‘Will it be OK for me to pray with you all?’ Lucy asked anxiously as they sat together in the living room, with their revision books around them and a plate of home-made samosas (part of a large consignment that Mariam’s mother had left for them at her last visit) on the coffee table in front of them. ‘Or will anyone be offended at a non-Muslim joining in?’
‘No, of course not!’ Mariam assured her. ‘After all, we’re all praying to the same God. And our mosque makes a particular point of welcoming everyone, whatever their beliefs. Maybe you’d have to be careful at some others, but no one will bat an eyelid here.’
‘And they won’t think I’m taking the micky, wearing a hijab?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Mariam was scornful. ‘Stop worrying. Everyone knows who you are and why you’re wearing it.’
‘Do they? I suppose Tahira will have told everyone.’ Lucy was still hesitant. ‘You’re sure I won’t offend anyone?’
‘No,’ her friend told her firmly. ‘And you need to stop expecting us to get offended at every little thing. That’s just the sort of Muslim stereotype we’re trying to get rid of. We don’t get offended about things any more than you or anyone else does – OK?’
‘OK,’ Lucy grinned. ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. I suppose it’s a bit patronising always checking with people that they aren’t going to get offended before you do anything, instead of trusting them to be sensible about it and just tell you if you’ve made a boob.’