The Lie

Okay so here is how I ruined my own life. It was an accident. Mostly. It was a Sunday and I was at my mum's house and all my aunties were there, all of them, and they were doing the thing they do. The thing is questions. They sit you down and they give you tea and a samosa and then they start, very gently, like it's nice, and it is not nice. "And how is work, Anya?" "Work is good, Auntie." "Good, good. And are you seeing anyone?" And normally I say no, and then everyone makes a face like I told them my dog died, and then they spend forty minutes talking about my cousin Rhea who is younger than me and already engaged. And I have done this maybe one hundred times. One hundred Sundays of the face. But this Sunday, I don't know what happened. I think I was just tired. I think one hundred was my number. Because when Auntie Pinky asked if I was seeing anyone, I heard my own voice say, "Actually, yes. Yes I am." The whole room went quiet. Even the kettle went quiet. And then it was too late, because you cannot un-say a thing in a room full of aunties, it's like trying to un-ring a bell, and they all leaned in and started asking the boyfriend questions, what does he do, where did you meet, what is his name, and my brain just started inventing a man. Right there. His name is — I looked at the wall and there was a calendar — his name is, um, his name is. I didn't say a calendar word. I panicked and I said "his name is Kabir" because Kabir is a name I know, because Kabir is a guy I work with, and that was my second mistake, the first one being existing. So now my family thinks I have a boyfriend called Kabir. And my cousin Rhea's wedding is in two weeks. And my mum has already, ALREADY, told the wedding people to add a plus one, and she is so happy, she keeps looking at me like I finally did something right, and I cannot, I physically cannot, take that look off her face. So on Monday I went to find the real Kabir. The real Kabir works two desks down from me and we do not get along. I want to be clear about that. He is one of those people who replies-all to emails. He microwaves fish. He once corrected my pronunciation of a word in a meeting and the word was a word I was saying correctly. We have a whole history of small wars. He is, basically, the last man on earth I would choose for this. But he is the only man on earth whose name I already said. "No," Kabir said, before I even finished. He didn't even turn his chair around. "Whatever it is. No." "You don't know what it is." "You have a look on your face. The look is asking for a favour and the favour is insane. I've seen the look. It was on my sister's face right before she asked me to drive a sofa to Manchester." So I told him anyway. I told him the whole thing, the aunties, the kettle going quiet, the calendar, the wedding, my mum's face. And the more I talked the more I could feel how stupid it sounded, and I waited for him to laugh at me, because Kabir laughing at me would honestly be the most normal thing in our entire relationship. But he didn't laugh. He turned his chair around, finally, and he looked at me for a long second, and something in his face was different. Sort of stuck. Sort of careful. "Two weeks," he said. "Your cousin's wedding. You need a fake boyfriend called Kabir, who is, conveniently, me." "I know it's a lot. I know. I'll pay you, I'll —" "I don't want money." He rubbed his face. "Here's the thing, Anya. I have a sister. The sofa-to-Manchester one. And she's having an engagement party in three weeks, and my whole family has spent a YEAR asking me why I'm single, and I have spent a year saying I'm too busy, and I am running out of busy." He put his hands flat on the desk. "So. I'll be your Kabir. At your wedding. If you'll be my whoever, at my sister's party. Two events. We pretend. We're each other's — problem solved. Both problems. Solved." I just looked at him. Because the thing is, this is the worst idea I have ever heard, and I have heard my own ideas. Kabir and I do not get along. We have small wars. He microwaves fish. If we pretend to be a couple for two weeks one of us is going to actually commit a crime. But also. My mum's face. "Fine," I said. "Fine. But there are rules. I'm writing rules." "Of course you are," said Kabir, and he almost smiled, and that was the third mistake, because Kabir almost-smiling was a thing I had genuinely never seen before, and I did not hate it, and that, that right there, was the start of the whole disaster.