‘Sounds familiar,’ I mumble to no one in particular. ‘Sounds like a piece of... of... work.’
One sardonic eyebrow rises. I lower my gaze to the croissant, no longer hungry.
‘But he and your mum are divorced?’
The newspaper rustles a protest in his grip. With a withering expression, he begins to speak. ‘Faris has married three times. He currently has two wives and one is my mother. No divorce, but it’s a marriage in little more than name. They no longer live together and lead quite separate lives.’
‘He’s gottwowives?’ I fail to keep the incredulous squeak from my voice.And he thinks I live on the weird side of the looking glass?‘I thought polygamy was a thing of the past. I mean, I’d heard it’s still permitted out here but I didn’t think it was, you know?’
His shoulder rises in what seems an uncomfortable motion. ‘Practised? In this culture, it’s acceptable for a man to take up to four wives, providing he can treat each wife equally. My father has the financial means to treat his wives fairly. Beyond that, it’s a matter of opinion. Just try to stay away from him if you can,’ he adds.
Tense jawed and amber-eyed in the morning light, he seems to consider speaking further before lifting the battle-worn newspaper, signalling the end of our conversation. And physically shutting me out.
Mouth agape, I stare at the unfamiliar print as the croissant crumbles between my fingers.Stay away from him; no wucking furries, mate.
‘Close your mouth or eat your breakfast. We have to leave quite soon.’ The pages crinkle as he turns them. How can he be so composed? He and his father have some serious issues; they make my lot look positively normal. Not to mention his dad sounds like a right royal douche. What the hell was all that about leverage?
‘Dads, eh?’ I mumble. ‘Is he the same with your sisters?’ Circuitous, indeed.
‘Who told you I had sisters?’ he asks from behind the pages.
‘You did. Sort of. You mentioned you were an only son.’
He doesn’t expand. Meanwhile, I practicallyitchwith dozens of unasked questions.
Then, as he turns the page, he sighs like a long-suffering spouse, following it with a single, aggrieved word. ‘One.’
‘One what?’
‘Sister. Noor, she’s fifteen and the daughter of his second wife. Satisfied?’
I nod.But not even close.
‘Remember what curiosity did to the cat.’ Caution fills his tone.
And while I know full well what it did to the cat, it’s also bugging the shit out of me.
‘I can almost hear cogs turning.’ And he doesn’t sound happy about it. ‘Do you always fidget when you’re being nosey?’
‘No, I mean, I am not. Fidgeting, or... look, it’s all just so different, is it any wonder I... wonder?’
‘Aboutwhatspecifically now?’ His hands fall to the table, the newspaper discarded in a heap.
‘Well, your parents are still married?’
‘Yes.’ One word. One sound.Weary.
‘And your mum is English?’
‘She is.’
‘Then I don’t get it. I mean, I would imagine women not born to think of multiple marriages as... as... normal would have a hard time being wife number whatever. Last I heard, the UK was still a one marriage at a time kind of place.’
‘Why my mother is still married is a matter for her.’ Frighteningly quiet, his voice is also hard-edged. ‘And she is hisfirstwife.’
‘Sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’ If I’m honest, I totally do, but I am sorry I’ve touched a raw nerve. I cringe inwardly at my combat boot of cultural finesse. Maybe there’s some kind of pecking order in the wives department I know nothing about.
His previously smooth hair stands to attention as he runs a hand through it.
