The Wedding Countdown by Ruth Saberton Page A

many circuits I’ve done of this supermarket. I’m Jag, by the way, short for Jagbir.’
    Damn. That’s a Sikh name. What’s a Sikh doing in a halal supermarket? It’s impossible, this husband-finding lark, like playing snakes and ladders. I just thought I’d got to one hundred and now I’m sliding down the biggest snake right back to the start again. Then I silently berate myself for being so insensitive. Don’t I mostly shop in non-halal supermarkets like Asda?
    ‘You’ve gulab jamuns in your basket,’ smiles Jag. ‘So did I before you knocked me flying. You heard the DJ Kishii show, didn’t you?’
    ‘Yes,’ I say. That’s technically not a lie. I did hear it, just not on the radio.
    ‘Can I have your number?’ asks Jag, and now his cheeks are pink. ‘If that’s OK?’
    ‘I don’t normally give my number out.’
    ‘I understand,’ says Jag. ‘How about I give you mine, and then you can call me? If you want to, I mean?’
    ‘Oh. OK.’
    ‘Cool!’ Jag retrieves a receipt from his wallet and scribbles down a number. ‘There.’ He hands it to me. ‘I’ll be looking forward to your call.’
    And off he goes, swinging his basket jauntily, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I feel guilty about him because he seems like a lovely guy but I can’t get involved, even though it’s no fault of his.
    With a sigh I pick up my basket and walk up and down the aisles putting back my groceries, ending up at the delicacies counter to place the gulab jamuns back where they belong. I’ve got no more need for those. I’m through with shopping for men. All I want now is to go home and jump in the shower so I can rinse off the reek of chutney.
    That’s funny. Where are the gulab jamuns ? I can’t see them and I’m sure there were loads earlier. They’ve all gone! Our singles night must have been a success! Come to think of it, there are loads more shoppers around and there’s a real buzz in the air.
    The supermarket must be teeming with lonely singles looking for love. Hopefully this means Nish and I will get lots of feedback to help us write a brilliant feature.
    ‘Excuse me,’ says a voice. ‘Are you returning those?’
    A tall guy with long dark hair and a body corded with muscles and sinew like the outside of the Pompidou Centre is smiling nervously at me. Trendy glasses lend him an intellectual air.
    ‘I’ve just remembered I’m on a diet,’ I improvise. ‘I really don’t need them.’
    He smiles. ‘I don’t think I need them either now.’
    ‘You don’t look like you need to be on a diet.’
    ‘And you certainly don’t need to be denying yourself. You’ve got a great figure, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
    ‘Err… thanks.’
    ‘Sorry,’ he says, grinning at me. ‘That was really forward, but I couldn’t resist. You’ve been listening to HuM SaB too. I don’t need the gulab jamuns any more, do I? I’m Dawud, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.’
    I ‘phew’ mentally because Dawud’s a Muslim name. ‘I’m Mills.’
    ‘Can I take your number?’ Dawud asks. ‘I’d love to take you out for dinner and get to know you better. I feel a real connection between us!’
    I can’t say I feel anything much apart from relief I’ve finally met a Muslim guy. And he’s only being so flattering because he’s delighted to meet a single Muslim girl. But deciding it’s time to take a chance, I give Dawud one of the business cards Nish printed for me.
    ‘Thanks.’ He tucks it into his wallet. ‘Here, take mine.’
    Dawud’s card is expensive thick cream paper embossed with gold writing.
    ‘Architect,’ I read. That ticks one of my boxes, I suppose. ‘I love architecture.’
    ‘See!’ smiles Dawud. ‘Instant connection. I knew it! Can I call you?’
    He’s attractive. He’s Muslim. He’s single. He’s solvent. I guess that means he can call me.
    ‘That would be lovely,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’
    We say goodbye and I finally leave the