Twenty-seven

pass by the closed door of Lamva's bedroom and hear her say, He can't now - three months into the semester - say it's not working.' 1 strain to hear Doctora Zeinab's reply but I can only make out the tone, soothing, diplomatic. Then Lamya again. He promised he would come for visits - he never did. He even phones at the wrong times.' They are not talking about Tamer. I lose interest and continue on my way to the kitchen, Lamva's voice in my ear. 'Hisham agreed that I would come here to do my PhD, he can't grumble about it now ...' I miss Tamer. He was out before I arrived. Perhaps his mother's arrival yesterday urged him to he more serious about his studies.

The kitchen is not the usual battlefield. The table has been cleared, the dishes washed, a casserole sits in the sink, full of soapy water. Only the breakfast mugs and dishes need washing. Doctora Zeinab's presence is tangible. She had brought trays of baglau'a and basboosa, jars of green olives, tins of foul, even frozen stuffed vine leaves and moulokbia. All these things are available in London but they are probably cheaper in Cairo. For Mal there is a doll and a stuffed rabbit. She toddles in now clutching them in both hands. I give her breakfast and try not to get cereal on the new toys. The slam of the door means that Lamya has gone out, forgetting to kiss her daughter goodbye.

Doctora Zeinab smiles as she walks into the kitchen. I like her - her thick auburn hair, the way she beams at Mai, the way she stands waiting for the kettle to boil, her hands on her hips, not caring that her stomach is bulging. I have always been vain and careful. Even when I am completely alone, I watch my posture, check that my eyebrows are smooth, that no food is stuck between my teeth. Whenever I come into contact with women like Doctora Zeinah, large and unselfconscious, I admire them.

She speaks and I warm to her accent. `I'm glad Lamya and Tamer are well. Alhamdullilah, this set-up is successful. I thought it would be when I planned it all out for them. It's nice that they're together, nice that they're in a proper home, not in student halls. I could have kept Mai with me in Cairo - maybe Lamya would have even preferred that but it's better that they're not separated. And Hisham will be coming here for visits. His wife in London, his daughter in Cairo - that wouldn't be sensible.'

I nod and hide my surprise, remember to swing back into my role as maid, play the part. I have been lax because of Tamer. I am surprised that she is saying all this when Lamya is having problems with her husband and Tamer hates his course. Perhaps she does not consider these complaints to be serious, which is reassuring for me. If they abandon their studies and leave London, what will become of me?

She chats. `I wish I could stay longer but I have to travel to New York the day after tomorrow. And I can't pass by on the way back either - my ticket is New York to Cairo direct.'

`It must be tiring to spend so much time on the aeroplane.' I stuff laundry into the washing machine, his shirt and underwear.

`Oh, I just take a sleeping pill and I don't know anything till the stewardess wakes nee up and says we've arrived.' She laughs.

I've always been wary of sleeping pills as if I can't trust myself with them. What would life be if I were like her; professional, capable and mobile, not bogged down' `I-:nvv devours your good actions like fire devours fuel,' the Prophet, peace be upon him, said. I know it but I still do it, I still yearn for what others have.

In the afternoon I offer to go grocery shopping in Church Street. The Tesco there is cheaper than the nearby Europa store. This comment earns me all approving smile and 1)octora Zeinab says that she and Mai will accompany me. I carry Mai and her pushchair down the steep steps that lead to the canal. I feel a twinge in Illy back - sometimes these twinges disappear, sometimes the ache sets in and lasts for days. It is pleasant to walk along the canal, marvel at the houseboats and how some people live on them. Another flight of steps and we are in the hustle of Church Street, a world removed from St ,john's Wood. We enjoy the street market, the sights and sounds. 'They've got everything,' says 1)octora Zeinab, `even fresh okra.' The supermarket is not big but we pile up a trolley and this abundance pleases her, this stocking up. In the cal) going home, she says, `Until Lanlya and Tamer go home for the Christmas holidays, they won't need to do any more shopping.' Lanlya is going to her husband in Oman, Tamer is going with his father to Khartoum.

After I put the shopping away I tidy his room. It is changed because of his mother's presence - both beds unmade instead of only his, the smell of her perfume, her suitcases on the floor. There is no sign of his book A Treatise on the Art and Practice of Arab Love. He had hidden it from her. The door opens and she is taken aback to see me smoothing his pillow, `Why didn't you do this room in the morning when you did all the cleaning?' I flush and have no adequate reply, only an apologetic mumble. She sighs at my stupidity, `Come and start the cooking.'

I am taking the chicken out of the fridge when he walks into the kitchen. He comes close to me and whispers, `You weren't in the park today.'

I am flattered. I swell with it and say, `I went shopping with your mum.' I remove the chicken from the Tesco packaging.

He looks at my hand and the surprise makes him raise his voice. `What are you doing? Why did you get this chicken? You only ever get halal ones.'

`Your mother bought it.' I throw the cling film in the bin.

`Why didn't you stop her?'

Does he imagine that his mother and I are on equal terms? `She said the butcher in Finchley Road is too far away.'

`This is exactly what I was telling you about the other day,' he hisses. `She can be so lax at time, it bugs me.'

`Shush, she'll hear you.' I wash the chicken under the running tap. Inside it is a small plastic packet full of the innards - something the chickens from the halal butcher never have. It is pleasing to have him standing next to me.

`Well, I'm not going to eat it.' He must have looked like that when he was little and annoyed, with the frown and flashing eyes. He moves away from me and jerks open the cupboard. He takes out a giant pack of tortillas and tears it open.

I want to tease him, to soften his mood. 'I thought you said you weren't going to eat standing up any more?'

He pulls out a chair. I pass him a Or of salsa dip and he takes it without a word, twists the lid open and dunks a crisp into the chunky mixture. I love giving him food, watching him eat. He munches and says, 'I can't believe you're going to cook this chicken.'

'I am.' I pick up a knife and start cutting the wings.

I'm not going to eat it.'

`Neither will I.'

`So I'm supposed to just starve today?' His mouth is full and it makes me laugh.

He swallows. 'What's so funny?'

I look at him, knowing he is hungry, knowing he is spoilt. `You won't starve. You can have rice and salad.'

This is not your fault.' He puts his tortillas down and walks out, calling his mother. I hear them talking in the next room. He sounds childish and nagging. She brushes his arguments aside, saying he is silly, saying he is making a big fuss over nothing. It is a mistake; he becomes aggressive and raises his voice. I freeze, the kitchen knife poised in my hand, as echoes of other quarrels and other mothers ring in my ears. But Omar and Tamer are miles apart, miles apart. I try and reach him. I whisper, 'Control yourself, control yourself, it's not worth it. You will regret your rudeness afterwards; your sensitive nature will he troubled.'