by Amal Awad
There are different ways to melt the edges, but Luke keeps it simple. ‘Hot ramekin. Place it top down so we can use the bottom as a hot surface.’ Luke moves closer and places two ramekins in front of me. We’re side by side, my arm grazing his, when he takes a half-sphere and gently circles it against the surface of the ramekin. ‘Carefully. You don’t want to melt too much of it. Now you try.’
I am a bit slow but eventually grow more courageous. I realise how intently I have been working, not at all worried about impressing Luke. His easy approach makes it possible.
I hand Luke the half-spheres and he carefully but expertly glues them together. He wipes away the excess drip then carefully places the complete sphere onto a tray lined with parchment paper. ‘You do the other one.’
As I massage the half-spheres into the ramekin, Luke clangs about in search of other ingredients.
‘How about some gold dust?’ he says, emerging with a medium-sized jar of edible lustre dust. Then he grabs a small bowl and a bottle of clear liquid. ‘Can I use grain alcohol?’
I nod.
‘You can use any type of extract, but this is my preferred one. And I don’t have any lemon extract.’
‘It’s OK.’
Luke drops a teaspoon of the lustre powder into the bowl then adds a couple of drops of the alcohol. He stirs it until it is smooth and silky with a metallic shine. ‘We’re going to airbrush the domes. Hand-painting gets a bit messy. See how I’ve got that watery consistency? That’s what you want.’
I lean in, feeling completely at ease with Luke, who has never been more patient or informative. He may have been the least enthusiastic about The Experiment, but he has delivered the best experience so far.
‘Have you used one of these before?’ he asks, holding up the spray gun.
‘Years ago, on my cakes.’
Luke hands it to me, and I adjust the needle, loosening it then moving it out to prevent it getting stuck. He brings over the tray and places it in front of me.
I glance up at him. ‘Should I just cover it all?’
Luke shrugs. ‘Yeah, why not.’
A few minutes later we have two golden domes.
Luke nods his approval. ‘Now you’re going to melt the bottom off – enough to cover a surprise inside.’
I reheat the ramekins while Luke warms up caramel in the microwave. He asks me to fetch two large bowls and ice cream from the freezer.
He pours the hot caramel sauce into a small jug. ‘We don’t have fresh fruit, so ice cream by itself will have to do. Now it’s my turn,’ he says and I stand back to observe.
Luke scoops ice cream into the bowls then carefully places the carved domes over the top. He breaks off the chocolate we stencilled earlier and places the shards against the dome.
‘Now, the fun part.’ Luke pours caramel sauce over the top of the dome and I watch as it melts the chocolate, which collapses gloriously into the ice cream. My tastebuds awaken and my stomach groans in anticipation. I haven’t eaten dinner, but this is a more appealing option.
Luke hands me the sauce. ‘You do the other one.’
I bite my top lip, feeling a bit silly about how excited melted chocolate makes me feel.
‘A bit of theatre,’ Luke says. ‘And super easy. One day, when you’re on MasterChef, you’re going to laugh at how I tried to impress you with this.’
‘That’s never going to happen,’ I say, smiling at the image of me as a guest chef, lifting a cloche to reveal a complex dessert. ‘I couldn’t even get through half the games at improv and that was with people I know.’
We take our bowls to the step in the hallway that links to the shop, and in near darkness, we eat the dessert.
A strip of light comes in through the hallway, illuminating Luke’s face as he speaks. ‘It gets more complicated when you make your ice cream from scratch, or if you’re making a complex shape with layers inside. But I wanted to take away some of the mystery.’
I smile into my dessert. ‘An uncomplicated complex dessert. I like it.’
We’re both quiet a moment, the music from the studio a distant hum.
Luke turns to face me. ‘You’re going to surpass me soon enough, I think.’
My stomach lurches and I exhale. I look at him and find his eyes locked onto mine. His expression is sombre, but I think sincere.
‘We make a good team,’ I say, and I mean it.
All of a sudden, he reaches out to wipe something off my face. ‘You have chocolate and caramel … Can’t take you anywhere.’
The tenderness of the action eclipses my embarrassment. But then I go to check it’s all gone and he immediately withdraws his hand.
The moment is severed and Luke rises from the step and grabs the bowls. ‘I’ll clean up.’
And it’s the strangest thing, but I don’t want him to go.
Sitting on the step in the hallway, I can hear Luke cleaning up inside, and I know I should go in and help him, but all of a sudden I’m feeling self-conscious. And there’s something else … something I don’t understand. Perhaps it’s simply what I have known all along: watching Luke work moves me. There’s something about him that’s familiar, and I feel oddly connected to him even when we disagree.
I stand up and take a deep breath, ignoring the thick roll of nervous energy that is dampening what felt so light only a few moments earlier.
I enter and see Luke at the sink, cleaning the moulds and the bowls. He has switched into another mode and I don’t want to disrupt it. I begin tidying up the remaining bits and pieces, and wait until he’s finished. When he turns around, Luke looks almost surprised to see me.
‘You can go,’ he says, not unkindly. ‘I’ve got this.’
I feel a wave of disappointment. I’m not sure what has happened, but something has shifted from the gentle movement between us to stiff discomfort.
‘OK then. See you at work tomorrow?’
Luke nods slowly a couple of times. ‘And I want more ideas. Not just the feelings. Give me a creation.’
‘Got it.’
I grab my handbag and walk through the store to get to the front door. I’m halfway across the room when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn and Luke is there, pulling me towards him. He cups my face in his hands, uses his thumb to rub my cheek, and his touch causes me to shiver.
Our foreheads bump against each other before his lips meet mine in a soft kiss. He tastes like alcohol and chocolate. The kiss deepens, and it feels like something. Luke kisses me again, and I find myself saying, ‘Oh my God.’
‘Fuck,’ he says suddenly, pulling away. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’
Luke steps back, holds a fist to his mouth and centres himself. But my insides are knotted. I want to kiss him again.
‘No, it’s OK,’ I say shakily.
‘Sahar, I’m sorry. That was very unprofessional of me.’
My stomach sinks and I nod. ‘I understand. I’ll go.’
I leave quickly. But my whole body is alive to what just transpired. Something in me has shifted to a place of desire. I feel it from my crown to my toes, in the restlessness of my limbs, the way the burn doesn’t end at my stomach. I can feel it in my hands.
On my walk home, I am flooded by waves of different emotions. At one point, my mind wants to guilt me. I almost mistake the deep burn in my gut for shame. It’s not. It’s excitement. I wanted to give in to Luke; to honestly and wholeheartedly let go without any thought of what came next, the default punishment setting extinguished. I wanted to experience the moment – so unexpected, so unimagined – in a pure state of acceptance. Maybe it’s impossible; perhaps my ability to do that was lost years ago. And yet, when he kissed me, I gave in without thought. If he hadn’t ended it, I would still be in his arms.
My stomach is burning by the time I reach the apartment block. My phone pings and my heart rises to my throat. But it’s not Luke, it’s Lara checking up on me. It slows me down, flipping me back to the real world. I look up at the apartment bui
lding, and while my insides are raging, through it all I feel gratitude that at least, in all of this confusion, I have a place to land.
But as I unlock the door to the apartment, I feel heavy. Perhaps it’s guilt because the last person I kissed was Naeem. So it’s no surprise that his image starts to push through. I remember my final day at the refugee camp, the desert chaos at complete odds with where I stand now, in a small, slightly outdated apartment in Sydney’s inner west.
I walk down the small hallway.
I feel my feet traipsing across the hard earth of the camp.
I place my handbag on the side table then poke my head into the living room.
I am face to face with Naeem in his temporary office.
I enter the bathroom and wash my face.
We are both upset. A reckoning.
The memory pulls me open then apart.
There’s a light on in Lara’s bedroom. I know she will be alone, but I knock anyway and wait for her response.
‘Sahar?’
I open the door slightly and poke my head through. ‘Can I come in?’
Lara is reading a bridal magazine, but she immediately puts it to the side and sits up. ‘Of course. Are you OK?’
‘Why do things have to be so hard when they should be so natural?’
Lara sighs in the way that a teacher does when a student demands the answer to a tricky question. ‘It’s hard,’ she says, ‘trying to be normal when the normal we grew up with was so … out there. Are you feeling guilty about something?’
I shake my head. ‘I feel angry.’
‘You seem pretty calm to me.’
I want to tell her about Luke, but I have no idea where it begins and ends. I rest my head against her shoulder.
Lara swivels onto her side and places an arm across my stomach. ‘You know, I think the trick is to be able to find peace even when things are crap. If you can stay balanced in a storm, you can manage anything.’
I think about this for a few moments. The unevenness of life and what gives and takes.
‘You’re sensible,’ Lara continues. ‘You could have come back and gone wild just to make a point. But you didn’t. I mean, you probably have hot guys at your gym losing their minds over you and you haven’t even noticed.’
I scoff. ‘I somehow doubt that.’
‘Trust me. When you’re leaning down to get a kettle bell, someone is checking out your arse.’
‘Not helping, Lara.’
‘Are you seriously telling me that no guy has ever tried flirting with you at the gym?’
Clearly, it has happened to Lara, and I have only ever seen her at the gym once.
‘My circuit instructor told me I have a cool name. Is that flirting?’
‘Was he cute?’
‘I think so? I mean, he’s a trainer and he has a good body …?’
‘How did you respond?’
‘I said “thanks” then continued my deadlifts.’
‘Oh Lordy. Oh Sahar.’
‘I don’t care if the gym instructor thinks I’m cute.’ I know I sound a bit whiney, but I don’t want Lara to taint the one simple thing in my life – my workout.
‘It’d be OK if you did care, though. You know that, right? If you wanted to just have some fun? Men can bloody well do anything they want and no one blinks. Who the hell are they doing all that stuff with?’
‘Honestly, I’m just trying to keep my head above water half the time.’
Lara sits up and gazes down at me. ‘Hand on heart, I love Hakeem and have come to terms with the fact that I’ve ended up with a Muslim despite being a terrible one. But I can’t see that for you right now.’
‘Wouldn’t that be hilarious?’
‘Fundy Sahar with an Aussie and crazy Lara with a Muslim.’
‘Stranger things could happen, I guess.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ she says quietly.
‘I don’t think I’m going to end up with anyone,’ I say.
Lara doesn’t immediately respond. ‘It’s not like you have to.’
‘It’s weird. I think that’s why I’m finding this so hard. It’s not guilt; it’s knowing that I have no desire to ever get married again. I just want to be free. But I also still want to connect.’
‘You want to have sex.’
‘Intimacy,’ I say.
‘That too,’ Lara says and we cackle.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ says Lara, pulling me close. ‘Think about how far you’ve come since you first got back.’
We lie like that for a while, easy together. Lara has been like a lighthouse these last seven or eight months.
An idea gains momentum. ‘We should do something before your wedding,’ I say. ‘You, Samira and me. Maybe you can invite your favourite cousin, Zahra.’
Lara groans. ‘Oh God. She’s a total social media mummy now. She matches her outfits with her kids. I shit you not.’
For a few moments, I ruminate on what motherhood would have looked like for me. How would I have extended love to my children? What would I have taught them when it’s clear that I am an eternal student? Would they have loved me without condition?
‘Do you want to have kids?’ I ask Lara.
‘I don’t know. Hakeem has one, and I like where I am. The music is fun; I feel alive every time I’m onstage. But I don’t know how much longer I can do the little gigs and tours as back-up for the back-up. You know I was pregnant once? With fuckwit ex.’
‘Lara!’
She waves me away. ‘I miscarried, but I would’ve been a single mum. I don’t know, if it had worked out, I probably would have loved it. Shit, I would’ve been that loser who buys her daughter sunglasses when she’s one.’
I can see how the memory inflates then deflates her. We’re quiet again. A moment of silence for what never was.
‘It’s not too late,’ I say. ‘And with the right person, your body will take care of you.’
Lara stares into my eyes, hunting for truth. ‘Is that what you really feel? Because you are crazy psychic and I trust you.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t place bets based on what I think. But yes, that’s how I feel.’ In my bones. I can see the possibilities play out like an apparition in my mind’s eye, an energy coming into form. ‘I think you’d like it. You’d make it fun.’
Lara hugs me. ‘Thank you.’
I return her hug, properly, allowing the connection to sink into my skin and warm me.
‘I would like to call her Aurora,’ Lara says, still clutching onto me. ‘If I have a little girl.’
‘Yeah. Don’t call her Aurora.’
We share a laugh then separate, gently pulling away from each other.
Eventually, our conversation becomes lighter, more drawn out.
Lara closes her eyes before I do. I’m thinking of Naeem as I lay my head down on the pillow. When I close my eyes, his face appears so suddenly I almost think he is in the room with me. It’s not long before I’m asleep and seeing abstract visions of a wintry desert landscape, a sea of ripped tents and empty schools, an ether of shattered dreams.
Chapter 21
I have no idea how many different outcomes have played out in my mind. Some lead me to you. Some have us never knowing each other at all.
The next day at work, Luke is friendly. Which is to say, he is acting weird. Kat notices it too and I hear her prompting Inez to ask me about it.
‘We had a drink and talked about his army days,’ I tell them. ‘That’s all.’
But I worry that I should have done more to prevent Luke’s fall from grace last night. Not that I minded it. I am surprising myself with just how little I minded it.
The truth is, I miss being with someone, but I don’t think I could fool around with a stranger just to sate my physical hunger, no matter how much Kat wishes for it. It’s on her list, which seems to be ballooning by the week. I’m not even sure when she added it, but she left me a print-out: Hot sex with a stranger. I crossed it out.
I ha
ve plenty to do, but I’m distracted. At one point, Inez corrects me when she walks past and sees that I have used the wrong fruit in a custard tart. Luke glances up then returns to work.
I am not going to do this, I decide. I am not messing this up over a guy.
Samira comes by on Friday night, looking flustered, almost breathless with a frazzled energy. She’s dressed in her usual jeans-and-top combination, and a gypsy-style scarf.
Lara is singing at Leo’s place tonight, so it’s just the two of us.
Samira’s cheeks are pink and shiny. ‘I swear, a military strike takes less effort than me leaving the house. Menem distracted the kids, otherwise I never would have been able to leave.’
‘You’re not in Guantanamo.’ But I understand her energy now: she’s made a mad dash for a brief period of respite.
‘I miss my freedom,’ Samira fake-whimpers. ‘I miss wasting time on useless stuff and watching movies without interruption.’ Then she makes a case for the usual pizza order.
I laugh. ‘Are you deprived of pizza at home?’
‘Shut up,’ Samira says. ‘Pizza is a food group. And I don’t let my kids eat it.’
I shake my head. ‘Tonight, I’m cooking.’
I throw a loaf of garlic bread into the oven while we do a round-up of news. Lara has found a dress – not a wedding dress, something formal in off-white. Samira approves. And I need to find a place to live because Lara will be moving out.
I begin work on the pasta. Nerves inhabit my entire body, like a show is about to start, but I have no idea if it’s a drama or a comedy.
Samira half-heartedly offers to assist with dinner, but she’s scanning my phone, engrossed in the playlist Lara and her band compiled for me. ‘God I feel old,’ she says. ‘I don’t know any of these singers.’
The linguine is drained, and I drizzle it with olive oil and toss through two different kinds of cheese, all the while keeping an ear open to Samira. ‘I don’t know them either.’
‘Like that makes a difference. I used to listen to music every day.’
I sprinkle on cracked pepper next, mildly annoyed at myself that in my distracted state, the pasta is not quite silky.