

stoop to ruin our

alliance???

Sighing heavily, I delete it like all the other texts I've composed and discarded since last Saturday. I can't do it. I can't break our No Communication Pact because of Seb. But the guy's making it so damn hard. Why is he such a jerk? Why is Imran friends with someone like him? What does he have over Imran? Why is Seb going to such lengths to keep me and Imran from getting married? Is it really about compatibility or is there something I'm missing?

Since he's stooping this low, anyway—texting me every now and then, when I'm with my family, with messages that suggest it's an ex-boyfriend—or even a current boyfriend—not wanting me to marry someone else—he might as well just tell both our families our secret. That Imran and I knew each other before the Marriage Talks began.

All of the above questions and statements have been the basis of the numerous messages I wrote and never sent Imran. I should just tell him. He needs to know what his friend is doing behind his back. Unless Imran knows and is just humouring Seb? Letting Seb torture me, anyway.

No. Imran wouldn't do that. That's not the kind of guy he is. He'd put a stop to the texts if he knew they were being sent.

Right?

Stop. Now is not the time to start having doubts about my future husband. My soon-to-be fiancé. Well, soon-to-be sort-of fiancé. We don't really have a tradition of 'engagements', where rings are exchanged and the couple more or less swears to marry each other. In our culture, two families will decide to form an alliance and convene to set a date for the wedding. This get-together is referred to as the Chini Paan or Paan Chini: The groom's family will bring sweets and confectionary—the chini of the Chini Paan; chini is the name for sugar—and platters of paan—dried, flaked betel nut, also known as the areca nut, wrapped in betel leaves, or paan, a heart-shaped, dark green leaf—and the bride's family will be responsible for the refreshments and food.

Traditionally, this event was a small one and took place at the bride's house. The groom's family could present the bride with a ring, but it wasn't necessary. And the bride and groom were never present for the official Marriage Talks.

Over the years, it's become our equivalent to engagement parties, with the bride's family hiring banqueting halls or restaurants to host the event, and the chini the groom's family brings includes cupcakes, chocolates, and all kinds of decorative platters compiled from fruits and other sweet treats.

Plus the couple exchange rings in front of everyone.

Depending on the groom's wealth and budget, it could be a diamond engagement ring that he slips on to his sort-of fiancé's finger. But it's not really an engagement.

What's important in Islam is the actual nikah, when the bride and groom declare that they want to marry each other out of their own free will, in front of at least two witnesses. In Bangladeshi culture, it's typical for the nikah to take place on the day of the wedding party, and for the bride and groom to do this in different rooms. Our equivalent of a priest will ask the groom if he consents to the marriage with all the attached terms and conditions, and the groom is expected to say qabul—an Arabic word, usually pronounced ko-bool—which means that yes, he accepts/consents/agrees.

Simply put, it's like the 'I do' of Christian weddings.

The same thing happens with the bride, only with her, it'll be an uncle of hers or a respected relative, that'll ask her for her consent, and once she says the two-syllable word, it's done. She's married.

Contracts are then signed by both parties, but the nikah, the verbal agreement, is the one that truly binds them to each other.

Imran and I will likely have our nikah on the wedding day, the date of which will be finalised before our Chini Paan, the date of which is still up in the air. It was supposed to be set last Saturday, over lunch at Imran's house, but both our families have close relatives that work weekends—which is the time that best suits our immediate families; we have the weekends off—and it's apparently near impossible to get a Saturday or a Sunday off work without at least a month's notice. Without knowing whether they'll be able to attend the Chini Paan over a weekend in the next few weeks, we can't set a date for it.

It would offend them big time.

Like my cousin Tariq. He was royally pissed off for not being able to go to Imran's house last Saturday because it was too short notice for him to arrange cover at work. Although his wife attended—my brother picked her up and her little kids from her place, in East London, no less—Tariq is still sulking about how my parents didn't consider him when they accepted a lunch invitation from the groom's family.

All I know about our pending Chini Paan is that it won't take place during the school summer holidays like all our relatives with school/college/Uni age children had hoped. There are only one-and-a-half weeks left before the new academic year begins in the first week of September.

We're looking at late September, at the earliest.

But we won't know until people that work weekends get back to us about the dates they will be available.

And only if those dates match up.

If Imran and I didn't need any more obstacles in our way!

Talking of obstructions, Seb's name is flashing on my phone right now. Instinctively, I pick up. If I can't complain to Imran about his friend's antics, I can have a go at the culprit. Why haven't I called him myself and told him to stop harassing me via text message? One reason:

I didn't want to be the one that calls him.

Silly, I know, but I didn't want to give him the satisfaction.

I still don't. So, I greet him with a formal but polite, "Hello, Mr. Lowe."

His tone mirrors mine when he responds with, "Hello, Shelly."

"Please don't call me that."

"Okay. Sorry. Shell."

Silence. Waiting for me to bring up the topic of the texts? Or wondering how to bring it up himself Or, more likely, just to annoy me! It's working.

Outside of work and sales, I'm not a conversation-starter, so silences put me on edge. My brain flips through too many possible things to say next and I end up saying something that's a combination of all those things and the sentence is incomprehensible. I don't want to make a fool of myself in front of Seb. He'll interpret my nervous gibberish as a sign that he's ruffled me with those inappropriate messages. So, I keep mum.

But the silence lengthens and my lips twitch to fill it, my mouth becomes dry. Must keep my mouth occupied with a non-verbal activity, at least wet my throat which is dry. I reach for the bottle of water that I always keep on my bedside cabinet and take it to my lips. Suck in a good mouthful of warmish water.

And I cough-choke when Seb asks, "Do you have any plans today?"

The front of my cotton dress moistens with the water that squirts out of my mouth and nose as the choke triggers a coughing fit.

I try to contain it by taking another sip of water.

Big mistake. Because I'm still coughing, and have no control over my swallowing muscles, the water goes down the wrong way. I feel my face burn as I choke and cough some more.

So much for not embarrassing myself in front of Seb!

It's probably a good thirty seconds later that I calm down, though my heart is still racing.

"Shell, are you okay?"

Hah, I can't help thinking, he's the first to speak, after all! "Yes, just hey fever, that's all."

"Really? Sounded like you were choking on water." He chuckles once. It's indulgent. And annoying. "Anyway," he says when I keep quiet, "are you free to have lunch with me today?"

Lunch? It's nearly 1pm!

Who calls you to have lunch with them at lunchtime?

Wait.

Why am I even considering it?

Well, not considering it, just not rejecting it immediately?

I know why. I need to confront him about the texts, and it's better to do it face-to-face, when I can see his reaction. When I can see the admission on his face.

When my family are not a few thin walls away...

"Where?" I ask, my voice breaking for no reason. "It might have to be a late lunch depending on where we meet—"

"How about Westfield, Stratford City?" he says. "I'm already here and it won't take you long to—"

"No, it won't. I'll see you shortly."

# Chapter 19: Shell

The first thing I do when I spot Seb in the M&S Café is stop to call him. Well, the number he uses to send me those despicable text messages.

No answer. Of course. He's not stupid enough to bring the offending phone with him to our meeting—or not silence it if he has. He appraises me with a curious expression on his face as I cut the phone connection and approach his little table. He's wearing a short-sleeved white cotton shirt and as he gets to his feet at my arrival, I see he's sporting long khaki-coloured shorts that are just past his knees—or are they cropped trousers? I don't know much about men's fashion.

"Hey," he says, raising his eyebrows as he smiles.

"Hey."

As we sit down, I notice two empty cups, with coffee drip marks down the sides, and an A4-sized envelope on his side of the table. It doesn't look like it contains a stack of papers, but I still find myself saying, as jokily as I can manage, "Is this the part where you offer me a considerable amount of money in exchange for me calling off the wedding?" Eyeing the envelope, I add, "And that's the contract I have to sign to finalise the... deal."

He glances down at the envelope. "This? No. It's no contract, but... it is the reason I asked you to meet me today."

"What is it?" I reach for it.

But he snatches it away. "I guess it's a script," he tells me. "A set of questions I have for you. You wouldn't mind answering them for me, would you?" He quirks an eyebrow. He doesn't need to say it, but it's clear in his tone that he wants to add, "If you have nothing to hide, you won't mind indulging in this activity."

"And you had to write those questions down and put them in an envelope?" I ask mockingly.

"Something like that." He shrugs. "So, are you game?"

"Sure. If you answer my question first. And honestly."

He cocks his head to the side.

"Just one answer from me in exchange for several from you? How can I refuse such good terms?" He straightens up in his seat as if to say, "Hit me."

I suck in a big breath. "If you don't stop sending me those disgusting texts"—Seb tilts his head to one side—"I'll tell Shayla to tell my parents"—now he leans forward on the table, eyes narrowed, forcing me to lean back on my chair—"and they'll tell Imran's family and then you'll be... for the lack of a better term, disowned."

Folding his arms and leaning back in his chair, Seb says, "That didn't sound like a question, Shell." Slowly, a grin spreads across his lips and he glances down at the envelope briefly. "It sounded like a threat," he chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief. Like how could I possibly dare to threaten him, the great Sebastian Lowe?

I work hard to keep my face from scowling. He really is insufferable!

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" I demand. My tone is firm but professional. The way I'd ask one of the people in my team at work to explain why the software that monitors which websites we use lists their Facebook URL as many times as our company's CRM URL.

Though he'd initially smirked at my question, Seb quickly fixes his expression into a serious one, mirroring mine. "I didn't text you anything," he tells me, holding my gaze.

And for some reason, I want to believe him.

But I can't. I know it's him. He's pretending to be a boyfriend—ex or current—sending messages demanding to know why I'm marrying someone else. Why I don't answer his calls and won't call him back—oh yeah, didn't I mention that he also rings me right before or after texting me? The first call came the day after he first texted me. We'd just finished our supper and sat down to watch TV together. When I didn't answer the second time my phone rang, my brother queried it. I had to remind him of my rule: I don't answer the phone if the number is Unknown/Withheld/not saved on my phone.

The calls kept coming.

"Well, they're not giving up," he'd responded. "Answer it. It might be important."

"I don't change my rules for anyone."

My parents insist on having at least one meal a day as a family, with supper being the most appropriate one, and then watching TV together—whatever's on the Bengali channels on satellite TV—a ritual that our relatives either scoff at or envy. I didn't want my constantly ringing phone to disrupt it. Or force me to leave the room. That would look suspicious. So, I'd put my phone on the silent mode.

The same thing happened the next day. Same time. In front of my whole family. I've since resorted to keeping my phone on silent when I'm home. Which means it's silent all day, since I need to keep the ringer off in the office, too.

Why didn't I answer the phone and tell whoever it was to get lost? Three reasons:

One: If it was Seb—and I was sure it was—I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of getting a rise out of me.

Two: If it was just a random stranger pranking me, I didn't want them to think they were succeeding in bothering me and laugh at my expense.

Three: I don't answer the phone if the number is Unknown/Withheld/not saved on my phone.

Also, why didn't I block the number from my phone? One reason: When it eventually occurred to me that I could block this number, I decided not to. I wanted to see just how low Seb would stoop. Just how despicable his texts would get. I'd have proof, I told myself, in case Imran refused to see Seb's true colours. As a result, I take screenshots of the texts and e-mail those pictures to myself before deleting the texts from my phone. They make my phone feel dirty otherwise...

"Can I... see these offensive texts?" Seb's question jerks me out of my reverie.

I realise I didn't respond to his declaration of innocence. I didn't even give him a suspicious look that told him I didn't believe it. "I delete them from my phone," I tell him, voice slightly clipped.

Seb nods. "Probably best. You don't want your family or—"

He pauses abruptly.

Then: "Or anyone else's family to see them and get the wrong idea. Which is probably their purpose. And the purpose of this." He places the envelope back on the table and slides it across to me. I pull out the piece of paper inside.

What?

I don't say the word out loud, but my mouth opens wide as though I have. And stays open a little too long. Like a silent "Whaaaaaaaa..."

Where did Seb get this picture?

It's me with an ex-colleague, Jason Cox. He left our company early this year. This photo was taken at the Pub Quiz last summer. My firm arranges a Quiz every year as one of the quarterly social events. Jason and I were team captains and our teams were joint winners. Jason was happy for me to get the paper winner's crown and be photographed for the company newsletter. I'd refused outright to wear the crown, but Eva, the head of the firm's publications department, insisted that both Jason and I be in the photograph.

The first shot, the one Eva took for the newsletter, was a very professional one. We sat side-by-side at my team's table and smiled at the camera. Then, someone, I wasn't sure who at the time because it was pretty loud in the pub, shouted out, "And now one for Facebook!" and Jason tugged me close to his side. I didn't want to seem like a party-pooper or a prude, so I just smiled for the camera.

Once all the camera flashes faded away, I reached forward across the table in the pretence of grabbing my drink just to get away from Jason's warm body. His half-hug meant nothing. He was just being friendly, cheeky. In fact, we'd rarely spoken to each other in the year that he worked in my company. The level of interaction between us didn't change after that photograph. It changed nothing in our working relationship, nor did it trigger a personal friendship.

When I finally tear my gaze away from the semi-blurry photo and look up at Seb, he gives me a tight smile. I'm not sure what it means.

"This is from—"

"Facebook, I know."

"How?" I gasp.

Seb gives me an 'Oh, pur-lease!' eye-roll. Meaning: he's looked me up on Facebook.

Because I was tagged in that picture by the colleague that posted it, it's in the 'Photos of Shell' folder, which is public. I don't know if I can change the settings so that it's no longer visible to people I'm not friends with—I wasn't bothered to find out. Perhaps I should. Especially if someone's printing them out and making them available to my future in-laws...

How did my brain make that leap? Three things:

One: The texts and calls I've been getting from phoney boyfriend.

Two: Seb's got this photo, which means Imran gave it to him. Of course, he did, because it was sent to his house.

Three: The envelope has no address and therefore was meant to be seen by anyone in Imran's family, not just Imran.

So, that they call off the wedding.

Strange that I didn't immediately assume Seb had been the one to print the photo to blackmail me into cancelling the wedding. Especially since I'm determined to believe he's the one sending those texts.

Does it mean I don't think he's capable of playing this dirty?

If he's sending those messages, then he already is playing this dirty.

Oh, I don't know.

My head wants to suspect he's behind all this, but my gut instincts say otherwise.

# Chapter 20: Seb

I guess I ought to thank Shell for not accusing me of being behind all this. Somehow, the initial suspicions she'd harboured about me sending her those disgusting texts seem to have cleared. I'm glad we opened our discussions with those texts—it means I can get away with saying what I say next:

"When Imran and I first saw this photograph," I begin, my gaze on the back of the photo she's still holding in front of her, "we thought that you or your family may have received something similar. We assumed it would be a compromising snap of Imran..."

From this, Shell won't be able to gather that Imran had doubts about her when he first laid eyes on the photograph. Yes, I don't believe Shell belongs with Imran, but it doesn't mean I think she ought to be hurt by the fact that the guy she's agreed to marry wondered about her past. Even wants me to investigate her.

Plus, I have Imran's back, always.

I will split them up, but not by tarnishing Imran's image in any way. Nor will I tolerate anyone trying to drag a perfectly nice girl's name through the mud.

Finally, Shell swallows and puts the printout down on the table. My hands fly out, grab the picture, and stuff it back inside the envelope. Away from prying eyes. One corner of her mouth curls up, like she knows exactly why I did that.

Then, she sighs. "Who would do this?" she says dejectedly.

She leans her elbows on the table before dropping her head in her hands. She suspects it's someone she knows. Someone that wants to stop the wedding by incriminating her and not Imran. Else, they'd have sent her family some suspicious-looking photograph of Imran. I don't want to confirm it for her, but fact is, Imran hasn't known any girl or anyone that would do anything like this, for whatever reason.

"Is there anyone that wouldn't want you to marry Imran?" I ask her, voice soft.

Her head snaps up. "Apart from present company?" she asks, raising one eyebrow. Her tone is as controlled as ever. Like she's dealing with a colleague or subordinate at work and has to maintain that professionalism.

"Apart from present company." I make my face as sympathetic-looking as possible, wanting to assure her that I'm not enjoying this. Because I'm not.

Shaking her head, she says, "I don't think I have any enemies..."

"How about..." I can't bring myself to say exes because Imran assured me that Shell has never had a boyfriend. I'd believed him when he told me, but when I saw her, I did wonder... She isn't bad looking, in any sense. I mean, her figure isn't curvy or anything and she's a bit too tall for most guys' tastes—

Definitely too tall for Imran.

"There hasn't been anyone that's been interested in you? Like that..."

Shell shakes her head no immediately.

Then, she pauses. Frowns. Shakes her head like she's shrugging away a thought that just occurred to her.

"Shell?" I probe, letting my tone inform her that I noticed that little episode of self-doubt.

"It's nothing," she insists. When I give her an 'I'm not convinced' look, she says, "No one's been interested in me romantically." She doesn't seem chagrined—or anything—about this fact. She just stated it like she was saying she'd never watched a film that wasn't that good in the first place. Hmm...

"But?" I press.

"Imran's wasn't the first marriage proposal my family received for me." Her tone is detached again. "It was silly of me to think of one of those proposals when you asked if anyone's been interested in me, because the only thing he was interested in was marrying me to switch from a Student Visa to a Spouse Visa."

"You can't know that for sure," I argue. "You didn't know him."

"I did," she blurts out.

"Was he a... cousin?" It's not uncommon for Bengalis to marry their cousins; a while ago, it was all the rage. It's falling out of favour these days.

She doesn't look at me as she says, "Yes. Tariq."

Tariq... sounds familiar... "Was his wife at Imran's house last week?" I wonder aloud.

She nods her yes. "He's happily married now," she informs me.

"But still—"

"No buts," she says almost curtly. "I wasn't the only cousin he... proposed to in order to help him with his immigration status. And most of those girls have gotten married since, without scandal."

"You can't know that for sure—what if those girls kept it quiet?"

She gives me a look that asks, "Did you actually hear what you just said?"

"Yeah, I heard it," I sigh. Things like these don't stay quiet. If one of Shell's female cousins had their weddings cancelled this close to their Chini Paan, the news would've travelled. "So we have no leads..."

"We?" She pops an eyebrow questioningly.

"Okay, I," I rephrase.

"I?" she queries again.

"Well, someone's got to get to the bottom of this," I say with a shrug.

"Hmm," she breathes. "But somehow, I can't believe it's the person that's been against this alliance from the start."

"Someone else has also been against this alliance from the start," I tell her. "The person that's texting you and sent this picture to Imran's house. If it's not your cousin, I still think it's most likely to be someone close to you. Someone you know. That's why I need your help. Why I initially said we."

"I know. I just wanted you to say it." She shrugs, grins. She looks so young when she smiles...

"Say what?" I wonder aloud.

"That you need my help."

"It's true. I do. So, what do you say?"

"I'll help, on one condition." She smiles a cheeky smile. Then it's gone. "Tell me the truth: Imran... did he... does he... What was his initial reaction to the photo?" She doesn't look at me as she waits for my answer.

I don't owe her anything. But she deserves the truth. She needs to know. Problem is, I've watched Imran's back for too long, lied for him too many times—not to mention the major lie he told for me—that I tell her what'll work in Imran's favour.

"Not once," I say as confidently as I can. Luckily, I've always been a better liar than Imran. "Not once did he doubt you."

She looks at me as soon as I finish speaking. Her face is contorted in confusion. Something tells me that she knows I'm lying and what's stumped her is the reason behind my lie.

In her eyes, it's clear what she's thinking: Surely, this is the perfect time and opportunity for Seb to create a rift between me and Imran, but why isn't he taking it?

# Chapter 21: Shell

We as a family—my parents, siblings, and I—are pretty close. My parents maintain good relations with members of our extended family, but we don't get too close to any aunt or uncle or cousin. Because when you get too acquainted with any one individual or family, the chances of a rift coming between you increase. There's a saying in Bengali which translates to 'too much sweetness gives you tummy ache'. The western world probably has a similar proverb; it's just escaping me right now.

Our family is the only one in our clan, if you like, that's never had a falling out with members of our extended family—not that I can remember, anyway—whereas our aunts and uncles clash every now and then. Nothing major, but these things are bound to happen in a culture that encourages us to be close to our extended family. My family keep in touch with all our relatives in the UK, but we keep a very safe but civil distance, too. That's why I don't think we, as a family, have enemies amongst our relatives.

Therefore me, as a person, shouldn't have anyone that's out to get me.

All this, I try to explain to Seb as we sip coffee and nibble on soft, chewy cookies. Neither of us felt like getting lunch items. The idea that someone I know is trying to sabotage my wedding and tarnish my reputation doesn't exactly stimulate my appetite. It inhibits it. So much so, that Seb's almost finished his cookie, whereas mine has only lost a quarter of it to my stomach.

Things are bad when not even chocolate chip cookies can make you feel better.

"You have quite the sweet tooth, don't you?" I murmur as I look pointedly at his nearly empty plate.

He leans back in his chair. "It's growing up with Imran's family," he explains. "You Bengalis love your sweets. Mind you, I can't say no to a succulent, creamy rasmalai. Or a sticky, crispy jelebi. You know what?" He sits up straight and bangs his hands on the table. "I should've asked you to meet me in Whitechapel. There's this guy that fries the jelebi and soaks it in the sugar syrup right in front of you, and they're amazingly addictive—"

"I know," I agree. "When our relatives from East London visit during Ramadan, they bring those jelebi. They don't last very long after iftar." Iftar—the time when we break our fast during the holy Islamic month of Ramadan, during which we Muslims fast for up to thirty days. From sunrise till sunset, nothing can be ingested. Not even your own saliva. Too much information? Sorry.

"But I get the feeling," he says, "that I'd have been munching on your share of those neon-orange spirals of sweet goodness if we were having jelebi today..." He looks sympathetic and I can't reconcile these two sides of him: The side that thinks I should back out of my wedding and the side that's all gallant and chivalrous and wants to protect my reputation.

Well, clear it, since that photograph has sort of stained it somewhat.

"Who is this person?" I sigh.

"If you insist that it's not someone you know," he says, tone sceptical, "then the only theory is: stalker."

"What?" I laugh. "I don't have a stalker." I whip my head from side-to-side to scan my surroundings. Which is silly. I'm not being stalked. That's ridiculous. "A stranger wouldn't have my phone number, anyway," I say with a shrug.

"In this day and age, there are ways—"

"Oh please." I roll my eyes. "Why would someone like me have a stalker?"

He seems to think about it.

And come up with zilch.

"What's more probable, then?" Seb enquires. "A stranger or someone you know?"

"Both are equally impossible," I tell him immediately.

Seb gives me a pitying look, like he thinks I'm too innocent for this cold, cruel world. I make an effort to not grind my teeth. He's so obnoxious!

"It's not impossible Shell, because it's happening," he stresses. "Now, if we're going to work on this together, you're going to have to give me more than that. You have to open your eyes to what's really happening here."

Oh, my eyes are open, Mr. Lowe, I seethe inwardly. To him, I say, "Who says we need to work on anything? Why can't you just tell Imran's family the truth about this photo and leave it there? Won't they believe me? Will they need proof? Jason Cox has a Facebook profile. They can even talk to him if they want to hear it from his mouth. Then the matter's over."

"What if it isn't over?" he asks out loud the thought that enters my head now. "This... this guy"—it sounded like he worked hard to say guy instead of some swear word; he half-scowled, too—"might do something else. Send more photos of you with men. Start calling your family, Imran's family—"

"Which would make it obvious that someone has a grudge against me." I shrug.

"Or, that you might actually have a jealous ex-boyfriend that you're not coming clean about, so what does that mean about you?" Seb looks at me strictly. "No matter how you explain away everything that lands on Imran's doorstep, this sort of thing stays with you, Shell. Do you really want to start a marriage with that kind of shadow hanging over you?"

If you get your way, Mr. Lowe, I might not start anything with Imran. Of course, I don't say that. I just cling onto the most professional expression I can manage. I don't know what I find more annoying—Seb being a prick or Seb being reasonable and making sense.

"Don't you want to get to the bottom of this, Shell?" he asks me, leaning over the table. I realise I'd been leaning on the table and so push back against my chair. "Are you afraid of what you'll find?"

"Of course!" I almost snap.

"To which question?"

"Both, I guess." I sigh. "But we don't know where to start... looking. All we can do until we have a... a lead, is tell Imran and his family the truth about this photo."

"That's not enough," he insists. "They deserve an explanation of why they got sent this picture of you."

"But we don't have that explanation."

"Yes, though—"

"What?" I snap. He's done it. He's made me lose my calm. Shit. I'd promised I wouldn't give him the satisfaction... "What aren't you telling me, Seb?"

His eyes widen at the sound of his name. Then he shakes his head. "I don't know what you mean," he replies quietly. He fidgets with his spoon, plays with the crumbs on his plate. And most importantly, avoids my gaze.

I'm not stupid. Maybe I've been looking on the bright side too long, hoping for the best too much, but now the answer dawns on me. "Imran's family," I begin hesitantly, my voice dropping low, "they're willing to... they took one look at that photo and were ready to cancel the wedding." I gulp and I'm glad he doesn't see because his eyes are still fixed on his cutlery. "But Imran convinced them to let you... investigate first, before making any rash decisions."

Seb says nothing.

I plough on. It hurts my throat. "That's why you want to be able to go to them with proof that some cousin or colleague has it in for me."

Still nothing from Seb.

"Or some guy wanted me for themselves and doesn't want me to become anyone else's. Not so easily, anyway."

He keeps mum.

I never thought Seb Lowe could be silent for so long. But he's going to speak in a few moments, I know he will. Because what I'm about to say is sure to get a reaction out of him.

"Did Imran consider cancelling the wedding, too?"

I got a feeling earlier that he'd lied about Imran not doubting me. And like that time, he answers in a way that makes me think he's lying. "Of course, not! Don't be silly." He says it with all the right facial expressions and the appropriate tone of voice to convince the most sceptical of people.

But for some reason, he can't fool me.

Unless I'm being paranoid? I mean, can I really read Seb Lowe that well? How could I? I hardly know him.

"Don't take me for an idiot, Seb."

"I don't," he assures me.

"Then, don't argue when I say that Imran's initial reaction to that photo was that I'd lied to him about my past—or rather the lack of—but then he realised there must be an innocent explanation behind it."

He nods his agreement.

"I don't blame him," I say with a half-sigh. "I would've reacted similarly if I was in his position. As would my family. I, however, would've called and confronted him, but he really wants to honour our No Communication Pact."

He appraises me for a moment. "You're not upset or angry at him?" Seb asks curiously.

"For a fleeting second, I was," I admit. "But it's okay. It's not a huge deal." I shrug. Unconvincingly. "I still want to marry him if he still wants to marry me."

"Imran trusts you, Shell," he insists. "He just wants his family to trust you, too."

I nod.

"And both of us want your reputation to be crystal clear, again," Seb says with a small grin. "I think you're a sweet girl, Shell. You don't have any skeletons in your closet and don't deserve to be in this situation. I swear I'll do what I can to clear your name."

"Thanks. You're a good guy, Seb." I realise it's true and that I meant what I said. "Except when you're trying to sabotage my wedding."

"You're not so bad yourself," he says with a cheeky smile. "Except when you're trying to marry my best friend who you're totally wrong for."

# Chapter 22: Shell

We start wondering around Westfield, pretending to window-shop. Seb's assured me that if I feel like entering any of the shops, I'm more than welcome to do so.

"Well, thank you, Mr. Lowe," I say in a fake-sweet voice.

"But it's best that we're out in the open," he informs me.

"That way my stalker has a good view of me, right?" More fake-sweetness and fake smiles.

This is not me mocking his Plan. No. Seb and I have to make it look like we're... friendly with each other. Flirty. All to draw out my stalker. Or at least, let him get a few good snaps of me with a guy. That is, if I have a stalker that follows me around, taking discriminating photos of me to send to my future in-laws. I highly doubt it; I'd know if some weirdo was watching me from a distance, right?

"Hey, if you have any better ideas," Seb says through a friendly smile, his tone a little off, "I'm all ears."

Fab. He thinks I'm being cheeky and making fun of his Plan.

I stop walking and he halts, too. "I think your Plan's a good one," I tell him, my fake-smile fading. "That's why I'm going along with it—"

He narrows his eyes at me, expression sceptical. "That was you going along with it?"

I nod.

"Fake, wide smiles and childish voice?" He seems amused now. "That's how you think a girl acts when she wants to be... flirty with a guy?"

I gulp. I must look like the idiot that I feel like. "Honestly," I mumble, "I don't know how to be friendly with a guy..."

"Are you horrid to your male colleagues and clients?" he asks.

I shake my head no. "I treat them the same way I treat my female colleagues," I say. "In a professional manner. As though they're just another colleague. I don't change my behaviour based on the gender of my colleagues."

Seb nods. His facial expression gives away nothing about what he's thinking. He starts walking through the crowds of shoppers and says to me when I catch up with him, "In theory... in an ideal world, that's good."

"But?" I probe.

"It's not an ideal world, Shell," he tells me as though I don't know this already. How annoying! "You do have to change up your treatment of others based on gender," he goes on, all serious and knowledgeable. Like I have no idea what the world is like. How infuriating! "Guys are stupid, Shell," he continues, "and they can interpret the most innocent of comments and smiles as flirting and leading them on."

"Well, I've never had any problems on that front," I snap, my irritation seeping out. "None of my male colleagues have misinterpreted my professionalism."

"Then, you're either very professional or have been really lucky," he murmurs, unperturbed by my snappish tone. "My guess is you're so professional with everyone that it comes across as—"

Seb cuts himself off. Picks up his pace. Thanks to my long legs, I don't have to jog to match his stride. As we power walk past a couple of my favourite clothing stores, I demand, "Comes across as what?"

"Cold."

"Cold," I repeat, voice faint. I never thought of it that way... "Do I seem like a cold person?" I ask, voice still feather-soft.

Is that the real reason Seb doesn't... approve of me? Can't be. He says I'm too much like Imran, but Imran is anything and everything but cold.

"Do I?" I ask more forcefully and Seb turns his head towards me.

"Not cold," he replies. "You're just so in control of your emotions, checking yourself all the time. It seems like you don't feel at all."

I am good at checking my emotions, not letting them show in case it makes people uncomfortable. Well, I am when Seb Lowe isn't pissing me off!

"I do feel, Seb," I mumble.

He stops in his tracks, maybe because of how forlorn I sound. "Of course, you do," he says softly. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I'm sure you're warmer with people you know better, people you care about..."

"So, I do seem cold—"

"Shell, just forget I said anything, okay?"

I nod, my face still sad.

"We need to focus on the Plan, remember?"

"What's the point?" I say with a sloppy shrug. "Even if we can prove my innocence, Imran might still decide I'm too cold to marry."

To my surprise, Seb bursts into laughter. I glare at him.

"So, how come you've yet to ask me about my date with Hailey?" he asks, changing the subject abruptly.

This throws me for a little while.

"Unless you've already got the low-down from her?" he probes, arching an eyebrow, an arrogant expression on his face.

I realise he's trying to distract me. It's working. What else can make me forget about a complete stranger telling me I'm cold than my best friend not even calling me to tell me about her date with my future husband's best friend? Indeed, Hailey doesn't ring me to tell me about every date she goes on, but seen as she met Seb through me, and seen as I sort of know him, you'd think she'd call to tell me how it went.

A part of me thought that their date went horribly and she was too embarrassed to tell me so, admit that I'd been right about Seb. If it went swimmingly, surely she'd have rung me to gloat? The bigger, more rational part of me, however, thought that the reason Hailey hasn't been in touch is because she's still upset with me for what I said about Seb when she disclosed her interest in him.

I don't know which alternative I want to be true: Seb and Hailey having an awful time together or their date being a good one but Hailey too angry to share her joy with me.

"Well?" Seb says, lifting me out of my reverie. "Did she say anything about me?"

I shake my head. "I haven't had a chance to call her," I tell him in a dull voice. "I'm a bad friend."

He appraises my face for a long moment. Then: "In that case, let me fill you in."

Seb launches into a play-by-play of their date as he starts walking again:

Dinner at an Italian restaurant.

Talking about work and the meaning of life. As if!

Walking her to the tube station.

"Did you kiss her?" And my hand flies to cup my mouth. I can't believe I asked that out loud! I'd only been thinking it in my head!

Seb chuckles. "I don't kiss and tell, Shell."

I shrug. "She'll tell me when I next talk to her, anyway..." But I probably won't be calling her soon. Why? Two reasons:

One: I didn't do anything that wrong or that bad so it shouldn't be me that makes the first move.

Two: She's the one that misunderstood and was mean to me, so she should call first!

Very mature, Shell! Well done!

"I just kissed her on the cheek before seeing her into the Underground," he tells me. Why? I don't know.

"Oh."

Astonishingly, Seb goes on to say, "I probably won't see her again..."

"Why?" I ask, appalled and defensive. Even though, deep down, I know this is the best thing for Hailey—Seb's just not good enough for her—I can't help but want to fight in her corner. Fight for her. "Was the date horrendous?"

"No," he replies. "But it wasn't amazing, either."

"First dates rarely are," I tell him. "Or so I've heard..." I've never been on a date, so...

"True," he agrees. "But first dates should make you wanna go on a second date and..." He shakes his head. He doesn't feel like seeing her again...

"Come on, Seb," I say in a pleading tone. "You can't put too much emphasis on a first date. She's a great girl. So sweet and kind. You have to give her another chance! Let her show you who she really is."

"Okay."

"Because girls like Hailey don't come along—"

I cut off when I notice his wide grin. He'll take her out again...

"Well, good," I say with a bob of my head. "She's a great girl."

"You said that already."

"Well, some things are worth repeating."

"Like my theory of love?" he says with a cheeky smile.

I shake my head, but can't help return his grin. "No, not that," I tell him in a fake-strict tone. "Never that."

Seb laughs and stops walking. I realise we're at the Westfield exit that leads to the trains. "I think we've given our stalker friend enough time and opportunity to click some good photos of us," he says as he scans our surroundings.

"So, now we wait to see if he sends any photos to Imran's house?"

"Something like that."

"And Imran's family won't see anything wrong with photos of me with... you?"

"I'll explain that I bumped into you here and started teasing you..." He sighs before adding, "I don't think there'll be any photos of us sent anywhere. I don't think you have a stalker. This was just a test, on the off chance that someone's following you. I still think this is an inside job, and I think that cousin of yours—"

"But I told you," I stress. "He's happily married now. I wasn't the only one he... proposed to."

"What if you were the only one he actually wanted to marry?" he asks in a serious tone.

"As if!" I scoff. "I was probably the one he least wanted to marry."

"Regardless, promise me you'll answer the phone the next time he calls and—"

"Listen out for any sounds that might hint at where he lives, who he lives with, if he has a TV etc... I know, I know. I remember what you said."

It's a shame I can't block this weirdo's number; Seb insists I keep myself available to the caller.

"Good," he approves. "Now, shall I kiss you on the cheek before seeing you onto the train?"

My mouth pops open in shock and annoyance. God, he has some cheek! He just grins at me. I shake my head and storm off.

# Chapter 23: Seb

The first thing I do after I've made sure Shell's out of hearing distance is ring Imran and relay all the information I garnered from Shell just now. He sighs in relief when I'm done.

"I'm going to tell Bhabi that the wedding's still on," he says in a rush.

"Hold on tiger," I caution him. "You have to play it cool. Don't tell them I met with Shell—the last thing that girl needs is to be romantically linked to another white guy."

Imran bursts out laughing. "No one in my house would ever link you romantically to any decent Bengali girl," he teases once his laughter has calmed. "Unless they really wanted to insult her."

"Har-har," I say dead-pan. "You're so funny."

"That coming from the funniest person I know," Imran says, "I'll take that as a major compliment."

"You're welcome," I say sarcastically. Then, in a serious tone: "Jokes aside, you don't want your family to think her so bold that she'd agree to meet her future husband's best friend in secret. So, think carefully about what you're going say."

"I'm not stupid, Seb," he assures me, all business now. "I'll tell them that you did some research on Facebook, sent a few DMs, and got to the bottom of this for me. I won't mention Shell's involvement. But... do you really think her cousin would want to sabotage our wedding?" he asks in a whisper. "You saw his wife last week—she seemed nice and happy. Well, her little toddlers seemed really... happy."

"They were a nuisance," I retort.

Tariq's children were so naughty, and the mother never bothered to keep them in check, too busy gossiping with Bhabi and Reshma to care that her kids were wrecking the host's house.

"Those brats aren't house-trained at all," I rant on. "Definitely a sign that their father is hung up over the one that got away..."

Imran chuckles. "I remember which restaurant she mentioned Tariq works at," he tells me as an afterthought. "If you really suspect him..."

"I might book a table at his establishment..." I do need to take Hailey on a second date, if only to annoy Shell. Then I'll tell the blonde that it's not working out.

That will really irritate Shell...

"I know it's Sunday," I murmur into the phone the next day. "And you might just prefer to take it easy, but... I felt like going for an Indian..."

"You feel like eating Indian food, on a Sunday?" Hailey says in a forced calm tone. But I can hear the quiver in her voice that alludes to excitement and hope. "What's that got to do with how I might prefer to spend my Sunday?" she asks in a tone that suggests she's rolling her eyes.

"Well, seen as I was going to ask you to join me," I say in my most charming voice, "it has a lot to do with how you want to spend your Sunday..."

"That makes sense," she responds casually. Again, the trembling in her voice is loud and clear.

"So?" I probe.

"So, what, Seb?" she chuckles. "If you're calling me to ask if I'll go for an Indian with you, you're going to have to go ahead and... ask me. Seen as I haven't heard from you since Wednesday." Her voice betrayed the tiniest pangs of hurt as she finished speaking.

"About that," I say quietly. "Sorry. I've been busy; you know how it is..."

The truth is: I wasn't going to call her at all. I only took her out to annoy Shell, and I'm asking her out again for the same reason. I'm taking her to Tariq's restaurant on a Sunday because I know for sure that he always works weekends. His wife had said as much—he's a chef in a busy Brick Lane restaurant and he's needed on Saturdays and Sundays; that's why he missed lunch at Imran's last week.

"I know how it is," Hailey murmurs.

"So, what do you say?"

"About what?" she enquires innocently.

Oh, I see. She wants me to ask her outright. Fine. Whatever. "Hailey, would you please have lunch with me today?" I say in a sugar-coated voice. "I feel like having a curry, some naan bread, and maybe some lassi to finish it off. But it won't be much fun if"—If I'm investigating Tariq whilst eating alone—"if you're not with me. So, how about it?"

"I guess that's the best I'm going to get out of you, isn't it?" she giggles.

"What? That was me being charming!"

"I get the feeling you can do a lot better, Seb," she says wistfully. She's right. I am holding out on her. I save the good stuff for girls I actually fancy.

Sorry Hailey, but you just don't do it for me...

"But a girl's gotta eat..."

"Ah, she accepts," I say, faking relief.

"So, you got anywhere specific in mind or do wanna walk down Brick Lane and see...?"

"Oh, I have somewhere very specific in mind," I inform her. "Text me your address and I'll come pick you up."

Of course, I'm going to pick her up; I'm not that big a prick. The girl lives in South West London. I wanna eat at Tariq's, which is in East London and completely out of her way. Plus, its Sunday, so there's no congestion charge forcing me to leave my car at home.

When the waiter comes to clear our dishes—we just chose a couple of curries, some naan, and plain rice—I take my chance to ask about Tariq. "Is your chef called Tariq, by any chance?" I ask him.

Hailey gives me a funny look.

"Yes," answers the waiter—he said his name was Habib when he introduced himself as our server. He's in his thirties, and his English is accented but comprehendible. His white shirt is pristine and his black bow tie and trousers are pressed to perfection. "You know Tariq?" Habib seems curious.

"My best friend is marrying his cousin," I inform him with a proud smile. "We'll be family soon. Which is good news for me, because Tariq is a very good chef!"

"Yes, the food was lovely," chips in Hailey, still looking confused.

"Would it be possible to speak to him for a few seconds?" I ask innocently. "I know he'll be upset if he found out I came here and didn't say hello..." He won't care either way, but the lie works.

"Of course," the waiter assures me. "I'll go tell him now." And Habib rushes off with our empty plates and dirty cutlery.

Hailey asks, "I've heard of people wanting to compliment the chef, but this is... different."

I just give her a 'wait and watch' look. While we were eating, Imran texted to say that everything's straightened out with his family. They believe in Shell's innocence and the wedding's still on.

They're still curious why anyone would send us the photo, though... he said as an afterthought, which means the slate isn't completely clean.

I still need to catch me a saboteur.

A few moments later, a man of medium height and build, in a chef's hat, a white chef's jacket, and dark jeans, approaches our table. Tariq. The first things I notice about him are his thick, bushy eyebrows, but otherwise, he is a decent-looking man in his late twenties perhaps. His skin is as fair as Imran's, though his hair is thinner and he's slightly on the chubby side.

I rise to my feet and hold out my hand to shake his. "Hello, Tariq Bhai," I say in a polite tone. "I'm Sebastian Lowe." Once he's shaken my hand and smiled awkwardly, I turn towards Hailey. "And this is Hailey Cross."

"Hi," says Hailey, a dubious expression on her face.

"You're friends with Shelly," says Tariq, recognising Hailey.

She doesn't seem to find Tariq familiar, though... "I don't think we've met..." she mumbles, perplexed.

"No, but I've seen you in photos with Shelly on Facebook."

Exhibit A: Tariq goes through Shell's photos on Facebook. Well, he doesn't ignore them when they show up on his news feed, that's for sure. He definitely pays enough attention to recognise Shell's friends...

"You met Tariq Bhai's wife last week at Imran's," I tell her. "And his lively toddlers."

"They're your kids?" she blurts out, clearly not impressed. Then, she composes her features. "They're so... lively. Congratulations," she tells him.

He smiles proudly.

"Yes, and your wife seemed lovely," I tell him. Tariq gives me a quizzical look—you know my wife? I laugh. "I guess I haven't introduced myself properly, have I?" I shake my head at myself. "I'm friends with Imran—the groom—and I was at his house last week when Shelly's family visited for lunch."

He nods. "I see. You're the white friend..."

"I am indeed."

Awkward silence.

"You're a very good chef," Hailey says to break the silence.

He smiles and thanks her.

"I just wanted to say hi," I tell him. "And since we were going to eat Indian food, why not send our business your way. After all, we'll be... family soon."

"Yes." He nods. "I'll ask Habib to give you a good discount."

"Oh, that would be great, thank you."

"You're welcome."

"But don't be too generous," I tell him with a wink. "Otherwise, Shelly and Imran will keep coming here for the family discounts."

He looks stunned for a few seconds. Then, curious.

"After they're married, that is," I explain and he has an 'I see' look on his face. "They wouldn't dare meet up before the wedding," I add with a chuckle, a roll of my eyes. "And if they did, they wouldn't come here, where you'll be able to scold them for being so disrespectful."

A wide grin lights up his face. Tariq puts a hand on my shoulder and says, "Tell your friend he and Shelly can come here anytime they like."

Meaning: they can come and eat here before they're married.

"I won't tell anyone," he adds conspiratorially.

Meaning: he won't tell anyone, but he might just send a photo or two...

Exhibit B: Tariq relishes the idea of Shell and Imran being caught together before the wedding.

"That's good to know," I say in a tight voice, swallowing down the ball of anger churning in my chest.

"Enjoy the rest of your day," Tariq says through his smile. He shakes my hand, waves at Hailey, and heads back to the kitchen.

"What was that about?" Hailey asks when I sit back down.

"Let's just say, Tariq isn't one that can be trusted to be... discreet."

"I don't get it."

"Hailey, you don't have to get it." I look at my watch. "We have half an hour before the West Ham game kicks off. Let's have that lassi before heading to that pub we saw on the way that shows live footie."

Hailey swallows. "Football?"

"Don't tell me you're not into football?" I tease.

"Let's have that lassi and then you can drop me off at the nearest underground station," she says in a depressed tone. "Like you said, it's Sunday, and I don't want to spend my afternoon watching grown men kick a ball around a big field."

I chuckle. Football's always a great way to end a date short.

# Chapter 24: Shell

The last thing I expect when I leave work on Monday is to find Seb Lowe lurking outside my office block. Feels like I've been seeing him too often, my future husband's best friend who's trying to sabotage my wedding whilst also trying to make sure that the other person that's trying to wreck it doesn't get his way.

There's something very wrong with that sentence.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, Mr. Lowe?" I say when I walk up to him, just to the side of the entrance.

"Hey!" he says with a wide smile, super-friendly. Doesn't feel fake, either.

"Are we on stalker-alert again?" I ask, scanning my surroundings. I catch sight of Becky as she walks past us. She spins her head around once and smiles at me while walking away. I'm reasonably friendly with our firm's receptionist/office manager, so I'm sure she'll ask me who I was talking to outside the office the next time she sees me. What would I tell her?

No one at work knows that I'm getting married—though I know I ought to mention it to one or two people soon; it would look weird if I just invited them to my wedding out of the blue...

Well, Becky, I'd say. The guy you saw me talking to on Monday is... It's a long story.

I love long stories, Becky is likely to say. To which, I'd have to give her something.

You know the story where the girl-next-door-type is getting married to a jerk—and she's only marrying him because she's given up on finding Mr. Right—only for the man of her dreams to walk into her life days before the wedding?

This is not that story.

How about the story where the girl is engaged to the nicest guy in the world, but the appearance of a mysterious hunk rocks her world off its axis and makes her wonder if she should select sexy instead of sweet?

This isn't that story, either.

My story does, however, include a man I'm going to marry and a man that...

"No, not quite..." Seb's uncertain words disturb my train of thought.

"Then, what's going on?"

I texted him on Saturday night to tell him that I couldn't ascertain much from answering the phone when my stalker called. I'd made a point of eating early that night and faked a headache to avoid having to watch TV with everyone, so I could be alone in my room at the usual time my stalker calls.

The line went dead as soon as I said hello.

I heard loud noises but the guy hung up before I could determine the source of those noises.

Seb had replied saying, No worries, Shell. We'll catch him out one way or another...

So, is he here outside my office to say he has Plan B? Or is this us still trying to see if I'm being followed? After all, if my stalker knows anything about me, he knows where I work and what time I finish. I take another look around us, though I don't know what I'm looking for.

"Actually, Shell," Seb says, "I need your help with another matter completely."

"What?" I ask, surprised.

"Hailey."

"Hailey?" I shriek. "You're not planning to dump her, are you?" My question comes out in a panicked rush.

"Can we talk, in private?" he asks, lowering his voice.

"About Hailey?"

He nods.

"Umm," I hesitate. "Errr..."

"Please?"

I've been having coffee with Seb Lowe more than I have been with my actual friends lately.

There's something very wrong with that.

But this is about Hailey, and Seb looks like whatever he needs to share is pretty serious...

"Umm," I repeat, still unsure.

"Come on, Shell, it's just dinner," he says casually, like I'm blowing things out of proportion for no reason.

"Dinner?" I shriek. "I was thinking along the lines of coffee..."

"We can have coffee after dinner, with dessert..."

"You're serious," I murmur.

"As a heart attack."

"But... but isn't it too early for dinner?" I mumble, feeling my cheeks warm for some reason.

He rolls his eyes. "It's almost 6pm, Shell. By the time the food arrives it'll be seven..."

I'm used to eating a lot later than that—us Bengalis usually have a cup of tea and a biscuit around 6pm.

"Please, Shell," Seb pleads. "It's really important. Trust me."

That's the thing—I don't trust Seb Lowe. But he is trying to help me... And this is related to my closest friend...

I exhale too loudly before saying, "Fine. Okay. Sure. Whatever."

Did I just agree to have dinner with him in four different ways?

What the hell is the matter with me?

Seb sighs in relief, not at all amused by my response like I thought he'd be. I guess this is a matter of great importance.

"Great," he says, looking pleased. "I know just the place."

Ten minutes later, we're strolling down Brick Lane, Seb walking purposefully towards the Indian restaurant he says he's heard great things about.

"My cousin is a chef in a Brick Lane restaurant," I say in a casual tone.

I keep out the part about that cousin being Tariq, the guy Seb suspects is behind the photo prank calls. Seb will want to eat at Tariq's instead of the place he's heading for, just to suss Tariq out. And the last thing I want to do is eat in Tariq's restaurant. It's not a great idea for anyone I know to see me with Seb. Or any guy for that matter. People talk, remember? And this close to my engagement...

If we ever get around to setting a date for it!

"Really? Which restaurant does he work at?" Seb asks, his tone just as casual as mine.

"I don't remember the name," I answer. I don't think I even bothered to find out the name of the place where Tariq works. I just made sure never to come down Brick Lane since he started working in the area. Until now, that is. Because of Seb.

There's something very wrong with that.

"Try to remember," he urges me. "We could get a family discount or something..."

"Oh, I don't think so," I say in a stern voice. "I am not going to eat at Tariq's place. No way. Not with you, anyway."

"What—am I not dressed smart enough to be seen with you?" he asks sarcastically.

Seb's dressed incredibly smart. Designer suit, tie, and all that jazz. It's Monday, so I'm in one of my smart dresses too, only today, it's a deep purple colour instead of the usual black dresses I'd normally pull on at the start of the week. With the weather being so bright and warm, I thought I'd lighten my attire a little with it.

"You know why I can't be seen with any guy," I say under my breath.

"Don't worry," he assures me, "I'll tell everyone it's a business meeting."

"It is business, I suppose," I murmur. "I mean, you need my help with Hailey..."

"I do indeed."

Then, a few strides later, he goes and opens the door to an Indian restaurant and gestures for me to walk inside.

# Chapter 25: Shell

Seb only gets around to the topic of Hailey once we've got our drinks and papadums and have ordered our mains. The fuss he made about needing to talk to me about her, you'd think it would be the first thing he mentions after sitting down! What he actually said as we sat at our table, a small round one from which we could look into the kitchen whenever the waiters went in with empty dishes and came out with steaming food, was the following:

"Right, Shell. Tonight, I'm going to be acting rather bizarrely, and it might make you feel uncomfortable and uneasy."

I just looked at him, wondering if he was being his usual annoying obnoxious self.

"I'm going to be nice to you, Shell," he continued. "Only for tonight."

"What?" I couldn't help but gasp. Then, I started chuckling. "And why are you going to be nice to me for a change?" I asked once I stopped laughing.

"For a change?" He looked appalled. "I'm always nice to you."

"But you just said—"

"I know," he cut me off. "What I meant was... I'm going to be nicer than usual."

I giggled without meaning to. "Fine. Thanks, I guess."

"You're welcome, I guess."

"So, why will you be nicer than usual, Mr. Lowe?"

He leaned forward on the table and I sat back in my chair. "I need your help," he said, "and cooperation. So, for tonight, I need to treat you better than I have in the past. Can we be friends, just for tonight? Or at least act like it?"

"I'm confused..."

"You need me to explain it better?" he asked, curving an eyebrow and looking at me like I was retarded.

I felt my skin crawl with irritation. Even when he's trying to be nicer to me, he still slips into the jerk he always is!

"Maybe I'll just go." I reached for my phone on the table but Seb covered my hand with his. I looked up at him, stunned.

Did he just touch my hand? I asked myself. Well, he was touching my hand and I was too shocked to move it. Even as he picked my hand up in his, like a guy would hold his date's hand across the table, I was too alarmed to pull my hand back.

"Sorry, Shell." He sounded truly remorseful, his voice soft, almost a purr. "Please don't go." Then, he placed his other hand on top of mine, gentle and tender.

My blood boiled under my skin.

I felt like smacking him for touching me like that. But I didn't want to cause a scene, in an Indian restaurant in Brick Lane, so I nodded to assure him I wouldn't up and leave before carefully slipping my hand out of his grasp.

He smiled warmly before relaxing his shoulders. "Thanks, Shell," he said, still smiling.

He was right. He was making me uncomfortable.

I gave him a fake-smile, sweet like the ones from Saturday and said, "Touch me again, and I will leave. I don't care who you want to talk about."

"Fair enough," he said, tilting his head to one side, still grinning like a little boy. "That was all part of the..."

"The being-nicer-than-usual-to-Shell thing?" I said, tilting my head to one side, too, fake-grinning from ear to ear.

"Something like that—"

"Good evening sir, madam," said the waiter as he came to take our drinks orders. Then he cocked his head to one side as he did a double-take of Seb.

"Hello again, Habib," Seb said without looking at the waiter. He was looking at me.

"So nice you come back so soon," said Habib, the waiter, whose name Seb knew...

"Like I said, the food here is good," Seb replied. Looking only at me.

Like he couldn't take his eyes off me.

What the hell is that about? I'd wondered.

Habib laughed and gave me a knowing smile, like he knew what the hell that was about.

"What drinks will you have, sir, madam?"

Eyes fixed on me, like I was the only one worth looking at, Seb said, "Apple juice for me, please, Habib." Then he leaned forward on the table towards me. "What'll you have today?"

The way he said today... it was like we did this—eat out—all the time...

I swallowed and faced Habib. "Orange juice, please."

And off he went.

I sighed in relief. Seb's eyes followed Habib to the bar as he went to get our drinks. It felt like freedom when his eyes finally wandered from me.

"Being extra nice to me," I said hesitantly, "guess that means being rude to others... You didn't even look at the waiter as you addressed him."

Seb tilted his head to one side, smiled, and said, "Sort of." Then he leaned one elbow on the table, rested his chin on his hand, and started gazing at me, smiling dreamily. I was about to tell him to stop doing that, that it was indeed making me uneasy, but I closed my mouth as soon as I opened it: Habib was back.

Seb didn't move an inch as the waiter set our drinks down, as I said thanks for both of us, and as Habib asked if we were ready to order our food.

Without taking his eyes off me, Seb said, "Yes, we are. I'll have the chicken jalfrezi, tarka daal, and saag aloo."

Habib turned his amused gaze to me.

"Umm... I'm not too hungry," I stuttered. "I'll just share with him. Thanks."

"And some naan and plain rice, too," Seb added, still acting like he was talking to me. "Thanks."

Habib chuckled and made his way into the kitchen.

"You sure you're not hungry, Shell?" Seb asked, voice soft.

"What's going on, Seb?"

He straightened up and asked, "What do you mean?"

His eyes started darting about the place, like he was searching for someone. Obviously, he didn't want to answer my question and was looking for a change of topic.

"You doing gooey eyes at me," I said in a whisper. My cheeks felt hot. "Are you practising being Romantic-Seb for Hailey's benefit?"

He pretended to watch a different waiter enter the kitchen with empty plates and said, "Ah, Hailey."

"Yes, Hailey," I tell him now in a stern tone. "The reason we're here, remember?"

"I brought Hailey here yesterday," he informs me, still looking towards the kitchen from the corner of his eyes.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I have my reasons," he answers.

"Care to share any of the reasons behind any of this?" I sound just as exasperated as I feel.

"I was here with Hailey yesterday, but I barely paid any attention to her..."

"Seb, that's awful. How could you—"

"Hear me out," he says, cutting me off mid-rant. "But tonight, with you, I'm... like you said, gooey-eyed. It's bound to get Habib gossiping about us in the kitchen..."

"You did that for Habib's benefit?" I ask, appalled and confused.

"Waiting tables can be a very tedious thing..." He winks at me cheekily.

God this guy is hard work!

"None of this makes any sense," I moan. "And what you said about Hailey..."

"Hailey's just not my type, Shell," he tells me in a reasonable tone. "I only took her out yesterday because you asked me to. I don't like her like that. Like at all."

I believe him. It's written all over his face.

"Why didn't you say...?" My voice is a whisper. If I'd known, I wouldn't have convinced him to give her another chance.

Or maybe I would have—I know she likes Seb enough to stop talking to me over him, so of course, I would have pleaded my case for her.

But now... now that I can see on his face how uninterested he is in her, I don't think it's a good idea to say, "Take her out again. Third time's the charm!"

"So, you brought me here to ask me how to let her down gently?" I wonder aloud. Seb's gone back to staring at me like I'm the only girl in the world. "Or to ask me to talk to her for you? Seb? Seb!" I wave my hands in front of his face, windscreen-wiper style, and he grabs them. Laces his fingers through mine.

I become motionless.

"I'm paying attention, Shell," he tells me matter-of-factly. He lowers our hands to the table.

My god, we're holding hands across the table like we're a couple!

Habib's a lucky guy if Seb's doing this for his entertainment.

As carefully as I can, so as not to make a scene, I wiggle my fingers away from his. My face is steaming hot. I bet it's red, too.

Narrowing my eyes at him, I tell him, "You touched me again. And I warned you—"

"Your hands were in the way," he complains in a childlike way.

"In the way of what?" I snap as quietly as I can.

"Your face," he replies, all casual and sweet smiles. "I was enjoying myself..." He tilts his head to one side, appraising my face again.

"Habib's not around right now," I say through clenched teeth. "What's all this staring and gazing for? And answer honestly, please. Or I will leave." I should leave anyway, seeing as I know what he wanted to say about Hailey. Why then, am I not making a move to depart? Two reasons:

One: Seb's acting this way for a reason and I want to know what that is.

Two: I daresay it's not totally and absolutely horrible having people think that a guy is mesmerised by me. As I move my eyes around the room, I can tell that the female customers closest to us are thinking that I'm a lucky girl to have the undivided attention of a tall, handsome man like Seb Lowe.

Stupid, stupid, shallow Shell!

Not cool.

"I promise to give you the truth," he says eventually, folding his arms over the table and leaning forward. "But first, you must sit through dinner with me and pretend to be enjoying my company and behave like this is the way I usually am with you. You know, gooey-eyed."

"So, there's a logic to this madness?" I ask quietly.

"Of course. All will be revealed, just please, don't leave, and pretend that you like me."

"I can be nice, Mr. Lowe," I say with a sniff.

"I'm not asking you to pretend to be nice to me," he tells me. "I'm asking you to pretend to like me. A task infinitely harder than being nice to me."

"You're right," I tell him, making my tone serious. "Pretending to like you is something that's beyond my capacity." He grins and I can't help return it, though mine is less amused. "So, I'll just be nice and indulge you and refrain from poking you in the eye with my knife if you touch me again. Though, I highly recommend that you keep your hands to yourself. For your own safety."

Seb holds up his hands in surrender. "Fine," he agrees. "Point taken. Just play nice and that'll do."

And as our food comes and as we share the curries and bread and as Seb continues to look like he's in love with me or something, I play along with him. I laugh at his jokes and pretend to look coy as he compliments me, saying things he'd never say to me in a million years if there wasn't some crazy plan behind tonight's meal.

I must say I'm looking forward to getting to the bottom of this!

# Chapter 26: Seb

Shell needs to look at her plate, at her glass of water, at her fork, as she takes food to her mouth, and therefore I get plenty of opportunities to drop the pretence of not being able to shift my gaze from her and survey the kitchen area. And it's when she's dabbing at her mouth with her napkin, saying she can't eat any more, that I finally see what I've been waiting for all night.

"I just need to pop to the gents," I tell her quickly and rush off towards the small corridor that leads to the bathrooms.

The small corridor that Tariq entered just now, iPhone in hand.

The iPhone that had been pointed in the direction of our table, while he was standing outside the kitchen door.

Then, he'd turned to his right and headed towards the toilets, iPhone still in front of his face, like he's going through some of the photos he just clicked.

My long legs help me reach him while he's still halfway to the staff toilets at the end of this narrow passage. The staff toilets are separated from the customer toilets by a basin, and as I overtake his lazy walk, I snatch the phone from his hand in one swift movement. I'm flicking through his camera roll the next second, still walking away from him.

Slick!

"Hey!" exclaims Tariq as he gets over the shock of having his phone snatched.

I stop in front of the basin and continue to go through all the photos he's taken of me and Shell as we ate dinner. You're so busted, my son! I tighten my grip on the phone and slowly turn to face Tariq—he's walked closer to me now.

His eyes widen when he realises it's me.

That I've caught him red-handed.

"Give me my phone or I'll call the police," he threatens, holding out his hand.

"Be my guest," I tell him smoothly. "And I'll tell them you've been stalking your cousin, sending disgusting texts to harass her, and trying to get her wedding cancelled by sending her future in-laws photos of her with men she has no relationship with whatsoever."

His face goes pale. He's thrown by how much I know about what he's been up to. . Guilty, guilty.

"Then," I go on, walking up to him so I'm in his face, "I'll give them the number you've been using to call her and they'll be able to trace it back to you."

He swallows. Such a low-life and so small-time, he doesn't even deny it. Or maybe I'm just very intimidating...

"But because that's not enough of a punishment for a sicko like you," I say in a harsh whisper, "I'm going to take all this evidence and present it to your wife, her family, as well as Shell's family."

Tariq takes a step back. "It was just a joke," he stammers. "Give me my phone." He makes to grab the iPhone.

I spin on the spot. "Not so fast, Tariq Bhai." I leer as I say Bhai, for he's no brother of mine!

I smile as I find that his phone is set-up with his e-mail address, which means I can e-mail myself the photos of Shell and me quite easily. I select all seven of the pics and select the Mail option before sending them to my work e-mail. Meanwhile, Tariq walks around me and tries to take his phone back, but I curve one hand around his throat and shove him against the wall. My other hand deletes the e-mail with the attached photos from his Sent Items. Then, I delete the photos from his Photo Album, then from the Recently Deleted folder, too.

I like the choking sounds Tariq makes as he fails to remove my grip around his throat. Finally, all those hours I've spent in the gym are paying off.

Having long limbs is also a bonus—when I hold Tariq's phone at arm's length from me, he can't reach it. He goes back to trying to loosen my hold on him as I snoop around his phone to make sure he doesn't have any of those Apps that automatically save your photos, and luckily he doesn't seem to. Good. I won't have to touch this loser for too much longer. I'd have gone through every photo-based App on his phone to make sure none of them contained a single image of Shell.

I drop Tariq's phone in my pocket, freeing my hand so I can have both my hands around his throat. Then, once I'm sure he's really uncomfortable, I manoeuvre him towards the basin and bend him over it backwards. I hope it hurts.

"See, I don't think you were joking," I say in a tight voice as I press his back harder against the top of the sink. "I think you wanted Shelly and because you couldn't have her, you can't bear the thought of her becoming anyone else's. That's why you posted that photo. So that Imran's family cancel the wedding, thinking she has a sordid past. And you took those photos just now to send them to Imran's family, too, didn't you?" I don't wait for an answer. He's in no position to nod, let alone talk.

"Stop," he wheezes. "You're hurting me." He starts coughing now.

"Oh, I haven't even begun hurting you, Tariq Bhai."

"Please," he chokes out.

I pull him upright and loosen my hold on him. "Better?"

He nods.

I grab the collar of his chef's jacket and shove him against the wall. "Did you even love her, or is this just a shameful result of your jealousy?" I hiss in his face. "Speak," I order. "Your throat won't be free for too long."

"I liked her, yes," he admits quietly.

"I don't think that's true," I say softly. "I think you thought she was the best out of all the cousins you could've married, and so you wanted to marry her the most. If you cared about her, you wouldn't be trying to sully her reputation like this."

"It was a mistake, I'm sorry," he admits. "I won't do it again."

"You won't," I tell him in my most sinister voice. "Do you know why?"

He just gulps.

"Because I know where you live and I know where you work and I know how to kill a man with just two fingers."

Tariq looks like he's swallowed something bitter.

"If I hear anything, anything, going wrong with this wedding or with Shell's married life," I say in a threatening voice. "I will come for you. I won't care whether you're guilty or not; I'll assume it's you. And I will kill you and I will happily go to jail for it."

His eyes widen. "I promise, I'll stop," he says, a couple of tears rolling down his pale cheeks.

"Oh, please don't stop," I say with a wicked smile. "Because I think I'll quite enjoy killing you." Another wicked smile and he winces.

"Please," is all he says.

I drop my hands from him, disgusted that I had to touch him for so long. Thankfully, the basin's got a bottle of hand-wash and a paper towel dispenser above it. I start washing my hands, the way the posters in hospitals say you should.

I take my time.

"You know the worst part about this, Tariq Bhai?" I say as I make the hand-wash into a lather between my hands. "The worst part is that Shell doesn't think you have anything to do with this. She won't believe me when I tell her about our time together."

"Yes, she will."

Because his tone and voice are off, I glance at his face. He's looking towards the other end of the corridor. Rinsing my hands under the water, I look over my shoulder to see Shell standing there, white as a ghost, at the mouth of this narrow passage. I turn the tap off and dry my hands quickly, throwing the soiled tissue at Tariq's chest.

"We're leaving, Shell," I say as I approach her. I take her wrist in my hand without breaking stride and start pulling her along.

She seems too shocked to speak, to do anything. I think she heard everything.

Saw everything.

Then, I stop halfway to our table, let go of Shell, turn back around, and head towards the corridor. Tariq's rubbing his throat and neck, still where I left him. I throw his phone at his chest and he tries to catch it but it falls to the floor, completely unharmed.

"Thanks for agreeing to pay for our meal, by the way," I say over my shoulder as I leave him to pick up his phone.

# Chapter 27: Shell

I can't believe I'm arguing with him as we walk back towards Liverpool Street Station, after what he's just done for me, but I have to convince him to keep quiet about Tariq. At least to Imran's family. My future in-laws can't know that I'm related to someone like Tariq.

"You know, Shell," Seb says in an annoyed tone. "I thought you were a lot of things, but annoying as hell wasn't one of them."

"Seb..." My voice is calm and reasonable. I can't get angry at him after what he did for me.

"I can't believe you want to cover for that loser!" He shakes his head, furious.

"Not cover," I stress, "not from my family, but Imran's family can't know my cousin is behind all this. It makes my family look bad."

"But he's your cousin," he spits. "Not your brother or sister or anyone in your immediate family or household. Cousin. And a lousy one at that." He shakes his head again, a disgusted expression on his face. I gulp thinking that he's disgusted with me now.

"I know, Seb, but..." I trail off as he starts walking super fast to get away from me. I half-jog to catch up and put my hand on his shoulder for a split second, bringing him to a halt. "You know how things work in our culture, our community," I say in a soft voice when he glares at me. "You know our people judge us based on so many things, including people in our extended family. Tariq is my dad's very own nephew. His little brother's son. Please try to see my point of view."

"I see it," he snaps. "I just think it's stupid."

"I know."

At my admission, he comes up short. Eventually, he says, "Well, at least we agree on something today."

"I'm so grateful, Seb," I tell him, meaning every word. "You threatened to kill someone for Imran and me. That means a lot."

"Yeah well, it doesn't seem like it means anything now." He's less aggressive now, voice slightly softer. "I can't believe you'd let your in-laws have doubts about you just to protect your family."

"It's what us girls are told to do... Protect family honour above all..."

"This will stay with you forever, you know that, right?" he asks me in a strict voice. "If we don't tell Imran and his family everything, there will always be a part of them that doubts you over that photo for the rest of your life. Please tell me you know that?"

I nod sadly. "You can tell Imran," I say with a sigh. "But only if he promises to keep it to himself. I'll tell my family. Maybe then they will go ahead and set a date for the engagement. No one's said it out loud, but it's clear that Tariq was the one being fussy about which weekend he can book off work for the party, and why we couldn't propose a date for the Chini Paan."

Seb nods. "Guess your folks won't want him anywhere near the engagement party once you tell them what he's been up to," he murmurs. "So, they might even decide on a date that he definitely won't be able to attend."

"Here's hoping..." I grin at him, sheepish.

That seems to change something in him. "No," he suddenly says. "No, Shell. I won't cover for that prick."

"But—"

"I'm going to tell them everything," he goes on in a rush. "They deserve to know, and you and Imran deserve not to have this... this shadow hanging over you."

"Seb, please," I beg but he shakes his head.

"Sorry, this is one thing I can't budge on. Not even for you."

My head falls, worry and anxiety crowding my mind.

"Hey," he says softly. So soft that I look up. He has a very apologetic look on his face. "It won't be that bad, okay?" he soothes. "Imran's family won't judge you or your family because of what your low-life cousin did. Trust me. They know that every grown man makes his own decisions. And that's what Tariq did. He made a bad decision."

I exhale loudly, suddenly feeling tired. "Are you going to show them the photos from today?" I ask without looking at his face.

As we'd left the restaurant—not paying for the food because Tariq apparently would; that's what Seb told Habib before we made our dramatic exit—Seb demanded my e-mail address and forwarded me the message with the photos Tariq took of us. We looked like we were on a date, Seb and I smitten with each other. That's exactly what Seb wanted it to look like, so Tariq just wouldn't be able to resist taking our pictures.

"I'll show them to Imran," he tells me, the look on his face braced for a rebuke or a plea. But I say nothing. "Imran and I don't keep things from each other," he explains. "Then, I'll delete that message, I swear."

"I believe you," I blurt out, meaning it.

"Good," he says in a casual tone but the expression on his face makes clear that he's very pleased that I trust him.

"So, do you really know how to kill a man with two fingers?" I ask as our train approaches my stop—Forest Gate. Seb will go on to Chadwell Heath to see Imran. We didn't think it appropriate to talk about the Tariq thing on the train, which meant we've hardly spoken.

"No," he says with a chuckle. "But don't I look like the kind of guy who knows how to kill a man with just two fingers?"

"No," I laugh.

"I thought as much," he says with a nod. "But Tariq looked like the kind of guy who'd believe that I can kill a man with just two fingers, so I went with it."

"You were good," I tell him with an impressed smile as I wait for the train to come to a complete standstill at my station. "You were freaking scary, but very good." I get to my feet and make for the nearest door. "Thanks again, Seb."

"Anytime, Shell," he says as I wait for the train doors to open. "Anytime."

# Part Four-- Shopping, shopping, shopping!

# Chapter 28: Shell

A couple of days later, I get home from work to find my mum, Shayla, and Bhabi talking about finally having a date for the Chini Paan. Saturday, September 17.

Three-and-a-half weeks from now.

Wow. Our families worked fast!

Tariq was the one making it difficult to set a date!

Imran's family must've confirmed that the third Saturday of September was fine for them and their relatives. That three-and-a-half weeks' notice was more than enough for their friends and family.

Amma, Bhabi, and Shayla lower their voices a little when they notice I'm home, and I leave them deliberating over whether to book restaurant space for the night or a community hall and caterers to provide the food. When everything's final, I'm sure Shayla will give me the low-down.

Once I got back from Tariq's restaurant on Monday, the first thing I did was ask Bhabi and Shayla to come to my room. And I came clean about the mysterious phone calls I've been getting and told them that I'd figured out it was Tariq.

"How?" Bhabi had asked, perplexed.

Shayla said, "I always thought that guy had a sleazy side to him."

"Really, Shell," said Bhabi, "how do you know for sure that he's trying to sabotage your wedding?"

I knew I'd have to tell them about all the photographs, the one sent to Imran's house and the ones Tariq took of me and Seb. I urged them to hear me out and not make any judgements before I finished explaining. For obvious reasons, I left out the part about Seb making gooey eyes at me. That felt a little inappropriate.

"Let me get this straight," Bhabi said after I was done speaking. "Tariq Bhai printed a photo of you with a male colleague and sent it to the groom's family, hoping they'd cancel the wedding?"

I nodded.

"But Seb was there, and he thought it best to speak to you before making any rash decisions?" Shayla probed.

"More or less," I lied.

"Then, the two of you met up and caught Tariq Bhai red-handed at his restaurant," Bhabi went on.

"More or less."

"And he just admitted to doing it?" Shayla had asked with a bewildered shake of her head. "Before promising never to meddle in your business again?"

I hesitated before saying, "Seb was pretty intimidating. He made it seem like he was a bit psycho and would... kill Tariq if he didn't stay out of this."

"Wow," Shayla and Bhabi said in unison, exchanging wary glances.

"And this isn't a joke?" Bhabi asked.

"I wish," I sighed. "Seb's at... the groom's house, telling them everything. What will they think of us, Bhabi?" I asked despairingly.

"I guess we'll find out soon enough," she told me, rising from my bed. "I'll tell your brother when he gets home from work. Then, we'll tell Amma and Abba. They'll speak to the groom's parents and see where things stand..."

She'd looked so worried that Shayla asked, "What? You don't think the groom will want to cancel the wedding? Because we're related to someone like that Tariq?"

Bhabi just shrugged.

"That's not fair," Shayla insisted. She jumped to her feet and added, "Shell hasn't done anything wrong. She shouldn't get punished like this. This was all Tariq and his jealousy—"

"I know," Bhabi sighed. "Let's hope the groom's side see it that way."

Lucky for me and Imran, his family did see it Shayla's way. Late that night, the truth out in the open, the dreaded phone call froze us all in the middle of watching the 10 o'clock news on one of the Bengali channels. Dinner had been consumed in silence. I helped clear the dishes before settling into my usual seat around the TV with the rest of my family, again in silence.

My mum's mobile ring tone was the first noise in the lounge that hadn't emanated from the TV. Her mobile phone flashed with the name of Imran's mum's. Trying not to draw too much attention to myself, I promptly left the room when Amma confirmed who was calling. Several minutes later, Shayla came into my room and told me what the deal was.

"So," said my little sister, trying to conceal a grin as she entered my room. "It seems that whatever Seb said to the groom's family, it's made them apologise to us for suspecting the worst about you and not informing us of the photo they received. They admitted that if they'd been honest enough to confront us from the start, then this whole mess would've been sorted out sooner..."

I'd felt thrown. I knew I looked it. I mean, how had Seb managed that? And why would he straighten things out so well when he himself was against this alliance in the first place? Was it really about his belief that an innocent woman shouldn't be seen in a bad light because someone else held a grudge against her? Once again, Seb Lowe was being as indefinable as ever.

"Basically," Shayla went on, perching on the edge of my bed, "you're in the clear and the groom's family want to set a date for the Chini Paan and wedding as soon as possible. Amma said that we'd get back to them with a date for the engagement after speaking to Abba and Bhaiya. So, it's all systems go, now." She beamed.

I blushed and thanked her for reporting to me.

"By the way," she said as an afterthought. She was halfway to my bedroom door. "I forgot to ask you earlier... what made you so certain it was Tariq?"

I dropped my head. "I didn't suspect him at all," I confessed. "It was Seb that suspected him—he was convinced it was someone close to us."

"But how?" she asked.

"Seb made me admit that we'd rejected Tariq's proposal. He even took Hailey to Tariq's restaurant to suss him out."

"Seb has good instincts," she murmured, impressed. I moaned. "What?" she asked, curving an eyebrow.

"Nothing." I couldn't tell her what Seb's instincts were about me and Imran getting married...

"So, are Seb and Hailey dating?" she wondered aloud. She didn't look too interested in the answer but I wasn't sure I bought the act of nonchalance. I moaned again, wondering whether my little sister, like my best friend, had a crush on Seb Lowe. "What?" Shayla demanded.

"Seb and Hailey have been on a couple of dates but..." Shayla waited for me to continue. "He says he isn't that into her, you know?"

"Shame," she mumbled. "It would've been pretty cool—your best friend with your husband's best friend. You could double date or something..."

"Well, the way things are going, that doesn't seem too likely."

# Chapter 29: Shell

As I get in bed, the first night that I'm safe in the knowledge that Imran and I are going to be engaged, the chances of Seb, Hailey, Imran, and me going on double dates reduces further. I was hoping to have a good night's sleep tonight, but I'm up most of the night thinking about Hailey's texts. The first message had come while I was changing into my pyjamas.

22:43

Hope you're happy

now. Seb just

dumped me

22:44

Oh I'm so sorry

Hailes. What

happened?

22:46

He asked me out

for a drink.

Then he dumped

me. It's what

you wanted.

You must be

pleased.

22:47

I'm not pleased

at all Hailes.

I'm sorry

if you feel

that way.

22:51

Did he tell you

why he doesn't

want to keep

seeing you?

22:57

Hailes?

23:04

He said that he

doesn't do

relationships.

But every now

and then he gets

bored and takes

girls on dates.

He said he's

sorry if he

didn't make it

clear when he

first asked me

out.

23:06

What a prick!

I'm so sorry

Hailey. You

don't deserve

to be hurt

like that.

You deserve

better than.

23:08

You didn't think

I deserved him

in the first

place! You

thought he was

out of my league.

23:09

I swear that's

not what I

thought at all.

What made you

think that?

23:13

Whatever, Shell.

Hope you have

a wonderful

life with your

secret boyfriend.

23:16

Imran's not my

boyfriend...

23:18

I really am

sorry about

Seb. I hope

you meet

someone special

soon.

23.21

Hailey? Are you

still mad at me?

23:24

Why would I be

mad at you,

Shell? You

warned me about

Seb and I

didn't listen.

Go on tell me

I told you so.

23:26

I'm not going to

tell you 'I told

you so.'

23:31

Hailey, whatever

reason you're

angry with me,

I apologise.

Forgive me.

We have a date

for the

engagement.

September 17.

23:33

Thanks for

rubbing

it in!

23:34

I wasn't rubbing

it in. I just

wanted you to be

the first person

outside our

families to know.

23:35

I'm sure Seb

knows...

23:37

He probably does

know, Hailes. I

have a right

mind to un-invite

him because of

how he's

treated you.

23:39

He's treated me

fine, thanks!

He wants us to

be friends

and I agreed.

23:41

Oh

23:45

Yes he was

nice about

it too.

23:46

Okay...

23:47

So you'll still

be friends? If

that's what you

want, then I'm

pleased for you.

But why are you

upset with me?

23:58

Is there any

point in me

inviting you

to my Chini

Paan?

23:59

You can invite

me but I can

refuse to come,

can't I?

I know the main reason Hailey's upset and angry: I'd questioned Seb's intentions when she told me about swapping numbers with him, and she's probably come to realise—or Seb made it obvious one way or another—that I was right.

He was taking her out just to annoy me.

And now he's dumped her and she's taking it out on me...

I can't imagine my engagement—my wedding—without Hailey being a part of it. She's my best friend. And she's in pain, but I don't know how to make things better for her. She won't let me, anyway.

Then, there's the part of me that's convinced I'm to blame for this. Partly. If it wasn't for me, Hailey and Seb wouldn't have met until the Chini Paan.

But it is interesting what he said about why he didn't want to see Hailey anymore. He doesn't do relationships. But he occasionally dates, to combat boredom. Maybe he was trying to make her really angry? Yet, he'd been charming enough to make her want to remain friends with him...

Of all the things he could've said to her—I'm not ready for commitment and don't want to lead you on; I just came out of a messy break-up and I'm not ready for a real relationship yet; It's not you, it's me—he said he doesn't enter relationships at all.

Interesting, indeed.

# Chapter 30: Imran

The house has been chaos this week. Seb's revelations about Shell's cousin and his attempts to sabotage our wedding understandably caused quite a commotion. They're still talking about it now, even though everything's all sorted.

I was so relieved and glad that it was Seb doing all the answering of confused questions, repeating himself over and over before suggesting how best to clear the air with Shell's family. Then, when Shell's mum spoke to my mum on Wednesday and suggested the date for the engagement party, it was pandemonium, too.

Yes, three-and-a-half weeks is enough notice for our relatives, but did that leave us enough time to get ready for the party? There's all the shopping to do—for the bride, for my family, for me—and of course, Shell needs to pick the engagement ring.

Bhai gave his wife a diamond platinum ring on their Chini Paan—recently, it's become all the rage in our culture to give your bride-to-be a diamond ring on her engagement day. Whether the diamond is set on a band of gold, silver, or platinum is determined by the budget of the groom and his family. My brother has a rather prosperous property development business and so he didn't shy away from platinum. My income isn't in the same region as his yet, but I can afford a platinum ring topped with a diamond for Shell.

I want to.

If I didn't want to, I'd still have to fork out for one because my mum insisted that her youngest daughter-in-law should get a ring like the one her eldest daughter-in-law received on her Chini Paan. My dad agreed, though he did add that Shell's ring should not be more expensive than Bhabi's one, just so she doesn't feel offended.

I really don't know if Bhabi will be annoyed if Shell's ring is more expensive, but women can be unpredictable creatures sometimes, so I've decided it's better to set the budget for Shell's ring to be within the £2,500 region. The same amount Bhai parted with for his wife's engagement ring.

When Shell's family were made aware of our intentions, they said that they will get a ring for me, too. Not necessary, of course, but I guess they want to go the extra mile after what Tariq's done...

The thing about the Chini Paan shopping, though, is that it's traditionally done with your closest relatives. Aunts, uncles, cousins—anyone that takes you with them when they shop for their sons' Chini Paans plus anyone who you feel ought to be there—have to be invited to tag along. And if they agree, then you have to make sure they're free on the days you plan to go shopping for the bride-to-be.

This Saturday is of course, too short notice for anyone. Besides, Bhai has to go out of town for the weekend on business, so it's out of the question to do any shopping for the bride this weekend. My parents will invite all the relevant people and hope to settle on a date when everyone can go shopping together. It might not end up being on a weekend, but an evening instead. We'll see how things go.

The only problem is the rings. If Shell and I choose a ring that has to be made-to-measure, we might not get them in time. We must order them soon. Well, by the end of this weekend, really.

To save us some trouble, I'm going to be looking online for my ring—Ernest Jones or H. Samuel will do for me; at the end of the day, this is a ring that I'm not supposed to get in the first place—and I'll pick one that's definitely available in my size. Then, we'll let Shell's family know so that they can buy it.

But I want Shell to pick the ring she likes best and have enough time to have it made-to-measure if needed. Everyone at home agrees that the sooner she picks her ring, the better. Plus, seen as the ring will be chosen by the bride-to-be, none of my family or relatives needs to be present when that ring is bought.

So, the plan is this:

Shell will pop down to Green Street on Saturday to pick out a ring. There's a jeweller there that always gives us a good discount because we shop there a lot—Bhai got Bhabi's ring from there—so Amma will politely suggest that Shell checks out that shop first. If the chosen ring fits, then we'll buy it, else we'll order one in her size and ask them to have it made as soon as possible.

Of course, someone from our side has to be there. Shell could ask the jewellers to set her chosen ring aside, give them our details, and we could drop by the shop later to sort out the payment, but we've heard stories about the shop assistants getting confused and selling the wrong ring to the groom's side. It's best if everything's sorted while Shell is at the store.

Since it would be highly unorthodox for Shell to go ring shopping with someone in our family, not to mention how shy she'd feel, and what people would say if they heard that she was hanging out with her future in-laws before the Chini Paan, Apa suggested that Seb could accompany Shell to the jewellers. After all, they sort of knew each other. Amma thought it made sense, trusted Seb to get this done. We all trusted him. No one in our extended family—or in Shell's—would know exactly how the ring was bought. Our relatives would be told that Shell had it set aside and we picked it up later.

All that's left now is for me to ask Seb to do the honours. It's pretty late but I don't think Seb's fallen asleep yet, so I give him a call. He picks up after just one ring; he must've been doing something on his phone.

"Hey, man, what's up?" he says.

"Hi, how's it going? How was your day?"

"You know, same old same old," he replies before yawning. Okay, so he was getting sleepy...

"I can tell you're tired," I say. "And it's a workday tomorrow, so I'll keep it brief."

"Don't worry about it," he assures me. "Take your time. What's up?"

I explain about the rings. Seb doesn't say anything.

"You'd be really helping us out. Unless you're busy on Saturday?"

"This Saturday?" he queries.

"Yes, the day after tomorrow. Are you free?"

A short pause and then:

"I'm free but..."

"What?"

He sounds sheepish as he says, "I'm not sure Shell will be particularly thrilled with my being there..."

"Why?" I ask, bewildered.

"I may have dumped her best friend yesterday..."

"Her best friend... Hailey? You dumped her where exactly?"

He chuckles without humour. "I dumped her as in I told her I don't want to see her anymore and want to be friends."

Long pause on my end.

I shake my head, confused, even though he can't see it. Soon, all the questions in my head are thrown down the phone line. "You've been seeing Shell's best friend? Since when? How come you didn't say anything? Why did you dump her? What's going on, Seb?"

"Nothing," he insists. "Well, not anymore." He sighs. "I took her out a couple of times," he explains slowly. "Then, dumped her on the third date. It wasn't working out..."

"Hmm."

"I'm sure Hailey's told Shell and..."

"Okay," I breathe. "I need to think. Hmm. Amma's going to call Shell's mum tomorrow and suggest this plan. They're likely to agree to anything we say at this point because they're so embarrassed about the Tariq situation... If you don't do it—"

"I'll do it," he blurts out. "If you and Khala need me to do this, I will. It's just that it might not be ideal for Shell... Sorry, man."

"No, it's not your fault," I tell him. "Not really. You can't help it if it didn't work out with a girl, or if she's Shell's friend.... And we need to get the rings sorted pretty soon..."

"We'll get it sorted," he assures me. "I'm sure Shell will go along with this, she just won't be particularly nice to me."

"Then, you'll have to be extra nice to her, Seb," I tell him. "And to Hailey," I add. "If she's Shell's best friend, then she's probably a great girl, so if you've mentioned being friends with her, stay true to it."

He laughs for a few seconds. "Imran, you do know that the 'lets still be friends' line is just something everyone says but never stays true to?" He chuckles some more. "It's a line that was invented to be said and not acted on."

"Well, you'll act on it, Seb," I say in a strict tone. "For my sake, you'll try to smooth things out with Hailey."

"Your sake?" he asks in a dubious tone.

"I want you and Shell to get along," I stress. "Both before and after we're married. Which means being nice and gentlemanly to her friends and family. You guys can't be at each other's throats. I don't want to be the kind of guy that has to cut away from his friends because of his wife.

"And I don't want my wife to lose her friends because of me or my friends." I puff out a breath. "I wish you'd told me you planned to date Hailey," I go on when Seb keeps quiet. "That way, I'd have asked you to leave her alone. To avoid this."

"Sorry, man," he says quietly. I think he means it. "Okay. I'll text Hailey and ask her if she wants to do something tomorrow night after work. The guys from my office always go for drinks. I'll ask her to join us."

"She probably won't agree," I mumble. "But it's a good idea. Thanks."

"Only for you, Imran," he says with a deep sigh. "Only coz you asked me."

# Chapter 31: Shell

I wake with a start on Saturday morning. And the first thing that pops into my brain is this thought:

Ring shopping.

With Seb Lowe.

Today.

Fab.

Moaning, I scramble out of bed and stumble my way to the bathroom, not looking forward to meeting the heartbreaker slash friendship wrecker.

Damn. The bathroom's not free.

"I'm nearly done!" calls out Shayla from the other side of the bathroom door.

"You're up early!" I call back.

"Course, I am," she replies and opens the door. "It's Chini Paan shopping day. Yay!"

She and Bhabi are accompanying me to Green Street—they need to buy something to wear to the engagement party.

Shaking my head at Shayla, I lock myself in the bathroom. Apparently, the girls have been discussing what they'd like to wear to my Chini Paan behind my back:

Saris, which are basically like sarongs that women wrap around the lower half of their body a couple of times before pulling it up to cover the torso and throw it over the shoulder. I'm not a fan of the sari, but it is typical of girls my age to wear them to weddings and engagements. I'm pretty sure I'll be in a sari on my Chini Paan...

The other thing my sister and sister-in-law have decided on is the colour they want to wear on the night: Navy, with gold embroidery. Navy with gold is really in at the moment. Almost all the shops in Green Street had navy dresses and saris in their window displays this summer. They just need to choose the right sari and get matching jewellery to go with it. Shayla and Bhabi will probably get themselves some shoes to boot.

The other thing they'll be on the lookout for, and purchase if they find something that's just right, is what to wear on the day of my mehndhi and possibly on the wedding day. The mehndhi is a pre-wedding celebration during which the bride and groom-to-be wear henna on their hands and have a party to go with it. Traditionally, it used to take place on the day before the wedding, but this event has become so huge these days that some people have it a week before the wedding, so it can be properly arranged and enjoyed. Mine will probably be a couple of days before the wedding, the date of which is being discussed by the elders of the family via phone...

Once I've showered and dried my hair, I dress in a jade-green dress dotted with little purple flowers. I pair it with a purple cardigan, black leggings, and my flat ankle boots made from purple suede. When I'm downstairs, Bhabi's already dressed in her light blue maxi dress and royal blue cardigan, ready to leave as soon as Shayla's down.

"Eat up," she says as she pushes some toast and a cup of tea across the counter towards me. "We have a big, long day today, especially if we start looking for what to wear at the wedding..."

Yes, it'll be a long day, that's why we're leaving so early in the morning. Time does fly when you're shopping for party clothes...

"Thanks for making my breakfast, Bhabi," I tell her.

"Welcome," she says with a smile. It's pretty cool that we're interacting with each other a lot more than usual these days. I guess weddings do bring families together...

Shayla joins us in the kitchen after I've chewed down a slice of toast. I give her the other slice and she rolls her eyes at the fact that I've not buttered my toast or even peanut-buttered it. I make her a cup of tea as she smears on a thick layer of chocolate-hazelnut spread on her toast and downs it in four bites.

"Someone's in a hurry to go shopping," I tease her as I wipe some chocolate from the corner of her mouth with my thumb. "Normally, you're not up before noon on weekends. Today, you're ready to leave by ten on the dot."

"Course, I'm in a hurry," she says as she takes two big gulps of her tea. "We have lots to do. The most exciting part being the picking of your engagement ring!" She beams when I blush and rush out of the kitchen.

Yes, picking the ring.

With Seb Lowe.

The part I'm least excited about.

It's around half-eleven, Shayla and Bhabi carrying the bags with the identical navy and gold saris they've bought for the engagement party when my phone vibrates with a text message. Seb.

Morning!

Where r u?

I reply telling him the name of the clothes shop we're in, one where Shayla thinks she's found the dress she'd like to wear on the wedding day. We're waiting to have her measurements taken so she can have it custom-made for her in the colour that she and Bhabi have just decided they want to wear on the day: Jade-green with silver embroidery and clear crystals. That spur of the moment decision was sparked by Bhabi seeing a jade-green sari with silver-wire embroidery and Swarovski crystals and falling in love with it and wanting to wear it at my wedding.

Two minutes later, Seb enters the shop and comes up to us. "Morning ladies," he says with a huge grin on his face. He's wearing a light green short-sleeved shirt and dark blue jeans.

"Hi Seb," Bhabi says with a smile. "It's so nice to see you again. How are you?"

"I'm great, thanks. Yourself?"

"I'm very well, thank you." Then she turns to Shayla and says, "You remember Shayla, our little sister?"

Seb nods. "Alright, Shayla?" he says with a grin.

My sister and I frown in unison—he pronounced Shayla's name correctly and she couldn't give him the "rhymes with TYLER, not TAYLOR" speech. Oh well.

"So, who's ready to go pick out a ring?" he asks, shifting his gaze from Shayla to Bhabi and then to me.

"I was actually in the middle of..." Shayla trails off without explaining that she's waiting for one of the shop assistants to come take her measurements.

"Shayla's going to have an outfit tailor-made for her," I tell Seb. "For the wedding day. We're waiting to discuss the order..."

"And do all three of you need to be present for this?" he asks in a casual tone. "If not, Shell and I can go down to the jewellers and start looking at rings. Bhabi and Shayla can join us once everything's sorted here."

"That makes sense," says Bhabi. She turns to me. "There's no reason for you to wait here doing nothing. Go look at rings. We'll come and help you out—"

"Or give our opinions on one you may have chosen already," Shayla chips in, "when we're done here. Go, it's fine."

And my sister and sister-in-law push me out of the shop to go look at rings with Seb. Without them. Fab.

"So," Seb says once we're out on the street, heading for the famous jewellers, "how were things at home after the...?"

I just shrug and keep walking. "Are you okay, Shell?" He sounds a little... concerned. "Have your family been... difficult?"

I burst out laughing.

"What?" he asks, confused.

"You're worried about how my parents have been treating me?" I ask incredulously. "You? After the way you've treated Hailey..." I shake my head disapprovingly.

"Ah. So, that's why you're acting off with me." He shakes his head. I shake my head. "Look," he says as we arrive outside the jewellers. We don't enter just yet. Seb has explaining to do. "I spoke to Hailey yesterday," he informs me, "and we're friends now. I even invited her to drinks with the people from my office. She declined but... I'll keep trying till she thinks that I really do want to be friends with her."

"But you actually don't?"

"Honestly? No. Sorry." He doesn't sound apologetic in the slightest. "There was something about her on our first date that didn't... sit well with me. So, I don't want to be friends with someone like that. But I'll pretend—"

"Why?"

"Because Imran asked me to."

"And you do whatever he asks of you?" I ask with a challenge.

"Yes," he replies without hesitation.

I open my mouth to ask why he wants to wreck things for us, against Imran's wishes, but he cuts me off, probably knowing what I was planning to say.

"If within my capacity."

He opens the door to the jewellery shop and gestures for me to enter. He follows me inside and leads me up the stairs to the first floor, where all the diamond-based jewellery is.

"So, what was it about her on your first date?" I wonder aloud as we walk around the massive room glittering with diamonds and silver and white gold and platinum. "What did Hailey do to put you off?"

Seb drops his voice to a whisper as he replies, "I'm ashamed to say, I wasn't mad about her when I asked her out."

"I knew it!" He asked her out just to annoy me! "So, you dumped her," I say quietly. "But why don't you even want to be friends with her? What did she do?"

"It's probably best that I don't say..."

"I won't tell her, if that's—"

"It's not her I'm worried about." He said those words while looking at me with something like pity in his eyes...

"Me? You're worried about me? I don't get it..."

"I won't tell you, Shell," he insists in a strict voice. "It'll only hurt you."

My mouth pops open. "Did Hailey say something about me?" I blurt out. "Something bad?"

He shakes his head no.

"Then?"

He goes and leans on the securely locked glass cabinets housing some engagement rings.

I join him. "Seb?"

"Let's just say I believe that best friends should always have each other's backs," he half-whispers. "And I didn't get the feeling that Hailey had yours. I'm sorry." He straightens up and gives me another pitiful look.

I avert his gaze. "Don't worry about it," I say. "She's stopped talking to me because of you."

He looks surprised. "Because I dumped her?"

No, before that. What I tell him is, "She blames me for you breaking up with her." I sigh. "She's hurting and it's partly my fault. If it weren't for me, the two of you wouldn't have met yet..."

"If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have taken her on the second and third date," he tells me, sounding a little angry. At me or Hailey? "But my dumping her had everything to do with her. No one else. So, don't blame yourself for any of this, okay?" He gives me an encouraging smile.

I don't return it.

"Shell, please," he urges me. "You did nothing wrong. You were a good friend to her, the way you stuck up for her when I spoke of not wanting to see her again. If Hailey had stuck up for you with half as much tenacity and loyalty, then I probably wouldn't have dumped her so soon, and I definitely wouldn't hate myself for pretending to be friends with her."

"If that was supposed to make me feel better... it didn't." I shake my head.

"The truth sometimes hurts, Shell," he tells me as though I don't know this. "But it is what it is. Now, stop looking like you've lost your best friend and start looking at rings!"

"That's the thing, though. I think I have lost my best friend."

Because of you...

# Chapter 32: Shell

A shop assistant joins us upstairs and I have no choice but to focus on the task at hand. Choosing my engagement ring under the supervision of the man who's the reason a great wedge has been driven between me and my best friend.

There's something very wrong with that.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" asks the assistant. She's in a loose-fitting black trouser suit and has shoulder-length black hair with light brown highlights.

"Yes, we are," booms Seb. "A diamond engagement ring, please. In platinum."

I whip my head around to Seb standing beside me. "Platinum?" I ask with a gasp. "Really?"

"Of course," he tells me with a grin. "Was there any doubt?"

"Well, I didn't know what to think, really..."

"Only the best will do for you, Shell." He gives me a wink and I roll my eyes. He turns to the assistant and says, "Show us your finest."

The Indian woman smiles politely and starts taking out velvet padded trays of rings, all in platinum, all with sparkling diamonds.

"Are you sure about the platinum?" I hiss at Seb. I can't be sure if he's messing with me.

But he says, "Yes" and nods solemnly, seeing that I'm finding it hard to believe.

"Platinum doesn't come cheap, you know," I mumble.

"No," he agrees. "So, if you pick anything that exceeds the budget, you ain't getting it." He sounded cheeky. I roll my eyes.

The shop assistant smiles indulgently before asking, "And your budget is?"

Seb chuckles. "Nice try, but I'm not telling you my budget," he tells her. "But this isn't the first time I've been to your establishment and I expect you to give me a good price."

"Of course," she says. "If you told me your budget, I could show you what's best in your price range."

"And restrict Shell in terms of design? I don't think so." He shakes his head, amused.

"Okay," agrees the assistant.

"Only Shell gets to see the budget," he says and takes out his iPhone. He goes into the calculator App and presses a few numbers. My eyes widen. The budget is £2,500! "Happy?" he asks me with a crooked smile.

"I didn't know what to expect," I mumble. "So... I'm impressed."

"Like I said, only the best will do..." He turns to the rings the assistant has laid out for us to see and I ask myself if there's anything I like.

"It's really hard to choose..."

The assistant laughs. "It can be a bit overwhelming," she says in a soothing voice. "Do you know what cut you want? Princess cut? Round cut...?"

"I really don't know..."

"Take your time, Shell," Seb tells me in a strict teacher voice. "Shayla and Bhabi aren't here yet, so you have plenty of time to choose."

I nod.

As I look from ring to ring, the assistant asks, "So, when did you propose to her?"

My head snaps up and I see her eyes are fixed on Seb. Did she just ask Seb when he proposed to me? I shift my gaze to Seb's face and he has a small, amused smile on his lips. He keeps mum.

"Oh, we're not engaged," I inform her.

She nods and says, "Oh, but you will be soon. After you've bought the ring?"

"No, no," I say in a rush. "We're not... Seb and I aren't... I'm getting married to his friend. Imran. Imran Khan. Seb's just here to pay for the ring on Imran's behalf. Because it would be a scandal if Imran and I came here together... Seb and I don't even like each other. Like at all. In fact, he doesn't even approve of me. Isn't that right, Seb?"

He chuckles and nods his head. "Something like that," he says to the shop assistant.

Her eyes are narrowed. Then, when neither Seb nor I burst out laughing to tell her that we're just pulling her leg, she realises we're telling her the truth.

She looks embarrassed now. "Oh, I see," she mumbles. "It's just the way the two of you were talking... the chemistry..." She turns to me and adds, "The way he kept saying how only the best will do for you... I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed. You carry on looking and I'll be back in a few moments to see how you're doing. Sorry again for misunderstanding."

Locking all the rings back inside the glass cabinets, she hurries to the stairs and heads downstairs.

"Well, that was awkward," I comment, eyes on the rings on the top shelf of the cabinets.

Seb just responds with, "Uh-huh."

"So," I begin after a minute of silence, "have you ever come close...?"

"To so much platinum-based jewellery?" His tone is off, though.

I roll my eyes and straighten up to face him. "No. To marriage or engagements."

"I've been to a few weddings and engagements, yes." Tone still off.

"You know what I mean," I say in a teasing tone. "Have you been close to getting married or popping the question?"

Seb's face clouds over, with what I can't be sure. "I don't talk about that," he says in a stone-hard voice. His expression is becoming decipherable now. Cold. Closed off. Defensive.

"You don't talk about marriage or engagements?" I probe, raising an eyebrow.

"No."

"You talk about mine all the time," I scoff.

"And you know that I don't talk about mine, at all." He still sounds hard-toned.

"Your marriages and engagements?" I ask, feigning innocence.

He says nothing. Narrows his eyes at me.

"Don't look at me like that," I tell him. "I'm not scared of you. And I get what you're saying. You don't like to talk about your... relationships."

"That's right, I don't."

"You've talked to me about my relationships enough times that I have a right to ask you about yours," I insist.

"Right again," he snaps. "And you've asserted your right and asked me. It's my right if I don't want to talk about it and I am firmly asserting that right."

"Fine," I say with a shrug. I run my hand along the top of the display cabinets as I start walking away from him.

Although I said I'm not afraid of him, I remember how he made me shiver when he was threatening Tariq and I don't think I'd handle it well if he used a threatening voice on me. But I don't think I'll be able to hold my tongue for long, not with all the questions spiralling around in my head. His reaction to my question about relationships was unexpected. I thought he'd laugh it off. Or say something really arrogant or obnoxious. Like how no girl has ever met his high standards. Or how women can't handle him.

However, he'd gone rigid and on the defensive, as though I'd touched a nerve...

As though he's been really hurt by a lover and now the thought of talking about past relationships is too difficult that he has to cut that conversation off before it even starts. Yes, he's interfered in my personal affairs too much that my lips are itching to grill him on what happened. Or grill him on why he won't open up. Yet, I don't have the guts to do this until I've reached the other end of the square room, a safe distance away from him. He's still standing where I'd left him.

"I have a theory," I say as confidently as I can. "Just like you have your theory of love. Can I share mine with you?"

He doesn't answer straight away. "You have a theory on love, now?" he asks eventually, uninterested. "Whatever next!" He rolls his eyes, unimpressed.

"No," I tell him. "A theory on... Seb." His eyes narrow in my direction but he chooses not to speak. "And why he won't talk about his relationships..."

"Seen as I'm Seb," he says in a tight voice, "and I know why I don't talk about my relationships, I don't think I care for you to share your theory on that. Since I already know the truth, why would I want to—"

"Maybe I've figured out the truth, too?" I say with a challenge in my tone.

"I highly doubt that," he scoffs and turns his back to me. He leans on the counter, supposedly checking out the engagement rings.

"I think she hurt you," I say, my voice dropping for some reason.

Seb's entire frame stiffens.

"Hurt you a lot."

Now he straightens up again. Stays quiet. Still with his back to me.

"The girl you loved more than anything," I continue in a low voice. "Perhaps your first real love... She hurt you pretty bad, didn't she?"

No response.

I take a few steps towards him, asking, "What happened, Seb?"

"Choose a ring, Shell," he says in a firm voice, turning slowly to face me. "Because we're done with that question."

"Did she cheat on you?"

"I said we're done with that question." Firm voice again. His jaws are locked tight.

Another few steps forward and I'm just an arm's length away from him. Close enough to see the hurt in his eyes. A deep hurt. And also fear.

"Is that why you don't do relationships?" I ask in a soft voice. "Because you're scared of getting hurt again?"

"You have no idea..." He shakes his head. Smiles without humour.

"Then, tell me," I plead.

"Why?"

"Coz I'd like to know." I need to know. The look in his eyes... it makes me feel so sad and strangely protective of him all of a sudden. No one deserves to feel the kind of pain that Seb seems to be in now...

"Why?" he demands.

"Please, Seb?" I beg. "What did she do that's made you so scared?"

"I'm not scared," he scoffs.

I sigh. "She's not worth it, Seb," I almost whisper. "She's not worth you closing yourself off from love and relationships. Don't let her win."

To my surprise, he starts laughing. I gape.

When he calms down, he says, "Just so you don't lose sleep over this, I'll tell you that you're way off. Way off."

"Okay... so what am I missing?"

He gives me a look that says, As if I'd tell you! But I wait and wait and plead and beg with my eyes for him to tell me. Seb sighs, annoyed, and then opens his mouth to speak.

"Have you ever considered the notion that maybe there's something about me that will... repel any woman that gets close to me?"

I crease my forehead, thinking.

"Maybe that's why I don't do relationships... because I don't want them to see... the real me?"

I shake my head. "I don't believe that Imran would be friends with someone like that..." I shake my head again.

Seb steps right up to me. "I have scars, Shell," he tells me in a loud whisper. "Scars that even Imran doesn't know about..."

Instinctively, I look him over. He seems perfectly fine. "Scars?" I gasp, throat suddenly dry. "Like ugly birthmarks or something?"

"Scars like burns," he replies, eyes locked on mine.

My heart squeezes. "Were you in a fire?" I wonder out loud in a cracked voice, cracking most when I say you and fire.

He breathes through his nose, mouth shut. Not letting the sarcastic laugh out. "There are other ways to burn, Shell." He rolls his eyes, like I'm so naïve...

Normally that eye-roll of his, the insinuation behind it, would make my blood simmer in rage, but now I just want to make sense of him. Of what he's saying. What he's been through. I appraise his entire frame again. Nothing seems amiss. I've seen his bare legs—they were fine, too.

"I don't see any burns..."

"No, and you're not meant to. No one is." He swallows and I think he swallows down the pain and hurt and regret.

I feel like rubbing his back like my mum rubs mine when I'm upset and need comforting.

"You can't live like that, Seb," I tell him, my voice urgent. "The right woman—the woman that truly loves you—won't care about any burns or scars."

He shakes his head at me. His eyes are saying, Oh you're so innocent, Shell. "Let me ask you this," he says in a forced calm voice. "On your wedding night... when you first see Imran... when you really see him... see all of him... if a large part of him was..."

He swallows.

He looks sick.

Disgusted. Horrified.

"If a large part of his body looked like... if it was all..." He takes a deep breath.

I just stare at him, shocked.

"Wouldn't you be disgusted?" he asks in a hollow voice.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

"Wouldn't you wish you'd never met him?"

"No," I reply.

"What would you say to him, when you saw...?"

It takes me five seconds to speak, and that was just trying to find the right words to express my feelings "I'd tell him that I don't care—"

He laughs in disbelief.

"And that he's beautiful on the outside, just like he is on the inside. The inside is what matters. To me, anyway."

He arches an eyebrow like he wants to ask, Oh, really? in a sceptical tone.

"You're still beautiful, Seb," I find myself saying.

Eyes widening at my words, Seb's mouth pops open. I think it was a gasp?

"We're all beautiful," I say with urgency. "Every single one of us. You're still beautiful, Seb, burns and all."

# Chapter 33: Seb

I told Hailey about the... hit-and-run because I wanted her to get an idea of what it meant to be a best friend and stay loyal to them. I'd been unimpressed with how she didn't seem to have Shell's back and I felt like making her feel bad and guilty over it. Fine. That made sense. But why did I tell Shell about...? What had gotten into me? Was it simply that she seemed so desperate to know? Seemed to care about why I was the way I was?

Yes, she'd looked really curious, but underneath all that, I daresay she seemed to care about why I was hurting. Like it hurt her, too...

I was probably imagining it!

At any rate, I shouldn't have let my guard down like that. I shouldn't have told her anything. Something that even Imran—

My thoughts are brought to a halt as the waiter brings our food—samosas, pakoras, mint sauce, and chilli sauce. The girls and I are at a modest eatery on Green Street. Modest in terms of the decor, not the food. The food here is amazing. It's always packed in here, the display outside the restaurant drawing in shoppers from the busy street with the pungent smell of fried spices and crispy batter, smoking hot tandoori chicken and sizzling lamb sheikh kebabs.

After Shell picked a ring—with the help of her sisters when they joined us not too long after Shell told me I was beautiful, burns and all—and I'd paid for it seen as it was a perfect fit—it was under budget at £2,299 and I'd got it knocked down by a couple hundred quid after that—I asked the girls to have lunch with me. Shell's Bhabi suggested we get some snacks instead and then we'd eat at their house once they were done shopping.

"Thanks for the invite, Bhabi," I said to her. "But you don't honestly expect me to stick around while you salivate over saris and salwar kameezes, do you?"

"But—"

"Have lunch with me," I said, cutting her off. "Then, I can escape the shopping and you girls can get on with deciding whether you prefer gold embroidery or silver."

"But my mother-in-law will be so disappointed if you don't come and eat at ours," Bhabi protested. "She's been cooking since fajr."

Fajr is the name given to the Morning Prayer—the first of the five prayers that all Muslims are required to partake in. It has to be observed before sunrise. So, whereas I'd say "my mum's been up cooking since the break of dawn", a Muslim's equivalent might be "cooking since fajr."

"Really," Shell said to my surprise. "You have to come back to our house and eat." Her voice was soft, yet there was a determined expression on her face. She seemed to mean it when she added, "If you're hungry now, we can have some snacks, but you have to have a meal at our house today."

I smiled at her warmly. "That's very generous, really. But I can't be asked to tag along on your shopping trip." I made it clear I was joking and they all laughed.

Then, Shayla said, "I guess it is unfair of us to ask you to hang around until we're done shopping..."

"Shayla!" Bhabi scolded her.

I chuckled and said, "Finally, someone who sees my point of view!" When I grinned at her, Shayla didn't return it. What was her deal? Then, I remembered she'd been watching me with an odd expression on her face ever since I turned up in Green Street... Hmm...

"So, we really can't convince you to come to ours?" Bhabi had asked.

"Not today, but thank you," I told her, bowing my head at her graciously. "But please let me take you all for lunch."

Shell shook her head. "Thanks but we don't eat this early..."

"I'm not hungry, either," Shayla added curtly.

"Why don't you have lunch," Bhabi suggested, "and we'll join you for some snacks."

And so we made our way to this popular restaurant and ordered some starters to share. I didn't order a main because I wasn't all that hungry, either. Talk of scars and burns had dampened my appetite.

"So, I see you ladies have already got some shopping bags to your name," I say as we dig into the oil-fried snacks. I eye the bags that occupy the seat next to me, Shell sitting in the seat next to that with Bhabi opposite me and Shayla next to her, opposite the bags. "What gems have you found?"

Bhabi explains that they've bought their Chini Paan attire, that she's been impulsive and bought the sari she'll wear to Shell's wedding, and reminds me that Shayla's having a dress custom-made in the same colour. "The other bags contain jewellery and shoes for the engagement party," she concludes. "We saw them on the way to the jewellers and couldn't resist buying them straight away." That's why it took them a while to join us at the jewellers.

"Did you see anything you might consider for the mehndhi?" Shell asks them and they shake their head sadly.

"That's what we'll be on the look-out for now," Bhabi says excitedly. Women and shopping!

"What will you wear, Seb?" Shayla suddenly asks me. "To the mehndhi or the wedding?" Her tone is almost accusing... Has Shell confided in her teenage sister about my thoughts on her compatibility with Imran?

I whip my head around to give Shell a questioning look. She shrugs. It's clear that she's noted the mild hostility in Shayla's tone and demeanour, but obviously has no idea about its cause. "Err... I guess I'll wear what the other guys wear," I tell Shayla with a shrug.

"Like a sherwani?" she probes.

A sherwani is almost like the male version of a salwar kameez—a knee-length straight-cut top piece with matching trousers.

"I guess..." I'm not uncertain about my attire, it's just Shayla's behaviour is making me a little uncomfortable. It's reminiscent of Reha's recent attitude towards me.

Reha! Had Imran's little sister said anything about me and my antics to Shayla when Shell's family visited Imran's? Maybe...

" _I've worn sherwanis before," I tell the table with a shrug. I have—to the weddings of Imran's cousins and relatives. "I look good in them." I do. I wink at Shayla. She rolls her eyes at me._

Bhabi giggles and says, "I'm sure you do, Seb. I look forward to seeing you in traditional Asian attire."

At least I've charmed one of the ladies at the table.

"Hailey? Hi!"

"Seb?"

"The one and only. So, I missed you at the drinks last night."

"Course, you did." Her tone makes clear she's rolling her eyes at me at the other end of the phone line.

"It's true," I lie again. "I was hoping you'd make it."

"Why?"

"So, we could hang out."

"Seb, it's sweet of you to be so nice," she says in a polite tone. "But we're not going out anymore, I get it. I don't need you to pester me with invites to drinks and then follow-up via phone call when I skip it. 'Let's still be friends' is a line I've used myself and I know what it means."

"Sometimes it means the guy really does want to be friends," I insist. Another lie. I'm only calling her because of Shell and Imran, mainly Shell. She looked so upset over her falling out with Hailey.

"Sure it does, Seb."

"Well, I mean it," I insist. "Listen, Hailey... I wasn't completely honest with you the other day. About why I didn't want to..."

"Uh-huh."

"The main reason I didn't think we'd be a good match is because you and I have different principles."

"Such as?"

"Well, on our first date, I got the feeling that you had different ideas about friendship and loyalty, something that is very important to me."

"What do you mean?" she demands, sounding a little offended.

"I value friendship and loyalty to friends—"

"So do I!" she snaps.

"When you didn't seem all that sympathetic about what I was doing with regards Shell and Imran," I say in a calm voice, "I saw that you were... Let's just say, I didn't think I could be serious about someone who didn't have her best friend's back."

Silence.

"I didn't want to mention this as I thought it'd offend and upset you."

Silence.

"I'm sorry, Hailey."

"No, it's okay. But why did you ask me out the second time?"

"Because of Shell—"

"Shell?"

"Yeah. She convinced me to give you another shot when I mentioned I wasn't going to take things further..."

"Really?"

"She said you were a great girl and that I wouldn't regret taking you out again. And I didn't. We had fun in Brick Lane, didn't we?"

"I guess... So, why..."

"Why did I break up with you?" I sigh. "There was no chemistry for me, Hailey. I'm sorry. But I like you as a person, and Shell assured me that you're a good friend, so I do want us to stay friends and have fun together."

"Shell said I was a good friend?" she asks in a soft voice. "When?"

"All the time," I reply immediately. "Whenever we talk about you, she always sticks up for you and I can see why. You have been a good friend to her. She really missed you today, when she was picking her engagement ring. She said she wished you were there. Why weren't you there, by the way? Shell changed the topic when I asked..."

"She said she wished I was with her today, helping her pick her engagement ring?" Her voice is faint, hollow. I sense remorse in her tone.

"She did," I lie. But it's the right lie to tell. For the right reasons. "Listen, I gotta go now," I tell her distractedly. "I'll call you soon okay, and we'll do something?"

"Yeah, okay. Bye."

22:43

Hey Shell! I

just wanted

to say sorry

about snapping

at you today.

I was rude.

I'm sorry.

22:55

No worries.

I'm sorry that

I upset you...

Goodnight Seb.

# Chapter 34: Seb

"Okay, now that that's sorted," says Reshma, "we need to think about what colour sari to get..."

To that, Bhabi says, "I don't think we should think of a colour first."

"I agree," chips in Reha. "That way, we won't be restricted by colour when we come to choosing the sari."

We're all gathered in Imran's living room on Sunday night, the TV on but no one paying it any attention. Reshma and Bhabi are on one sofa, me and Imran on the other couch, and Reha's in her usual spot on the floor in front of the TV. When I first arrived this evening to say hey after visiting mum—she insisted I drop by for lunch and convinced me to stay the night; it's a Bank Holiday Monday tomorrow so I don't have to be in London in the morning for work—Imran was watching TV with his parents and the girls were chatting upstairs. After Bhabi heard me come in, one-by-one, the girls joined us in the lounge.

Reha was, of course, the last to make her way down the stairs. She was sulking about it, too. She sulked even more when she realised it was her day to make tea. Reha hates making tea when I'm around.

Then, with their hands wrapped around mugs of tea, the womenfolk took over the scene with clothes talk. Namely what to buy for Shell to wear at the engagement party; it's the groom that has to provide the bride with her attire and jewellery for the day. Reshma, Reha, and Bhabi had been arguing over whether to get a sari, a long-dress, or a lengha for Shell, and brought that debate downstairs.

Unfortunately, the three young women couldn't agree on what it should be, despite the change in scenery. Reshma was still rooting for a lengha, Reha for a long-dress, ball gown-style, and Bhabi thought they ought to stick to tradition and go for a sari. In the end, Khala cast the deciding vote—sari—before promptly leaving us to it and dragging Uncle upstairs with her "so the kids can talk freely".

Talk freely, like Shell had once said...

"But at the same time, we need to get something that suits her," Reha adds, sounding much older than her age. "She looked nice in dark-green the other night..."

Bhabi moved her head in a way that made it look like she was nodding and shaking it, agreeing yet disagreeing.

"Purple's a good colour for her skin tone." Surprisingly, those words were uttered by... yours truly.

All eyes fix on me, astounded. Reha frowns at me. Imran chuckles like I've made a joke—I have not.

"What?" I ask, feeling a little self-conscious about my suggestion, which honestly, I'd thought would be met with appreciation, not scepticism.

"Since when do you know anything about skin tones?" asks Reha pointedly, throwing an accusing glare at me from her position on the floor. "And what colours go with them?"

I'd have answered with the truth—I've seen Shell in purple and she looks good in that colour; it makes her look fresh and alive—but with all eyes on me, the truth feels like it'll be the wrong thing to say.

"Yeah, Seb," Reshma says in a teasing tone, "how do you know anything about skin tones?"

"From YouTube," I blurt out.

Imran laughs under his breath, knowing I'm making this up as I go.

"All the beauty channels are going on about complementing your skin tone..."

"You're telling me you watch Make-Up Geek and Zoella?" Reha asks with a disbelieving look on her face.

Zoella I'm vaguely familiar with. But Make-Up Geek? Is that a person? Still, I shrug like I'm down with all the beauty YouTubers.

"I'm a man with varied interests," I tell her matter-of-factly.

"And why do you take an interest in beauty and fashion, Seb?" Imran asks, chuckling away with his sisters.

I pretend to sniff. "I like to make sure the lady friends on my arm look trendy and enviable," I say in a superior, arrogant tone. "Which in turn makes me look trendy and enviable."

"You're sick," Reha spits with a shake of her head and storms out of the room.

"What did I say?" I ask no one in particular, but instantly feel much better about my outburst on the colour purple. The Color Purple—isn't that the name of a book or something? Or a film? Maybe both? A film adaptation of a bestselling book, perhaps? I nod to myself. Yes, that's it. A book turned into a movie!

Indeed, I am a man with varied interests...

If Imran could hear my thoughts, though, he'd ask, "Have you actually read The Color Purple? Or watched the film?" to which I'd say, "Not once" and he'd shake his head at me indulgently, smile affectionately.

"Well," says Bhabi, snapping me out of my reverie, "purple isn't a bad shout. It won't clash with what we're wearing or with what Shell's family are wearing."

"Remind me what colour they've gone with," asks Reshma.

"Navy with gold," Bhabi tells her.

"It won't clash," Reshma admits, "but is purple too similar to navy? I mean, they're both dark colours, deep colours..."

"True," agrees Bhabi. "I guess we'll just see what looks good to us on the day."

"And when are you going shopping for Shell?" I find myself asking.

"We're just waiting on a couple of people to confirm which days they can come with us," Bhabi answers, tone neutral.

Imran and Reshma roll their eyes, annoyed at the delay caused by cousins and uncles that will huff and puff if they're not involved in the Chini Paan shopping, but will ultimately have nothing to with anything that's bought on the day. Imran's family are just allowing them to be a part of it out of kindness and tradition. But these people are kind of taking the mick by not making themselves available when it's convenient for us.

"At least the rings are all taken care of," murmurs Reshma, sounding more relieved than you'd expect in this situation.

I guess those cousins and uncles are really being unnecessarily disruptive... Apparently, it's quite common for relatives to put a spanner in the works during weddings, almost a tradition. They do it out of jealousy, I've always thought, and Imran never corrected me. Probably because I'm right. Weird or what?

"Yeah, thanks again for seeing to that yesterday, Seb," Imran says to me, referring to Shell's engagement ring. "We all really appreciate it."

I laugh dismissively. "You don't need to thank me for that, man. I was honoured that Khala thought me worthy of that responsibility."

"Don't be too honoured," Reha snaps, re-entering the lounge. "You were picked to run those errands because the bride would have felt too shy to deal with anyone in our family."

"As always, Reha," I tell her with a grin, "your honesty is most refreshing."

She narrows her eyes at me before folding herself down on the floor in front of the TV again. Guess she couldn't stay away from the wedding/engagement talk for too long, even if it means having to put up with me.

"Ignore her," says Bhabi with an apologetic smile.

Then, Imran leans towards me from the other end of the couch we're sharing to say, "What Reha said, is not true. We all wanted you to handle the rings because we knew you'd get the job done without any fuss. And we're really grateful."

"Stop it, man," I tell him with a smile. "It was my pleasure, okay?"

He nods. "Just don't lose the ring," he jokes.

"I wouldn't dream of it," I joke back.

Shell's ring is tucked away in Khala's safe; the tradition of the Best Man keeping the ring hasn't filtered into Bengali culture yet.

And thank god for that!

# Chapter 35: Shell

Hey, are you

free to meet

up for a

coffee today?

Because I'm not sure if I received this text by mistake when it was meant for someone else, I respond with:

Hi Hailey.

How r you?

She answers promptly:

I've got the

Bank Holiday

Monday blues.

Because I've

been a bad

friend to you.

I don't know what to say to that so I just stare at the screen of my phone. I stare until another message pops up:

Can I make it

up to you?

Let me buy

you coffee

and cake!

A lump forms in my throat. When we were at Uni, we used to visit all sorts of cafes and coffee shops to try their coffees and discover a new favourite cake. I find myself typing:

Just like

the old

days...

Hailey replies with one word:

Exactly!

I call her number and she picks up immediately. "Hi," she says sounding a little sad.

"Hi Hailes," I say in a more cheery tone. "It's nice to hear your voice again."

"I'm sorry, Shell—"

"You don't need to buy me coffee or cake, Hailes," I tell her, cutting off her apology. "I just want us to be friends again and not... fall out again."

"But I feel so horrible about the things I said..."

"We all say things we don't mean when we're upset," I soothe. "Forget about it."

"Thanks." She sounds relieved. "But we really should meet up and catch up," she insists exuberantly. "If you're not free today..."

"I don't have plans today," I admit.

"So, we should—"

"But I feel so tired," I say with a sigh. "I think the last few weeks have caught up with me and I feel mentally tired. Can we meet and do something soon, though? I'd really like to see you."

"Of course! We should do like a pre-Chini Paan hen-do type thing," she suggests excitedly. "To get us in the mood for the real hen party before your wedding."

"I'm not going to have a hen party, Hailes," I tell her in a strict voice. "So, don't go getting any ideas."

"But we should do something—"

She cuts off abruptly and is silent for a few moments. Then, she says, "I've got it! We should do karaoke, just like the old days. In that hotel near Uni. It used to be so much fun and we haven't done it in ages!"

I did enjoy karaoke; we did it quite regularly in the first and second year of Uni.

"Look," Hailey says the next second. "A meet-up with the UCL gang is long overdue, and what better way to have a reunion and celebrate you getting engaged than to indulge in one of our favourite pastimes?"

Her enthusiasm and my delight at us being friends again make me say, "Sounds good."

"Great! I'll send an e-mail around and see what dates we can do and make the booking. I can't wait!"

"Neither can I!"

By the end of the week, Hailey gets back to me with an update:

Most of the

usual suspects

are in! The

date we've all

settled on is

Friday, 9th

September.

After work.

Can you make

that? Hxxx

I check my diary—which is to say I check the Calendar App on my iPhone to see if I have any alarms set for that evening or the day after. Nope. Nothing planned for that Friday, but it's Eid on Sunday the 11th... Eid-ul-Adha, the second Eid of the year... It shouldn't be a problem, though; we'll have all of Saturday to prepare and cook for Eid; Amma, Bhabi, Shayla, and I usually make light work of it.

September 9th

works for me!

Thanks for

arranging this

Hailes. I think

this is exactly

what I need

with all the

wedding talk

going on in

the house!

xxx

Yes, everyone's trying to cement a date for the wedding—making sure that a good venue is available on that date—and preparing for the Chini Paan and finalising what my family are providing me and what Imran's family will be giving me.

You see, the bride's family are supposed to provide all the things that their daughter would need to start a new life with her husband, as though she's moving into an empty house with him. Furniture for the living room—sofas and chairs, TV and TV stand. Furniture for the dining room or dining area. Appliances for the kitchen—fridge, cooker, washing machine, and so on, as well as the smaller appliances like a kettle, toaster, rice cooker, and more. Cutlery and crockery, too. Basically, everything you'd need to start a new life together in a new home. Even if you're moving into your husband's family home that's already kitted out with all the furniture and appliances that make it liveable. The bride's side have to provide it all.

The groom's family will buy the bride's wedding outfit, the outfit for her mehndhi, as well as a few other outfits. The most expensive thing they will give their new daughter-in-law is the gold. 22-carat gold jewellery to wear on the wedding day. And it's usually the bride's side that will demand a certain amount of gold, in weight, if the figure suggested by the groom's side isn't satisfactory. I don't like wearing a lot of gold. In fact, I hardly wear any gold these days, and I know a lot of women who have only worn their wedding jewellery once or twice after the big day. If that. It just sits in your safe, gathering metaphorical dust, and the money that's wasted on it... It's just not worth it.

So, via Shayla, I've made it abundantly clear that I don't care how much gold Imran's family will bestow upon me. If it's zero amount, I won't mind it, either. I don't think I'll ever wear it again, so why waste all that money that Imran and I could set aside for a deposit on a house or a luxurious honeymoon?

But the amount of gold a bride gets is a matter of prestige and respect and talk. Everyone asks, "Oh, much gold are they giving?" and if it seems like a small amount to the questioner, he or she will make assumptions about the bride based on that:

Maybe the groom's side aren't too keen on the bride; else they would've given a lot more gold!

Maybe the bride's flawed in some way, that's why they're not demanding too much gold for her!

The list goes on...

Therefore, my parents have to ensure that they secure enough gold on my behalf that the gossips won't have much to say. Silly, if you ask me, but tradition is something us Bengalis stick to quite religiously when it comes to weddings.

Talking about tradition, it seems that Hailey and I will be doing karaoke soon with the rest of our friends from Uni. I'm looking forward to letting my hair down.

Great! See

you next

Friday. I

can't wait.

Hxxx

I reply with practically the same message and sigh, content. I'm so glad Hailey and I friends again.

# Part Five--Secrets

# Chapter 36: Seb

Somehow, I'm the first to spot Shell as she walks towards our group. We're waiting for her outside the modest entrance of the Tavistock Hotel. She comes to a halt in the middle of the pavement when she recognises me. Surprised, indeed. She's too far away for me to see the expression on her face, but a chuckle escapes me when I see her just standing there, making no move to join us. Is she contemplating leaving before any of her friends spot her? Maybe.

But she takes too long to decide and Hailey spots her. "Shell!" cries Hailey and starts waving her over.

Shell ducks her head a little—I think she swallows—and makes her way towards us slowly but confidently. Her shoulders are squared, her chin jutting out. I can do this, says her body language. I can get through karaoke with my Uni mates and ignore the fact that Seb's there. Although she keeps her eyes on the girls as she halts in front of our group, the first person she speaks to is... you've guessed it:

Yours truly.

"What are you doing here?" she asks in a firm but polite tone. Like she's attending a work meeting, and a colleague that wasn't in the Outlook meeting invite has sat themselves down in the chair she was hoping to take.

Smiling at her, all I say is, "Hey, Shell."

Her eyes narrow slightly as she says, "Hey." Then, to the others: "Hi guys! It's so good to see you." She starts hugging the girls and waving at the guys. She throws me a look that seems to say, Well, good to see all but one of you.

Her best friend catches that look. "Yeah," says Hailey, taking Shell by the arm and turning her away from me. "Seb called earlier and I mentioned that we were doing this and he said he loves karaoke—"

"I'm sure he lives for it," Shell mumbles, casting a sideways glance my way.

I just grin at her.

"Anyway," Hailey goes on. "We needed a couple more people to make it 10 for our booking, and I asked him to join us if he wanted—"

"And of course, he wanted to join us," Shell murmurs. "He loves karaoke."

"Exactly," Hailey chuckles.

"But I hate to break it to you, Hailes," Shell says in a mock-sympathetic voice. "Seb's only one person. That makes it nine people in total. Not ten."

That's my cue to say, "Your calculations are spot-on, Shelly—"

"Please don't call me that."

"Sorry," I lie. "And so, I've brought Jam with me to make it a perfect ten." I turn to my right and point out Jam from my office. He's talking to Shell's friends. "Jam!" I call out.

He tears his eyes away from Shell's female friends to do a "what's up?" head-jut at me.

"Come meet Shell," I tell him. "The bride-to-be."

Jam nods and comes to introduce himself to Shell. When he extends his hand to shake hers, Shell just smiles and waves at him instead. Jam gets it: Shell doesn't want to touch him. He lowers his head graciously.

"Nice to meet you, Jam..." Shell says awkwardly, but it's clear she knows that's not his name.

"Yes, thanks again for coming, Jamil," Hailey says to him earnestly.

The way she pronounced his name, it sounded like she called him Jam-meal. Which is so not how his parents and relatives pronounce his name. But it is how Jam said it when Hailey commented earlier that Jam is an unusual name. I get the feeling that Shell would've said it the way it's supposed to be—Ja-mill—if I'd introduced him as Jam-meal.

Anyway, as handsome as he is, Shell doesn't look impressed by Jam. In fact, she looks a little bored as Hailey goes on to tell her, "Jam's never done karaoke before, so we'll have to initiate him."

"Should I be scared?" Jam asks, directing his question at Shell.

"No," she tells him, smiling politely. She doesn't look inclined to elaborate, and I don't know if she would have said more because one of Shell's friends rushes up to us.

I think her name is Melissa. "Guys," says the girl with curly brown hair. "It's nearly time. Let's go inside."

With that, everyone nods and makes to head for the basement of the hotel where the karaoke rooms are. The hotel is a 2-star establishment and looks more like an academic building than anything else, but the interior is pleasant enough. I'm not taking in my surroundings. I'm just following the five girls and two guys that Shell went to Uni with, as they lead me to the private room Hailey booked for a two-hour karaoke session.

Apparently, they did this all the time when they were at Uni, though I'm having a hard time picturing Shell singing along to pop songs in front of nine of her friends. I'm also trying to manoeuvre my way around to Shell's side, so I can grill her about this favourite leisure activity of hers. I finally get my chance as we enter the cosy room and everyone starts taking off their jackets and switching their phones to the silent mode.

"Karaoke, huh?" I ask Shell, one of the last people to start making her way to the leather seats. "I never would've guessed you're a karaoke girl."

She stops and turns to me. "I'd say the same about you," she says, an accusation in her tone.

"On the contrary," I state smugly. "I'm in my element here."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. They used to call me the King of Karaoke."

"In that case," Shell says, her voice loud enough that everyone stops what they're doing to look at us. "You can go first. Show us how it's done." She smiles cheekily at me.

I keep my face blank, wanting to make her think I'm nervous and shocked by her announcement.

"It will also be great for Jamil," she adds, pronouncing his name correctly and just as I thought she would, "to see the King in action on his first karaoke session." She gestures towards the stage area and says, "After you, Mr. Lowe."

When she meets my gaze again, I swallow like I'm anxious. Slowly, I make my way to the front and Shell settles into her seat next to Hailey. Her friend saved her a seat in the centre of the couch, seen as tonight is in her honour. I hope they have the song I want to do. They should. It's a classic. But I make my face as wary as possible as I scroll through the list of songs for the one I want.

Bingo! They have it.

I look out at the group. The girls look excited. The guys simply waiting and wondering what I'll sing. And Shell... Well, she looks smug and curious.

The music starts playing and I think half the group recognises it, while the other half thinks they're familiar with the tune but can't recall the name of the track just now. Shell purses her lips like she knows this song very well. Likes it, even.

Interesting. I wouldn't have thought she'd be into The Beatles. But she is, and she can't help but smile and nod along to I Am The Walrus as I try my best to ignore the original track playing on the machine and pretend that it's the version from the film Across The Universe, where Bono does an amazing cover of this most iconic Beatles song. Of course, the crowd love my performance, a lot of them throwing back the beers that they'd ordered.

By the time the song comes to an end, everyone's up on their feet, dancing and insisting that they're the Walrus, too. Even Shell rises to her feet and claps along, gently swaying to the music.

Shell doesn't get up to sing until an hour in, not that the others complain. No, they all love getting up on the stage and drunkenly belting out classics ranging from Chasing Pavements by Adele to Wannabe by the Spice Girls.

And then, Hailey officially murders Elvis Presley's Suspicious Minds. Seriously, some songs shouldn't be on karaoke machines to be wrecked like that. I guess that's when Shell thinks enough is enough and volunteers to go when Hailey's done making Elvis roll in his grave. Or she thinks everyone is drunk enough now that they won't remember her performance the next day. But Jam and I will remember... Like Shell, Jam and I have been sipping on orange and apple juice all night.

"What you gonna sing, Shell?" Hailey asks, voice way too loud in her drunkenness.

Shell smiles. "I'm thinking..."

"Sorry, I did your usual opener earlier," Hailey says, lowering her voice only slightly. That's a little better. Only a little.

"Don't worry about it," Shell assures her friend, shrugging.

I wonder what her usual song is... If Hailey's done it already, prior to Suspicious Minds, it's either Flying Without Wings by Westlife or the Bon Jovi classic Livin' On A Prayer. Westlife, most likely.

"Although," Shell adds, throwing a fake-strict look at her best friend, "karaoke doesn't feel the same for me if I can't pretend I'm Jon Bon Jovi for a song..."

So, her favourite song to kick off her karaoke night is Livin' On A Prayer?

Hmm, interesting.

"I guess I'll just have to make do with pretending to be... Taylor Swift." Cheers and applause erupt from her friends; they all love Taylor. Shell points at Hailey and everyone quietens down. "Will you come and shake it off with me, Hailes?" Shell asks, grinning and blushing.

Hailey jumps to her feet, shrieking with excitement. And the crowd goes wild as they realise which Taylor Swift song Shell and Hailey will be performing:

Shake It Off.

Surprisingly, Hailey doesn't try to hog Shell's limelight, and only buts in with the mm-hms in the verses and becomes the backing singer when Shell sings the words shake it off. The way Shell performs, her shoulders loosening with the beats, her body rocking from side-to-side in time with Hailey, the two of them leaning towards each other to sing in each other's faces, it's clear she's done this before and enjoys it. She's confident and cool and is a good singer, actually. I'm surprised. She has amazing stage presence—well, I can't keep my eyes off her, at any rate—and looks comfortable as she gets more and more into her stunning performance with each line of the song.

I'm impressed. I never would have guessed...

All the girls get on their feet and start dancing by the time Shell reaches the second verse, and then, astonishingly, when she sings the chorus for the second time, she points at me—me!—when she sings about the haters always hating. She points at her male friends—I can't remember their names—when she sings about the players, and they go along with it by looking shocked and offended by the accusation. But I think she only involved them so I wouldn't feel singled out.

Yet, I can't help but wonder if she really thinks I hate her, after everything that's happened in recent weeks... Is that the vibe she's getting from me? Because that—hate—is nowhere near what I feel about her. I mean, why would I hate her? She's a perfectly nice girl; pretty, intelligent, sweet, and not as plain and predictable as I'd initially thought. She can even be sexy when she's singing and dancing to Taylor Swift. Tonight is proof that I didn't peg her down correctly.

Nonetheless, I can't convince myself that she's right for my best friend, no matter how much she gives Taylor Swift a run for her money.

# Chapter 37: Shell

"It really isn't necessary," I insist for the second time. Seb is insisting that he walks me to the train station. I'm the only one from our group that isn't heading to the hotel bar for drinks, and apparently, it would be safer for me if I let Seb escort me to the station. "I've made my way home from this area every single day for three years," I add. "If you must know, I went to Uni here."

"Duh," he answers with a shrug. "You did your History degree at UCL."

I roll my eyes, even though I'm surprised that he remembers that detail from the night of the Bridal Viewing. We never talked about Uni or our studies since then...

"Exactly," I exclaim. "I know my way around, and the area is perfectly safe—"

"Just let him take you, Shell," Hailey says, exasperated with my stubbornness. "The sooner you accept Seb's chivalry, the sooner we get the Walrus back!"

A few cheers slur out from my friends; of course, they adored Seb, and are elated that he's going to join them at the bar after he's seen me safely inside the underground station. But then again, most of them got pretty drunk just a few songs into the karaoke, Hailey more than the rest, so their judgement of Seb is clearly clouded with intoxication.

As for Hailey's behaviour towards Seb... I know her well enough to realise that she's trying her hardest to appear unaffected by his recent rejection of her. She doesn't want him to think she's strung out over him, so she's being extra friendly towards him. Extra friendly not flirty. She's drawn a strict line there, and even in her drunken state, she hasn't crossed it and thrown herself at him or anything. I'm proud of her for it.

"Fine," I huff at Seb and start hugging the girls goodbye, saving Hailey for last. "Thanks again for arranging this, Hailes," I tell her as we hug. "It was really fun." I wave at the guys, smile, and turn towards Seb. With one arm, I gesture for him to lead the way. "After you, Mr. Lowe."

Once we're outside the private room, I realise I'm bursting to go to the bathroom. I'd been drinking just as much as the others, though mine were of the non-alcoholic variety. As were Seb's... Just like at Tariq's restaurant, Seb didn't order any alcohol today. Strange...

"I need the bathroom first," I murmur to him and stop walking to look around for the ladies. Seb follows me as I head in the direction of the bathrooms, according to the sign I've discovered. "You don't need to walk me to the ladies, Seb," I tell him. "In fact, that would be awkward."

He says nothing and I start walking super-fast towards the bathroom, not looking over my shoulder to see if Seb is coming along.

When I come out of the ladies, however, Seb is waiting for me outside. God, does he think something's going to happen to me during the walk from the toilets to the lobby where he could have waited for me? Or is he just trying to annoy me? I approach him and he looks up from his phone, slips it into his pocket. Grins wickedly. I'm reminded of my performance in the karaoke and my face flushes, knowing he's inwardly laughing at how awkward I must've looked on stage.

I had fun, though, so I don't care how it looked to Seb. He had an amused expression throughout my rendition of Shake It Off... Especially when I dared to point at him when I was singing about the haters. At times though, when I was bothered to glance his way while Hailey and I were shaking it off, Seb did seem a little impressed. By me or Hailey? I get the feeling it was me. Whenever I looked in his direction, his gaze seemed to be on me.

So, if he was impressed by me, was it because I was brave enough to let go—or go with the flow, to be honest—when I was singing or because I'd actually been entertaining? Who knows! Who cares? Certainly not I.

His performance of I Am The Walrus was pretty hilarious, though. I'm about to tell him so when Seb speaks through his smile.

"You're full of surprises, aren't you, Shelly?"

"Please don't call me that."

"Sorry." He doesn't look apologetic at all and smiles wider. "Do you really not like being called Shelly or is it because I'm calling you that?"

I'd have snapped my response if a bunch of people weren't heading our way, to go to the toilets perhaps. Lowering my voice to almost a hiss, I ask, "Why would it have anything to do with you?"

Seb shrugs. "I don't know," he says, nonchalant. "Perhaps something about me being a hater?" His eyes sparkle with amusement. He starts singing, out of tune, might I add, the line about how the haters will hate and starts to wiggle his hips about, as though the rhythm's taken over and he can't help moving to the beat.

Shaking my head, I smother my giggles with my hand, hoping to bite back the laughter. But it's no use. I drop my hand and start laughing in earnest.

Abruptly, his singing comes to a halt.

Something happened behind him, which caused Seb to bump right into me. Maybe someone bumped into him as they were walking past us to the bathroom? I would've known if I'd been paying attention to my surroundings and not chuckling away at Seb.

Perhaps they're still pressed up against him? Because Seb's firm body is still pressed up against mine.

And he's not doing anything to change it.

I can't step back because there's a wall behind me, and if I move to the side, I'd be brushing my body against his. That is something I do not want to do.

But he's not moving!

I glare at him, too uncomfortable and too angry to say anything. I realise that he's... gazing at me. Whilst wearing the strangest expression on his face... I try to meet his stare, but he isn't looking at my eyes; he's looking at a spot lower down on my face. My nose? My mouth?

Then, all of a sudden, Seb leans in and squashes his lips onto mine.

The force of it causes my head to tilt back and hit the wall behind me.

I shove him away with both hands, surprised they've found enough strength to make him stumble back a few steps.

He looks dazed.

When Seb steadies himself and looks at me, he is expressionless.

And it occurs to me that he kissed me.

Or tried to. I'd pushed him off immediately.

But his lips did meet mine...

Without my permission.

"How dare you?" I hiss through clenched teeth. My livid legs step right up to him, my eyes narrow at him in indignation. "How dare you kiss me?" I whisper-shout. I'm so mad I can't scream, my chest rising and falling rapidly. "How dare you be my first kiss?" I fume, face growing hot.

His eyes widen slightly. In surprise? Was there any doubt in his mind that I'd never been kissed?

Until now.

By him.

By Seb.

Oh God.

"It should've been Imran." I throw my hands up, not knowing what else to do with them. "On our wedding night," I continue. "How dare you ruin that for us? For me?"

Now, my legs are shaking in fury, my arms trembling in rage. I'm so incensed I could slap him. Strangle him. I want to shove him again and I do. This time, he barely moves a step back. Fab, my strength's left me. And super-fab: Seb's laughing at me quietly.

My hands itch to slap him till his cheeks are red. But I don't want to give him the satisfaction. Don't want to touch him. Or make a scene. So, I take a deep breath, ball my hands into fists, and make to leave.

It's when I'm a few paces away from him that I hear him say, "That's more like it." The sound is smug, cocky. Annoying.

I spin on the spot. "What?" I ask through clenched teeth.

"That's the fire and... feistiness I wanted to see," he says with a smirk. "Maybe you can be the opposite of Imran, after all..."

What?

He kissed me to test me?

See how I react?

See if I'm the opposite of Imran?

God, I loathe Sebastian Lowe!

He grins at my expression, which I'm sure is a mix of hatred, irritation, and incredulity. I'm more appalled by the motivation behind his actions than I am of the act itself. Why? Two reasons:

One: Accidentally acting on attraction, during a moment of weakness, however irksome, is forgivable.

Two: Forcing yourself onto a woman just to see if you can elicit an uncharacteristic reaction out of her, no matter what purpose it serves, is cruel and out of order. It's the act of a madman. A highly sadistic one.

Still grinning, Seb takes a few steps towards me, all swagger and bravado. I hold up my hand. He stops in his tracks. Half-curling my fingers into a fist, I extend my index finger to point at him.

"Stay away from me," I hiss.

Seb cocks his head to the side in a bird-like movement.

"Stay the hell away from me."

Then I storm off, satisfied that the look on his suddenly-pale face is that of hurt, surprise, and regret.

# Chapter 38: Seb

Shit.

Shit.

# Chapter 39: Shell

Do you know what

your precious Seb

did to me 2day?

Not to split us

up but to PROVE

A POINT! But he

was wrong about

me, wasn't he?!

Sighing heavily, I delete the message that I wasn't going to send Imran in the first place. Writing it down made me feel better. Dissolved some of the anger I feel towards Seb Lowe. I fall back on my bed, more annoyed with myself than at Seb. Any sensible girl would've told her soon-to-be sort-of-fiancé what lengths his best friend—likely to be best-man-at-his-wedding—was going to in order to prove we aren't a good match.

According to Seb, I am far too sensible for my own good, so why aren't I dobbing him in? Rolling onto my stomach and burying my head in my pillow, I come up with three reasons:

One: Imran knows about Seb's mission and is humouring him, and if I tell him about Seb's attempts at driving me away, Imran will probably ask me to do him a favour and indulge his best friend. For his sake.

Two: The two of them have been friends forever—Seb's a part of Imran's family—and there's a chance that my telling on Seb might drive an immovable wedge between them. I don't want to come between two best friends.

Three: A kiss is a kiss.

No matter the motivations behind it, regardless of the purpose it serves, and despite it not being reciprocated, it's still a kiss. Still another man's mouth on mine.

In our religion, any form of physical contact with someone of the opposite sex, who is not your husband/wife, brother/sister, father/mother or uncle/aunt, is strictly forbidden. That's why I don't shake hands with men. Why I didn't shake Jamil's hand at the karaoke.

And a kiss... well, it's something to be ashamed of, to regret with one's whole being. Something worthy of self-loathing and self-deprecating.

I'd feel all those things if I thought I'd invited the kiss, but I hadn't. I haven't said or done anything to Seb to make him think he could touch me in any way. Plus, it wasn't a kiss fuelled by desire or any other true emotion. He just did it assuming I wouldn't react with the fire and rage I showed, so he could say that I'm too timid, too meek, too much like Imran to be right for him.

Wait.

I flip onto my back now, breathing heavily, as a fourth reason occurs to me:

No man, especially not Imran, should have to deal with the knowledge that his bride-to-be had been kissed by his best friend just days before their engagement. No, Imran can never know that Seb kissed me today.

Never.

# Chapter 40: Seb

Taking it out of my key-ring, I stare at the shiny silver key. I've lost count of the number of years this key has been in my possession. The key to Imran's house. He had it made for me, without his family's knowledge or permission—I was too young to have a spare key to my neighbours' home—and insisted I keep it on me in case of emergencies

"You won't want me around if there's an emergency, Imran," I'd scoffed. Nonetheless, I took the key, unable to help myself.

"Not for me, silly," he'd said with a shake of his head, a roll of his friendly eyes. "For you. If you need a place to hide or to hide something important... or if you just need to see me in the middle of the night and don't want anyone to know."

I'd nodded, thinking up various reasons I might need to use my new spare key.

"For whatever," Imran continued. "You're always welcome—"

"Even if I wanted to bring a girl?" I asked, arching my eyebrows.

"Anything but that," he said in a strict tone, eyes serious. Even though he knew I was joking. "No girls, Seb. I mean it. Promise me."

"Chillax man." I rolled my eyes. "As if I'd want Reshma to hear—"

I'd stopped, flushed, rephrased. "As if I'd want Khala and everyone else to know my private business."

"You have no private business, Seb." Imran rolled his eyes.

"You sure no one will mind?" I asked, eyeing the key. It was in the palm of my hand like it is now.

Imran did something he rarely does, but should do more often because it does wonders for him: he smiled cheekily, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "No one can mind," he said, "if no one knows..."

I never told Imran, but I spent the first few months after he gave me the key, dreading that we'd be found out and that I'd have to return it, scolded by both our families for going behind their backs like this. Having this key... it made me feel like I was truly his brother, what I'd always wanted to be.

It wasn't until I was eighteen that Khala gave me a spare key to their front door—I gave that one to Imran, a spare for him in case he lost his own. I was an adult now, old enough to be trusted with ready access to her home. I guess that was the day it hit home: I was a part of Imran's family, another thing I truly wanted.

Don't get me wrong, I love my mum and dad. Love them. But I don't love our family. It's small—just me and mum, really—and it's broken and there's no way to fix it.

Fix it...

As I fist my hand around the key and ring the doorbell to Imran's house, having stood on his doorstep for a good three minutes, I wonder if I'm about to break something else that won't be easily fixed. If at all. Shaking my head, I tell myself, for the hundredth time since kissing Shell, that what I'm about to do now is the only thing that will give me a chance to repair the damage I'm about to cause.

"Seb!" Reshma says when she opens the door. Imran's elder sister, my childhood crush, has been visiting almost every evening to help plan and prepare for the Chini Paan. I think she was laughing with someone inside as she came to attend to the doorbell and she's got a wide smile on her face.

My breath still catches whenever I see her all dolled-up like this. She has always been stunning, and in this cream-coloured pure silk sari with shimmering gold embroidery, she is a sight to behold. It's the sari that Imran's female relatives that are under the age of forty will be wearing to the engagement party this Saturday. Reshma's most likely wearing it, along with Reha and Bhabi, to see how they should accessorise it, or how they should tie their hijab.

Dress rehearsal, attire-wise.

"Reshma, hey."

Any other day, I would've said something inappropriate or flirty, most likely both. It's what I started doing in my teens to hide my crush on her. I thought it was really clever. I mean, if I really fancied her, I wouldn't be showering her with compliments about her beauty and begging her to go on a date with me, would I? It quickly became an in-joke of sorts, and even though she pleaded to me to stop teasing her like that after she got married, of course, I made sure to pile it on in front of her husband.

If Imran's Dulabhai wasn't so easygoing, I would've earned myself a few more half-hearted punches to my arm from Imran for hitting on his sister in front of her boyfriend-turned-husband.

"Everything alright, Seb?" Reshma asks, her smile fading as she takes in my jaded-down mood.

"It is now." I look her up and down, supposedly impressed by my view.

She shakes her head, just a little, though, my flirting was only half-hearted, and ushers me inside. "How come you didn't come on Eid?" she asks in the hallway. "We waited..."

"I was ill," I tell her the lie I told Imran when I texted him saying I wouldn't come for Eid.

She looks at me curiously. "Yeah, Imran said..." she murmurs. "It was the first Eid you've missed since we met..."

"I was in a really bad way," I mumble. It's not a lie. I was feeling horrible.

Eid was on Sunday, two days after the karaoke.

Two days after I kissed Shell...

It's been five days now...

"Imran's in his room," Reshma tells me. "Keep him company while we try out our outfits. Reha," she calls as she heads upstairs, "make some tea for Seb, will you? And fry some samosas and stuff. He missed them on Eid."

I head towards Imran's room on the ground floor. When Reha needed her own room, she took Imran's box room upstairs, and he had to turn the partitioned off dining room next to the lounge his bedroom. His family opted not to do a loft conversion for him because of the hassle that would be involved. Besides, their living room is big enough to house a decent-sized dining table where the whole family—including yours truly—can eat comfortably.

Reha's pounding down the stairs as I knock on Imran's door, and as I enter his room, I hear his little sister hiss the A-word under her breath as she heads into the kitchen to make tea for said A-word. I chuckle despite myself. Yup, I've made her hate me, just as Imran had asked.

"Seb?" Imran sits up on his bed as I enter his room and puts his phone down. "When did you come?"

"Just now."

"You feeling better?"

"Yeah." I sit at his desk when he gestures towards it. "How's... life?" I mumble.

My friend cocks an eyebrow. "How's life?" he repeats, amused and sceptical. He shakes his head. "What's on your mind, Seb? Don't give me that"—I'd opened my mouth to protest—"I can tell something's bothering you. Spit it out." He scoots to the edge of his bed and plants his feet on the floor. Our knees are almost touching because his desk and bed are positioned next to each other.

I swivel in my seat, so I'm facing away from him. I won't be able to look into his eyes and tell him. But I will tell him. Be honest. I must. We promised we'd always be honest with each other. If I don't confess, and it comes out one day—and the truth always finds a way to announce itself—then any chance of gaining his forgiveness will be lost. By making him see the truth now, from the beginning, Imran will realise—he will, he must—that there was no ill intent behind my actions, nor do I harbour any intentions of repeating my mistake. For it was a mistake.

But how do I start? How do I start?

How do you tell your best friend, who's more brother than a friend, that you're... not in love with his future wife, just in... something with her?

Something you wouldn't have become aware of if you hadn't felt the sudden urge to kiss her when your face was dangerously close to hers, her mouth centimetres from your own.

Something you wouldn't have entertained in your wildest fantasies if you hadn't given in to that urge and found that you not only liked kissing her, but that you wanted to do it again.

And again, as you told her it was simply an experiment, a lie if there ever was one.

And again, after recalling that kiss more times than you've thought of any kiss, imagined or real.

And again, after realising that she was more beautiful than you'd ever let yourself admit, sexy even. Sweeter, kinder, more intelligent, and desirable than any other girl you'd met.

And again, stronger than ever, when you accepted the fact that you'd never kiss her again.

So, I ask again: How do I start?

"It's really serious," Imran realises, voice volume dipping.

"As a heart attack," I breathe.

"Out with it, Seb," he demands, stern yet wary. "You're worrying me."

"You're not going to like it..."

"I usually don't," he laughs uncomfortably.

"I'm going to hurt you," I whisper without intending to, "more than I ever have." I clear my throat. If I was crazy enough to kiss his wife-to-be, I should have the guts to confess my crime. "I know I've done some awful things, Imran, despicable things, but this tops it all. And I feel horrible about it. I regret it more than anything I've ever done. God, you're going to hate me. You should. I hate myself—"

I stop because he's put his hand on my knee, which he uses to swivel the chair around so he can try to meet my gaze. I let him, but only for a second before dropping my head into my hands.

"I'm so sorry, man." The words come out half-whispered.

Hand still on my knee, Imran tells me, "I'll never hate you, Seb."

I hope that's true.

"You're family," he goes on. "You can tell me you've killed someone intentionally, and still I'd love you like a brother. I wouldn't approve of what you'd done, obviously, but I wouldn't hate you for it. Hate doesn't help anything or anyone."

"Promise me, Imran," I'm suddenly pleading, my hands on his knees now. "Promise you'll believe that I never set out to hurt you. That I never do anything that might hurt you, not after everything you've done for me." I squeeze his knees and I don't know why, but I feel so desperate. "Your friendship, our brotherhood, your family... it's the only good thing in my life, Imran. The one thing I value above all others. I don't want to lose it. Please tell me I won't lose it.

"You can say anything to me, do anything, I'll take it. Take it happily. You can hate me even, but please don't shut the door on me. Let me remain in your life, your family. That's all I want. All I'll ever ask of you."

"Seb..." Imran takes my hands from his knees—maybe because my grip has become too tight for comfort—and places them on my lap. "You don't need to ask for something that's yours," he tells me, "for always."

He doesn't look emotional, doesn't look like he's told me something that means the world to me. He doesn't know what he's given me with those words, uttered so casually, words that moved the very core of me. Shifted it. Like a tidal wave might uproot an entire village with its force and carry it several feet away. It reminds me of the shift I felt inside me when I discovered that I wanted to kiss Shell again but never would.

"So, tell me," Imran pleads, "what's this all about?"

"It's about Shell."

# Chapter 41: Seb

"Shell?" Imran asks, bewildered. He looks at me like the idea of Shell having anything to do with my confession is utterly impossible, unthinkable. I swear that for a second, his shock morphs into self-doubt, like he's asking himself whether he misheard me. Because Shell couldn't possibly be connected to something that is troubling me so much.

I open my mouth—because he's waiting for me to say something, because he himself doesn't know what to say—although I'm not sure what's going to leave my mouth, when Reha barges into the room. Imran and I straighten in our seats, startled. She bangs down on Imran's desk a tray with two mugs of tea and a plate of all-butter shortbread biscuits, our favourite, and stalks out, shutting the door loudly behind her. Fleetingly I think, No samosas or Eid food... Her appearance seems to wake us, as though we've already consumed the strong cups of dark-gold tea, the caffeine rejuvenating us.

My friend reaches for my gaze and I let him hold it while he says, "Seb?"

"And you," I say.

"Pardon?" Imran swallows, confused.

"It's about Shell and you," I tell him, hoping that my voice is even, that my tone is calm. "Your... Chini Paan."

Imran's body seems to sag, and I realise he must've been really tense up until now. "Yes? What about it?" he demands.

When Reha had interrupted us, when I saw my mug of tea—my personal mug, the one reserved for me whenever I come over; I don't even have my own mug at dad's place—and inhaled that familiar buttery scent of my favourite cookies, I realised that I can't tell Imran the truth. I just can't do it to him. I can't ruin his first kiss with Shell by telling him that I'd kissed her first. I've ruined it for her—she will never forgive me for that—but I can't steal it away from my friend. I have to let him carry on thinking that he will be his wife's first kiss. That he'll be the only man that has ever kissed her. I can't strip that away from him just to ease my guilt and conscience, just so there's more of a chance for him to forgive me than if he were to learn of this later, through other means.

I owe him much more than that.

"Seb?"

"Don't hate me Imran, but... I won't be able to make it to your Chini Paan."

Shocked pause.

Then, as the news sinks in, he reacts:

"What? Why?" Imran asks, jolting to his feet.

I rise, too. "I have to fly out to the States tomorrow," I lie.

The rest of the cover story rolls off my tongue as easily as if I were reciting it from a well-rehearsed script.

"So, I'll be returning on Sunday," I finish. "Mid-morning. I'm so sorry, Imran. Please understand."

He shakes his head. Sits down. I stay upright.

"Yeah, sure," he eventually murmurs, "I guess you can't help it..." I don't think it's quite sunk in yet. It hasn't sunk in for me, either. Missing the most important day of my best friend's life... "Wait." He stands up again. "You sure you can't reschedule it to next week?"

"The investment committee meets on Monday," I repeat the lie I told him only seconds ago. "Russell wants to meet me before, on Friday. And on Saturday—"

"He wants to let you wine and dine him, I remember." He sounds only a little dejected but I think he's still getting his head around it: Me not being by his side while he slips that diamond ring on Shell's finger...

I picture the scene in my head and I'm surprised that it makes me feel like retching. I swallow down the unease. "If the meeting was in Europe, I'm sure I'd have been back to catch the end of the party on Saturday night." I sit and gesture for him to sit, too, hand him his tea. "I'd come to the party straight from the airport, you know that, right?"

Taking a sip of his tea, he says, "I know, Seb. You wouldn't miss my engagement if it was anything less important. I would've forbidden you from missing it if it was anything less important."

"Forbidden it?" I laugh.

But he doesn't join in. "It won't be the same without you, man," he murmurs, looking into his mug of tea.

"I'm so sorry, and I mean it from the bottom of my heart." I really do.

"Hey." He leans towards me, trying to catch my gaze. "Don't look so glum. This is a positive for your fund. Your hopes and dreams might be realised this weekend. How cool is that?"

I just smile sadly into my mug. This weekend might be a dream-come-true for Shell and Imran, the first step towards their new life together. For me, it'll be the worst few days of my life. I've lied to my best friend, have a secret that he can never know, and to keep him from unearthing it, I'll have to tell him many more lies.

To keep him from finding me out, I'll have to take my first step away from him and his family.

Secrets that we hold close to our hearts only come out when we let our hearts get close to people, because that's when our secrets fall within someone else's grasp.

Imran doesn't know what happened with my girlfriends when I was at Uni, though he knows they're the reason I've kept women at bay since then. I have to keep girls that I date at arm's length. If I don't, and they get too close to my heart, they get too close to my secrets.

If you want to keep your secrets hidden, you have to keep away from people.

# Part Six--Sickness

# Chapter 42: Shell

Saturday morning and Shayla's up bright and early to help Amma and Bhabi get the house clean and tidy, the good china washed and dried. Our guests will arrive around 11am. My sister's dum-dum-dum-dumming the tune of Here Comes the Bride as she works. It's creeping me out. It's probably an unconscious thing on her part, or a very conscious thing—she's getting herself in the wedding spirit the same way someone might hum Jingle Bells to get into a Christmassy mood. Shayla hums and dum-dum-dums when she's feeling cheery, so I can't find it in me to tell her to stop, even though it makes my own mental humming voice go dum-dum-dummmmm, mimicking the music that plays when something really horrific is about to happen in a slasher movie.

Like someone getting their head axed off.

Stop it! I rebuke myself. Seb Lowe will absolutely love it if he hears you're dreading your Chini Paan because of him. Dreading your engagement this evening. Don't give him the satisfaction.

As I leave my room to go and wash my face and brush my teeth in the bathroom, I can hear Amma and Bhabi debate about whether to rustle up a quick chicken biriyani to serve with the snacks, even though our guests, most likely to be Imran's two sisters, his Bhabi and Dulabhai, and of course, Seb—he won't miss the chance to torment me—are not staying for lunch. They're just coming to drop off my Chini Paan outfit and accessories.

Despite my nerves related to meeting all of Imran's close relatives at the party tonight—not to mention my worries about facing Seb again; I'm surprised he's been under the radar leading up to today's party—I'm quite excited to see what attire Imran's family have chosen for me to wear tonight. Imran's Bhabi called mine a couple of times in the last few weeks to ascertain what dress size I am, what size bangles and shoes I wear, as well as what type of jewellery I prefer—gold-based or silver-based—so that they could be armed with as much information as possible when they went shopping for me.

Bhabi thought she was being clever as she said, "Shell likes shopping and clothes, and wears all colours and designs. I'm sure she'll like whatever you choose for her." It was almost identical to what her family told ours when we asked them about her tastes before her engagement. It was, in fact, the right thing for her to say to Imran's Bhabi. After all, my future in-laws might find it a bit annoying if Bhabi were to list all my favourite colours to wear and the designs that I orient towards. It would be like I'm already telling them what to do before I'm married into their family.

But... there are certain colours that don't work with my complexion:

Hot pink somehow makes my skin look like it's got a blackish tint to it. Yes, black. Don't ask me how or why that is.

Because I have a yellow undertone to my skin, dresses that are in various shades of yellow or orange don't do wonders for me, either. I look too monochromatic.

The colours that suit me best are plums and purples, as well as jade-green, royal-blue, and other dark blues, like navy, and of course, black and white. My favourite colours, in general, are good colours for me to wear.

Imran's family know black and white are my favourite colours, but these colours are hardly suitable for an engagement party... I guess all will be revealed soon enough.

"Plus," my Bhabi added after she told me and Shayla about her phone calls with her counterpart in Imran's family, "by giving them free rein over what they buy for you, we get to see how highly they perceive you."

"Whatever, Bhabi," Shayla said with an eye-roll, disagreeing with Bhabi's theory.

I was with Shayla on that one, but I didn't voice it. Instead, I said, "Whatever colour and design they choose, they'll spend a lot of money; it's all about keeping up with the Jones's these days, isn't it? If their relatives spent X amount of money on their son's Chini Paan, then Imran's family will want to match it or exceed it. Besides," I went on with a shrug, "it's always nice to get free clothes and jewellery, so I'll be happy with whatever I get."

Shayla smiled. "My sister, the diplomat."

That's when Bhabi rolled her eyes. "They can spend a lot of money and still buy something hideous," Bhabi argued. True. There are loads of heavily decorated, and therefore expensive, lenghas and saris that look cheap and trashy because of the designs and patterns sown on the fabric. "And if it doesn't suit you in the slightest, then you'll look terrible in the photos."

"Thanks, Bhabi," I said with a laugh.

"It's not funny," she insisted. "What they buy for you will say a lot about what they think of you."

"Or about their tastes," Shayla argued.

Bhabi looked like she was going to say something confrontational, so I got in there before she could speak. "Shouldn't you guys be worried that my outfit might clash violently with, or be the same colour as, what you're all wearing on the night?"

Bhabi beamed, all intentions of arguing with Shayla forgotten. "Oh, I already told them that the women are wearing navy with gold," she announced, proud. "So, they know not to get you anything navy."

"Shame," I mumbled. "Navy's a good colour on me..."

"Purple's a good colour on me, thank you."

"Great," Reha moans. "Seb will be ecstatic when he hears you said that." Imran's little sister doesn't look pleased at all.

"What's Seb got to do with this?" I find myself asking, unable to swallow down my curiosity.

Reha rolls her eyes, but her older sister, Reshma, explains, "Seb said purple will go with your skin tone."

"Huh?" I blurt out, despite myself. I probably look thrown, too.

"Exactly," laughs Reha, understanding my reaction and approving it. Her older sister gives her an indulgent eye-roll.

Imran's sisters and his Dulabhai arrived just over forty-five minutes ago and are insisting on leaving now. The girls just wanted to see me before they left, and to check if I liked my Chini Paan gifts:

A georgette sari in deep purple, embroidered with thin gold wire and embedded with clear crystals.

A gold-effect jewellery set with purple crystals, and gold sandals—heelless, of course.

Plain purple bangles mixed in with gold ones that are studded with tiny clear crystals.

Everything looks very expensive yet elegant, heavily decorated yet not over the top.

Perfect and just the way I like it.

It was apparently Imran's Bhabi who chose the sari, but I can't thank her because she didn't come today. She's busy taking care of the guests that have come from outside London for the party tonight. That's why Imran's sisters need to hurry back to help out.

Amma is very disappointed they won't stay for lunch or have time to try her chicken biriyani. No doubt, she'll pack it up in Tupperware and insist that they take some biriyani with them.

Seb Lowe, private equity fund manager and closeted fashion guru—who knew?—on the other hand, hasn't tagged along. My mouth is itching to ask why... Luckily, Reha tells me without me voicing my queries.

"I'm so glad he's outta the country this weekend," Imran's little sister says. "I always get the feeling that he's up to something when it comes to the wedding." Hmm, Reha is quite insightful... "Like he wants to..." Reha shrugs. "Wreck it, I suppose." She shrugs again.

I swallow but keep quiet. Seb's out of the country? Why? Because he kissed me? That's what I thought when Reha first said that Seb's left London for the weekend—Is it because he kissed me?

"Don't be like that," Reshma tells her sister, interrupting my reverie. "Imran's gutted that Seb's going to miss the party."

"How come?" I ask, sounding only mildly curious. Inside, I'm dying to know why Seb is missing his best friend's engagement. I'm torn between feeling grateful about it—I won't have to face him, or worry about him causing trouble tonight—and being worried if his absence has anything to do with the... the kiss.

Why would it, though? It's not like it meant anything to him. He was just trying to annoy me, test me.

Right? Oh, I don't know anymore. The kiss. Then, his sudden trip abroad. It seems related. Causally. Like he's missing the Chini Paan tonight because he kissed me the other day... Which only makes sense if the kiss was triggered by attraction and not his desire to see if he can finally make me snap.

"Apparently," Reha begins, in answer to my question of why Seb's abroad, "he's close to getting an investor for his fund. His friend Russell. And he needed to meet him yesterday to discuss the fund, and spend today with him, too. He's returning tomorrow."

"Oh," is all I say. All I can say. The excuse is believable yet a little too perfect, timing-wise. Excuse? It might actually be the truth! Why am I determined to think otherwise? Because my gut doesn't believe it. It feels like a lie, this business trip, and one way or another, I'm going to get to the bottom of this.

# Chapter 43: Imran

Reha pops her head through my door as soon as she and the others return from Shell's house. "She said purple is a good colour for her," she tells me, a cheeky-coy smile on her face. "Which means she's going to look particularly pretty tonight..."

"That's good to know," I tell her dismissively, like I'm not too bothered about how Shell will look tonight. Like the longing to see her hasn't seeped right into my bones. When I see her tonight, I'm bound to forget that Seb isn't beside me.

Right? I hope so. I don't want to look as miserable as I feel about getting engaged without my best friend. It just doesn't feel right. Feels like I'm getting on a motorbike without a helmet.

Driving a car without wearing my seatbelt.

Jumping out of an aeroplane without a parachute.

Seb's always been my safety net, the one that takes care of me, and tonight, when I need him most, he won't be there.

It'll be like arriving at the party without my suit jacket on.

Slipping the diamond ring on Shell's finger with just one arm, the other missing from my torso.

Getting married without a Best Man...

I shake my head. Seb won't miss the wedding. He won't. I won't let him.

"You guys are going to look so cute together," Reha teases, trying to get a better reaction out of me.

"Thanks, sis, but cute isn't quite the look I'm going for tonight," I tell her dead-pan.

"Will you stop looking so miserable, please?" she moans. "You're ruining it for the rest of us!"

I turn to face her. She's stepped inside my room and is closing the door behind her.

"Ruining it?" I query, confused.

"Seb's not gonna be there, his loss," she says, rolling her eyes. "Don't let that ruin your big night. You only have one Chini Paan, you know that, right?"

My mouth stretches into a grin. "Come here," I call out, extending an arm.

Shaking her head, she approaches me gingerly. She knows what's coming. I curve my arm around her neck and kiss her temple, the way I've been doing almost all her life. "When did my crazy baby sister become so wise, huh?" I say as she struggles out of my hold.

"Since forever," she tells me.

"I must've missed it."

She fakes a frown but then smiles. "Jokes aside," Reha says, her tone serious now. "I know it's not great that your best friend won't be with you, but being so down about it isn't going to change that."

"I know."

"Plus," she adds, "the rest of us have been feeling guilty about being excited for today because you've been moping around since you found out Seb can't make it."

"I'm sorry, that wasn't cool of me." I give her a sad smile.

She doesn't look impressed. "Please cheer up," she pleads. "Or the bride will think you're getting cold feet about marrying her." She has a point. I'll have to get my act together at the venue.

"I didn't think of it that way..." I give my sister an apologetic look.

Shell's probably really nervous about all the people and attention and scrutiny she'll be facing tonight. It won't help her if she sees that I'm looking forlorn.

"Of course, you didn't think of it that way," my young sister says, a rebuke in her tone. She folds her arms and adds, "That's what Seb does to you. He makes you think that all that matters is him."

"Seb's not like that," I assure her. "He's just very—"

"Commanding and self-important."

I laugh.

"Besides, I think it's better this way," she murmurs, turning to leave my room. She needs to go join Apa and Amma in the kitchen and get lunch ready for all our cousins who have driven down from the north for tonight's party. "You and Seb need to distance yourselves from each other, now that one of you is getting married."

"Why do you say that?" I ask, curious and confused. Why should marriage change things with our friends? I know it happens for a lot of couples, but Shell and I won't be like that. We won't change each other or change our connections to the people in our lives. I hope.

"The two of you depend on each other too much," Reha explains, shutting the door she'd only just opened. "It'll complicate things with your wife."

"How?"

"Just trust me, okay?" she says.

"Would you be saying that if you didn't have a major... problem with Seb?" I tease.

Her eyes narrow. "I'm saying it because I have a major problem with him," she tells me, tone suddenly strict, "the reason I have a problem with him. Seb can be very... selfish sometimes, insensitive," she adds quietly, eyes drifting off a little.

I wonder if she's thinking back to the day Seb made her hate him. On my request. Neither Reha nor Seb have disclosed what happened that day, almost eighteen months ago, but whatever Seb did, it made Reha forget her crush on him and despise him instead.

"When it comes to me," I argue, "Seb's been mostly selfless." It's true.

"When it comes to you," she repeats with emphasis. "Will he treat your wife the same way?"

"I don't think I want him to treat..." I let my sentence trail off before I say Shell's name, before I say anything I shouldn't say in front of my little sister.

"There you go then," she says before reaching for the doorknob again.

"Reha, wait." I take a step towards her. She turns to face me. "What happened that day?" I ask. My tone makes clear which day I'm referring to.

And for some reason, today's the day she decides to finally answer me. "Your beloved friend," she says, almost with a sneer on her lips, "turned up outside school. He caused bit of a commotion, too, because he'd parked directly in front of the gates and was leaning on the bonnet of his car, making out with a girl that looked like she'd walked right out of Page 3 of The Sun newspaper."

"No way," I gasp.

"Way," she insists. "Scantily dressed would be an understatement..." She shakes her head, disgusted. "And then," she goes on, her tone saying, Oh, but that's not all! "When he spotted me at the gates, he broke away from the girl, turned to me, and asked if I wanted a lift home, while the Page 3 model was nuzzling his neck."

"Shit."

Now she gives me a look that says, Exactly!

"Seb never said..."

"I'm surprised he didn't brag about it," she murmurs. "It was his proudest moment." Sarcastic now. "You know," she adds, "he even said that all my friends were welcome to a ride home, too. They all looked at me and were like, 'This is the Seb you told us about? What a jerk!' I felt so humiliated and grossed out! It's scarred me for life, you know."

"Sorry..." I bite my lip, sheepish. I'd been the one to insist that whatever Seb did to throw Reha off, would have to be quite extreme. She thought Seb was just as amazing a guy as I did. I still do. Because... he may have humiliated and hurt my little sister, but he did it because I asked him to. He did it for me. And for Reha—she's better off not having a crush on him.

When it comes to the opposite sex, Seb is not a good omen for them.

The Chini Paan is a blur of strange new faces and uncomfortable handshakes and blinding camera flashes. The restaurant we're at is clean and modern, its staff attentive and efficient. The food is simple but nice:

The basic starters you get at an Indian restaurant—chicken tikka cubes, lamb sheikh kebabs, keema samosas, and vegetable spring rolls—followed by chicken curry, lamb jalfrezi, and a mixed vegetable curry.

As far as I can tell, the event runs smoothly, but I'm on cruise control and just going with it. Nothing feels real. I feel like I'm at someone else's engagement party, waiting for the groom to slip the ring on the bride's finger so everyone can go home. Until we come to the final segment of the party and I finally get to see Shell in her purple and gold sari.

"It's time for your moment in the spotlight," teases Dulabhai as he gestures for me to vacate my seat at the table I've spent the whole night and follow him to where Shell is.

I feel like I can sigh a breath of relief now. Peace and calm wash over me and I relax for the first time in days. Shell's been sitting on a throne-like chair in one corner of the restaurant, and when I make my way there, I see that she's talking to her sister.

The two of them look up as I approach, flanked by my Dulabhai and Bhabi.

Shayla smiles. Shell drops her gaze to the floor, cheeks reddening slightly.

Wow, is all I can think when I see her, just wow. She looks breathtaking. Stunning. Purple really is a good colour on her—thanks Seb!—and the gold touches add to her glow.

She's glowing.

She's also a nervous wreck, I can tell from how her hands are shaking on her lap. It can't be easy for someone who prefers to be in the background to be shoved into the limelight, dolled up for everyone's viewing pleasure.

There's more make-up on her face than the last time I saw her, but it's not overdone or in-your-face. She looks elegant. The image is polished.

God, I love this woman.

I love her a lot.

I can't wait to spend my life with her.

Shayla removes herself from the throne-like chair next to Shell so I can slowly go and perch on it.

Then everything's a blur again.

Camera clicks and flashes...

Getting flanked by various members of our extended family...

More photos...

Exchanging gifts via our Bhabis...

Hugs and kisses from our parents...

Before finally, finally, I can claim Shell as mine. I slide the diamond engagement ring on her finger to applause and shouts of joy and she slips the platinum band on mine with a shaky hand and we're engaged.

Shell and I are engaged and I couldn't be happier.

I just wish Seb were here to see.

# Chapter 44: Shell

"Sorry, we don't have a Lowe Capital UK in this building."

"Are you sure?" I ask, leaning on the silver reception counter. "His e-mail signature lists this building..."

The receptionist on the ground floor of Seb's so-called office building shakes her head, just as confused as I am. She scans her computer screen again before looking up and shrugging at me. "It's not listed on the system..."

Most strange. "Okay, thank you for checking." I swing my bag over my shoulder and make my way out of the office block that isn't the home of Seb's company.

"Shell?" calls a voice from behind me when I'm just a few steps outside the building. Seb. "Shell?" he repeats. He sounds bewildered.

I turn to find him rushing out the entrance, suit jacket grasped in one hand. So, he does work in there...

"Shell..." he says as he comes to a stop in front of me. He looks a little afraid. "What's going on?" he asks, worry creasing his forehead.

"I could ask you the same thing..."

He arches an eyebrow, confused.

"The receptionist said you don't work in that building." I jerk my head in the direction of the woman behind the glass entrance.

"Well, that's impossible because I was just saying goodbye to her now and she said, 'see you tomorrow, Seb'."

I shake my head, puzzled. "So, she knows you... but she said your company wasn't—"

His head jerks back. "Oh, that makes sense," he announces.

"Doesn't to me..."

"Did you ask about Lowe Capital UK?"

"That being the name of your company, yes." I'd asked to meet the CEO of Lowe Capital UK, if he hadn't left for the day yet, and the receptionist said she'd check the key-card logs to see if he'd swiped out already and... Couldn't find anything related to Seb's firm. A part of me did wonder why I didn't mention his name, and that same part of me concluded that it was because I didn't want to say his name out loud.

"The thing is," Seb begins, "I just rent a little desk space from one of the companies on the third floor." He looks sheepish. "And by renting, I mean renting for zero pounds," he clarifies, biting his lip cheekily. "The owner of the company, Matt Hopkins? I'm friends with his son, and he's kindly allowed me to use a limited portion of his open-plan office to run my new business until I get my fund underway."

"Oh."

"Yeah," he says with a nod. "I sometimes fill in for members of staff if they're off sick or on leave; the extra cash comes in handy... And my key-card is registered under Hopkins' company, not under my own."

"I see."

"And that receptionist is new," he adds informatively. "The older ones know the ins-and-outs of it. But I'm pretty sure my name's on the list..." He looks back towards the foyer, curious.

"I didn't mention your name," I tell him. "Just the firm's name."

"That explains it, then," he says with a nod.

"It does."

"So..." He licks his lips as though they're dry and pretends to people-watch. "What brings you here, Shell?" I wait for him to look at me, but he's still scanning the surroundings, following the cars with his eyes as they zoom past on the road. "Don't tell me," he finally says, glancing at me briefly before taking his phone out of his trouser pocket and unlocking it with finger-print identification. "You wanted to see if I got you an engagement present from America?"

Nope, I say to him in my head. Because I don't actually think you returned from the States yesterday. I let him check his e-mails as I reply with my vocal chords: "I wanted to see for myself whether you returned from the States in one piece."

Seb spreads his arms out and says, "Well, here I am in the flesh." He returns to his phone, touching the WhatsApp icon. The whole screen is filled with unread messages. He scrolls down—more unread messages from today; he's a popular guy—until he gets to the oldest unopened message and clicks to read it. "Alive and kicking," he adds jovially as he starts typing a reply.

So, this is how it's going to be, is it? I know just what to say to get his undivided attention. "Imran really missed you at the party."

His fingers freeze momentarily, body stiffens for a beat, but he says nothing.

"He looked like he was missing a limb." Imran had looked like he wasn't completely... whole. "He seemed to be waiting for something. You walking through the door, perhaps..."

Seb presses the home button on his phone and looks up at me. "Listen, Shell, if you're here to have a go at me for missing your engagement party... We might as well do it when we're not in everyone's way."

True. We're talking in the middle of the pavement, just a few paces away from his 'office building', City workers walking past us with annoyed expressions on their faces because we're in their way. He gestures for me to follow him as he heads in the direction of Shoreditch, until he comes to the first side-street and cuts inside. Hardly anyone is walking down here and it's a good a place as any to ask him why he missed his best friend's Chini Paan.

"So, the so-called business trip couldn't be postponed for another week?" I ask as we come to a stop.

He narrows his eyes at me. "What do you mean by 'so-called business trip'?"

"The timing," I reply. "How it coincided with the party..."

He raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to elaborate.

I don't.

He frowns.

"Imran understood that I couldn't reschedule the meeting," he says eventually. "The client was about to convene for an investment committee meeting and I needed to see him—"

"Yeah, I know. But—"

"But what?"

"It just seemed a little strange to me, that's all." I shrug, nonchalant.

He cocks his head, indignant. "What's so strange about an urgent and unavoidable business trip?" he demands in a tight voice.

"Nothing," I answer, shrugging again. "If that's what it was..." I leave the sentence hanging.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" he snaps, body becoming rigid. When I just smile at him serenely, his body relaxes. "What else could it have been?" he asks with a smirk. "Why else would I miss the most important day of my best friend's life so far?"

"You tell me," I challenge.

He purses his lips for a moment, thinking. Then: "You seem to have a few theories, why don't you go first?" There's a challenge in his tone, too.

Okay, crunch time. But I'm not sure how to say it. The wording has to be spot on... Seeing my hesitation, Seb rolls his eyes, a crooked smile on his lips. God, he's so full of himself! He shakes his head at me, unimpressed. That's all the incentive I need.

"From the start," I begin as confidently as possible, "you've been trying to talk me and Imran out of marrying each other. And then you just disappear a few days before the Chini Paan and miss your last chance to break us up?"

"Is it my last chance to break you up?" he asks, cocking his head to the side. "After all, the Chini Paan isn't really an engagement. No official bond has formed between you, not in the eyes of Allah, which is what matters. I still have plenty of time..." He tries to look cunning but I know it's an act. Seb Lowe won't be trying to sabotage my wedding anymore.

"I don't believe that," I tell him, shaking my head. "If that was the case, you wouldn't have taken a break from your crazy little mission. In fact, I don't think there really was a meeting. I don't think you left the country."

He laughs once. "You're incredible," he says with a roll of his eyes, a shake of his head. "First, you can't grasp the concept of emergency business trip overseas, and now you doubt that I was even abroad? What exactly are you saying, Shell?"

"I'm saying, the Seb from a few weeks ago wouldn't have missed the opportunity to cause some destructive drama leading up to, and at the Chini Paan. But this Seb"—I poke his chest—"missed the event altogether."

"And what's the difference between the old Seb and this one?" he demands, stepping close to me, almost threatening me.

I hold my ground. "This one kissed me and disappeared soon after."

# Chapter 45: Shell

Seb bursts out laughing. Laughing hard. So hard that he takes a small step away from me to bend forward a little and put his hand on his stomach. Like his tummy is hurting from laughter. Like I've said the most ridiculous thing ever.

I can't help but stare.

In between bouts of laughter, he manages to say, "You think I missed your engagement because I... have feelings for you... You think I couldn't bear to see you get engaged... to someone else and... made up the story about the trip to the States..." Shaking his head, he laughs in my face. Looks at me like he pities me for entertaining such an absurd thought. "Oh, Shell—"

His words and laughter come to an abrupt halt.

Another sound rings in my ears.

The sound of a slap.

I slapped him!

My hand's stinging from it.

I'm so shocked I did that.

I have to lift my hand close to my face to examine it. It's red. I shake it as if that'll get rid of the tingling sensation in my palm. It's when I raise my head to apologise to Seb that he steps forward, covers my ears with his hands, his fingers curving around the back of my head, and crushes his mouth to mine. His nose presses into my cheek and his hair tickles my forehead.

Belatedly, I realise he wasn't obscuring my ears. He was simply taking my face in his hands, to hold it in place as he kissed me.

Kissed me!

I'd slapped him because he'd made me so mad. So enraged that my mind and body didn't know how else to react, how else to express the anger burning up inside. In the same way, it feels like Seb's so livid that I struck him that he's taking it out on me with a very aggressive kiss. His hands are firm and unyielding around my head, his lips sucking and licking my parted lips—parted because I'd started saying sorry to him when he attacked me.

Attacked.

Me.

The thought finally unlocks my immobilised body, shocks it into action. I reach for his wrists, curl my fingers around them, but I can't prise his hands off me. Either he doesn't care that I'm trying to free myself from his grip or he's unaware of my attempts. Can one get that lost in a one-sided kiss, one that's rough to the point of painful for the non-active party?

Yes, he really is angry at me for hitting him.

Moving my hands to his chest, I put all my strength into shoving him away. He doesn't stumble back like the last time, but his hands do fall away from my face.

I take a step back, open-mouthed.

Appalled.

"Shell," he says breathlessly.

I realise I'm not afraid of him. Of him hurting me, that is.

I am terrified that he'll kiss me again.

I take a few more backward steps.

He lifts his hand and takes a step forward, opening his mouth as if to apologise. Or to tell me not to look so scared.

"Stay away from me," I warn him, voice frail, somehow feeling winded.

He stops. Looks down. "I did," he whispers. "I did stay away." Then, meeting my incredulous gaze: "You came to my office, remember?"

My mouth snaps open in protest, but my anger has rendered me speechless. When I get this mad and try to speak, all I do is splutter. And I don't want him to see me do that. I don't want to give him the satisfaction.

I just shake my head. Turn. Leave him standing on the side-street.

When I get home, I lock myself in my room and throw myself on my bed. I don't care that I'm still in my work clothes; I just have to bury my face in my pillow, hoping it'll swallow my head, blind my sight, so I can't keep thinking about what happened less than half-an-hour ago.

The commute home had been excruciating. I kept seeing the kiss in my head. Only it was like I was a passer-by watching it from afar. Yet, I could change the perspective and be able to see Seb's face in front of mine. See it from every angle. I'd been lucky enough to get a seat on the train. I kept shaking my head or pressing my hand into my eyes, to shrug away the images that refused to fade away. The other passengers must've thought I was a jittery drug addict going cold turkey or something.

It was nothing like the first kiss. That was a quick peck compared to today's one. Today's one was all passion and heat and anger. And I'd pushed him off immediately at the karaoke place; maybe that's why it hadn't bothered me so much afterwards. But today... It took me longer to come to my senses, even though a kiss like that isn't something you'd fail to recognise instantly. I really ought to have put a stop to it sooner.

It was just the shock. I was too surprised by my slapping him and the way he responded to it. Nothing else.

What else could it be, anyway? A part of me hadn't actually liked it, had it? Of course not. How ridiculous! I recall the things that had gone through my head when Seb forced himself on me and... no. Not one thought touched on the topic of enjoyment on my part. Why would I enjoy being kissed by Seb? He's nothing to me. Our paths wouldn't have even crossed if he wasn't so close to Imran.

Imran!

My husband-to-be.

My sort of fiancé.

My should-have-been first kiss.

How would he feel if he knew what his best friend was doing to me behind his back? Except... I get the feeling Seb wasn't completely in control of himself when he kissed me—both times. He wasn't acting like himself.

They say that extreme situations can lead people to snap and act out of character, shock themselves with their behaviour. Was that what happened to Seb? His bumping into me in the karaoke place and then being slapped by me on the street... were they extreme circumstances? No. Yet, I don't believe that he woke up this morning, or on the morning of the karaoke, with the intention of kissing me if he got the chance. But he did kiss me.

Twice.

And he shouldn't have. He had no right and I gave him no invitation. Right? I've never really spent much alone-time with a male, so I don't know if I've been unknowingly giving him signals all this time. Doing things that most guys would interpret as flirting and come-ons... No. No, I haven't been leading him on.

I'm going to marry his best friend, for crying out loud!

I refuse to eat supper when Shayla knocks on my door around 9pm. She won't go unless she sees me because she hasn't seen me all day. Bless her. I quickly shrug out of my work clothes and pull on a cotton maxi dress before opening the door. "See," I tell her, "I'm alive. But still not hungry."

Her keen eyes appraise me. "Why are you wearing a maxi?" she asks suspiciously. "You hate maxis."

"It's hot today." Indeed it is very hot for the tail end of September.

"Is that why you're all... red?" asks my teenaged sister, looking concerned. Shayla presses the back of her hand on my forehead and gasps. "Shit, you're burning up."

"Language, Shayla."

She rolls her eyes before feeling my throat. "You've got a temperature. Like really high."

"I'll take some paracetamol and go to sleep," I tell her strictly, trying to close the door.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"Go away and I will be," I almost snap.

Shayla purses her lips but says nothing as she goes back downstairs. I feel horrible, and not just because I was semi-rude to my little sister. After a few hours of worrying about inadvertently sending kiss me signals to Seb, I began worrying about whether this was all part of his plan to force me and Imran apart. Would he go and tell Imran that we'd kissed? Twice. If so, would he have the nerve to lie and say that I made the first move? It's guaranteed to get Imran to call things off, even with the Chini Paan behind us.

Imran wouldn't believe Seb's lies, would he? Believe I'm that kind of girl? No. Of course not. Right?

But if Imran sides with me... Would that mean he'd lose his best friend? That Imran and Seb would lose each other? Over me?

# Chapter 46: Shell

When I arrive for work the next morning, I'm stunned to see Seb standing to the side of the entrance doors to my office block. My walk slows before it accelerates. I plan to walk past him as though he isn't there. But he takes hold of my right wrist, says, "We need to talk" in a loud whisper that only I hear, and pulls me away from the crowd of people heading inside my building. He's walking so fast, his grip so tight, that I'm practically jogging behind him, half-tripping over my feet as I go.

I'm looking around myself, wondering if anyone from my company is in the vicinity, but I don't see a single face that I recognise. Their faces are blurring past me, anyway—that's how fast Seb is whisking me away with him.

Maybe it was the crowd, maybe it was the lack of attention I was paying to where we were going, but suddenly, I find myself in an unfamiliar, deserted corner of the City. I didn't know there was a gated garden like this near my office—and it is near my office; we haven't been moving for long. It's surrounded by tall, glass-decked buildings shimmering in the morning sun. Taking it in, I see there's a small fountain in the centre, a few benches at the outer perimeter with lush green grass all around. I can't hear the water sprouting from the fountain; it's drowned out by the sound of rumbling engines and honking cars. But the water glistens like diamonds in the lovely sunshine. Quite cool how the sun's rays manage to weave their way in and around the skyscrapers towering over this pretty place.

How dare Sebastian Lowe know about a hidden gem like this near my office when I don't?

"What is this place?" I ask him in wonder. This charming garden has suddenly put me in a very good mood. So good that I forget I'm supposed to be angry with Seb, not just for dragging me away from my office, but for what he did yesterday. "This place is lovely..."

"I thought you'd like it," he murmurs.

When I tear my eyes away from the fountain and turn to scrutinise his face, I see that a grin is straightening itself out into a grim line.

His face is serious now. "Shell," he breathes, stepping up to me.

I tilt my head up to see his face, as though he's grown much taller than me since I last stood in front of him. Now that he's so close, my vision taken up by his face, I see that he's really very handsome. No, not simply handsome. He's gorgeous. His black hair is tinted brown, and in places golden, in the sunlight. The red of his cheeks is so vivid it looks artificial.

And his blue eyes are so deep I don't want to stop marvelling at them. Up close, they look like a deeper blue. Your eyes are really beautiful, I want to tell him, but no sound comes out of my mouth. My throat's gripped in a tight fist, my lips knitted together.

"You think I'm beautiful?" he asks, sucking in a ragged breath. The red of his cheeks spread outward until his whole face is flushed. I made him blush, I scream in my head. I made Sebastian Lowe blush all over!

"How did you read my mind?" I gasp.

He chuckles once. "I didn't read your mind," he replies. "You said the words 'You're beautiful'. Just now."

Oh. I'd said something after all, just not the whole sentence that I'd composed in my head. "That's not what I meant to say," I whisper. I'd meant to say that his eyes are pretty.

Then, I look at his face, the lovely angles, his perfect nose, full red lips... I don't even feel annoyed that he's got a sceptical look on his face, not believing that I hadn't meant it when I'd accidentally said, You're beautiful.

"But it's true," I find myself whispering. "You are beautiful, Seb."

The next second, his hands are cupping my face and the tip of his nose is touching mine and he's whispering into my lips. "No, Shell. You're beautiful. I love you."

We kiss.

Yes, we.

Not just him, like the last two times, but I'm a part of it now.

I've never kissed anyone before but I find that it's easy. Like breathing or speaking or chewing, our mouths were made to kiss and be kissed. It's something that we instinctively know how to do.

Seb's kissing me slowly, reverently, whispering "I love you, I love you" into my mouth over and over.

And I keep thinking: He must really love me. He must love me a lot if he has to keep saying it. If he can't help but say it. Say it to me. His best friend's fiancé.

Imran!

I think Seb's remembered Imran now, too, because he says into my lips, "Imran doesn't love you, Shell." His grip on my face tightens possessively, protectively. "He thinks he does, but how can he? He doesn't even know you. I know you. I love you." He comes to kiss me again.

And I scream and scream in his face.

Shayla was the first to burst into my room, then a few moments later Amma and Bhabi rushed inside.

It took me three whole seconds to realise I'd been dreaming. No, strike that. Having a nightmare. It was a horrid, horrid nightmare. It made me cry, and that's what I was doing when all the females of my household came into my room to see why I'd screamed in the early hours of the morning.

I hadn't slept a wink all night, stressing out about yesterday's kiss in the side street and its repercussions. And when I lose sleep, my immune system malfunctions and I show symptoms of having a cold. Sniffling, runny nose, itchy throat, the works. I took an allergy tablet at around 2am, hoping it'd knock me out and block my nose like it usually does. But the effects of the drug didn't kick in until after 6am.

When I checked the time with my teary eyes, just before the girls entered my room, I saw that it was 7.30am.

I'd barely slept for an hour. But long enough to dream about Seb Lowe kissing me in a magical garden. No, nightmare. It was a nightmare!

With a headache, a fever, and cold and flu symptoms, I explained to Shayla, Amma, and Bhabi that I'd had a scary dream—God, why doesn't the word nightmare come to mind and out of my mouth when it ought to?—but I couldn't remember it. They didn't believe me of course, about not remembering. Luckily, they took that to mean that the dream—nightmare, nightmare, nightmare!—was so horrible that I didn't want to relay it back to them.

My cold and flu symptoms worsened as I started getting ready for work. Still, I powered through. I knew it wasn't a proper cold or the flu virus—it was the result of not getting enough sleep—so I was determined not to miss work. Determined not to give Dream-Seb the satisfaction of getting me to miss work.

Oh, for god's sake, Shell! It's Nightmare-Seb. Nightmare!

It might be best if you didn't think about the things you saw while you were sleeping!

My stomach was in knots, churning and heaving, so I skipped breakfast, despite my mum's best efforts to get me to at least have a cup of tea, and headed for the front door. It was Bhaiya, who was coming to the door so he could leave for work, too, that caught me as I swayed on my feet and nearly collapsed from my head going black all of a sudden. That has never happened to me before. I've had horrible bouts of cold and flu, accompanied by severe, pounding headaches, but I'd never fainted from it.

Of course, there was no way my mum was going to let me go to work. I was terrified enough that I promptly called in sick. I'm not sure what I said when Becky answered the phone; my head had been strangely fogged up, my speech slow, bordering on slurred.

I can't recall that short conversation now, as I throw up my breakfast—my breakfast of tea and half a slice of dry toast that my mum forced me to eat once she helped me to my room and out of my work clothes. Yeah, I kept stumbling and swaying when I tried to change on my own.

"You poor thing," Bhabi says from the bathroom doorway now. "I've never seen you this sick. Never seen you vomit."

I'd run into the bathroom when I felt the half-digested toast reaching my throat and hadn't shut the door behind me. I want to tell Bhabi to go away, shut the door behind her, but I can't seem to force my lips to make the right shapes. I'm so tired, my head and nose bunged up, my insides trembling from the heat of my fever.

I sense rather than hear or feel my mum come into the bathroom, wetting her hands to wipe my mouth. Then, she's holding a glass of water to my lips so I can rinse my mouth. My head is in a haze, my ears filled with the sound you hear when you're underwater. All my senses are dulled and my body is weak.

God, I really am very sick.

In a daze, I'm led back to my room and somehow, I notice an old, dull-silver bowl on my bedside cabinet. Sick bowl. Probably placed there by Bhabi while Amma was washing my face and then smoothing my hair in the bathroom.

"What's happening to me, mum? I don't understand," I ask her in Bengali. For some reason, when I'm upset or afraid, I speak in my mother tongue. With my family, that is. Not with colleagues. They'd look at me weird.

"Tell me what you're feeling?" she asks me in Bengali, sitting next to me on my bed and rubbing my back the way only Amma knows how to.

In no particular order, I tell her about my symptoms and she purses her lips, thinking. "What?" I ask her, tears running down my face.

"Summer flu is always bad," she tells me. "But that's all this is. Flu. You'll feel better tomorrow."

# Chapter 47: Imran

It was Dulabhai that told me on Tuesday night that Shell's sick with a really bad fever and cold.

Amma calls Shell's mum on a regular basis, and when the two women spoke on Tuesday, Shell's mum mentioned that Shell was ill. She hadn't gone to work that day and probably wouldn't return the next day. Amma and Apa speak on the phone every evening. And that's how my sister learned about Shell's condition. When she mentioned it to her husband, he felt obligated to let me know. Well, he felt obligated to check whether I knew via Shell. He knew that no one at home had made me privy to this information but he assumed that Shell and I were secretly calling and texting each other.

My family didn't tell me about Shell being poorly because they don't think it'd make a difference to me. After all, I don't know Shell well enough to care that she has flu. That's what they think, anyway. Truth is, I care about her more than anything. When my heart started throbbing painfully at the thought of Shell suffering, and I wished I could be sick instead of her, take all her symptoms, I realised just how much she means to me. And it isn't regular flu; she vomits all the food and liquids she consumes, needs her mum to help her to the bathroom because she gets too dizzy if she leaves the bed. She's in a bad way.

Us Bengalis, we downplay sickness. A hidden part of our psyche sees illness as something shameful, a sign of general all-round weakness or punishment for our sins, and so we try to cover it up. We don't want anyone to think our children are weaklings or bad people. What Shell's mum told mine about her daughter's condition is most likely a diluted version of the truth. Which means Shell's much sicker than we know...

"So, you guys really aren't... in contact?" Dulabhai said over the phone on Tuesday night.

"No," I'd replied in a tight voice. "I meant what I said about going about this the right way. But enough about that. Tell me about Shell's illness."

"I've already told you everything your sister mentioned to me," Dulabhai said. "You could always text Shell if you wanted to..."

It took me a few seconds to respond. "Dulabhai!" A part of me was very tempted to call her, hear her voice. But we'd come this far... With her being ill, she's likely to have at least one family member close by, and if they were there when I called... No. Best not to make contact.

"You're practically engaged," Dulabhai chuckled. "No one would mind—"

"Oh, I think someone somewhere would make a big deal about it."

"Who cares?" he argued. "You're really worried. You're never worried. About anything or anyone. Not this much. Unless it's Seb or Reha... Anyway, just call the girl and ease your mind."

"It's easy for you to say, it's not your sister that's—"

I stopped myself before saying it's not his sister that's suffering from the negative consequences of having a love marriage at the hands of her in-laws. Because my sister's in-laws are of course Dulabhai's family.

"I'm sorry, Dulabhai," I said in a rush. "I didn't mean it like that."

He sighed deeply. "Don't think I've forgotten what motivated you to... go about your wedding this way. It's because of what happened with me and your sister."

"And countless other families around the world," I said in a pleading tone. "Not just yours. Please forgive me, Dulabhai. I wouldn't have said what I said if I wasn't so worried about Shell."

"That's why you should speak to her," he said in a soft voice.

To lighten the mood, I thought up a joke: "You're a really bad influence, Dulabhai."

He chuckled once. It sounded forced. "How so?"

"As a respected elder," I said in the most humorous tone I could muster, "you shouldn't be encouraging us younglings to have pre-marital relationships. It's against Islam, or have you forgotten?" I laughed once. It sounded forced. I sighed. I needed to talk to my best friend.

If anything—other than speaking to Shell—was going to make me calm the hell down, it would be talking to Seb. But he didn't answer. It wasn't that late, but he could've gone to bed early because he was still jetlagged. I knew he'd call back as soon as he could, so I waited. Waited so long that I forgot I was waiting. Or perhaps I was too distracted by my worries over Shell to wonder why my best friend hadn't returned my call.

Indeed, Shell hadn't recovered by Wednesday evening, Dulabhai told me so when I rang him for an update, but he didn't have any other news. Like whether she'd seen a doctor. If her condition was more serious than flu...

Then, around 11am this morning, Dulabhai texted to let me know that Shell had returned to work today. Apparently, she isn't fully recovered but doesn't want to miss more days off work. And I've been going out of my mind since. She shouldn't have gone back to work today. She ought to have taken the whole week off. What if she fainted on the street? On the train? Somewhere no one could find her and help her...

I wouldn't have thought about Seb at all today if I hadn't logged into my personal e-mail account at lunchtime, just to take my mind off Shell, and seen a flagged e-mail from him at the top of my inbox. It was the e-mail with his fund's PPM attached; I'd flagged it so I'd remember to read it and give him feedback, but I hadn't un-flagged it afterwards. That's why I'm calling him now, minutes before my lunch break is about to end, hoping he picks up. Hoping he's okay. It's not like Seb to ignore a missed call from me. The longest he's gone without calling me back is half a day. I'd called him Tuesday night; its Thursday lunchtime now...

As the phone rings, I say a silent prayer that he isn't in any kind of trouble. I don't know if I'd handle it if both Seb and Shell were suffering.

"Hey, man," Seb says when he eventually answers.

I sigh in relief. Then, I recall his tone of voice: Healthy enough. Carefree even. He's not unwell or in danger. He doesn't sound jetlagged, either.

"Imran? You still there, mate?" He's absolutely fine, from the sounds of it.

And he hasn't even apologised for not getting back to me this whole time. When I'd really needed him. To think, I was worried that something bad had happened to him...

"What the hell are you playing at, Seb?" I say in an angry whisper.

There's a loud intake of breath on the other end. Surprise. At my tone, no doubt. "Imran, listen—"

"No, you listen!" I snap. "Do you have any idea what I've been going through these last two days—"

"Imran, I'm really sorry," he interrupts in a rush. "You have to believe me when I tell you—"

"I don't have to believe anything," I seethe. "These last couple of days have been a living nightmare, Seb. The worst two days of my life since meeting Shell. And you..." I'm so upset about Shell, so angry at Seb, I can't finish the sentence.

"I know, I'm really sorry," he says, voice pained. "I feel horrible. Worse than when I hit that girl... You have to believe that I didn't mean to do it. I wasn't thinking straight. I hate myself for it. For putting you..." He seems too eaten up by guilt to say any more.

"It was an accident, Seb. You were drunk."

A short pause.

Then, in a soft whisper: "I wasn't drunk. Not from alcohol, anyway..."

"You were absolutely pissed," I remind him. "I saw you afterwards. You were shaking."

"You what?"

"After the hit-and-run," I murmur. "You were in my room when the police—"

"Yeah, I know," he says, sounding perplexed. "Why are we talking about that?" It's the first time we've talked about that incident since it occurred...

"You brought it up, Seb!" I shake my head in disapproval even though I know he can't see me.

"Yes, but I wasn't—I was just saying—I mean... What?" Seb spluttering is not a good sign. Not something you see or hear often.

"Seb, what's going on?" I demand, concerned. "Is it the jetlag—is that why you're confused and disoriented?"

Long pause.

I break it with, "Seb, are you okay, man?"

"Yeah," he says in a shaky voice. "You?"

"Not really."

"What's up?" He sounds like his usual self now.

"It's Shell."

Silence on the other end.

"She's really very sick," I whisper without meaning to.

"What's wrong with her?" he asks in a tight voice.

I tell him everything. Seb listens patiently.

"The worst part is that I want to see her, talk to her, but I can't. You know I can't."

"Yeah," he agrees. "It'd be highly unorthodox for you to turn up at her house..."

"That's the other thing," I moan. "She's not at her house—"

"Is she in hospital?" His voice is tight again.

"Worse. She went back to work today, even though she isn't that much better... Oh, Seb, she'll be okay, won't she?"

"Of course," he assures me but he doesn't sound at all confident. "Imran..."

"Yeah?"

"Nothing."

"No, go on."

"Do you want me to... check on her for you?" he asks hesitantly. "I mean, we're minutes from each other's offices... I could drop by around about half-five and... make sure she survived the day."

I wince at the term survive. But the rest of his words are like a lifeline. "Oh, Seb, that'd be great." I'm so relieved, so grateful, to have a friend like Seb, someone who knows what I need and want before I even contemplate it myself. "I'd owe you big time if you could check on her, man," I tell him with deep relief and gratitude. "If I can't see her with my own eyes, the next best thing is you seeing her for me."

"I wouldn't put it quite like that," he murmurs, almost like he's talking to himself.

# Chapter 48: Seb

It's more than apparent that I've surprised her—Shell comes to a complete halt when she exits her office block and sees me standing a few yards away. At first, she's a statue, unseeing and not breathing. Then, slowly, a crease forms between her brows and her chest rises and falls rapidly, having held her breath for longer than her weak body can handle. Her eyes look milky around the edges. I'm probably imagining it.

What I'm not imagining is her pale, tired-looking face, her skin devoid of that glow she always seems to have. At its absence, I realise it's something that's been there all along; a healthy, happy sheen to her skin.

Something else that isn't my imagination: her body language is defeated, sagging, like she's too exhausted to carry herself as straight and self-assuredly as usual. This mystery bug has really taken it out of her. My heart contracts painfully at the thought. I'm probably imagining it.

"You shouldn't have returned to work today," I find myself saying, voice low. I've walked right up to her. When did I do that? "You don't look well enough yet."

Her forehead creases further. "How did you know..." Damn, she's too weak, too tired, to make those words into a question. Her voice is almost an echo.

Another painful squeeze of my heart. Which I didn't imagine.

Swallowing, I tell her, "Imran told me. He asked me to come and check on you for him." He hadn't actually; I'd offered. After hearing the concern in his voice, how could I not? "He's really worried about you." Those words left my mouth as though I'd said: I'm really worried about you. Because God help me, I am. She's terrifying me.

And as she starts swaying on her feet, I grab hold of her elbow to steady her. I'm urging her to go back inside her building in a rush.

"I'm fine, Seb." She twists her arm out of my grip, eyes the spot where I held her, and looks back up at me with accusation in her eyes. Why did you grab me? her eyes seem to ask.

"You looked like you were going to faint," I explain.

She laughs a disbelieving, sarcastic laugh. "Are you sure you didn't imagine it?" she asks. She arches an eyebrow for a tiny second. Not enough energy to hold it up any longer...

"I may have," I admit with a sigh.

She cocks her head, suspicious.

"You just look like... you're going to crumble any minute."

"Interesting choice of words," she muses and takes slow steps away from me. I turn and follow. She's heading for the train station. Before I can tell her that I don't think she ought to be getting on a train in that state, she says, "Crumble. Not break, like glass can, or melt like anything softer. But crumble. Like stone. You really do think I'm incapable of emotion and passion, don't you?"

"I wasn't thinking along those lines, Shell—"

We both halt at the sound of my phone ringing. For a second, Shell thinks it's hers and makes to dig into her bag, before remembering her phone's on silent so it can't be a call for her.

I lie. It is a call for her. "Imran," I murmur when I see his name on my phone. "Alright, mate?" I say as I take his call.

Shell turns her back to me, giving me privacy, I suppose as Imran says, "So, did you see her?"

"I'm with her now."

Silence.

"She only just came out of her building..." I don't know why I'm justifying myself.

"Yeah, of course." Then, in a quieter voice: "How is she?" Does he really mean for Shell to not hear him? Regardless, I turn my back to Shell's back and take a step away from her.

"Ask her yourself."

"What? Seb! Wait, I can't!" He obviously thinks I'm holding the phone up to her.

"Of course, she'll speak to you," I say casually. "And no one will know about it, since this is my phone..."

"Seb..." he warns strictly.

"Okay, I'll ask her for you." I turn around. "Shell?"

She speaks over her shoulder. "Yes?"

"Imran's wondering if you think it would be terribly inappropriate if he asked to speak to you."

Shell deliberates for two seconds, which is a surprise to me; I expected her to refuse immediately. But then surprises me again with, "Okay" and turns around.

I gape at her for a few moments before making my mouth utter, "See, I told you she'd speak to you" into the phone before holding it up for Shell. Taking the phone from me, she walks into a small side-street to get some privacy.

They didn't talk for long, and when she emerges, my phone held up for me to take, I see there's finally some colour in her cheeks. My god, she's blushing. Her lips are twitching at the corners, like she's trying to stop a smile in its tracks.

"Good talk?" I ask, curving an eyebrow, hoping it distracts her from mulling over how sharp my voice was just now.

"He's still on the line," she tells me, eyeing the phone as I take it from her. "Wants to talk to you."

I hold it up to my ear and say, "Don't tell me, you want me to chaperone her home?" I roll my eyes for Shell's benefit. Hers widen in horror.

"That's not what I was going to say—"

"Chill, man—"

"But come to think of it..." Imran hesitates for a few seconds. "She shouldn't be getting on the train in that state..."

Few more seconds of hesitation. Shell turns her back to me and takes a step away.

"Hand the phone back to Shell, will you?" Imran asks in a bossy tone.

"Why?"

"Seb..."

"Chill, man. Here you go." And I'm poking the back of Shell's arm with the phone.

"Imran?" she asks into the phone. This time she doesn't walk off for privacy.

Imran doesn't lower his voice as he says, "Shell. Will you humour me once again? Please?" When Shell keeps quiet, he continues. "Let Seb drive you home. I'll feel so much better if I knew—"

"Seb can't drive me home," she says, looking straight at me. Her tone is polite, calm. Clearly just humouring him. Because there's no way she'll get in my car, not after what I did on Monday. "His car is most likely at home—"

"But his flat is just a short bus ride from where you guys are now," Imran argues. "I'd ask him to get on the train with you, but it's rush hour now; you won't get a seat—"

"Imran, we've been through this," she says, almost exasperated. "I'll be fine, just like I was this morning. I didn't need a chaperone then, and I don't need one now." Finally, there's some sharpness in her tone as she finishes speaking and she bites her bottom lip in regret. "Sorry," she says into the phone. "I know you're trying to look after me, protect me. I appreciate it. But I'm not your concern yet," she adds jokily. "I'm still my parents' responsibility. I won't be yours until I say qabul. Just because we exchanged rings at the Chini Paan, doesn't mean we're married or even properly engaged." She fakes a little giggle now, to make clear she's been teasing him.

But I suspect there's some irritation underlying the humour—that Imran should be the one encouraging this... whatever it is I'm doing with her. Well, to her.

What am I doing? Do I even know?

If I wasn't so worried about Shell after learning of her recent illness, I wouldn't have proposed to Imran about checking up on her, no matter how concerned he was. I'd have stayed well alone. It was my own need to see her for myself that led to that spur-of-the-moment suggestion. I honestly don't know anymore, which one of us cares more for Shell, me or Imran.

Wait.

Of course, I know, and of course, it's Imran. He thinks he fell in love with her the first day they met, that she's the one. That's why he masterminded this arranged marriage. How could my feelings, whatever they are, be in the same league as that?

"Shell, please," Imran's saying on the other end. "I may not be your husband or fiancé, but I am your friend. Won't you do this one thing for me, for my peace of mind? Please?"

Imran has never fought so hard for anything, especially when he's on the verge of offending someone. He really cares about her wellbeing. He probably does love her. The tightening of my chest at this thought isn't a figment of my imagination.

I'm so busy trying to calm my panicked heart—panicking at what would happen if Imran ever found out that I'd kissed the woman he loved, kissed her first, kissed her twice—that I don't catch the beginning of Shell's reply to Imran's pleading. All I hear her saying is, "don't think it's necessary." Her tone, and the expression on her face, fills in the gaps for me: Fine, Seb can drive me, though I don't think it's necessary.

"Thank you," Imran says and the relief in his voice is loud and clear through the phone connection.

"Yeah, well..."

"Shell?"

"Yes?"

"I really appreciate you taking my advice. Thank you."

"We made a compromise," she corrects him. "You advised me to take the whole of tomorrow off work. I said I'd come into work in the afternoon if I felt up to it." She rolls her eyes, but there's a small grin on her face and colour on her cheeks. "But I should get something in return for letting you bully me into getting a ride from Seb," she teases, her grin widening. She blushes deeper. Bless her, she's so innocent. This is barely flirting, but she's flushed from it as though she'd kissed him in public.

"And you'll be rewarded for your good sense," Imran jokes. "I'll text you tonight."

Her eyes widen. "What about—"

"We'll delete them afterwards," he assures her.

Her face falls, gaze plummets to the concrete beneath our feet. That wasn't what she wanted to hear, not the reassurance she was after. "That's alright," she tells him, turning her back to me. She doesn't want me to see her face, see her composing her features. "There's no need to risk it. I was joking about getting something—"

"But Shell—"

"Honestly, Imran. It's fine. We've been good so far with our pact, let's not—"

"We just broke the pact, big time." He means today's phone conversation.

"That wasn't orchestrated by either of us." She throws a quick glare at me over her shoulder, but it's half-hearted. She isn't as angry with me as she is disappointed in Imran.

I realise now that though she gets why Imran wants to keep this barrier between them, she can't help but wish they could secretly communicate with each other. She wants—needs—him. My heart squeezes. And that was very real.

"That's on Seb's conscience," she goes on.

I've got a lot on my conscience.

Imran laughs and then brings the call to an end with, "I really hope you feel better soon, Shell."

"Thanks. Take care. Bye."

# Chapter 49: Shell

Before I can fathom what he's doing, Seb's hailed down a cab. A black cab. On wobbly legs that shouldn't be walking so fast, I rush to the edge of the pavement to where he is. Hands in his trouser pockets, waiting for the cab to manoeuvre around a few cars to reach him, he looks anywhere but at my face.

"Seb, why are you—"

The taxi stops next to us on the road.

"Why have you hailed a black cab?"

Ignoring my question, he opens the door and gestures to me to enter.

"I thought we were taking the bus?"

"Chop-chop, Shell," he fake-scolds, looking into the cab's interior. "Meter's running." From the set of his mouth, I can tell he won't see reason, nor explain why he's summoned a cab, unless I climb inside the taxi.

With a tired sigh, I scramble inside, not realising Seb had grabbed my elbow to steady me until he lets go. I scoot to the other end of the car and place my bag next to me, a barrier between me and Seb as he settles into the seat. He gives the cabbie an address in Bethnal Green—his flat, I presume, where his car is parked—and we're on the move.

"Imran wasn't thinking straight enough to realise," Seb murmurs, "that with it being rush hour, you wouldn't have been able to get a seat on the bus, either."

It hadn't occurred to me, either. My excuse is: my head's still hazed up from flu. What's Imran's? Does he care so much that he can't think straight because he's worried about me? If so, why was it so easy for me to talk him out of texting me tonight? He'd fought so hard to convince me to let Seb drive me home... If it wasn't for Seb's cheekiness, Imran and I wouldn't have ended up talking today. I don't think he'd have asked Seb to speak to me via his phone...

"The number 8 bus is crammed most of the time, anyway," Seb continues with a little shrug. "And the 388 takes forever to come when you're waiting for it. That's why I walk to work. Can't be asked to be patient with London transport." And he can't drive to work, drive into the City, because of the daily congestion charge.

"You live in Bethnal Green?" I query.

He nods, grinning. "Jealous?" Before I can answer, he says, "You'll be even more jealous when I tell you that I'm paying peanuts for it, too."

"Peanuts? For a place so close to the City?" I ask incredulously.

He nods again. "It's my uncle's flat. He lives with his partner and her kids now, so he's renting it out to me."

"Mates' rates?" I assume.

"Not quite." He hesitates, wondering if he should explain thoroughly. "The flat's a local authority property and my uncle's a council tenant. So, the rent's a lot cheaper..."

"And he's letting you pay the same rate the council charges him."

"Exactly. He doesn't want to let the flat go, in case things don't work out and he has to move out from his girlfriend's, so..."

"You're right, I am jealous," I tell him, not sounding at all envious. I've never really been interested in living in Central or East London. I like where I live. It's home. I'm glad Imran lives in the same neck of the woods. "What I wanted to ask is how close to Bethnal Green Station your flat is, and why don't you get the Central Line to work?"

He looks at me in a way that makes me think he wants to ask, Did you hear what you just said?

I chuckle. The first of the day. Hmm... "The Central Line is probably more packed than the number 8 bus during rush hour," I mumble.

He gives me a 'tell-me-about-it' eye-roll. "You have to say goodbye to five or six trains before even contemplating squeezing into one," he complains.

"So," I sigh, "I can't take the train home because Imran thinks I'm too ill, and you won't let me get on a bus because I won't get a seat. But a black cab?" I whisper the last two words. "These things cost a fortune!"

He chuckles. "I'd have used that new app to get a minicab, but I saw this taxi coming... Don't worry, I'll send the bill to Imran." He grins cheekily.

"Imran? No. I'll pay. After all, it's for me."

"Don't be silly, Shell." His voice is as strict as the stern look on his face. "The fare's on me."

I don't know how long it normally takes to drive from Liverpool Street to Seb's flat, but we're here in less than 30 minutes. Most of it was spent on Bethnal Green Road. The road isn't exactly long, just the traffic was maddeningly slow. True to his word, Seb pays the fare with his card and holds my elbow as I climb out of the taxi. We've entered a square, council flats on all sides, a little gated garden in the centre. There's scaffolding covering the front of all the buildings, the one the cab stopped in front of being the tallest block of flats here. And the ugliest. Naturally, that's the building Seb's heading towards now.

I follow, asking, "Which one's your car?"

"You'll see soon enough," he replies and touches a black plastic key fob to the reader next to the entry door. "I just wanna change out of my suit," he says, opening the door. "I won't be long." He seems to be waiting for me to walk through the door and into the silvery-grey landing.

"I'll wait out here," I tell him.

"Are you mad?" he almost snaps. "I'm not letting you out of my sight. Not here, of all places."

"What? Your neighbourhood not safe enough?"

"Something like that."

"Seb—"

"Shell," he stresses. "If something happens to you while I go inside to change, how do you think—"

"Imran will feel?" I finish for him. Seb purses his lips. Like that wasn't how he was going to end that sentence. "I guess he'd feel like you let him down."

"Something like that," he repeats. He gestures with his head for me to enter. "Now come on. Traffic's going to be mad, and you need to think up an excuse to give your family about why you're going to be late from work today. Something that won't worry them."

"Working late?" I suggest as I walk inside. It's nice and cool in the landing, but there's a faint smell of marijuana and stale beer. My sensitive stomach churns and I hold my breath so I don't have to inhale that smell again.

Seb calls for the second of the two lifts in the block. "They'll tell you not to work late, not when you're sick," he tells me. True. I'll think of something. Soon. If my head feels less drowsy, less heavy.

The lift's on the ground floor, but its door opens slowly. Seb sticks his arm inside to keep the door from closing while I walk inside, careful not to brush against him. He presses the button for the fifth floor. My legs quiver as the lift lurches into movement, and again, Seb grips my elbow to keep me from falling. Yup, I shouldn't have gone into work today. I think I'll skip work tomorrow, after all. If only to avoid Seb escorting me home again on Imran's orders.

When we reach Seb's floor, I let him walk out of the lift first and follow as he turns the corner and heads towards one of the front doors to the left.

Grimy glass panels and concrete pillars create a balcony out front, allowing me to see the patch of green in the square below. He stops at the middle flat, number 17, and starts unlocking the door while I close my eyes to the cool breeze swirling about my face.

"Welcome to my humble abode."

I open my eyes to see he's stepped inside his flat and is holding the door open for me. As I enter, Seb walks down the short, narrow passageway that leads to his bedroom opposite the front door. I take a few slow steps forward and stop outside his kitchen, which is to the right. Surprisingly, it's a nice fitted kitchen, with reasonably new-looking appliances.

Seb stops in front of his bedroom doorway and points towards the door next to the kitchen door. "Make yourself at home," he says as he turns and enters his room, closing the door behind him.

Yes, this second door leads to the lounge. A rather nice-sized lounge with a balcony behind a glass door and a huge window. Well, the whole upper half of this exterior wall is glass. A balcony to the front and to the back of his flat. Nice. I sit on the huge, but worn-out corner sofa and take in the room. Laminate floor, a wonky-looking coffee table, and a TV stand with no TV. I guess Seb's uncle wasn't into accessorising. Or he took all his accessories to his partner's home.

A few minutes later, I hear the bedroom door opening. "I'd offer you a drink," Seb says, "but I know you're anxious to get home."

I get to my feet as he comes and stops at the living room doorway. He's in jeans and a turquoise T-shirt, car keys in his hands.

"Yes," I reply.

Seb points to the door behind him, the closed one opposite the kitchen.

"If you need the bathroom before we go..."

I shake my head. "I'm fine, thanks. Let's just go."

# Chapter 50: Shell

Astonishingly, Seb is mostly quiet throughout the drive. I guess he doesn't want to trouble me when I'm ill. Every time he halts at a traffic light or for a traffic jam, he glances in my direction, making sure I'm okay. It's only when we've entered my street that he speaks. "I'll park at this end of the street," he says. "And walk you the rest of the way. Not right to your door, of course not," he assures me when I begin to protest. "I'll make sure I'm not seen."

"I can walk home from here by myself."

"It's a long street, Shell. I'm coming."

He parks the car in an empty spot outside one of my distant neighbours' homes. I unbuckle my seatbelt and twist to open my door. But he's locked it.

My heart speeds up. "Seb..."

"In a minute," he says as he frees himself from his belt and twists in his seat to face me. "I need to say something."

"What?" I snap.

"It would've been the first thing I said to you today if you weren't sick."

"You wouldn't have seen me today if I wasn't sick."

"Right. The first thing I'd have said the next time I saw you, then."

"Get on with it, then," I demand. "I don't want to be seen in a car with..."

"I'm sorry, Shell."

"Fine," I huff. "Just say what you have to."

"That's what I wanted to say. Sorry. For the other day and the day before that. I was out of line and I feel so ashamed."

My fogged-up brain finally gathers what he's talking about. The kiss. Well, the kisses. Two of them. I remember I'm supposed to be mad at him for forcing himself on me like that, but I don't have the energy to scold him.

"When I heard you fell ill on Monday night... after the second time that I... did what I did... I felt horrible."

"You think I fell ill because of what you... did?" I ask, sceptical.

He just swallows.

I laugh like the concept's absurd, the way he'd laughed when I'd insinuated that he missed the Chini Paan because he had feelings for me. In the same way that I'm laughing to refute the truth in his words, was he laughing on Monday to contest the truth in mine?

Does he have feelings for me?

Surely not.

When my laughter calms down, I see that his lips are pursed. "Whatever," he says with a shrug, almost childishly. "I'm just sorry. For everything."

I raise an eyebrow. "Everything?" I query. He knows what I mean.

He nods. "I'm going to stop trying to... sabotage your wedding." He swallows before adding, "The two of you clearly care about each other and... I won't stand in your way anymore." He holds out his hand for me to shake, a peace-making gesture. "I really hope you and Imran will be very happy together."

Stunned, I lift my face to appraise his. The look on Seb's face... It's like he's abandoned his precious private equity fund.

Said goodbye to his hopes and dreams.

Sacrificed everything he cares about.

I shake my head to clear it of these irrational thoughts.

"I mean it, Shell."

"Oh, I believe you." In a daze, I reach out to shake his hand.

It feels like a bubble of static air bursts between our palms as our hands grip each other's, and I feel the aftershock reverberate through my arm and into my stomach.

My mouth pops open.

My hand goes limp.

He clasps my hand tighter, not letting it slip through his fingers.

My eyes plead to him to let go because I can't remember how to speak.

Our eyes lock and he swallows like his mouth is dry.

Is mine dry, too?

I don't know...

Something in the way he's gazing at me, tells me that holding my hand is doing similar, incomprehensible things to him, too. The thought makes my heart flutter. Why's it doing that?

When I notice that I'm breathing fast, I purse my lips and hold my breath, not wanting him to see that he's making my heart race. But that just makes things worse, and when I can no longer keep from breathing, I'm more or less panting as air rushes rapidly in and out of my mouth.

I have to get out of this car!

But I can't make myself move. Why can't I move? Or ask him to unlock the door? Let me go. Why am I reacting to him like this, like I've never reacted to him before? Like I've never reacted to anyone before.

I've never held a guy's hand before!

I shouldn't. It's wrong. So wrong.

As though he can sense my rising panic, his thumb starts caressing the back of my hand in soothing strokes, trying to calm me. It doesn't. Instead, it elicits an mmm sound to escape through my lips, my eyes to flutter. It feels so good, what he's doing.

His hand stills, as though he's shocked by the effect he's having on me. I open my eyes and find that his have a warning in them. Don't make a sound like that again, his eyes seem to say. Or something along those lines... I don't see how I'm the one that needs to be cautioned—I'm not the one that's doing anything. I'm just reacting. And I need to stop.

"Seb..." I'm impressed that I managed to finally utter a syllable, but that's all my pounding heart and dizzy head are capable of right now.

His jaw locks, and the warning in his eyes burns brighter. It's like he's asking me, Why did you go and say that for? in an angry way.

Unless I'm misinterpreting it? Could it be that my inexperienced heart and innocent eyes are seeing a warning where there's desire, and anger where there's passion? Before I can decide, Seb flicks his wrist so that the back of my hand is facing up. I look down at our joined hands but his black hair gets in my way. I straighten in my seat, realising that he's bending his head over my hand like he's going to kiss it.

But he doesn't. He pauses when the tip of his nose grazes my skin and inhales deeply. Smelling my skin. Too shocked by his actions, I become motionless.

And then he lowers his face until his nose and lips press into my hand slowly, softly. I jerk forward at the gentle impact, my body shuddering at his touch. My other hand grabs the dashboard to steady myself, but when he starts moving his head from side-to-side, his lips brushing my skin, my entire frame trembles over and over.

I can't say how long before he finally decides to kiss my hand. Seconds? Minutes? I know it's not hours, because it's still light outside. Still as light as it was when I'd attempted to exit his car. My God, we're still in his car!

The horror fades as though it wasn't even there because I can't remember what I'm supposed to be scared about, I can't remember to even breathe, when his lips finally kiss my hand.

All I can do is make that mmm sound again.

The sound is too light, too simple, too small; it doesn't communicate the fact that my stomach fell to my feet when he kissed my hand, that I felt as though he'd kissed the bones beneath my skin.

He pulls back an inch and goes down to kiss my hand again and I feel a moan building in my throat just anticipating this second kiss.

Stop!

Seb's head jerks up, as though I've said something to him, said stop. When I was scolding myself, urging myself to not make obvious how much my body had thrilled at his touch, at his lips on my skin, had I said the word out loud? Looks like I did... Happens sometimes. When I'm deep in thought about something or can't get a conversation out of my head, I'll end up muttering something related to my thoughts without realising it. If anyone's about, they ask me why I said something so random.

Seb straightens in his seat. "Shell..."

I don't detect remorse or an apology in his hoarse voice. But I can't say for sure if there's desire and passion in his eyes. No man has ever looked at me with desire and passion, so I don't know what it looks like. And Seb's looking at me like no man has ever looked at me before... Which is exactly how I preferred it, exactly how it's meant to be:

No man is supposed to look at me with desire in his eyes, apart from my husband.

My husband!

Imran!

"Imran?" Seb whispers, brows furrowing in confusion.

Oh my god, I said Imran's name out loud, too!

First, I said stop, and now Imran.

The confusion on Seb's face is a result of him wondering why I just called him Imran.

Right?

He can't be wondering why I'm thinking of Imran at a time like this, because, of course, I should be thinking of Imran at a time like this.

When I'm partaking in unmentionable things with his best friend.

Imran.

Imran.

Imran!

This time, I know I've said his name out loud, at least once, and now that I've done it, I can't stop.

"Imran. Imran," I chant in a panicky whisper. "Imran. Imran."

How could I have done this?

"Imran."

What came over me?

"Imran."

Why did I forget that I belong to him?

"Imran. Im—"

"Shell. Stop!" he tells me, voice pained.

I stop, but it doesn't mean I'm not repeating Imran's name in my head, over and over, like a mantra.

Imran.

I have to etch it into my mind.

Imran.

Tattoo it over my heart.

Imran.

I can't forget it.

Imran.

Can't forget him.

IMRAN!

"Yes, Imran. I know," Seb murmurs. "I know." He sighs deeply. I realise now that he's not looking at me anymore. When had he first looked away? "I've unlocked your door," he tells me, staring out the windshield. "You're free to go."

"Go," I find myself saying uselessly.

"Yes."

"Yes." Stop repeating what he says! "I need to go." Yes, you do, so go, get out now!

I scramble out of his car. Don't bother shutting the door behind me. Stagger my way home on even wobblier legs than when I'd left the house this morning.

That night, astonishingly, I fall asleep quickly. But not before I send Imran a message.

Text me

If he were around, I think I would've asked him to kiss me. Maybe that would stop me from still feeling Sebastian Lowe's hand in mine. And his kiss on my bones.

# Chapter 51: Shell

The first thing I do when I wake up on Friday morning is check the screen of my phone. It just shows the time—08:49—and today's date, how much charge it has—69%—and how good the network signal is. Nothing else. Meaning: Imran didn't reply to my text.

If he'd been around last night, and I'd asked him to kiss me, would he have ignored me and walked away silently? That's what he did to my text... What else do I deserve? After the things I did last night. In Seb's car. His car... Of course, I had a dream about it, which is annoying and scary because last night was the first night this week that I had a decent sleep. And what do I do when I sleep soundly for the first time since falling ill? I dream about Seb Lowe. And his car.

I'm not correcting the word dream with nightmare anymore, because what's the point? I won't be able to stick to it.

The dream itself didn't end with me screaming in his face, either, and I didn't wake up when it faded. Or I can't remember how it ended... But it started with me leaving my office and finding that Seb's come to drive me home, his car parked right behind him.

I knew you'd come to work today, he said with a grin, shaking his head disapprovingly.

I knew you'd come to drive me home, I'd replied, biting back a smile. I was in a short red, flowing dress, a big white belt at the waist, bare legs, feet in shiny red stilettos. When I walked up to him, in what I think was a sexy walk, my hips swaying like a supermodel's would on a runway, my eyes were on the same level as his. I think I said, I can wear heels when I'm with you, to which he smiled crookedly and murmured, You can wear anything when you're with me. His voice was husky, sexy. I giggled.

Then, we were suddenly inside his car. The scene outside the windshield suggested that we were on the edge of a cliff, mountains all around us but huge distances away. Like we were in an American teen movie and we'd driven to a make-out point.

We're in the middle of nowhere, I'd gasped.

When I turned to look at Seb in the driver's seat, I could see, beyond his window, the secret garden from Monday night's dream. We're on the edge, Seb said before putting his hands on either side of my face and pulling me in for a kiss.

I kissed him back as though I was proficient in the art of kissing, and couldn't stop gasping when he started nuzzling my neck.

The edge of what? I whispered as he kissed his way to the other side of my neck and started drawing circles on my skin with his tongue. The edge of what?

But he wouldn't say.

I only remember to delete the unanswered text I sent to Imran last night after I've finished my mug of black tea and half a slice of dry toast. Amma must've started making my breakfast when she heard me in the bathroom and brought it up while I was still in there, having a shower. I felt like I had to have a shower after that dream, even though I'd showered when I got home yesterday. With a sigh, I grab my phone and unlock it with my PIN.

Memories of Seb unlocking the same iPhone I have with his thumbprint and Imran saying he prefers not to use fingerprint ID for the same reasons as me, distract me as I tap the Messages icon. So, it takes me a few seconds to figure out that I never sent Imran that text. I'd written it but forgot to send it, or thought I'd pressed the 'Send' button in my disoriented state without having done so. The words Text me are still written in the little box where we type our messages before they shoot upwards and into the message thread once we press 'Send'.

Relief is the first thing I feel—thank God I didn't send him that message. Then, I'm numb.

I'm numb for the rest of the month, barely paying attention to the wedding talk and forgetting everything that I'm forced to concentrate on as soon as I'm alone or at work. It's like I'm half-alive, or half-awake, and I don't know what it will take for me to be me again. To be real again.

Or maybe I haven't ever been real and this numbness is what it means to live? Live as me. Is that depression talking? I don't know.

Everyone notices I've been distracted and off, not quite myself, but they attribute it to my mysterious illness and its after-effects.

"She's still recovering from the fever," I'd once heard Shayla say to Bhabi in a defensive tone. Maybe Bhabi had wondered whether my behaviour had anything to do with getting cold feet over the wedding?

The truth is: My sister is very insightful. I am indeed still recovering. Every morning I'm recovering from the dreams I have the night before. Dreams of Seb Lowe and his hands on my face and his lips on my mouth and his fingers in my hair. They leave me breathless and hot, but I tire of feeling guilt over them very quickly. Because what's the point in feeling guilty about these lust-filled dreams? The guilt never makes the dreams stop. And the dreams only make me want to see Seb again, see him so I can ask him if he's been tormented by dreams of me at night, too.

If he's been living half a life since I exited his car. And if so, how is it that he's been able to stay away from me? Probably the same way I've been able to stay away from him. I'm marrying his best friend in a matter of weeks. Weeks.

But I'm too numb and far away from my life to consider what any of this means—dreaming of one man while preparing to marry another.

# Part Seven--Desire

# Chapter 52: Seb

What am I doing here what am I doing here what am I DOING here? I shouldn't be here! God, it's the last place I ought to be right now. Or ever. In Shell's house. With Imran's family. The guests of honour being Imran's aunt from New Jersey and her husband, come to see Shell.

She's not really Imran's aunt—she's his dad's cousin, but she's the oldest amongst all his cousins and has always been good to him and his family. She's always been good to everyone in the Khan clan, or so I've heard. Even I've met her whenever she's visited London over the years. She's nice. She looks more like a granny than an aunt though, but Bengalis are taught to treat their cousins like siblings, so your parents' cousins have to be treated with the same care and respect as your actual aunts and uncles, too.

Therefore, I call her Fufu as well—what Bengalis call aunts on their dad's side—and I couldn't refuse her—not as many times as I would have if it was anyone else—when she insisted that I come along with her to Shell's house. Fufu is in London to visit a terminally ill relative of her husband's, and when she dropped by Imran's house this morning to see them before her flight back to the States the day after tomorrow, she voiced her regret about missing Imran's wedding by just two-and-a-half weeks.

Yes, the date for the wedding was finalised on the last day of September—Imran and Shell are to wed on Wednesday, October 26th—and they were lucky to secure a decent banqueting hall for the occasion. I heard something about someone in Shell's extended family knowing one of the joint-owners of the venue and they did them a favour and squeezed them in at such short notice. After all, the wedding's during a school half-term holiday, a popular time for Asian weddings.

A wedding Fufu can't attend. Apparently, she'd been holding off on visiting her husband's sick cousin, hoping to fly over during the week of Imran's wedding—a two-birds-with-one-stone sort of thing; a wedding and a deathbed visit in one week—until she was told that the patient had just days to live. So, they flew over on the next available flight to London, praying they wouldn't be too late. Luckily, they weren't. What this means though, is that they won't be able to come for Imran's wedding on the last Wednesday of October.

"Alas, I'll be able to watch the wedding film," she'd sighed over her cup of tea.

Why was I at Imran's house today? Fufu wanted to see me, apparently, and Imran texted me an invite:

I know its Sunday

and you'd rather

sleep in, but Fufu

from NJ is coming

at around 10am and

she says she'd like

to see you.

I'd replied with a gentle brush-off, claiming to be too tired to drive over to Essex. Imran didn't take no for an answer and baited me with something he thought I couldn't resist:

There'll be tandoori

chicken and all your

favourite dishes...

Well, I could resist, and I would have, if I didn't know Imran so well. If he didn't know me so well. He'd figure out that there was something off if I refused an invitation to his house like this. So, I arrived at Imran's at 11am and sat through lunch, my guilt only letting me half-enjoy the food.

I almost choked when they started talking about Shell. Then, to make matters even worse, Khala called Shell so Fufu could speak to her. The next best thing if she couldn't see the bride-to-be in person.

When Fufu lamented to Shell's mum about not being able to attend the wedding, and not seeing Shell in the flesh, Shell's mum invited her and everyone else in Imran's household over to theirs for dinner.

"Oh, that would be lovely," Fufu had rejoiced, "but I have a dinner party invite this evening. I guess it's not meant to be..."

"Well, why don't you come over for afternoon tea?" Shell's mum said. Surprisingly, Fufu agreed immediately.

Of course, I was bullied into tagging along—again, I couldn't say no too many times; it would look suspicious—and Imran's brother drove Fufu, Bhabi, and me to Shell's house. That's why I'm at Shell's living room now, Fufu waiting for Shell to get ready and come down to greet her. Yes, Shell has to doll herself up properly for Fufu, as though she's attending a party, as a sign of respect to Fufu. I wonder if she'll wear the purple sari from the Chini Paan...

Yes, I missed the party, but I didn't miss the Chini Paan photos posted on Facebook by Imran's Bhabi—Shell looked really good. Like so good I couldn't believe it was her in the photos. Is she that beautiful? I found myself wondering as I clicked through photo after photo, eyes always seeking her out and staying with her until I moved to the next snap. Has she always been that stunning? If so, how come I never noticed it?

In person, in that purple and gold sari... would she take my breath away? God, I hope not. I wouldn't want to do anything stupid in front of half of Imran's family and half of Shell's... She'll probably wear a salwar kameez, elegant yet flattering. I hope. I wish more than anything that I wasn't here.

This morning, when I read Imran's text invite, it was the first time in years—if not in forever—that I wished I wasn't so close to his family. That I wasn't a part of it. At least that way, I wouldn't have to put myself through all this torture:

Wanting to see Shell and not wanting to see her at the same time.

Listening to Shell's father talk with Imran's Bhai and Bhabi about the wedding preparations.

Wincing every time Fufu learns something about Shell and says she's a perfect match for Imran...

Yes, I really could do without this.

How did this even happen? How did I go from thinking that Shell was a good girl—just wrong for Imran because she's too much like him—to thinking that she's exactly right for me?

How have I gone from trying to split the two of them up to wanting Shell for myself? It doesn't make sense.

She wasn't even on my radar until... until she suddenly was.

I guess I always liked the fact that she kept surprising me, that she wasn't always what she seemed, but still, to go from being a little impressed by her to feeling this crazy longing for her...

Could it be because she's so similar to Imran—essentially the same person in a different body, as I'd coined her the moment Imran told me about her—Imran, who happens to be my favourite person in the world, and so of course, I was going to like her?

My best friend had said it himself when I'd presented my opposites attract theory to him at the start of all this, how the two of us should be with the female versions of each other. In other words, I should be with someone like Shell. "Since Shell's the female version of me," Imran had said to me, "you're the type of person she should be with."

# Chapter 53: Seb

The chatter drones painfully on and I can't take it anymore. I jump to my feet, needing to escape the wedding talk.

"Everything alright, Seb?" queries Shell's brother.

"Yeah, just need the bathroom," I tell him and head for the little cloakroom under the stairs. Damn, it's occupied.

"Oh, Shayla just went in there," Shell's Bhabi says from the kitchen to my right, noticing me outside the downstairs toilet, scowling at the locked door. "Use the upstairs bathroom," she tells me.

Obviously, I don't need the bathroom—I just need some space, some silence—but Shell's Bhabi is giving me a friendly, encouraging smile, and it would look weird if I didn't go upstairs like she's advised me. And I do need a moment's quiet...

So, I make myself as loud as possible as I thump-thump my way up the stairs. I know Shell's the only one upstairs, and I don't want her to feel like I'm sneaking up to see her. I really hope she's not in the bathroom. As I near the top of the stairs, I see that the bathroom door is slightly ajar, vacant.

"Shayla?" A door opened quickly at the same time as the voice called out her sister's name.

I stop at the top step, the bathroom—my escape—just two strides away, and turn my head to my right. I'm greeted with the most stunning sight I've ever seen. Shell. In a very light, mint-green lengha with silver embroidery. I think the outfit is made from mint-green fabric but the shimmering embroidery is so heavy, weaving its way all around the skirt and bodice in intricate ethnic designs, that it's lightening the colour of the material, paling it.

But it can't pale her beauty.

She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen...

Standing a step outside her bedroom, Shell has her hands on her head, shock etched onto her face. On closer inspection, I think she's in the middle of pinning the see-through shawl on her head. It's clear she heard the loud approach and thought it was her sister. Perhaps she needed help with her shawl?

Without my permission, my legs take a few steps towards her. "Hey." The word barely leaves my mouth before I swallow. Swallow the urge to tell her how gorgeous she looks.

"Hey," she whispers, I'm sure without meaning to. Her hands are still on her head.

I zoom-in. I think I see a pin in her hand. Yes, she needs help pinning on the mint-green shawl. It's made from fine net-like material, and has a thick and heavily embroidered silver border all the away around it, making it rather heavy and difficult to manage on one's own.

"I'd offer to help with that," I say, gesturing at the shawl with my head. "But I think you need a more practised hand than mine."

Gulping, she just nods.

"The bathroom downstairs wasn't free..." I explain quietly. I know I ought to speak louder, so it looks less suspicious. Less like I've sneaked up here to talk to her.

But it's okay because her voice is just as soft and quiet when she speaks. "That's the bathroom behind you," she tells me. I nod and make to turn towards the restroom.

But before I know it, I'm turning back around to face her just as she's half-turned towards her room. Determining my movements from the corner of her eye perhaps, she faces me once more, looking terrified.

"Shell, I have to tell you. You look..." I can't continue with words but my head shakes of its own accord. Hopefully, she gets that I can't find a word that can appropriately describe just how indescribably breathtakingly stunningly beautiful she looks right now.

She gets it and says, "Thank you, Mr. Lowe." I know she'd attempted to cut the tension with that phrase, hoped to bring me to my senses, too, but the words didn't leave her mouth the right way.

Her mouth.

Swallowing, I zoom-in on her sumptuous lips. Though I try to drag my gaze away, or at least broaden it so I can see her entire face, I find myself swallowing again, this time at the thought of kissing her soft, full lips.

Her lips.

More zooming-in.

Stop, Seb. Just stop.

"Imran's a really lucky man." Really, really lucky man.

"Thanks," she whispers and I get the feeling that it wasn't an intentional whisper. "When you go back downstairs," she adds, her voice just a tad more even than mine, "can you send Shayla up?"

"Sure."

Shell nods her thanks and re-enters her room. She doesn't shut the door all the way. Because she thinks it'll be rude to do so? That it'll look like she's shutting the door on me? Most likely, she expects her little sister to run up to her room in a few minutes, so why bother closing it.

I don't know how long I stare at the slightly ajar door of Shell's bedroom before I turn to stare at the slightly ajar door of the bathroom. But I know I stare at the bathroom door a whole three seconds before spinning on the spot and walking inside Shell's room.

I'm surprised to find, as I push open her door enough to let me in, that she's already facing me, her eyes wide in horror. Which means she was facing the door. Not the wardrobe with its full-length mirror. Not the double-glazed windows looking out at the back garden. But the door. Behind which I was standing. Was she waiting for me to come inside? Expecting it? Hoping? The thought makes me swallow again.

"Angelic."

"Huh?" she asks, her eyebrows creasing in confusion.

"Angelic," I repeat. "That's the word I should've used earlier when describing you. Because angels are beautiful beyond words and comprehension, right? That's how you look right now."

The green shawl drops to the floor with a loud thud. It makes her jump. That's how decked out it is with crystals and shimmering thread and decorative wire.

I don't think she dropped the shawl because it's become too heavy for her. She dropped it at the sound of my voice. The way I'd said those words.

Shell's arms are hanging limply by her sides now. I bet her face has lost all colour; I can't see for the layer of make-up on her skin. Or maybe that rosy-pink blusher on her cheeks is concealing a real, apple-red blush.

"Seb," she whispers, "you shouldn't say such things to me."

"I shouldn't have said a lot of things to you," I remind her, just as quietly. "Shouldn't have done a lot of things to you."

Her eyes drop to the floor, thinking of those kisses I stole from her. Without her permission. Without a right. And the kisses on her hand that she couldn't help but enjoy. My heart jumps at the memory.

"You've apologised already," she hisses under her breath.

I apologised for the kisses on her lips, not for what happened in my car. She's trying to avoid talking about what happened in my car.

"And you promised not to do it again."

"No, I didn't," I remind her. Somewhere deep inside me, I think I knew I'd keep kissing her.

"Well, it was implied," she says, calming slightly.

"In that case, I'm sorry if I misled you."

Shell opens her mouth in protest, in outrage, but it passes quickly. "What's that mean, Seb?"

"It means I'm going to kiss you now."

"What?" She swallows painfully. Takes a step back. Luckily, she doesn't trip over the shawl on the floor; it's now in a heap just an inch in front of her feet.

There was no resistance in her tone, her voice. And I'm not oblivious to the fact that she hasn't once told me to get out of her room. This makes me even more determined to kiss her.

I know I'll be leaving this room in a few moments, nursing another slap to my face, maybe two, one on each cheek, for I dared to corner her like this in her own home, in her own room. But I can't bring myself to care. If she slaps me, it'll still be her touching me.

"I'm going to kiss you now," I repeat. "And if you oppose in any way, you have three seconds to express it." I don't do a three-two-one countdown, of course, I don't; this isn't a game. I just hold my breath for three seconds.

Three silent seconds.

# Chapter 54: Shell

Sebastian Lowe is an expert in sneaking into girls' bedrooms. I know this because he doesn't make a sound as he closes my door and turns the little key in the doorknob to lock it.

"Seb?" I gasp, taking several backward steps as he turns to me.

Eyes defiant.

Decided.

Everything about him in this moment is screaming out: You didn't object, Shell. You didn't tell me to go away.

I didn't. I couldn't. And I don't know why... But I do know that it's not because I'm numb right now. I'm anything and everything but numb. Ever since I saw him at the top of the stairs, I feel like I've come alive, woken up from a deep, dreamless sleep, countless emotions wrestling inside me.

My heart's pounding.

My skin is heating.

My rational mind is slipping away from me...

Seb takes a few steps towards me. I move back some more. He comes to a halt when I bump into the wall behind me. Or the wardrobe. Or my desk. I don't know. All I see is the boy that's locked himself inside my room with me. While my entire family and his adopted family are downstairs, oblivious. There should be fear and outrage at what he's done, but all I can think is: Seb's in my room. Seb Lowe is in my room. The man from my dreams is here in the flesh.

Is this like the thing that happens when a gun is pointed at you, and all you see is its barrel, getting larger and larger?

"I'm going to kick myself if I don't kiss you," he says in a loud whisper, his eyes lowering to my mouth. "And I'll kick myself if I do. But its okay"—a quieter whisper, just about audible—"because I feel like kicking myself. Over and over."

His tall, strong form gets bigger and bigger, and before I finish whispering "Seb..." he's standing right in front of me, his face just an inch from mine. Eyes still on my mouth. "Seb..." I whisper again. I'd intended for my tone to carry a warning. A caution. In all honesty, I'd meant to say, "Don't, Seb," but all that came out was his name.

When he cocks his head to the side, so that his nose won't squash mine when he leans in, I attempt to tell him, to beg him, plead him to "Leave, Seb." But once more, my mouth edits out the first half of that utterance and I'm pleading to him with just, "Seb..." I might as well be begging him to kiss me.

His eyes snap up to mine. The look on his face suggests that he's interpreted my plea as a come-on rather than a go away. He thinks I'm begging him to kiss me! I'm not begging him to kiss me! But I'm not stopping him...

My eyes widen and I hope the fear and panic and warning in them are loud and clear to him.

But he says, "I made a mistake the last two times. I rushed it." Then, he drops his voice, licks his full lips. "This time, I'll take it real slow." He dragged out that last word, his tongue wrapping sensually around the syllable. "Promise." This he said as he took that final step towards me, leaving nothing between our bodies.

He touches his lips to mine gently, a petal-light touch. They're barely there. But they are there and his lips are so soft that I gasp, my mouth parting slightly, from the shock of it. I gasped from shock, right?

Yes, shock.

Not because of how his lips feel...

Not because my insides simultaneously melted and hardened at his touch.

Seb takes my lower lip between his. Encapsulates it. Owns it. Savours the taste of it. And when his tongue flicks my imprisoned lip, my mouth widens further, and a ragged breath leaves my mouth.

From the shock of it.

Not because of how it made me feel.

Not because of the little ball of heat that ignited in my stomach the moment he did the tongue-flick.

No, not because of that.

Then, he begins to pull away from me, my bottom lip still his captive, and I realise that his nose had been next to mine and his forehead had been warm against mine, and now that he's moving away, albeit very slowly, my face is hotter yet colder because I no longer feel the heat of his skin.

As the distance between our faces increases, my lip is stretched by his until he can hold it no longer and my lip bounces back like an elastic band.

Yes, this is kissing in slow-motion...

He looks into my eyes now and I look back, holding my breath. Whatever he sees—or thinks he sees, because I honestly don't know what I'm feeling, what message I want to give him—makes him gulp. Nervously. I didn't think it was possible for Seb Lowe to look nervous so many times in the same day.

He's coming back in and my open mouth is ready. My lips close around his as soon as he presses his mouth to mine and his hands fly up to cup my face and we're kissing. Kissing like we're lovers who are about to part for a long time or have reunited after a lengthy separation. My head rocks back-and-forth and from side-to-side with his as our lips and tongues clash violently.

Some small part of my psyche is able to feel grateful that Seb has lost control like this, his lips, his mouth, his tongue, all haywire and rough like mine; he won't be able to see just how inexperienced I am at kissing and making out. Well, this is the first time I'm making out...

And it's hard work trying to keep up with him. In the same way that his lips can't seem to get enough of mine, his hands are just as hungry, touching me in places I've never been touched by a man. Or anyone. Not like this, anyway.

My stomach.

The small of my back.

My neck.

Below my ear.

The hollow beneath my throat.

His hands rub up my throat before cupping my face again and deepening this already intense kiss, his tongue plunging into my mouth and claiming it, marking every millimetre of it, marking it as his own. My legs tremble and I think he feels it. How can he not? We're that close...

Seb releases my lips to kiss the corner of my mouth, then my cheek, beneath my jaw, and when he starts nuzzling my throat, I hear a strange noise and my eyes pop open.

It sounded like the beginning of a small laugh that cut off abruptly.

Too late, I realise it was me that made that sound. It was a surprised moan. Surprise from how good it felt to have his face buried in my throat, his lips and tongue caressing and biting my skin, and a moan of pleasure. Yes, it feels better than any physical act has ever felt.

Physical.

Act.

The words kick me awake, and as though I've been asleep, I jerk to attention. I lift my hands to his shoulders and shove him away.

Seb stumbles back a couple of steps. Surprise leaves his features quickly and he awakes, too.

"And now I'm going to go kick myself."

His whispered words are loud in my ears as he unlocks and opens the door, as silently as he'd closed it, and leaves me standing there. Cold and hot and wondering why I feel like calling him back to me.

Downstairs, Seb and I can't keep our eyes off each other. Well, the corners of our eyes, and I swear there's a zinging electricity in the air between us, bubbling and simmering like boiling water, trying to lure us to each other. And maybe I would have jumped right onto his lap if the lounge wasn't housing half my family and half of Imran's. With the remaining members of my family in the kitchen around the corner...

Seb's sitting in the seat that Imran had sat on during the Bridal Viewing, and I'm in the same spot by the door, on a chair next to the three-seater sofa on which Imran's Fufu, his Bhabi, and brother are sitting. I've angled myself towards them, so I can 'interact' with them, and as a result, I can see Seb clearly from the corners of my eyes.

He's angled his head towards the TV that sits in front of the windows, flanked by the two sofas positioned opposite each other. From the corners of his eyes, I know he's watching me the way I'm watching him. I'm pretty sure his mind is running over our kiss, just like mine is, because every now and then, I see him swallow.

I can't stop thinking about what our mouths were doing with each other just minutes ago and I'm distracted and confused throughout my 'conversation' with Imran's family. Luckily, they'll put it down to nerves and coyness, rather than me picturing what Seb and I could be doing if I had the ability to freeze everyone bar the two of us. Or if I could click my fingers and turn this into one of my dreams, where it's only ever just the two of us.

I've had crushes before, when I was much younger, mind you—on teachers, celebrities, the occasional handsome seminar tutor at Uni—but I've never gone ahead and daydreamed about finding a quiet, secluded corner to make out with them. But that's what I'm doing the whole time until Imran's Fufu says that I must be uncomfortable in my lengha and can go upstairs and change into something more suited to this surprisingly warm October weather. Summer's hanging around for a lot longer than usual this year...

No, I want to say, I'm happy to stay and chat with you a little longer. Just to be in the same room as Seb Lowe for a few more minutes. Or hours. Or days... I can't say any of that though, so I leave their midst, Seb and I watching each other as I climb up the stairs.

Up until the point I hear the guests exit the front door, I'm hoping that Seb comes upstairs again, to say goodbye. To kiss me goodbye and tell me he'll kiss me again soon.

But of course, he doesn't, and I'm left to spend the rest of the day, the whole night, just going over the kiss and wishing that I hadn't pushed him away. I could have had him to myself for a lot longer.

# Chapter 55: Shell

"You shouldn't be here, Shell." His words are a tripwire and I stumble to the floor, scrape my knee.

He's right; of course, he is. I shouldn't be here. It's so wrong that I can't bear to think about the wrongness of it. But I just couldn't stop myself from getting on the number 8 bus and jumping off at the stop I remember seeing from the black cab before it cut into Seb's street. I just had to see him again. I wanted to...

"I know I shouldn't be here," I manage to say. And I manage to say it only because I can see on his face, his eyes, that he looks relieved to see me on his doorstep. As relieved as I was when I realised he was home. He could've still been at work or gone for drinks after leaving the office. Or still been on his way home.

Yes, he's relieved I'm here. Relief is an emotion I can recognise. "Then, what are you doing here?" he asks.

This time, his words feel like a kick in the teeth. Blood pools in my mouth. I choke on it.

"I don't know," I mumble. I turn to leave, heartbroken that he didn't even invite me inside. He turned me away from his doorstep...

"Shell?"

I turn.

"Why did you come here?" he half-whispers, and all the wounds his words had inflicted are healed by the sound of his voice. He's desperate for me to stay. To tell him why I came. Yes, I know desperation and curiosity when I see it.

I tell him the truth: "I was wondering if you'd kiss me again."

I'm pulled into a tight embrace the second I finish speaking. His face smashes into mine and we're a frenzy of hands clutching hair and nose brushing cheek and lips smacking teeth and tongue flicking tongue and I'm high from it. From the texture of his soft hair between my fingers and the feel of his smooth skin and the smell of him. He smells citrusy and sexy and hot. I can smell the heat pulsing off his body.

My skin is just as heated and feels clammy all of a sudden, even though I'm in a light, sleeveless white cotton dress with a frilly collar. A sweat breaks out at the back of my neck and I'm relieved that my hair is tied in a high ponytail; if I was wearing it down, it would've clung to my neck, giving me away.

Well, it's not as if the hands clawing through his hair aren't making obvious my desire. And when my arms wrap around his neck to bring him close, they're not exactly concealing just how much I'm craving him right now.

Seb's just as thirsty for me—he curls one arm tightly around my waist while the other spreads around the back of my head, keeping my face pressed against his. Then, with two fingers, he pulls out my hairband. My hair tumbles down and swallows his hand.

It's when he starts massaging my scalp with his fingers that I have to break away from his mouth and arch my neck back. It feels so good. I seem to feel his touch all the way down in my belly. And lower... What his fingers are doing feels amazing and I moan. Well, it's that weird sound that slipped through yesterday, like I stopped laughing as soon as I began. Turns out, that's how I generally moan in pleasure. The odd sound makes his breath catch and he's crushing his lips to mine again, moving hungrier and wilder than before.

How do I elicit this reaction from him? Like he's nothing but a body pressed against mine, capable of nothing but touching and kissing me? How is it that I flip the confident, cheeky, smart-ass Seb Lowe into this boy that seems to have been deprived of touch all his life? Deprived of lips and the act of kissing. That's how he kisses me.

Lips still touching mine, he whispers, "I love it when you moan." So, he interpreted that sorry noise as my moan, too? Fab. Then, bringing his mouth to my right ear: "That sound drives me crazy."

That drove me crazy and I'm kissing and licking the skin that's hidden under his earlobe. Why that specific spot? Two reasons:

One: I vaguely remember reading somewhere about that spot being sensitive for some people.

Two: I want to make him moan at my touch.

Three: I want to see if his moans drive me wild, too.

That's three reasons isn't it, but who's counting? The girl that's a jumble of hormones and pent up frustration related to the guy she's realised she has a crush on? How's she expected to think coherently when she's in said guy's arms, trying to coax a moan of pleasure out of him?

"God, what am I doing?"

Seb stiffens. Oops. I wasn't meant to say that out loud. I chuckle into his neck to cover the slip-up, make out that I was jokingly scolding myself.

Seb's still rigid in my arms.

I straighten up and wait for him to meet my gaze before I grin at him. "What am I doing?" I laugh, shaking my head at myself.

Seb isn't laughing. In fact, he takes a big step back.

Or it's a normal-sized step but the distance it left between us is so unwelcome, so unwanted, that it looks huge in my eyes. I glance down briefly at the laminate floor to see if I can measure the space between us and notice that my bag's on the floor by my feet. When had I dropped it from my shoulder? I kick it to one side with my foot.

I feel a breeze caress my back and all of a sudden realise that we didn't even close Seb's front door.

We're barely inside his flat!

Half of me wants to close the door, but I don't want to turn my back to Seb. I can't bear to. Not when he's got this tormented expression on his face. He looks torn up.

Automatically, I reach out my now-empty hands towards him, wanting to sellotape him back together. "Seb..."

He shakes his head.

I drop my arms.

"Don't do this if you don't know what you're doing," he says, voice low but even, serious. Strict. By this, he means kissing him, touching him, holding him like I don't want to let go. "Don't do this if it means nothing," he pleads. "Don't do this if you don't feel... something."

I'm going to be honest with him, I have to. "Seb, if you want me to say I love you, I can't. That's not what I feel. I don't know what I feel. All I know is... you boil my blood. Make my skin crawl. Make me bold and brave, like I've never been before. Like I'm no longer in the background.

"I didn't sleep a wink last night, thinking about our kiss yesterday. And all I've thought about today is the way you touched me and I just had to come over to see if you'd touch me like that again. I know it's not enough, but it's all I—"

"It's enough," he tells me. "It's more than enough." And he covers the distance between us, curves his arms around me tightly, and kisses me the way I want him to.

A moment later, he lifts me up off the floor and I'm about to protest when he turns on the spot. Placing my feet back on the floor and dropping one arm from me, he slam-shuts the front door without taking his eyes off me. Then, he pulls me close with both arms and leans in to kiss me.

I snap my head back a little. "Not as subtle with the door-closing today," I tease.

"Don't smile at me like that," he says in a low, sexy growl. "Or I'll lose control."

I raise an eyebrow. "Lose control? You say that like—"

"I've been reining myself in this whole time," he tells me, flashing me a wicked grin.

My stomach muscles clench and unclench rapidly. "If that was you in control, I'd hate to see you when you lose—"

"Would you?" he challenges, bringing his face really close to mine. "Hate it?"

Do I want him to lose control with me? "I'm not going to answer that." I'd meant to say that in a teasing tone, but it came out wrong because the implications of his words only sunk in as I began speaking.

My eyes fall as my head spins with the idea of the two of us losing control with each other. Losing ourselves to each other.

In each other.

I think back to the lust-fuelled moments that we've just shared—making out without realising the front door's still open directly behind us—and I'm afraid to say that we were close to... close to something we shouldn't even see in the distance.

"Hey." He cups my chin with his hand and lifts my face until our gazes meet. "I swear I won't..." He shakes his head, unsure of how to continue. Or looking for the right words to express his thoughts. In the end, he goes with, "I swear I won't touch you like that."

"I know," I mumble, gaze dropping.

"No, you don't know," he insists. He's using that strict tone from when he was urging me to not play with his emotions if I didn't feel anything for him. "So, let me make it crystal clear to you, Shell. I will not do anything you don't want me to. I will not take things any further than kissing."

"Kissing?" I query, a frown on my face. "That was not kissing. It was pure, unadulterated... groping."

He chuckles once. "I promise to keep my hands to myself."

"Really?" My tone has an 'Oh, why won't you touch me again?' ring to it. He gets it, of course, he does. I mean, he saw/felt/heard my reactions to his hands. That's why he smiles, satisfied. I feel like slapping that cocky look off his face, but in a playful way.

"I'll only touch your face"—and he cups my face with his big warm hands—"and your hair, your throat, your neck, arms, hands." Tentatively, he moves one of his hands to the small of my back and the other just above my bra-strap.

"Your back," he whispers without meaning to, "is not off-limits, I take it?"

Mouth dry all of a sudden, I just shake my head.

He puts his hands on my hips as he says, "I touched your stomach yesterday..." His tone is cautious and he bites his lip as he adds, "Over your lengha. Is that still okay? Above your clothes, that is..."

Gulping, I bob my head, wordlessly giving him permission to touch my stomach over my clothes. He swallows and nods.

Why are we both so nervous talking about the things we've already done? Done without thinking or caring about the consequences.

"I won't go anywhere else," he finishes, not quite meeting my gaze. I swear his cheeks are redder than they were a moment ago... He's thinking about touching me in places he won't touch me. My chest, my breasts, and everything else beneath my hips... We gulp at the same time, loudly.

I know what he's thinking.

He knows what I'm thinking.

And we should both stop thinking those things.

I open my mouth to say, "You're not going to make me stand in your doorway the whole time, are you?" to distract us, but before I can utter a word, Seb leans in and kisses me.

Well, that's another good way of distracting each other.

# Chapter 56: Shell

Eventually, we make our way to his corner sofa in the sitting room, Seb holding my hand and leading the way. After sitting down next to him, I kick off my shoes and plant my feet on the floor, hoping they'll cool. But the sun's been streaming in through the huge windows all day and his floor is warm to the touch. At any rate, it's nice to feel air flow around my body. It was wonderful being in Seb's arms, but since it's a reasonably warm day, very warm for a London October, I was starting to feel a bit too hot for comfort. I didn't want to start sweating while we made out. That would've been embarrassing.

Talking about humiliating myself, I can't carry on 'kissing' him the way I do. I mean, I should kiss him properly, use the right techniques or whatever. Not continue the way I am, which is to say, not knowing what the hell I'm doing. I don't know how to kiss! And I've been kissing someone who's probably kissed loads of women! What must he think of me...

Seb kisses my bare arm, just beneath my shoulder joint, and startles me out of my reverie. "You want a drink or something?" he murmurs, still kissing my arm.

A giggle escapes my lips.

He jerks his head up. "What?"

I shake my head. I can't tell him that the kisses on my skin felt like tickles, like his lips were tickling my bones.

"What?" he demands, cheeks colouring. I'd never noticed how his cheeks go all splotchy with red.

"Will you drive me home, today?" I can take the Central Line to Stratford and get my usual overground train home, but I'd rather spend the commute with him. In his car.

"Of course," he tells me. "Just let me know when you..." Did he trail off because he doesn't want to think about me leaving? No. Seb's not that romantic. I bet he frowns at being sweet.

"Thanks." Then, without looking at him: "Can I ask a second favour?" My cheeks feel really hot as I practice in my head what I'm about to say.

"Shell," he says, taking my hand in his and then drawing circles on the back of my hand with his index finger. His touch is so soft and gentle that it feels like he's tickling me again. I bite down the giggles. "Driving you home is not a favour, but a pleasure and an honour for me. Whatever you're about to ask for now, will no doubt be a pleasure and an honour, too." So, I was wrong. Seb Lowe can be sweet and romantic. Who'd have thought?

"Will you teach me how to kiss?" I whisper. And swallow.

"What?" he says and bursts into laughter.

I ignore his reaction. "Teach me how to kiss, properly."

"Shell, what do you think we were doing in my doorway?" I open my mouth but Seb add, "In case you've never watched two people kiss before, let me inform you that that's what we were doing in my hallway."

"That wasn't kissing—"

"Okay, it was groping." He grins. "But kissing was a big part of it."

"Not on my part," I argue. "I was just... reacting to you. I wasn't kissing, not really. I never learned." I take a deep breath and continue with the honesty. "If we were to kiss slowly, I wouldn't know what to do..."

"Yes, you would," he tells me. "Just... react to me."

"But I don't want to just react. I want to make sure I'm doing it right. So, you don't laugh at me—"

"I'd never laugh at you, Shell." He squeezes my hand. It feels so good. "Besides, you're very good at reacting," he tells me. "Yesterday, in your room, I couldn't tell that you'd never kissed anyone before."

"You're just saying that to make me feel good," I mumble. "You're being sweet and—"

He shakes his head, face serious. "I'd never do that to you, Shell. I'll be honest with you, always." He puts his hand on my cheek. Looks in my eyes. "Now, trust me when I say that I love the way you kiss me. And the slow kissing... you'll pick it up as you go. Like everyone else does."

"Really?"

He nods. A second later, he grins cheekily.

"What?" I demand, anxious.

"It'll take you longer than most people to pick it up..."

"Coz I'm a late-starter?" I assume.

"No. Because I can't see us—well, I can't see me kissing you slowly too often." He puts his other hand on my other cheek now. "When you're in my arms, I can't help wanting to..."

"What?" I say when he doesn't finish the sentence, my heart racing suddenly.

"I want to hold you tighter than it is physically possible," he whispers. "It's like I want to pull you inside me, close my body around you. Devour you, literally."

I shudder. Close my eyes.

"And you taste so good that I want to eat you, swallow you whole."

My eyes snap open. "Eat me?" I laugh. "You cannibal!" I chuckle.

"I know," he admits with a sigh. "It's mental, isn't it?" He shakes his head. "But that's how I feel."

"You need help, Mr. Lowe," I tease.

He moves his hands into my hair, combs it with his fingers, before smoothing it down. That reminds me—my hair must've been a mess this whole time; he'd been twisting it and clawing through it with his hands. I'd done the same to him, and he looks like he just got out of bed...

I make to neaten his dark hair when he spreads his fingers around the back of my head and starts massaging my scalp again. My hands drop to my lap, eyes close automatically. I purse my lips to keep from gasping in pleasure. I've massaged my scalp nearly all my life when washing my hair, but it's never felt this sensual.

His expert fingers work on my scalp as he says, "What'll my doctor say when I tell him that I kissed a girl called Shell and that triggered the onset of person-specific cannibalistic urges?"

Eyes still closed, head tilting back in contentment, I just about manage to whisper, "So, you haven't always wanted to eat me?"

"Not from the start, no," he whispers back. "It's only after I kissed you after the karaoke that I started... wanting you."

He wants me... I gulp.

"Well, that rules out vampire," I mumble. "And man-eating demon."

"Well, you're lucky I'm not a vampire," Seb chuckles. "Because your lovely throat is completely exposed right now."

And then he's kissing my throat, jaw, and chin, until he finds my lips. Lucky for me, it's not a slow kiss and I don't have to worry about technique and getting things right, because it's all I can do to keep up with his hungry mouth and probing tongue.

Twenty minutes later, I mumble something about it getting late and Seb sighs. "Okay, let's get you home."

"Thanks." I make sure I have all of my things with me and follow him out the door.

During the drive, we talk about work and private equity and music and it's nice to see the social side to Seb. The charming side of him. He's not as cheesy as he was at Tariq's restaurant and his compliments seem genuine and heartfelt. How sweet... I realise now that he'd been holding out on me on that front. Trying to be as obnoxious and off-putting as possible, to annoy me. Make me uncomfortable. Make me snap.

Now that he's being himself, I can see why Imran and his family love Seb so much. If he'd been like this from the moment we met, I daresay I'd have been a little bit smitten...

Too soon, we're at the far end of my street and Seb parks the car in the first empty spot he finds. He unclasps his seatbelt and turns to face me as I unbuckle mine. He gives me a tight smile. He's nervous. And maybe a little sad that our time together has come to an end...

Taking my hand, he says, "I'd ask when can I see you again, but—"

"I'd say that I don't know." I bite my lip as I smile, sheepish.

"Can I call you?" he asks in a quiet voice, almost shy. Aww, that's so cute...

My smile widens. "Text me," I tell him.

He nods. "Thanks," he says with a happy smile. Then, he lowers his head over our joined hands and I feel tingly all over thinking about the last time he'd kissed my hand in this car. Surely, I won't react the same way today, not now that I'm more used to his touch. But I needn't have worried. Seb flips my hand over and presses a kiss to my palm. I don't shiver or shudder, my legs don't tremble, and my breath doesn't come out in short, sharp gasps like last time, and yet...

And yet, the reach of this kiss seems to bypass my flesh and bones and plunge right into my soul.

I snatch my hand back, as though he's stung me. Seb doesn't say anything as he faces forward in his seat. I open my door, almost surprised that it's not locked. "Thanks again for the ride, Seb."

"I'll text you. Tonight," he promises me as he meets my gaze in farewell before I climb out of his car.

The first text comes two minutes after 10pm, almost as soon as I leave everyone watching TV in the lounge and run up to my bedroom.

Hey says Seb via SMS.

Hey

Can I call you now?

Not right now. Sorry, I reply. Then: The walls are very thin...

About a minute later, this pops up on my phone screen:

Dearest Shell,

I had the most amazing

time with you today.

But it wasn't the way

I'd have done things

if I'd known from the

start what you'd come

to mean to me. And so,

I'd like to take you

on a proper date if

you let me. The rest,

we can figure out

afterwards. So what

do you say?

I want to say yes—I know I'm going to see him again; I have to see him again, to have The Talk—but it's surprisingly hard to write my reply. Takes a long time. I write and re-write it over and over and before I know it, Seb's sent another text:

Shell, you don't

have to let me

down gently...

A second later, he follows it up with:

I'll be fine with

whatever you say

I delete the string of words that I'd put together and hastily tell him:

You better be fine

with it because

I'm saying YES.

He replies quickly:

Good because I

don't know how

much longer

I can wait

to kiss you again.

Touch you again.

I'm going CRAZY.

I might skip the

Kissing and just

bite you instead.

You'll be

bleeding all over...

I gulp, feeling hot all over.

For some reason, it feels as though the best thing about all of this is the fact that he doesn't say anything about deleting his messages.

I delete everything, anyway.

# Chapter 57: Seb

No one needs to tell me that I am a very, very bad man. I'm telling myself that every second of the day. Even in my dreams—well, nightmares. Nightmares in which I'm running away with Reha, Imran and his family chasing after us, calling me a traitor.

A betrayer.

I have no intentions of eloping with Imran's little sister. Of doing anything with her. Reha represents something that belongs to Imran and his family. Something I have no right over. Something that would tear honour away from him and his family if I were to steal it away from them.

Reha, in my nightmares, symbolises Shell.

Even in my nightmares, Shell belongs to Imran—doesn't belong with me. Yet, I find myself forgetting all that whenever I see her. She makes me forget there's a world out there, that there are consequences to every action. When I'm alone with her, it's just me and her and nothing else exists or matters. I can't stay away from her. Though I know I should.

I really, really should.

And at the same time, I shouldn't keep a distance. The thing is, Shell and I have already embarked on this path, one that will no doubt lead to destruction and hurt, and I can't abandon her halfway. Especially seen as it was yours truly that pointed her in this direction. I brought Shell to the edge of this cliff, and if she's going to be forced to jump, I should be there, holding her hand when she takes the leap.

I should jump with her.

Well, that's what I keep telling myself as I wait for Shell outside her office building, so we can go have our date. It's what I've been telling myself since the moment she turned up on my doorstep yesterday, wondering if I'd kiss her again. I'd been astonished that Shell hadn't slapped or kicked me when I'd sneaked into her bedroom and even more surprised that she'd kissed me back—or reacted to me—but the last thing I'd expected after leaving her house on Sunday was for her to make the next move.

I'd promised myself that I'd leave her be from then on. Having her kiss me back once was enough. More than I deserved.

Whatever compelled her to do so would have to remain a mystery, for I'd never let myself be alone with her again. And I was certain I'd be able to do it. This is how I knew: I pictured telling Imran the truth, and like the last time I'd planned to confess to him about kissing Shell, I saw that I wouldn't be able to do that to him. Wasn't capable of hurting him like that. Wasn't ready to lose him. But the next day, Shell was standing on my doormat, telling me that I made her feel all the things I think she deserves to feel by the man that...

The man that she belongs to.

Could I be that man? In an ideal world, I'd beg her to give me a chance. A chance to be that man. In reality, however, what I'd actually be doing is asking her to throw away everything she knows and loves, everything that matters to her—family, honour, respect. Her life as she knows it. So, I won't be asking her for more than one date. Won't be asking her for a relationship. Not unless that's what she wants, all consequences considered.

And I know Shell doesn't want to be with me.

She doesn't love me.

She doesn't know what she feels for me.

All I've done is made her so outrageously confused that she doesn't know what she wants anymore.

When she figures it all out, I'll accept it without argument. Be there for her. I won't desert her after luring her to this dangerous and unknown territory.

I'm so caught up in my thoughts that I don't spot Shell until she's walked right up to me and smiled. She does look lovely when she smiles... She doesn't say anything, waiting for me to speak.

All I can say is, "Hey."

Chuckling, she repeats it back to me. In a royal blue dress, black leggings and electric blue heels—yes, heels; I've never seen her wear this type of shoe before!—she looks smart and sexy. My eyes follow the curves of her tall, slim body, the contours of her legs, and I can't help but recall how good it felt when I'd traced the shape of her with my hands. Felt her warm body beneath my fingers... Swallowing down the desire to touch her, I force my eyes up to her face. Hair rippling in the warm breeze, she looks at me with a question in her gaze.

"Heels?" I find myself asking.

She bursts into laughter, surprised. "I guess..." After glancing down at her footwear, she grins at me. "I can wear heels when I'm with you."

With me... The thought makes me sick with nerves. Was I wrong? Does she actually want to... give me a chance?

Detecting my unease, she starts walking towards the restaurant where I've booked us a table. "What I mean is, I don't feel awkward. I mean..." She shakes her head, struggling to express her thoughts. "I know I shouldn't and that it's wrong, but I feel weird if I'm taller than all the guys around me... Taller than most girls... But with people as tall as you... when I'm still a little shorter than you in heels... I feel... normal." She shakes her head again. "I know I shouldn't be insecure about my height, but I am. A little. I'm working on it," she adds casually.

"We're all insecure about something physical."

"But we shouldn't be," Shell insists as she stops walking, realising what I'm referring to, what she's reminded me of. I halt, too. "It's hard, I should know, but we shouldn't be insecure about our bodies." She starts walking again. I follow as she adds, "The human body is... a miracle, really. Beautiful creations, lovingly made by God. We're all beautiful on the outside, Seb. Though, I can't say the same for the inside." She points at me, and says in a mock-scolding tone, "You, Seb Lowe, have one of the darkest souls around." She smiles to make clear she's joking about the dark soul.

She needn't bother. I know she's joking. I know what she's trying to do.

"You already tried to convince me that my body is... still beautiful"—I roll my eyes—"and you didn't succeed, so—"

"I'll keep trying," she says, "till I get you to believe it."

"You'd have to blind me first," I snap.

She doesn't say anything for another couple of seconds, during which we arrive at the restaurant.

It's when I open the door for her to enter that she says, "I'm not blind, Seb. I never was."

After the waiter's taken our drinks orders, Shell asks me about my day. She's all friendly smiles and lame jokes and doing everything she can to keep my dark mood at bay. It's working. Seeing how important it is to her that I'm not upset or angry, it brightens my mood considerably.

"Honest answer?" I ask her.

"Please."

"The only thing of note from my day, is that I knew it was going to end with seeing you. Which is the best part of my day." I flash her a winning grin.

She blushes. Still, in an unimpressed tone, she says, "Such a charmer." She shakes her head, rolls her eyes. Then, in a serious tone: "No, really. How's it going with your—"

"Shell," I interrupt. "Thanks for taking an interest but I'd rather not talk about work. Yours or mine."

"And you'd rather not talk about—"

She stops before she says "us".

"Anything serious," she says instead. "Don't worry," she adds quickly when I open my mouth, "I don't want to talk about any of that tonight, either.

"Like you said in your text: Let's have this... one date. We'll think about the rest later. God knows I've been forcing myself not to think about it." She takes a deep breath. "I planned to say this at the end of the night," she goes on, "but seen as we're sort of on the subject now... I think we should think about... things and come to a decision on our own about what we want to do next.

"I don't think we should talk through it together. It'll confuse and distract us. I've been in enough meetings trying to solve problems that we don't end up solving by the end... It's pointless. And we have to promise that we'll respect the other's decisions, whatever it is."

"Of course," I whisper.

I wasn't expecting her to be so decisive and methodical about it. Talk about it so calmly and thoughtfully. A part of me worried that she'd make herself sick again, worrying about coming on a date with me. But she's confirmed for me what I'd suspected—she'll ask me to leave her alone, forget about her and what we've done, and not try to convince her otherwise. Not try to talk her out of marrying Imran. Because that's what she'll do. She has no other choice.

Shell can't—and shouldn't—cancel her wedding to Imran for me. Someone she won't be allowed to keep. Someone that isn't worthy of her in the first place. She can't cancel it for whatever reason, not this close to the big day, anyway. Yes, she'll break up with me and marry my best friend.

And I can do nothing but watch it happen.

# Chapter 58: Shell

Seb Lowe has been so many of my firsts.

First kiss.

First date.

First love.

Love?

Shaking my head, I tell myself that was surely a slip of my mental tongue. Seb is not my first love. Of course, not. But he's the only guy that's ever come close to being that.

Closer than Imran.

Yes, I'd decided to marry Imran—I thought he was a great catch, perfect for me, for my future, and exactly what my family wanted and needed for me. I fancied him. I found him interesting. I liked him.

Liked.

Not loved.

Sure, I expected to start loving him as we approached our big day. If not, then definitely after we got married. And maybe I would have fallen for him if Seb hadn't kissed me and hijacked all my thoughts. All my emotions. All my free time.

These last few days with Seb, as wrong and deceitful as they were, have been so much fun. More than fun. I'd be a liar and a hypocrite if I didn't admit that I've had the most amazing time ever with Seb, making out in his hallway, feeling special and wanted. And before that, when we were 'working together' on catching my mystery texter, getting to know each other... Looking back on it now, it hadn't been that bad, actually. To a bystander, it probably looked like a lot of fun.

Getting acquainted with the real Seb, the Seb that's not trying to annoy or anger me, that has been a real pleasure. I can't wait to discover more about him. I find myself grinning at that as I hop off the overground train at Forest Gate Station. I'm not alarmed at the sudden realisation that I don't want to stop seeing Seb.

I don't want to stop seeing Sebastian Lowe.

The old Shell would've been distraught about this. In all honesty, she'd have made herself sick again. But this new Shell, the Shell that can't help but mentally shiver at the concept of seeing Seb again, touching him, kissing him... Well, she feels giddy just thinking the words, I want to keep seeing Sebastian Lowe. I don't want to stop doing what we're doing. It feels too good.

I feel too happy.

Happy? I ask myself as I start walking towards my street. Yes, happy. Very. Being with Sebastian makes me happy. I sigh, content.

Of course, I'm a little surprised that I'm not hysterical with distress, that I don't hate myself for feeling like this. Thinking like this. Thinking of being with Seb and cancelling the wedding. Because continuing to see Seb, seeing him this week and next week and the week after and the week after that... it means cancelling the wedding. Turning Imran down. That's what it means, and instead of dying with guilt, I'm feeling content. I guess it's because I know it's what I have to do. The right thing to do. The thing that's best for me.

I have to cancel the wedding.

I can't marry Imran. Not when I feel what I feel for Seb. Wow. How easy was that? I've hardly taken any time at all to make my mind up. Only a short while ago, when I was telling Seb at our date tonight that we should think things through on our own and come up with a decision by ourselves, I'd expected to need a few days to come to a conclusion. And a few more to accept it myself. But I haven't even walked through my front door after coming back from our date and I'm certain of what I want to do next.

Maybe this decision hasn't been an agonising one because it's meant to be this way?

Fate.

Destiny.

Perhaps Imran walked into my life so that I'd find Seb? So that Seb and I would find each other... What if deciding to follow your heart is really like this? Easy. Simple. Quick.

But the consequences of following your heart... Now, that's another matter altogether.

As I walk inside my house, see Amma in the kitchen, Bhabi rummaging about in the wall cabinets, Shayla watching TV in the lounge, I feel like the life's been sucked out of me. I feel like the old Shell again. Like Seb had breathed new life into me, more life into me, and now that's been torn from my system by the reality of what I've decided to do:

Tell these people about the matters of my heart, about following it... That's going to undo me.

I run up the stairs and lock my bedroom door behind me before I drop to the edge of my mattress. I'm breathing hard, my heart pounding. Just thinking about what I'd be doing to my family with my news is torture. I picture the scene in my head, the most difficult one first:

Gathering my family for a meeting, to tell them that I want to cancel the wedding. I can't see myself uttering a single syllable!

The next scenario:

Telling my mum in the privacy of my room. Yes, I'd be able to tell her. Just about. But I don't think I'd be able to handle her reaction. The hurt in her soft dark eyes. Her looking at me like I'm betraying her, all those years of her loving me and taking care of me, being thrown back in her face. No, I won't be able to see that.

Finally, and probably the most realistic of all options—the only option I have, really—I think of ways I'd tell Shayla about this. I think I'll be able to do it. In fact, I know. Because Shayla will listen patiently, try to understand, see my point of view. And she won't say anything in return. She'll just nod when I ask her to relay my message to the rest of my family. My little sister will ask me, with a very serious expression on her face, "Final answer?"

My head will drop to my hands, or maybe I'll just fall back on the bed and bury my head in my pillow, before I whisper, or rather choke out, "Final answer."

"Okay," she'll say and leave me to my pounding heart and heaving stomach, my eyes unable to cry, my body too weak, too numb.

I'll have to face my parents eventually. Face up to the consequences of my decision. A decision that will change my life, my family, my everything, forever.

Or I might just lose them altogether.

I can't lose them. My family. Their love is all I have. It means everything to me. I can't say goodbye to it. Can't let them take it away from me. They're all I have. No, I can't do it. I can't tell them I want out of this wedding. Even though it's what I want to do.

It's what I want to do. And I can't, for the life or death of me, change it.

I can't change it one bit.

# Chapter 59: Seb

My date with Shell last night wasn't the best first date I've ever had. That's not to say it was the worst. But I can tell you this: It meant more to me than any other two-hour period spent with anyone. God, I have it bad for her.

And I can't believe I didn't get to kiss her yesterday as our evening together came to a close. I was so sure she'd let me drive her home, that I'd get to kiss her in my car till I was exhausted, but she'd refused to let me give her a ride and took the train home. She insisted that she'd never get in a car with a guy after a first date.

If the next time we meet is to discuss what we do next... and if her decision is to tell me to stay away from her—which it will be, I'm sure of that—then... does that mean I won't have a goodbye kiss? A kiss through which I'd try to live out a whole relationship, a whole lifetime together.

That's not fair.

I think I'll ask her to give me one last day, one last date, before we say goodbye forever, so I can get my fill of her, her face, her eyes, her voice, her mouth and lips and tongue. Her body which aligns with mine so easily and perfectly when I press her to me. No, I'll never be able to get my fill of her, but I should at least get the chance to try.

Yes, I'll beg her to give me one more evening in my flat, on my sofa, so that I can show her with kisses how much she means to me. So I can touch her in a way that makes clear how important she is to me. What an honour it has been to be able to hold her in my arms. To know her.

Drr-drr.

I glance down at my phone next to my keyboard, vibrating with a call. The name on the screen is Shell's

Although I'm not a part of Matt Hopkins's company, I still have to abide by his firm's policy of 'no taking personal calls at your desk'. I grab my phone and rush out of the open-plan office and head towards the fire exit where everyone takes their calls. It's not the most private of places, because people have to pass this space when they go to the toilets, but luckily, no one's around at the moment.

"Hey," I say as I answer the call. "Sorry I took a while to answer, I had to—"

"No worries." Shell sounds off. The kind of off that means she's made up her mind about me.

"That was fast," I blurt out.

"What was?"

"You deciding..."

Silence.

I wait for her to break it.

If she asks me if I've come to a decision myself, I won't lie. I'll tell her that this was never about me. It's about her. What she wants. I'll go with whatever she decides.

"Shell?" I prompt when I've waited as long as I can.

"You're right," she eventually murmurs. "I have."

"And?" I whisper without meaning to. Yes, I'll respect whatever she decides, but it doesn't mean I'm not dreading the inevitable. The end of our... relationship.

Not fling.

Not affair.

No. Those terms are too derogatory to be able to represent what it is that Shell and I have shared these last few days. Based on my feelings for her alone, I think we can label it as a relationship. The most meaningful one I've ever had.

The only one Shell's had...

"Not over the phone," she finally says.

Of course, not. She's a good girl, and I do think she cares about me, that's why she'll tell me in person. End things face-to-face. Gently.

She'll let me down gently.

But she will let me down. I know it. I can feel it. It's what I've known since the moment she turned up at my door on Monday. Was it really only two days ago? It feels longer. Like Shell and I have been together for a while.

"Sure," I manage to utter. "You wanna get some dinner or—"

"Can we meet for lunch?"

"Today?" I have to clarify. It's not long until the time I usually take my lunch break. Not long enough to prepare for my heart to be broken.

"Yes," she answers. "Is that okay?"

No, it's not.

"Seb?" she probes when I've been quiet for longer than she can bear.

"Err, um, sure..."

I hear her exhale loudly in relief. "I've told my boss I have a dentist appointment," she says in a slow, deliberate tone, "and they expect me to have a longer lunch break than usual. I'm going to make up for it at the end of the day, so they can't object... Anyway, it means I'll have enough time to get to your flat and back."

"My flat?"

"Is that going to be okay with you?" she asks. "I mean, you don't answer to that Hopkins guy, do you? You're your own boss. You can take as long as you want for your lunch break. Right?"

"Right," I say automatically.

In my head, I'm screaming with joy. She'll be in my flat in less than 2 hours. I'll be able to kiss her goodbye, after all.

"Good," Shell approves. "I'll see you 1.30pm or thereabouts?"

"Or we can meet up first and go together?" I suggest, almost shy.

"Best not," she says, tone detached.

Best not to spend any more time together than absolutely necessary. That's what she means. And she's right. It'll only make it harder to walk away from each other.

Maybe kissing her goodbye and making the most of the time we have left together is only going to hurt me more. Hurt her more? Maybe it's best to keep a distance between us as we end things. Yes, that's for the best.

But the question is... will I be able to keep my hands to myself?

# Chapter 60: Seb

As it happens, I can control myself. When Shell walks through my door, arriving just a couple of minutes after I get there, I don't even reach for her hand. She seems surprised by that but says nothing as she walks past me and enters the living room. She doesn't sit down, and instead, she drops her bag and jacket on the sofa and turns to appraise me. I'm standing in the living room doorway. I don't know if she reads my emotions on my face, but whatever she sees makes her blush a little.

Shell glances down at her feet, shy, and when I follow her gaze, I see that she's wearing heels again. A sexy black pair.

I can wear heels when I'm with you...

And suddenly, I think I know what she's decided. My heart leaps to my throat and all I can say is, "Shell?"

"Seb," she says. My entire body heats at the sound of my name on her lips. "Hi," she says, walking up to me. She smiles at my awestruck expression but makes no comment.

I can't return her smile. I can't react. Her grin widens. Slowly, she lifts her hands to my face and comes in for a kiss.

A nice, slow one.

She's kissing me first...

And that thought unravels me. I'm circling my arms around her waist and kissing her fiercely the next second, making her gasp and drop her hands from my cheeks. But it's okay, because she curves them around my neck, holding me tight to her.

She wants me just as bad as I want her...

This realisation draws a moan from me and I'm lifting her off her feet, walking us towards the sofa, laying her down on the sagging seats, and lying over her, still kissing. She lowers her arms so they're resting beside her. I pull my arms out from under her to grab the tops of her arms, tightly. She gasps. I drag my hands down her arms and realise she's wearing a full-sleeve top or shirt. I wasn't paying attention to what she was wearing when she arrived—I don't pay attention to all that much when I'm with her—but I'm going to feel my way around her body until I know exactly what kind of clothes she's in. My hands will know every inch of her that she has permitted me to touch, know it better than I know my own body. In fact, I don't think she'd stop me if my hands were to stray...

In her kisses, in the way she reacts to my fingers, it's clear that she craves my touch as much as I crave for hers.

I live for hers.

And yet, I know she'll regret it later if I were to cross the line. So, I have to stay within my boundaries, even if I'm sure she'll moan that special, sexy moan of hers if my fingers were to brush the side of her breasts... if my hands were to start exploring her legs over her leggings... The knowledge makes me hard all over.

Every cell in my body is rock-hard with desire.

She feels it straightaway and moves her head to one side, breaking our kiss. Her breath comes out just as rough as mine. I rest my face against her cheek, breathing her in as we both try to calm ourselves.

"Let me sit up, Seb," she whispers. "I don't want to keep..."

Don't say it, Shell. Don't say you don't want to keep seeing me, not after what just happened. Not after I let my guard down to her and let her know exactly what she does to me. Even though I've held her close to me almost every time I've kissed her, I always made sure to keep enough distance between our bodies, always held her in a way that she wouldn't be able to feel how my body reacts to her physically. I didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable, didn't want her to tell me goodbye as a result. And I didn't fully want to reveal myself to her, either. But today, lying flat on top of her, there's nowhere to escape. No way to hide it.

She lights me on fire.

"I don't want to make this hard for you, Seb," she mumbles. "I know it's not easy for you... when we're... groping." She tries to chuckle at the last word but it doesn't quite work.

I'm fine, I want to say. I don't want to move. I love the way you feel beneath me... Of course, what I actually say is, "Sorry" before scrambling off her.

I remain standing by the edge of the couch as Shell sits up quickly and straightens her clothes. I'm even less inclined to take in what she's wearing now. I just want to know that she's okay, that she's not repulsed by me. That she won't tell me goodbye.

The idea of her telling me goodbye makes me cold.

I won't be able to handle it, not after I've convinced myself that she isn't going to break up with me, after all.

"Are you okay?" I ask her when she stares out the window, silent and avoiding my gaze. "You're not disgusted by me... you don't... hate me, do you?"

To my immense relief, she laughs out loud. "Hate?" she chuckles, finally meeting my stare. "No, Seb. I don't hate you. I can't even bring myself to hate me. I should, but I can't. There's something very wrong with that." She shakes her head and stares out the window again.

"With what?" I ask, slightly panicked. "With us?" Is there something very wrong with us?

She turns to me, gets to her feet. "No," she whispers. "With me. Something very wrong with me. I can't bring myself to feel anything but content with my decision when I ought to feel a million things altogether. All I'm worried about is how I'm going to tell my family and how that will affect us. I'm absolutely terrified but I know I have to talk to them. Tell them.

"But it's going to be so hard... and yet, I know I'm going to do it. I have to, and soon." She walks right up to me and asks, "Do you think I'm selfish and heartless, Seb?"

I'm taken aback by the question. "Of course, not," I assure her. "Why—"

"Because I don't feel horrible about what I'm going to do, when I should," she murmurs. "I just feel bad about the aftermath, the consequences that I'm going to face." She locks her eyes on mine. "Why don't I feel awful about doing this to Imran?"

Even though I've gathered what she's talking about, I haven't let myself believe it yet. Haven't let it sink in. So, I ask, "What are you going to do to Imran?"

"I can't marry him, Seb," she says in a pleading tone. "And please don't try to convince me otherwise—"

"I won't—"

But she talks over me with, "I've made up my mind, and it's the right thing to do. So, I'm not going back on this. I can't marry him when I have feelings for someone else. And not just anyone. His best friend. Best friend. No, it wouldn't be right to do that to him. To live that kind of lie... when you'll be there the whole time...

"That's not the kind of life I want. Lies and deception and misery. Because I will be miserable, Seb, if I marry him when I don't feel anything for him. When I feel for you what I should have started feeling for him by now."

"But you haven't," I whisper without meaning to. "You haven't developed any real feelings for him at all, have you?"

She shakes her head no.

My heart leaps in joy.

Then, it drops with despair.

This is my best friend she's talking about... I keep forgetting about him when I'm with Shell. She makes me forget that he exists. That he met her first...

"I was just so determined to marry him because I thought that's what I wanted," Shell says in a rush, walking up to the windows. "And also because you were so dead set on breaking us up. You made me want the marriage more than I actually wanted. More than I would've wanted it if you hadn't been so against it. If you hadn't been around... Don't get me wrong, I wanted to marry Imran. I did. For a long time. Well, in all honesty, the whole time." She turns to face me in a quick spin. "Scrap what I said earlier," she says. "I did want to marry him all along. I wanted to marry him until..."

"Until?" I prompt, although I know the answer: Until I kissed and confused her.

"Until I didn't want to anymore," she answers evasively, her voice faint. Or she really doesn't know when she stopped wanting to marry Imran. "But it doesn't matter when, how, and why, does it?" she asks, not wanting me to answer. "What matters is... I have to tell my family as soon as possible and I'm dreading it." She sounds it. Her eyes are shining all of a sudden. "Absolutely dreading it."

Tears start streaming down her cheeks. Her lips tremble but she seems to decide that if she continues talking, she won't break down into sobs. "It's killing me just thinking about what it would do to me, our family. I just—I just—it's going to be horrible, Seb. I don't know how I'm going to deal with it..." And she breaks down, crying into her hands.

I go and wrap my arms around her, hold her to me tight. "Calm down, Shell," I soothe into her hair. "You'll make yourself sick again." And I can't bear that.

"I deserve to get sick," she mumbles through her tears. "But I'm not half as stressed as I ought to be, not half as stressed as I need to be to make myself sick. Why? What's wrong with me, Seb? Why aren't I reacting like a normal girl with a normal heart?"

"I don't know," I reply. "Perhaps you're still in... shock? Numb about it all? It hasn't sunk in properly, what you've decided..."

Drying her face with her hands, she asks, "You think?"

I shrug. "Or maybe... it has something to do with the fact that, deep down, you know you won't have to speak to your family."

She shoves away from me. "What?" she snaps.

"You don't have to talk to your family, Shell," I assure her.

"Imran?" She frowns. "You're right. I have to talk to him first. Then, I have to tell my—"

"No," I interrupt. "You don't have to do anything."

"What?" she almost spits the word. "Don't you start trying to convince me to—"

"No, no," I assure her, shaking my head. "I'll talk to Imran for you. I'll tell him you've changed your mind about the wedding and he'll understand. He'll set you free and no one will know the truth..."

She thinks for a minute. "He'll cancel the wedding, just like that?" she tries to clarify.

I can tell she doesn't want to get her hopes up but she can't help it, either. It would save her from all the consequences of cancelling the wedding herself.

"He's a good guy, Shell," I tell her. "The best person I've ever known. He won't trap you in a marriage you don't want. He'll be a gentleman and save you."

"You think...?"

I nod, certain. "I'll talk to him, okay?" I promise her. "I'll talk to him this evening after work. In fact, I'll call him right now and ask him to meet me. He's on his lunch break now. I'll ask him to drop by my flat after work and I'll sort this out." I tuck her hair behind her ears and kiss her quickly. "It's going to be okay, Shell. I promise."

# Part Eight--Choices

# Chapter 61: Seb

There's a thudding in my ears as I open my door to Imran and it half-drowns out the sounds of the streets and roads, and my friend's greeting of "Alright?"

Even when I say, "Hey, man" as Imran steps inside my flat, everything I hear is partly muted by the pounding of my heart in my head. I'm going to have to speak louder, listen intently to whatever Imran says, just so I can keep on top of things. Keep track of things. This is going to be horrible enough as it is, without the half-deafness.

It was only after Shell left my flat to return to work, with me deciding not to go back to the office at all, that it dawned on me: I'm going to wreck my best friend's life tonight. Wreck him.

"So, what's up, Seb?" he asks after entering my lounge.

"You better sit down for this, man." I go and stand in front of the sofa as Imran settles himself down in his seat.

"Aren't you going to sit?" he asks, a little amused.

I must look as terrified as I feel. "I don't think I'll be able to."

"Why? What's wrong?" he asks, concerned. Imran gets to his feet, makes to walk up to me.

But I hold up my hand. "Please, mate," I whisper without meaning to. "Take a seat. I'll sit if I feel like it."

"Dude, you're beginning to worry me now." Thankfully, he returns to the couch. "Is everything alright with you?"

"Yeah," I reply. "Everything's alright with me. Technically."

"Just spit it out, Seb!" He doesn't sound angry or annoyed, just anxious to know what's going on. "You said you needed to talk, so talk."

I take a deep breath. Then I shake my head. As if a deep breath could prepare anyone to break their best friend's heart! I thought I could do this, I had it all rehearsed in my head when I suggested it to Shell this afternoon, but looking at Imran's apprehensive expression, those dark eyes that have always looked out for me... I can't.

But I have to.

For Shell.

I must.

"Imran," I breathe. "You're not going to like this."

"I've figured that much out already," he almost snaps. "Enough stalling. Just tell me what you've done and we'll figure something out—"

"I haven't done anything," I lie. "This has nothing to do with anything I've done."

He nods. He believes me. I can't feel triumph or even relief over it. I don't like lying to him, but Shell made me promise that I'd keep my involvement a secret, so that my friendship with Imran won't be compromised. She was tearing herself away from Imran's life and didn't want him to lose his best friend, too.

"What's this about, then?" Imran rises to his feet, no longer comfortable with having to look up at me. "Seb?" He comes and puts his hands on my shoulders in an authoritative way. "Tell me."

Swallowing and without meeting his gaze—because I can't, I can't look in his eyes and do this to him—I tell him, "I have a message for you. From Shell."

Imran's hands slip down from me, dangle at his sides. "Shell?"

"She wanted to be able to tell you herself, but she doesn't have the strength."

Plus, you'd probably never agree to meet her because of your Pact. And if you did, you'd try to talk her out of her decision, which isn't what she wants. She doesn't want to marry you and there's nothing you can do to change her mind.

Imran takes a step back as though someone's shoved him. Colour drains from his face. His eyes go wild. It's as though he's heard my thoughts. "What?" he whispers. "What did you say?"

"Shell doesn't have the strength to tell you herself—"

"That she doesn't want to marry me?" He takes another step back.

"What?" I croak out. I feel as confused as Imran looks shocked.

"You said she doesn't want to get married," he says quietly. "That's what you said."

I'm about to ask "when did I say that?" when I realise I must've spoken out loud some of the things I was thinking. Shit. That was not the way I was planning to tell him.

"Is that it?" Imran demands. "Is that the message you're struggling to deliver?"

"Yes." It sounds like I heard someone else's voice say that. It's like someone else has stepped inside my body and taken over my mouth "She's very sorry but yes, that's her message. Her decision."

By now, Imran's taken enough steps back that he hits the edge of the sofa and drops to it. I focus on the outline of his body, his work clothes, his shoes, because I can't bring myself to look at his face. But the sagging shape of him, the drooping of his shoulders, the slight tremble in his knees... No, I can't look at any part of him at all. I turn my back to him, face the windows.

The thing that's taken control of me speaks again: "Shell wants to cancel the wedding."

"Okay, nice try, Seb. Very funny."

I spin around. He's smiling tentatively.

Three seconds later, I tell him, "It's not a joke, Imran. I'm serious."

"Sure you are." His smile widens, almost confident. "Now, sit yourself down and tell me if there really was something you wanted to talk to me about."

I turn my back on him as I murmur, "I wish it was a joke, man. But it's not. Shell can't go through with the wedding. I'm sorry."

It takes him three seconds to respond. "You swear this is not a joke?"

"On my mum's life."

He exhales sharply. "Why? What's happened?" I hear Imran get to his feet, take a step forward. Just one step. That's all. I say nothing. "Is it someone in her family, an uncle or aunt, making a fuss?" he asks a few moments later, voice strained. "Someone trying to cause trouble—"

"It has nothing to do with her family," I tell him robotically. "They don't know yet. She doesn't know how to tell them. She's terrified of telling them."

Long pause.

Then: "I suggested that perhaps you could..."

"Take the fall?" he asks, and it sounds like he spoke through his teeth. "Cancel it for her?"

"Yeah."

"And when did this happen?" Imran sounds a little miffed.

"Just before I called you to meet up."

"That's not what I meant," he snaps. "I was asking you whether you made your brilliant suggestion to her before or after you tried to change her mind."

"I did my best to change her mind." Another lie Shell asked me to tell. "I did everything I could think of. But her mind was made up. She didn't have the guts to tell you or her family though, and she was distraught, panicking about what they'd think of her. So, I..."

"Thought you'd ask this favour of me, on her behalf?"

I nod. "If you cared for her, Imran, you'd do this for her. You'd set her free."

Imran stalks up to me, spins me around to face him. "Set her free?" he says through clenched teeth. "Free to do what?"

I say nothing as I go and drop on the sofa. Suddenly, I feel tired.

My friend turns towards me, his body looking just as exhausted. "Seb, why would she change her mind so close to the wedding?"

"I don't know," I reply in a whisper. Another lie, of course.

"She didn't tell you?"

I shake my head no.

"Then, it's probably just cold feet," he says, his body straightening up. I glance at his face briefly. There's hope in his eyes. "I should call her," he says hastily. "Calm her nerves." He reaches into his pocket for his phone.

I jump to my feet. "Wait. No!"

He doesn't hear or heed my protests "Of course, I should call her, reassure her about us," he murmurs to himself. He shakes his head as he searches for her name in his contacts list. "I should've called her from the beginning," he continues in a rush. "I'll call her every day from now on.

"She's probably feeling all alone and worried about the future, about fitting in with my family. Scared about more photographs landing on our doorstep. Wondering if I'll support her, take her side... But I will. I'll be there for—"

His words come to a halt because I've snagged his phone from him. Pressed the 'end call' button. The line hadn't connected yet, anyway.

He looks at me, aghast. "Seb?"

"Don't call her," says the thing that's speaking for me.

"What? Why not?" He reaches for his phone but I slip it into my pocket. "Seb!" he rebukes, cheeks reddening.

"She doesn't want to talk to you, man."

"Give me my phone back, Seb!"

"It's not cold feet, okay?"

"Give me my phone, Seb!"

"Don't call her," I beg.

"She's my fiancé," Imran snaps, suddenly sounding possessive. "I'll call her when and if I want!"

"You can't," I snap back, feeling a little territorial myself now.

"Why not?" he almost shouts.

"Because she'll break your heart!" I yell back.

"It's already broken!"

A short pause, during which I take deep breaths to calm myself. Imran however, is going more and more red in the face.

"She'll crumble it, Imran. She'll crumble you." I rub my face with my hands.

"I don't understand," he mumbles, running his hand through his hair. "What are you saying?"

I sigh. "If you call her and say all the things you've said to me about cold feet and worries about the future... she'll tell you that's not it. That's not why she's cancelling the wedding."

"Why is she cancelling it, then?" he demands.

"Don't make me tell you, Imran," I say quietly.

"Of course, I'm going to make you tell me," he barks. "I deserve to know."

"You do," I agree in a whisper.

"You owe me."

"I do," I admit. "But you don't deserve the pain that'll come with the truth."

"Screw the psycho mumbo-jumbo, Seb. Just tell me."

"Shell..." I can't go on for a few moments. I close my eyes. "She's... she's met someone else."

Imran takes a step back. "No." This time, it sounds like someone else has spoken for Imran. Someone who sounds hollowed out and bone-tired.

It makes it easier for the thing that's talking for me to say, "She's developed feelings for someone else, and so she can't marry you." I swallow hard. It hurts my throat. "I'm sorry, Imran. I'm so sorry."

# Chapter 62: Seb

"Who?" Imran asks in an unintentional whisper.

"I don't know," I lie.

Shell didn't make me promise to tell this lie. She didn't have to; I knew I'd never be able to crush Imran with the truth. I wasn't even expecting to mention her meeting someone new. Perhaps it was naïve of me, maybe I don't know my best friend as well as I think I do, but I thought he'd be a perfect gentleman and agree to cancel the wedding simply because Shell's asked him to. Or maybe I underestimated his feelings for her...

"You didn't ask?" he says, incredulous eyes glaring at me. "You didn't think to ask who he is?" he hisses at me. He's never hissed at me.

"Imran, it doesn't matter who he is."

"Of course, it matters!" he roars. Imran looks shocked by his own anger. He takes a deep breath to calm himself down. "Whoever this low-life is," he says through his teeth, "needs to be told that he can't go around messing with other peoples' wives."

"She's not your wife yet."

"She is in my eyes," he snaps. "She is in my parents' eyes. In everyone's eyes."

"Not in Allah's eyes," I remind him, voice faint. "Which is what matters."

"Whose side are you on, Seb?" he demands, throwing me a sharp look.

"I'm just telling you the truth, man."

He laughs without humour for a few moments. "You're on the side of truth. Really?" He laughs some more.

"I don't see how any of this is funny, Imran," I murmur.

"None of this is funny," he tells me in a serious voice.

"When I thought about telling you that Shell's met someone else, I didn't think you'd be laughing afterwards, with or without humour..."

"Met someone else," he repeats, rolling his eyes. "When did she meet him?"

I shrug.

"Before she met me?" He narrows his eyes.

"Don't think so."

He nods. "No, definitely not before."

"What does it matter?" I say quietly.

"She hasn't known him for long."

"It's long enough—"

"For what?" he challenges. "To sacrifice everything for him?" He shakes his head. "No. Not long enough to risk losing her family over him."

"But that's the thing," I stress. "She's not doing this for him. She's doing this because it'd be wrong of her to marry you when she has feelings for another guy."

"It happens all the time, Seb." He rolls his eyes.

I'm taken aback by the casualness in his reaction, his words. "She doesn't want to do that to you," I tell him. "You don't deserve that."

"I don't deserve to lose her, either."

My voice is tight when I say, "You didn't really have her."

His dark eyes widen, burn. "She's my fiancé, Seb!"

"Yes, but you have to let her go, Imran."

"Why?" he asks me quite seriously, eyes now glaring at me. "Why should I let her go? She's all I want. I love her."

His stubbornness would've made me chuckle any other day. I might have even found it a little endearing. Today, it's grating against the pounding in my head.

"But she doesn't love you!"

"But she doesn't love the other guy, either."

"What makes you so sure?" I murmur. He's right, of course.

"Easy," he replies. "You keep saying that she's 'met someone' and can't marry me because she has 'feelings for another guy'. Not once did you say she loves him."

"You're right, she doesn't. That's not the point, though."

"Of course, that's the point," he says as though I'm missing something. "She doesn't love either of us—that's the point."

"Well, I don't see it."

I have no idea what he's getting at. For the first time in my life, I can't figure out what my best friend is thinking. He's not reacting the way I'd expected him to. The way I'd hoped.

"Look," Imran says now as he comes and puts his hands on my shoulders. "If she loved him, and the guy loved her back, I'd have no chance of winning her back." He shakes his head. "'Winning her back' is not the right term. I haven't lost her yet."

"You have," I say without emotion.

"I haven't," he insists. He drops his hands and goes to perch on the edge of the couch. "The way I see it, me and him, we're in the same boat. She has feelings for us both. She cares for us both. But I'm the one she's engaged to."

Though I know it won't matter, I say, "You're not engaged, not really."

"We're as good as engaged. Everyone knows we're getting married, so we're as good as married." Yes, because the whole community knows about their pending nuptials, cancelling it now would be just as big a deal as if they were getting divorced. "We just haven't signed on the dotted line."

"And are you?" I ask, my voice hoarse. "Going to sign on the dotted line, that is."

"Yes." He means it.

My stomach begins to churn. "You won't set her free?" I ask in an unintentional whisper.

"Why do you keep saying that, Seb?" he snaps. "Set her free. She's not trapped. I haven't trapped her!"

"But that's what you're planning to do," I accuse bitterly. "Isn't it? You want to marry her, anyway."

"I love her, Seb. I want to marry her. Why would I cancel my wedding?" He shakes his head at me like I'm the one being absurd and not him. "Why would I say I want to do something that I don't want to do?"

"How about because the woman you supposedly love wants you to?" I snap.

"She doesn't know what she wants," he spits at me.

"Probably true," I agree. "But she knows for sure what she doesn't want. And that's marrying you."

"She doesn't want to marry the other guy, does she?"

"No," I answer. Well, I don't think so... She and I didn't get around to talking about us. Our future. What she wants from me. If she wants anything from me at all...

"Well then," Imran says with a little shrug. Almost smug.

I shake my head in frustration. I don't recognise this man at all.

"Seb," he says in a reasonable voice, "I won't lie to my family and say that I don't want to marry her. They won't believe me. I've stuck with her this long..."

"You could persuade them," I argue. "There are loads of things you could say to make them believe you and still protect her. The woman you love."

I had it in my head that he could tell his parents that he can't shake off the suspicion surrounding that photograph of Shell that got sent to his house. That it was still bugging him and he wouldn't be able to trust her...

"This is my way of protecting her," he whispers.

"I can't see how..."

He gets to his feet. "This guy knows she's getting married, right?" he asks. I nod automatically. "And still, he pursued her. He saw her as something he couldn't have and wanted her more because she was out of bounds. What makes you think he'll still want her when she isn't forbidden fruit anymore? What makes you think he'll marry her if I don't?"

I can't say anything. I have no response to that.

"If I cancel everything, Seb," he goes on, "regardless of what I say my reasons are, it'll still reflect badly on her and on her family. People will talk. Rumours will spread. Bad reputations will be assigned. It's going to be hard for her family to find another suitable groom. And it'll affect her little sister's future, too.

"You know how things work in our community, Seb. You know I have to protect her from all that. And from getting her heart broken by this guy who doesn't even love her. Could never love her like I do."

"You don't know what he feels for her," I say in a controlled voice. "You don't know what he'll do. You don't know whether he pursued her. Whether he even knows how she feels about him. Besides, this isn't about him at all. It's about Shell and what she wants. What she's decided. And she's decided that she doesn't want to spend the rest of her life with you."

"Is she going to spend it with him?" he asks, swallowing uncomfortably.

"I don't know, man."

"When you spoke to her, did you get the feeling that she had hopes of marrying him?"

"No, I didn't." It's the truth.

It gives him hope. Hope which I have to strip from him in order to set Shell free. I'd promised I'd do my best to help her. Save her.

"But... if she asked him..." I stammer, head swimming as I picture the scene I'm describing, "if she told him she wanted him... in any capacity... I don't think he'll refuse her." Another truth.

If Shell wants to be with me in any capacity, I won't send her away. I won't be able to. I want her, I really do.

Imran eyes me quizzically. "What makes you so sure, Seb? You don't know him!" There's a little sneer on his lips, but it straightens out quickly. He's never looked at me like that before...

"But I know, Shell," I snap. "As do you," I continue, a little calmer. "Can you see any guy turning her away?"

Imran inhales deeply. "Then, I'll have to stop her from asking him." He holds out his hand. "Give me my phone, Seb. I have to talk to her."

"No."

"Seb!"

"I can't, Imran. You can't talk to her."

"I can and I will," he insists. "You don't have to protect me anymore. You've told me everything she would've said and I've handled it. I haven't crumbled. Now, give me my phone."

"She doesn't want to talk to you."

"I need to talk to her, Seb! Why can't you see that?" He's pleading now, desperately, hand still outstretched. "I have to make her see how much I love her, and how I can make her happy. That I'll do anything for her. I'll even move out of my parents' house if she wants. We'll rent a flat together—"

"She'd never ask that of you."

"I'll do whatever she asks me, then. But I can't lose her. She's all I want."

"She's not all you want, Imran," I remind him, my voice authoritative all of a sudden. "Have you forgotten why you made that stupid No Communication Pact with her?" I shake my head. Imran scowls. "So that people wouldn't talk behind your back about how the two of you met before your families introduced you. So people wouldn't lose respect for you and your family for honouring what is essentially a love marriage. So that your parents wouldn't see you differently, treat Shell differently. So you could stay pure and simple in your family's eyes.

"You want all those things Imran, don't deny it. You wouldn't risk losing any of that, not for Shell. So forgive me if I don't believe it when you say that she's all you want, because it's not. You want the whole package.

"In fact," I add, sounding more confident than I have all afternoon, "are you being so stubborn today because you're afraid of what people will think of you and your family if the wedding doesn't go ahead? Are you more worried about what rumours will spread than of sparing a good girl from a marriage she doesn't want? Are you more concerned about your family's honour than you are of ruining Shell's life?"

"Oh, don't be absurd, Seb!"

"I'm not the one that's being absurd," I say through clenched teeth. "You're the one that cares more about your reputation than saving Shell from a life she doesn't want."

"That's not true!"

"Oh, really?" I ask challengingly.

"Yes, and I'll prove it." He rushes out the lounge and heads for the front door.

"Where are you going, Imran?" I rush past him and shut the door he's just opened. I slip between him and the door, blocking his way.

Imran steps back. "Let me go, Seb."

"Where?"

"If you won't give me my phone, then I'm going over to Shell's right now. I have to talk to her."

"But her family..."

"I don't care," he says solemnly. "I can't lose her. I have to make her see that we'll be happy together. I need to talk to her. Now, let me go."

"No." I shake my head.

"Or give my phone back."

"No."

Exasperated, he tries to brush me aside to open the door. I think he's going to do it. Really do it. My mind whizzes through the scenario:

Imran ringing the doorbell to Shell's house.

Shayla or her Bhabi opening the door.

They're shocked. Concerned.

What does this mean?

Imran, as politely as possible, asking them to speak to Shell.

Their hesitation. Worry.

Is something wrong?

Then, hearing the commotion, Shell coming to the door, curious.

She freezes. Realises what's happened.

Seb's told him...

She can't face him so she runs upstairs, in tears.

Shell crying all night.

Stressing out.

Getting sick again...

I can't let that happen.

"NO!" The ear-splitting sound rips out of my mouth at the same time that my hands shove Imran away from me. Away from the door.

Startled and then angry, Imran barks, "What the hell, Seb? What on earth has gotten into you?"

Panting from the effort of pushing Imran off me, I tell him, "You can't talk to her."

"Why not?"

"Because she'll tell you," I reply, breathing heavily.

"Tell me what?" He sounds tired. "What else is there to tell?"

"Who he is." I'm still breathing like I've been running for miles.

Imran fixes his eyes on mine. "And who is he, Seb?"

"It's me, Imran. Me."

# Chapter 63: Imran

Laughter erupts around me. A second later, I realise it's coming from me. Nervous and awkward, but laughter nonetheless. For this is a joke. It has to be. Still, when I calm myself down, I'm asking "What?" instead of telling Seb to stop being so ridiculous.

Seb is the guy we've been discussing? No way.

"She can't marry you," he says, taking deep breaths to calm himself down. "Because she has feelings for me."

My laughter's died down completely now. I don't think I'll ever laugh again... "Don't be silly, Seb. Shell wouldn't..."

My words trail off because my stomach clenches painfully. It happens when I get bad news, really bad news. Like someone dying or getting diagnosed with cancer. Like Seb facing a hit-and-run charge...

"She would've gone through with the wedding," he continues, voice low, tired. Seb looks tired. "If it was anyone else other than your best friend."

I shake my head. "No."

"I'm sorry, man." Seb takes a step towards me and I retreat immediately. "She made me promise not to tell you this... that it's me, but you left me no choice..."

Taking another step back, even though Seb's remained where he is, I repeat, "No."

"Imran..." He looks at me with pity.

How dare he pity me? "You did this!" I hiss through my teeth, finger pointing at him. "This is your doing."

"Yes."

"So, you admit it!" My arm falls to my side. I don't know what to do with my body.

I don't know how to deal with this. I don't know what I'm feeling. Numb, perhaps? Do I even believe any of this? Is this some warped nightmare? Please, let it be a nightmare that I wake up from and forget immediately. Please.

"It's the truth," says Seb. He inhales sharply. "If I'd stayed away from her, she wouldn't have developed feelings for me."

"Feelings?" I gasp, disbelieving. I'm still praying this is not happening in the real world, but in the darkest corners of my unconscious.

Seb's eyes narrow just a tiny bit. "She's attracted to me and she cares about me," he tells me. His tone has a challenge to it, a hint of possessiveness. There's some bitterness too, I think, because I'm finding it hard to believe what he's saying. He's taking it personally, this reaction of mine. His tone makes me think this is very real indeed.

Damn.

"And she shouldn't feel that way about her... future husband's best friend," Seb continues. "That's why she can't go through with it. Can't lie to you and live a lie, when I'll be... there the whole time. It's not fair on any of us. Especially not Shell."

"Don't say her name," I warn him in a controlled voice. "Never say her name again."

"Imran..."

"Don't say my name, either." I turn my back to him. I can't look at him any longer. "I just can't believe you'd stoop this low, Seb." I shake my head. "I've been humouring you about your stupid theory and your mission to make us see that we're not compatible. But never in a million years did I imagine that you'd play this dirty. Trick her like that. She's not Sabrina!"

He knows I'm talking about the film Sabrina. We've watched the 90's remake of the classic Bogart film on TV loads of times when we were kids with Apa; it was one of her favourite films. Sabrina, a chauffeur's daughter, has a crush on the younger of two heirs to a multi-million dollar company. When her affections start being returned, the older brother sets out to make Sabrina fall in love with him instead, so that his little brother can marry the daughter of another wealthy businessman, which would further expand their enterprise.

There's a scene where Harrison Ford, who plays the elder brother, says that he sent himself to get Sabrina away from his brother. That's what Seb did. He sent himself.

I feel Seb's hand on my shoulder now. Feel him spin me around on the spot to face him. "What do you mean?" he asks incredulously. "I haven't tricked her. This isn't some game. I didn't do this because of my... my..."

"Your theory of love." I can't help but sneer at that. "Your mission to break us up."

Seb shakes his head. "Imran, you've misunderstood me."

"I told you not to call my name."

"Sorry." He closes his eyes, rubs his hand over his face. When he looks at me again, he looks pained, tortured. "I didn't plan this," he says softly. "I abandoned my... efforts since the Chini Paan. I haven't done anything since then, believe me. Her developing feelings for me wasn't something I ever contemplated or wished for, trust me. It wasn't at all like Sabrina. Okay?"

"What is this, then?" I snap, my hands gesturing wildly around me to indicate what I mean by this. "But your last chance to sabotage things." That's when it occurs to me. "You won't let me talk to her because you're lying and she'll say so," I realise. "You're not tricking Shell. You haven't done anything to her. She hasn't developed feelings for you. You're lying to me, Seb. You're tricking me. This is one big ruse to get me to cancel the wedding." I throw up my hands.

Seb just sighs but keeps quiet.

"I can't believe I didn't get it straight away." I shake my head at myself. "I should've figured it out when you suggested that I tell my family that I want to cancel the wedding, that it's my choice."

Seb's shaking his head now, but I know I've got him cornered.

"I suppose you thought yourself noble for trying to protect Shell, protect her honour—I mean, you wanted me to take the fall all by myself and keep her out of it. Noble, indeed." I shake my head, disgusted.

"You're right, I did want to protect her," he says in a hushed voice. "But not because I want to be noble. I care about her—"

"You only care about yourself!" I scoff.

"That's not true," he argues vehemently. "You know it's not."

"If you cared about me, you wouldn't have hurt me with all your lies today!" I yell, pointing my finger at him.

"They weren't lies. I swear!" he yells back.

The air gets knocked out of me.

"You swear?" My voice is almost a whisper.

He nods, sadness in his eyes.

"Swear it on something that means anything to you," I find myself saying robotically.

"I swear on our friendship," he says without meeting my horrified gaze. "I swear it's true. She—"

He stops before saying her name.

"She doesn't want to marry you because she has feelings for me."

More air is sucked out of me. For a few moments, both of us are silent and still. Just breathing.

I can't not believe him now, now that he's sworn it's the truth. Seb's a lot of things, but he doesn't swear to me unless it's true. I'd been the one to make him see that you shouldn't say 'I swear' so lightly.

"Imran," he says cautiously, "say something."

"Since when?" I whisper.

"Since when have I known?" he tries to clarify. "Or when she started feeling..."

"Both."

Three seconds later, he answers me, taking deep breaths throughout his speech. "She told me everything just before I called you to meet up. She says she realised something was... happening when she was sick. That maybe she got sick because of what she was feeling..."

My gut squeezes when I remember what I'd done when she was ill: I was going out of my head with worry, and she was sick because she couldn't get Seb out of her head. I was dying every moment she was at work without fully recovering, sending Seb to check on her—Seb, the one she'd made herself sick over. I feel sick to my stomach now.

Seb's voice distracts me from the nausea when he says, "It's in the last couple of days that she's realised the extent of her feelings and decided that she can't..."

"Marry me," I finish for him, almost choking on the words. "But it just doesn't fit, Seb," I wonder out loud. "Shell's not exactly... confident with guys. I can't see her confessing her feelings to you. She's too shy for that."

"You don't know her as well as you think you do." His voice is tight.

"I know she wouldn't tell a guy that she has feelings for him when she knows nothing will come out of it..." I shake my head, confused. "And she knows you don't like her like that. You don't like her, full-stop."

"That's not true," he argues.

"It is," I insist. "You didn't think she was good enough for me, Seb. You wouldn't see her in—"

"It's never been about whether she's good enough for you," he tells me, finding some tenacity. "It's about whether or not she was right for you. Whether you were right for her."

I wave him off. "Fine. Whatever. You didn't think she was right for me—she knew that. You made that clear to her. And so, a girl like Shell wouldn't spill her guts to you after everything you've done."

"But she did, Imran," he says. "I swore to you about her feelings for me and you believed it—"

"Oh, I still believe it," I assure him in an irritated tone. "I'm just finding it hard to picture the scene. Shell telling you—you, the guy that's tried to convince her she shouldn't marry his best friend—that she's attracted to you... There's something I'm missing. Something you're still holding back from me. But I just can't fathom what..."

"Really?" There's a challenge in his tone, eyes narrowed. "You really can't see what's missing?"

I shake my head no. "I've run through all the possibilities in my head and still..." I shake my head again. "Zilch."

Seb looks a little annoyed now, a little hurt flashes across his now-wide eyes. "You really can't figure it out?" he asks.

"I really can't." I think some more, but I can't see that missing link. The answer that eludes me. "You're going to have to tell me, Seb." I look at him and wait. Wait as his shoulders slump and his face falls and he looks exhausted again.

"She was able to confess her feelings to me," he says in a careful, controlled tone, "because she knew how I felt about her." He looks at me like he's told me his darkest secret, like it's supposed to clear everything up for me. But he hasn't told me anything.

"She's always known what you felt about her," I say in a tight voice. "You hate her."

"No, I don't."

"You do, Seb."

"I don't," he insists. "I love her!"

Because he said those last three words with the most passion I've ever seen him express, I burst out laughing. Through my laughter, I can see Seb's gone red all over.

"That's not funny, Imran."

"Yes, it is, Seb," I manage to say and make an effort to swallow my laughter down. "Or maybe it isn't funny at all. But it's not true."

"Isn't it?" he says with a challenge in his eyes.

"No. Because you don't do love, Seb. 'I don't do love, Imran'. The number of times I've heard you say that..." I roll my eyes at the memory. "The number of girls you've dated for a few weeks and dropped them before they got too close—"

"You don't think Shell's special enough to be able to get close to my heart?" he retorts. "You don't think she's capable of changing me? Teaching me to love again?"

"She is special and capable enough," I snap. "But you're not capable of loving women, Seb. I don't know what happened with those girls at Uni, but since then, you've trained yourself to not let any girl get close to you. You've guarded yourself against women as though you're afraid of them.

"But you don't like being scared. You don't want them to see that side of you. That vulnerability. The fear. So, you use them and lose them as you see fit, hoping it makes you feel better. Hoping it can make you feel like you have power and control over them, power and control over your life."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Seb says through gritted teeth.

Curious, I can't help but ask, "What happened when you were at Uni, Seb? What did those girls do to you?"

"This isn't about them!" he shouts. I take an involuntary step back. "This is about me and Shell."

"There is no you and Shell," I scoff.

"True, but now that you know everything, you can—"

"What? Step aside and let the two of you have your little... illicit affair?"

He shakes his head but stays silent.

"You want me to take the fall for what you've done, clear the way for you, so you can go ahead and use and drop Shell like—"

"I won't do that to her," he tells me, fire in his eyes. "It's different with her. She knows all my secrets. All my flaws. My scars. And she still..."

He doesn't continue.

"Loves you?" I say sarcastically. "You can't say it, can you? You can't say she loves you despite everything because she doesn't love you."

"You're right, she doesn't," he says with a sigh. He looks sad and disappointed about it, too. "And whether or not you believe me when I say that I love her like I've never loved anyone before," he goes on, "like I never thought I'd love anyone, it doesn't matter. What matters is that she doesn't want to marry you. If you love her as much as you say you do, you won't want her to lose everything over this.

"If you love her, Imran, you will cancel this wedding and take the fall, as you keep saying. You'll do it because it's the right thing to do."

# Chapter 64: Seb

Imran makes his way back to the living room, me on his heels, and drops to the sofa. He puts his elbows on his knees before hiding his face in his hands. I remain standing, too anxious to do anything else, and wait for him to speak. I, personally, can't think of anything to say. Are there any words that can be uttered after you've crushed your best friend the way I have?

If there are, I can't find them.

I wasn't counting the seconds or minutes, but it feels like he finally looks up at me after around five minutes. He says nothing, though.

And I can't keep quiet any longer. "What are you thinking, man?"

Imran inhales deeply. "Right and wrong," he replies. "I was thinking about right and wrong."

"And?"

"What you said about how I have to do the right thing," he says and rises to his feet. "That cancelling the wedding is the right thing to do. Well, I don't think it is."

I close my eyes. I don't know how much more of this I can take. A part of me wishes that he'd punched me and stormed out of my flat after I told him about my feelings for Shell. As long as he wasn't going to Shell's, that is.

"By cancelling the wedding, I won't be doing right by Shell, at all," he tells me, sounding and looking thoughtful. "Which is what I care about. What matters most." He's talking in a careful, calm manner.

So, I will try to mirror that as best as I can. "That's what I care about most, too," I tell him. "Doing right by Shell."

He winces at the sound of Shell's name on my lips but doesn't rebuke me. "But we don't agree on how best to go about it," he states, businesslike.

"We have to honour her decision," I say quietly. "That's the best thing to do."

"Like I said," Imran says in an even voice. "That's where we disagree. Cancelling the wedding would absolutely ruin her. And her family."

My jaw clenches, but I'm determined to sound as self-assured and confident and professional as he does. So, I take a couple of deep breaths and say, "I can't see how."

How would setting her free from a marriage she doesn't want actually ruin her? Yes, it isn't ideal for her family, but what this boils down to is saving Shell from a miserable life, a life she shouldn't have to live.

"This is how," he says and sits back down on the couch. He points at the other arm of the corner sofa and waits until I sit myself down on the spot he's indicated. "I can cancel the wedding and tell my family a lie," he says in a reasonable but persuasive tone. "Hell, I can tell them that I've met someone else. It won't matter, not really. What society—the community—and everyone else will see is that a young girl's wedding got cancelled at the last minute. No one will believe what her family tell them, and even if they do, it's still a... a mark on her reputation. A little scar."

"Shell doesn't care about that," I tell him. "She's smart enough to know that what people say and think won't make her happy. And if people say wonderful things about her but she's actually unhappy herself, society won't be able to change that."

"Good point," he admits. "But her family, her little sister..."

"If they're as smart as her and if they really love her, it won't matter what people say."

Imran shrugs. "Perhaps you're right, Seb. Maybe everything will be fine with her family. And since I love Shell... For her, I can risk losing my family's respect for me. I can risk my family's standing in the community. I can do that for her, the woman I love. I can."

"I feel there's a but coming..."

"But," he says the word with great emphasis, "what happens to Shell afterwards, Seb?" he asks in a patient voice. "After I've set her free? When she's got a cancelled wedding in her past, a question mark over its cause? Can you guarantee to me that her family will be able to find her a groom who is right for her? Worthy of her? Can you say for sure that her Mr. Right will see her as his Ms. Right once he knows about the cancelled wedding?"

"I can't make any guarantees over the future, Imran," I murmur, averting his questioning gaze. "You know I can't. No one, can."

"Okay." I see him nod from the corner of my eyes. "So," he continues. "What if Shell ends up getting married to a guy who treats her bad? Or doesn't treat her as well as she deserves? As well as I'd treat her? Because I will be good to her, Seb. I will love her and cherish her and take care of her and put the past behind us. I'll forget everything we've talked about today. I'll never bring it up again, with you or with her. Nothing will change between the three of us. Can you assure me that the man she ends up married to will be able to do that? That his family will be able to do that?"

"I already told you," I whisper, "I can't guarantee you anything." My head drops to my hands. I know where this is going, and I can't stop us from getting there.

"But earlier, you were so sure that cancelling the wedding would be the right thing to do. Do you still believe that, Seb? Can you guarantee that?"

My heart throbs painfully. "No."

"My last question to you, Seb..."

I raise my head and find him staring intently at me.

"When you tell Shell that I refused to cancel the wedding—"

"Imran," I protest, "you can't—"

"Just let me finish," he pleads. "When she hears I've turned down her request, what do you think she will do?"

"She'll have no choice but to tell her parents the truth..."

He sighs. "And that will compromise her relationship with them. Change it forever," he says, sad and defeated. "Regardless, she'll be free of me, which is what she wants. After all the arguments and tears and accusations and ultimatums and God knows what else they'll do before agreeing to Shell's demands. In the end, she'll get what she wants. But." He pauses for a second after that sharp but, for dramatic effect. "But would she have done the right thing for her future? Or would she have ruined things forever?"

Several thoughtless moments later, I open my mouth to speak. But I don't know what to say. I can't think. In the end, all I can manage is, "I'm sure she thought of all the consequences of her decision before making it."

"And she probably thinks that she doesn't care about the future, as long as she doesn't have to marry a man who is best friends with the guy she's... developed feelings for." He rolls his eyes, but I can see the hurt and resentment behind the casual act. I just nod. "But she should care," he insists. "I care. I don't want her to jeopardise her future and chances of happiness. And neither should you, Seb. If you truly love her—"

"I do." I couldn't help it, I had to say it. It's true. So true.

"Then, we have to find a way to stop her from wrecking everything," he says with the first hint of passion in his voice since he came back to the lounge.

Dejected, I mumble, "I can't see how..."

"You'll have to make her understand."

"I don't know if she'll listen to me," I whisper. "I mean, it'll hurt her so much if I'm the one that's trying to... reason with her. And she still won't change her mind. Maybe you should talk to her after all..." Inwardly, I blanch at the idea of Imran talking to Shell. I can't stand the thought.

"No," he says strictly. "I don't think she should know that I've been made aware of... this situation."

"But she knows I'm supposed to be talking to you tonight..."

"You can tell her that you couldn't do it," he suggests. "Maybe I cancelled on you..." He shrugs.

"But—"

"Seb, she can't know that I know," he stresses. "Otherwise, she won't be able to face me. She won't be able to marry me."

"You still want to...?"

He nods solemnly. My heart thumps.

"I told you already, Seb. I'll marry her and love her and be a good husband to her as though this day never existed. I'll forget it completely. And I'll be so devoted to her that she'll fall in love with me and forget about... you. Whatever she thought she felt about you. It's not love, right?"

"I don't think so."

"Good."

"But—"

"But what Seb? What?" he snaps, losing his calm.

"I don't think she loves me, but... I think she knows how deep my feelings go..."

"So?"

"She won't listen to me," I tell him, sounding desperate. I get to my feet and start pacing the length of the room. To the windows and back to the sofa.

Windows, sofa.

Windows, sofa.

"She'll think I'm sacrificing my feelings for your happiness, and she'll go straight to her parents and tell them to cancel the wedding. She won't marry you, no matter what I say."

As I turn my back to the windows for probably the fourth time, I almost bump into Imran—he's walked right up to me.

"You'll have to think of something, Seb," he says through locked jaws, grabbing my collar and pulling my face close to his. "You'll have to do whatever it takes to make her listen!"

"I don't know if I want to!" I blurt out.

Imran lets go of my shirt and takes a step back, face expressionless. He seems to be too shocked to look it.

"I don't know if I can hurt her the way I'd have to in order to make her... retaliate." I wipe a hand over my face. "To make her hate me enough to... go ahead with the wedding... I know what you're asking me to do, Imran, but I don't think I have it in me to hurt her like this. It would kill me, Imran. She's the first woman I've loved this much and I can't put her through this."

Imran nods and turns his back to me. Over his shoulder, he says, "So, you choose her." His words don't make sense to me.

"What?"

"You choose her over me."

"What? No! It's not like that—"

"It's exactly like that, Seb," he says, turning to face me. But he doesn't look me in the eyes as he continues. "You've chosen the girl over your best friend."

"I've done no such thing!" I snap.

"Fine," he snaps back. "Do it now."

"Do what?"

"Choose," he replies.

"Choose what?"

"Choose who you give up."

"Imran..."

"If you let go of Shell and she and I get married... I swear to you that I will never bring this up again. I'll forget I know anything and devote my life to making Shell happy. Everything will be as though the two of you never... got close. With regards you and me... our friendship will remain just as strong.

"I promise to never doubt her, never suspect that she's thinking of you or remembering you when she seems down or upset, or has a faraway look in her eyes. When she's lost in thought... Anything that might be remotely related to you, I'll forget it as soon as it happens. I won't let her suspect that I know a single thing about how the two of you felt for one another."

"Imran..." But no other words leave my dry mouth. I shake my head. I can't believe he's doing this.

Asking me to choose between my best friend since childhood and the woman that might be the love of my life.

"If you decide to give up our friendship"—and I have to give him credit for looking sick at the thought of our friendship ending—"then you turn your back on me and my family. For good. You'll be dead to us."

We both swallow painfully at that.

"So, what's it going to be, Seb? Me or Shell? Who do you choose to give up?"

# Chapter 65: Shell

Oh, this is a surprise. Seb. Well, it's not a surprise that he's waiting for me outside my office building as I leave for the day—I knew he'd want to talk to me today. The day after his Talk with Imran. I've been a scatterbrain all day, wondering what happened last night. When Imran got my... message from Seb. I was so sure Seb would text me afterwards, tell me how it went. How Imran took it...

I guess he wanted to tell me in person. When it's just the two of us. When I don't have to worry about my entire family hearing our conversation through our thin walls.

The unexpected element of his presence here is actually the huge grin on his face. The wink he gives me as I smile back at him. Most surprisingly of all, he says, "Hey, babe" when I approach him.

"Babe?" I can't help but repeat, raising an eyebrow in question.

He takes my hand in his, still smiling happily. He looks so young and carefree, like he's free of all burdens. Free of all stresses. He arches an eyebrow. "You don't like babe?" he asks sceptically.

I chuckle. "I don't know what I think about babe," I tell him.

"You like the sound of baby? Or honey?" He wiggles his eyebrows up and down.

"I like the sound of the word baby to describe a newborn child, and honey to describe that sweet, golden syrupy substance, yes."

"But you'd rather I didn't call you any of those things?" he realises, still grinning and drawing circles on the back of my hand with his thumb.

"Someone's in a good mood today," I comment, returning his infectious smile.

"Of course, I am," he announces. He lifts his head up to the bright sky and says, "The sun's out and it's a beautiful afternoon"—Seb looks back to my face—"and I'm with the most stunning woman I've ever laid eyes on. If that doesn't put you in a good mood, what does?"

I laugh, shake my head at him indulgently. "I take it your Talk with Imran went well?"

Seb's features become sheepish all of a sudden. He bites his bottom lip.

"You didn't tell him, did you?"

He mouths the word Oops. Looks even more sheepish.

"You couldn't do it, huh?" I say in a casual yet slightly indulgent tone. I make sure there's no accusation on my face, in my voice. "You tried but you just couldn't do it, right?"

Now he looks apologetic.

"It's okay," I assure him. "It's probably best that I go to my parents—"

My words come to a halt because he's put his index finger to my lips. I feel a little electric charge sizzle through me at his touch and lose my train of thought.

"Shell, it's such a lovely autumn evening," he says with a childlike complaint in his tone. "Do we have to ruin it by talking about anything serious? Can't we just enjoy the day and face reality from tomorrow?"

"You're right," I agree. "Who knows how much longer this good weather will last? This is London, after all. We should make the most of it. So, what do you wanna do?" I ask him as cheerily as possible. "You wanna walk down to—"

"My flat? Yes! Exactly what I had in mind."

I laugh. "That's not what I had in mind, Seb." I was going to suggest walking towards the River, dinner at a Bankside restaurant perhaps.

He arches an eyebrow at me. "Really?" he challenges. "You don't want to be devoured by me?"

I smack his chest playfully, trying to conceal a grin. "If that's all you want to do, then no. I don't want to—"

"I just want to spend some time with you," he says softly, looking in my eyes. "Away from everyone. Where we can be ourselves. Please?" he almost begs.

"Please what?"

"Let me cook for you."

"What?" I burst out laughing. A few people give me dirty looks as they walk past. I suddenly remember that we're still by the entrance of my office building... I do forget my surroundings when I'm with Seb Lowe, don't I? Biting back the giggles, I ask sceptically, "You can cook?"

"One or two dishes, yes," he answers solemnly. Proudly.

Grinning, I ask, "And which of those two dishes do you plan to cook for me?"

He shrugs. "Pasta with tomato sauce."

"Tomato sauce from a jar?" I assume with an indulgent smile.

He nods. "But it's the love that I'm going to put into it that counts," he says, trying to look serious.

Seb Lowe is going to cook for me. Wow. "No," I say in a serious voice and as I'd planned, he thinks I've rejected him. His face falls and he looks like a scared little boy. Devastated, in fact. "It's the thought that counts," I tell him, and give him my best smile.

His face lights up. Lights up red. Yes, he's gone red all over. So cute...

"Shall we get the bus?" I wonder aloud, looking towards the nearest stop.

"No, let's walk," he says. "I don't want to rush this."

Seb kisses me the moment we step inside his flat. We'd held hands as we walked down Bethnal Green Road and there were a few times I'd wanted to let go—a few Bengali girls had given us weird looks as they passed us—but Seb just tightened his grip every time I tried to wrestle my hand free.

It felt so good when he held on so tight, like it was essential that we remained connected. I squeezed back. And he looked at me with such a serious expression on his face, an expression that I now know as desire, that I was surprised my hand didn't go weak in his.

My legs had trembled though...

I can still feel his hand in mine as he cups my face and kisses me deeply, pushing me up against the wall of his hallway. Using his thumb, he pulls my chin down so that my mouth is open wide for him, and he plunges his tongue inside. My eyes snap open at that, and I realise that we haven't shut the door yet.

How is it that we always forget to shut the door?

"Seb," I manage to say around his tongue and he lowers his hands from my face and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me to him.

Now that I can move my head, I turn away from his lips. "Door," I breathe. "Door's open."

"Oh."

I pick my jacket and bag up from the floor where they must've dropped when we first entered the apartment and Seb shuts the door.

My jacket and bag fall to the laminate floor again as Seb backs me up against the wall once more. This time, as he kisses me dizzy, his hands roam all over my body. The permitted parts. I don't think I'll be able to tell if he oversteps the boundaries because all I can think about is keeping up with his hungry lips.

My first moan departs my mouth when Seb claws his hands through my hair. Oh, how I love it when his hands are in my hair! And of course, that strange sound makes him go wild.

He twines my hair around his fingers tightly, and pulls my head back, exposing my throat, which he takes between his lips and teeth like a starved animal with its first meal in weeks. Like he's been deprived of food for so long that he's forgotten how to bite and chew and is trying to swallow me whole instead.

Again, that odd noise keeps escaping my lips now. I can't feel embarrassed about it anymore. I like what it does to him and what he does to me in return.

My hand curls around the back of his head, holding him to the crook of my neck. With my other hand, I play with his hair, combing it with my fingers. Then, I move my hand down to the back of his neck before, tentatively, sliding it under his collar.

He shudders violently in my arms.

"Seb?" I say in alarm, dropping my hands from him. He looks up at me. "Are you okay?"

"No." His voice is husky, eyelids fluttering. "You're killing me, Shell."

I know what he means and I feel hot and sticky all over, my legs wobbling slightly. Still, I say, "Sorry."

"Don't be." He touches his forehead to mine, arms coming around my waist to hold me to him. "It's okay because I want to die. Over and over."

I don't know what to say to that. It sounded almost like he meant it. Like he wishes he was dead. I don't get it.

"Seb?"

He plants a soft kiss on my lips. "Keep saying my name," he whispers, kissing me quickly again. He trails kisses down my jaw and throat and shoulder as he says, "Don't stop saying it. I love the sound of my name on your lips. I love the feel of your mouth on mine. I love touching you. I can't stop myself, I'm sorry."

"Don't be," I find myself saying, mouth dry, breathing hard. "I'd stop you if I wanted to—"

In a lightning-fast move, Seb claims my mouth again. I can't help but melt into him. Dissolve into this kiss. He may feel like devouring me, but right now, I don't find it funny. I feel like melding into him, our bodies merging and becoming one entity. I can't tell him this because I fear he'd rip my clothes off if I did...

He eventually tires himself out with all the kissing and touching—well, groping, really—and rests his head on my shoulder, almost panting.

I'm almost panting, too. "Are we even going to make it to your sofa, today?"

# Chapter 66: Seb

Shell says she's not hungry yet, so we forget about cooking for the time being. We sit on the sofa instead, sipping a cold soft drink to cool ourselves down. Well, I gulp down my drink in seconds, whereas Shell takes her time with hers. The child in me wants to scream, "Hurry up, Shell! Finish your drink already." The adult Seb says, out loud, "Right, that's it!" and snatches her tumbler from her hand and empties the contents. "I can't wait any longer to kiss you."

She giggles but surrenders herself to me as I pull her to me and close my lips around hers. Damn it, she tastes even sweeter than usual because of the sugar from the Sprite I didn't let her finish.

"Mmm..."

I feel her lips smile at my moan, but she doesn't disengage from the kiss. She places her hands on my chest and then, ever so slowly, moves one hand up to my throat before curving it around the back of my neck.

God, that feels so good that I shudder under her touch. Her hands on my skin, they light me up from the inside. I wish she'd ask me if I was okay, like she did in the hall earlier, because she'd be saying my name. I want her to say my name over and over. I don't want to ever forget how that sounds. How that makes me feel.

"Say my name, Shell," I beg her, our lips still touching, still kissing.

"Seb."

And I moan into her mouth, our lips still moving together.

"Seb," she repeats. "Sebastian..."

Shit. That sounds even better. Shit. Shit. I can't decide which I want her to call me...

"Sebastian," I say a few moments later, having made my mind up. Yes, almost everyone I know calls me Seb, which is what I prefer. I like the sound of it better than my full name. But on Shell's lips... In her voice... "Call me Sebastian," I whisper in her ear and she shivers.

"Sebastian," she says in a breathy voice as she touches her lips to mine again. "Sebastian."

"You don't know how good that sounds to me," I tell her in a hoarse voice, cupping her face and holding it an inch away from mine. I look in her eyes and she stares back. "You don't know how good you feel to me," I breathe. I can feel her face heat up further under my hands.

"Do you know what we just did?" she asks quietly.

I raise an eyebrow, confused.

"We did slow-kissing," she says, even quieter. "Can you believe that?"

Yes, I can. "Would you hate it if I touched your back?" I ask in an unintentional whisper.

She giggles. "You've touched my back loads of times..." She shakes her head indulgently.

"No, I meant... under your clothes..." I try for a wicked grin but I don't know what materialises. "If I pulled down the zip of your dress a couple of inches and kissed you...?"

Stiffening, she pulls away from me. "Seb..."

"Sebastian," I correct her.

"Seb," she says nonetheless. "What are you...?"

"I just want to feel your skin there," I say, a plea in my tone, "with my mouth..." I don't know what expression is on my face, but what I feel on the inside is desire. And longing. I want to discover every inch of her smooth skin with my mouth, my tongue. Shell gulps but says nothing. I capitalise. "You know, I can't help wondering what you look like... underneath your clothes..."

"Seb!" she complains, jumping to her feet. "Behave yourself." She frowns down at me.

"Oh, come on, Shell," I say, rolling my eyes. Slowly, I get to my feet, smiling cheekily at her. "You must know that," I say with a crooked grin. "You must know how much I want you. I want you like mad." My voice cracked at the words want and mad, unintentionally at that—I'd been aiming for smug and confident and bravado.

She's ruffled, nonetheless. "Yes, but..."

"You don't want me to say it?" I ask with a wicked smile. "I just want to be honest with you. I want you to know what you do to me."

She narrows her eyes at me. "Some things are better left unsaid, Sebastian." She sounds a little angry, disappointed too. My name on her lips sounded like an insult.

I shrug. "I guess... It's obvious to you anyway, isn't it, that I think about you all the time? That every night, I lie in bed thinking about making love to you. Every night."

Shell almost winces, face going red.

"And because it's the last thing on my mind before I fall asleep... I dream about it every night, too." I edge closer to her and whisper, "Every night I dream about making love to you, Shell. Every night."

"I think I'm going to leave now," she says, her tone clipped. Reaching for her bag and jacket, she adds, "You're not quite yourself today." Then, she freezes. "You said you wanted to spend time together, somewhere we can be ourselves. Is this you being the real Seb? Talking about sex and asking to kiss the skin on my back?"

I laugh and she makes to leave the room.

I grab her hand. "It's a part of the real Seb," I tell her. "It's a part of being a man. You know men think about sex every two seconds."

"Seven seconds, I heard," she informs me. Shell tries to wiggle her hand away but my grip is tight. "I'm not staying another second if this is all you want to talk about."

"It's not all I want to talk about," I assure her, voice calm, reasonable. "I just thought that... Well, the two of us are adults... and we should be able to talk about sex and desire in a mature way. That's all." I shrug.

She narrows her eyes at me. "I don't want to talk about sex," she tells me eventually, voice stern.

"Fine," I agree. "No sex talk." I pull her towards the couch again.

She stumbles along. "You made me very uncomfortable, Seb," she tells me in a strict tone when we're seated on the sofa. "I think you should know that, since we're being honest."

"Yeah, I could see that. Sorry." I bite my bottom lip. "Forgive me?"

"On one condition."

"Yeah?"

"Answer me this. Honestly." She takes a deep breath. I brace myself. "If we were to... get carried away—and you know what I mean by that—would you... Would you...?"

"Would I take you to bed?" I raise an eyebrow cheekily as I utter the words she couldn't.

"Well, would you?" she demands.

"Honest answer?"

She nods.

"No, because you'd stop us. Stop me."

"What if I was..." She hesitates for a few seconds. "If I was too lost in the moment? Would you stop it if I didn't?"

"Yes," I sigh.

She smiles a small smile, seeing that I'm telling the God honest truth.

"It would be absolute torture but I'd stop it. I swear."

Shell nods and turns her back to me.

"Shell?"

She flips her tresses onto one shoulder, exposing the zip to her dress.

"Just two inches, Sebastian."

"Just two inches?" I ask, confused but elated—she's called me Sebastian. It means she's no longer angry with me.

"The zip," she clarifies. "You can pull it down two inches only."

"Oh." Oh.

My heart flips. My hands shake as they reach towards the zipper of her dress. My fingers tremble as I struggle to pull the zip down. My entire body shudders as my lips press on the exquisite skin just below the nape of her neck.

She shudders with me.

We're both breathing heavily.

I turn my head to the side and press my cheek onto the spot where I've dared to kiss her only once.

That's all I deserve. If that.

I'm still shaking.

Shell calms down first. "Sebastian?" she whispers, and I get the feeling she hadn't meant to whisper. "Are you alright?"

No. No, I'm not at all alright. I'm dying. She's killing me. You're killing me, Shell.

"Promise me," I breathe.

"What?" She makes to turn around.

I grab the tops of her arms and hold her in place. "Just a few more moments, please," I beg.

"Okay," she agrees. I sigh in immense relief. "Now, what did you want me to promise you?" she asks, sounding almost formal.

"Promise me you'll never mention any of this to Imran."

Her body stiffens. "Imran?"

"It'll kill him to know that I kissed you first. Touched you first. Opened your zip first. You can't tell him."

"Of course, I won't," she snaps as she rockets to her feet. "I doubt I'll ever see him again."

I drop my head into my hands. "You will," I sigh. "You'll be married to him."

"WHAT?" She sounds so angry that I look up. Yes, she's livid. "What did you say?" she demands fiercely.

I stand up slowly. "You and Imran... married." I swallow.

She shakes her head. "I get it, now," she murmurs. "You've lost the nerve to talk to him. Well, that's fine. I'll talk to my parents, just like I planned. It's the way it should be. I should've known you wouldn't be able to do it. It's not your fault. It's not your responsibility. It's mine." She gathers up her stuff, readying to leave.

"Shell."

"What?" she snaps.

"You won't be able to convince them."

"My parents?"

I nod. "They won't back out of this," I tell her, "and I think both of us know. Deep down, we know. We've known since the moment we kissed that nothing would come of it, but we couldn't help ourselves. I couldn't stay away. I just..." I make myself look her up and down, sleazebag-style. "I just want you so much," I tell her, "and that was something you couldn't resist. I made it impossible for you to resist."

She looks thrown. "It wasn't like that, Seb," she finally mumbles.

"I guess it doesn't matter, anyway," I mumble back. "Promise me that you'll let me have... that you'll come to me until you're married to him. Let me have these last few days with you, or else I'll lose my mind, Shell. I'll go crazy if I can't have you for a few more days..."

Shell shakes her head, a mix of anger and disbelief showing on her face. "You sound so sure that I'll end up marrying him..."

"I am because I know you, Shell," I tell her in a persuasive voice. "I know you'll do the right thing. When push comes to shove—when your parents set out their ultimatums—you'll go with what's been arranged. And I think you've always known that you will, too."

"No, I haven't," she snaps, furious. "And if that's what you think of me..." She shakes her head. "I had no idea you saw me that way, Seb. You think I knew I was going to marry Imran anyway and was just... playing with you... Last-minute fun before my wedding..." She's too angry, too upset, to utter complete sentences.

Exactly how I need her to feel.

"But you have to admit, it was fun," I say with a wink.

The next sound that echoes in my flat is the sound of flesh hitting flesh. Yes, she's slapped me. Quite rightly so. I deserved it.

I deserve another. So, I ask, "Does that mean we won't get to grope each other anymore?"

This time, she's so mad she can't say anything for a while. Her hands are like claws at her sides. I wish she'd slap me as I'd hoped.

"I was just joking there, Shell," I tell her as casually as I can manage.

"I can't believe I let you touch me," she spits through clenched teeth. "You're disgusting."

"I told you that was a joke," I say with a grin. "I was trying to lighten the mood. We got so serious..." I shake my head indulgently.

"Do you really think I'm going to marry Imran after everything... we've done?" she questions without expecting a response. "Did you think that all along?"

I sigh. "I had a feeling, yes."

"You thought I was using you... for kissing practice," she almost hisses at me. "That I wasn't serious about you."

"How could you be?" I turn my back to her and walk to the window. "You know better than I do that nothing can come out of this. You've known all along we were being stupid. You knew from the start that we were out of each other's... reach. I mean, you never thought we could have... a future, did you? You couldn't have." I made sure I sounded very certain as I finished speaking.

"Because of race and religion," she whispers.

I turn to meet her gaze. Her face is so pale now. She looks like she's going to be sick. And yet, I plough on:

"Exactly. Race and religion. And society. Community. The list goes on and on, Shell..."

She just swallows painfully. Now, it's my turn to say the things Imran said to me when I chose to give up Shell. When I picked him over her.

"It's against Islamic law for a Muslim woman to marry a non-Muslim," I say in a detached tone. "It's strictly forbidden. Society would never accept it easily, even if your parents do, which they won't, not fully. You won't be able to blame them, either. There's so much more to this than just having different colour skin and worshipping different Gods."

Shell swallows again, lowers her eyes. "You're right," she replies. Her words were faint.

"But that's not the point, anyway. The point is, in your heart of hearts, you were never going to pick me over Imran."

Her head snaps back to my face. "Wow, you really believe that, don't you?"

"It's true, isn't it?" I say with a little challenge in my tone, my eyes. "Come on, Shell. Would you really pick me over Imran, burns and all?"

She gasps, her eyes widen. Then, they fall to her feet. "I wasn't even thinking about... the burns," she murmurs. "I don't know if I'd have noticed them if I saw..." She shakes her head. "You really do think I've been messing around with you, don't you?" she murmurs, gulping. "But it's because I know your secrets and you think I'm too shallow to see beyond your scars."

"I don't think you're shallow, I swear."

"Then, this is about your insecurities, Seb." She takes a few steps towards me, bag and jacket still in her hands. Still planning to go. "You're too insecure about your body and you can't get past it," she says as though it hurts her to acknowledge this. "That's why you'll never be able to let any woman get close to you. Why you'll never believe that a woman could love you, burns and all.

"You're not damaged goods, Seb, but that's how you see yourself and how you think I see you. But I swear to you that I don't." She studies my face for a long moment and whatever she sees in it, makes her say, "You don't believe me. You'll never believe me."

She gives me a sad shake of her head, a pitying look.

"You think you're incapable of loving someone, Seb, but I think you're incapable of letting someone love you and be good to you. So, I won't be wasting my feelings on you, Sebastian Lowe. I won't stay here and try to convince you that you're wrong about me. Because there's no point—you're not going to believe me. You're not ready for that.

"You have a lot of issues to work through. And I'd wait for you, help you even, but you don't care enough about me to let me. Do you?"

There's some hope in her eyes as she waits for me to take the rope she's throwing at me. This "Do you?" is her giving me the last chance to tell her how I feel about her. I say nothing.

"I thought so," she says quietly, nodding to herself. Then, she turns to leave.

"So, you do pick him over me."

She halts at the living room doorway. Spins around. Looks at me aghast. Then, she composes her features into the cool, calm, professional mask that she wore when we first met.

"I'm not picking you," she says in a firm tone. "But I'm not choosing Imran, either."

She makes to turn. I'm stunned still by that.

"But..." I say and nothing else follows.

"What?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at me as she faces me again. "I can't marry him," she tells me as though I should know better than to be surprised by this. "I haven't changed my mind about that."

"But..." Again I can't continue.

Imran and I were so sure that if I hurt her enough, if I turned her down, then she'd retaliate by deciding to marry Imran. To hurt me. The revenge of a scorned woman.

However, I knew I couldn't overdo it. Couldn't make it obvious that I was trying to break her heart on purpose in order to force her into Imran's arms. I had to be careful to not say or do anything that would make her think I was sacrificing my feelings for her because of my best friend. For my best friend. Shell's too clever; she'd see through it.

As such, I tried a different approach, one that didn't hint at self-sacrifice, and it worked. She's not going to come to me again. Not to my office. Not to my flat.

She's really leaving me.

"But?" Shell probes, waiting for me to continue what I'd barely begun saying.

I can't respond, numb with fear. She's still determined to cancel the wedding, which means Imran doesn't have her back.

"Just because you and I are... over," she says with a humourless, joyless smile on her lips. "Doesn't mean my reasons for cancelling the wedding are irrelevant."

"But..."

"I'm sorry, Seb, but I can't marry Imran." She turns on the spot and over her shoulder, just before she walks out of my flat, she adds, "I can't marry him, not when I'm falling in love with his best friend."

Automatically, my right hand lifts towards her, as though to stop her from leaving. My lips part in anticipation of the words that will call her back to me. I have to stop her now—she just said she's falling in love with me...

But when I recall her exact words, I find myself mute and frozen to the spot.

I'm falling in love with his best friend.

Best friend.

Imran.

My front door slams shut behind her. I jump at the sound. At the finality of it. She's gone. The woman I love, the woman that's falling in love with me, burns and all, is gone. I sent her away because I chose to save my friendship with Imran instead of exploring what Shell and I have started to feel for one another. Because I'd hoped that she'd marry Imran to hurt me back for this cruel rejection.

But that's not what's happened. In hopes of delivering her to Imran, I've lost her forever.

And Imran's lost her, too.

# EPILOGUE

From: Russell Jones <r.jones@ehanfoundationnyc.com>

To: Sebastian Lowe <seb.lowe@lowecapitaluk.co.uk>

Subject: Re: Lowe Capital UK Fund I

Seb,

I wanted to let you know that we did indeed discuss your fund at our investment committee meeting this morning, and...

You know what? We're going to give you the whole $10 mil. Happy now? Haha!

Our CFO will be in touch with you, but I wanted to be the first to congratulate you. You've done well.

Best,

Russell

Russell P. Jones

Investment Officer

EHAN Foundation NYC

End of Book 1

Pre-Order Book 2, If I Say No, releasing 2021...

Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this book, please post a quick review.

Q&A on this book on  my blog.

Translations

"Amma": what we call our mothers (derived from "Ma", which means mother).

"Abba": what we call our fathers (derived from "Baba", which means father).

"Apa": what we call our elder sisters (and female cousins that are older than us, because we're supposed to treat cousins like siblings).

"Bhaiya": what we call our elder brothers (and male cousins that are older than us; derived from "Bhai", which means brother).

"Bhabi": what we call our elder brothers' wives (and also our elder male cousins' wives).

"Dhulabhai": what we call our elder sisters' husbands (and also our elder female cousins' husbands).

"Fufu": what we call our paternal aunts (and also our father's female cousins).

"Khala": what we call our maternal aunts (and also our mother's female cousins).

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