Never Saw You Coming

by Hayley Doyle

  ‘What I mean is …’ But Jim tails off.

  He opens his mouth to speak again, yet no words come. Jim bites his lip, his frown apparent, even through the hair that tries to hide it. He looks stuck – incredibly stuck – as though he’s working out an illogical equation.

  ‘You wanna know what I think?’ I try, aware that I’m on thin ice. ‘In the time I’ve known you, I’ve seen two things. One, you’re super nice to the people who know you well; your mom, your friend, your maid—’

  ‘My maid?’

  ‘Oh, I mean your housekeeper, Gloria. Sorry, “maid” is a very “expat” thing, and it’s not supposed to be derogatory. But, back to the point. I’ve seen you be the good guy to these people, these people who know you. And I’ve also seen you be the good guy to complete strangers, myself not included, because I fucked up your car.’

  ‘I love it when you admit that.’

  ‘Shut up. Let me finish. Mary, you were so sweet with her. And that bachelorette party, although I won’t ask why you so willingly took your shirt off for them, and even when you bought me those potato chip things, I could see you through the window, chatting away, being so nice to the guy serving you. All these people you charm. But you also know you’re never gonna see them again.’

  Jim shakes his head, making out like I’m talking nonsense.

  ‘So, my point is, I think you’re afraid of getting to know new people.’

  And Jim glances across at me, then back to the road.

  ‘I could be wrong,’ I say, throwing my hands up in defence. ‘I usually am. As your good self has witnessed. But I’d like to think I got something right today.’

  As expected, but not hoped for, Jim doesn’t respond. Maybe I should’ve stayed sitting two rows away. At least the cappuccinos are empty now and I don’t have to nurse his caffeine. The raindrops on the window of the minibus dance in zigzags downwards, landing onto other raindrops, all adjoining or diving off into new directions. I think about where I can head on to next, after this impending flight. My papa’s villa in Dubai will be empty again. He’s in Saudi this time. Marina’s in Moscow for the weekend. Sammy recently started boarding school in Australia, the likelihood of him being expelled at zero. He’s too good at rugby. So I have space. Possibly the last thing I need.

  ‘Would you mind passing me that?’ Jim asks.

  ‘What?’ I blink, hearing but not comprehending. ‘I was lost in my thoughts.’

  ‘The butty.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘That. The tuna butty. Ta.’

  I take a cold tuna melt out of the paper bag and hand it over. I might as well pick at the other one. Silence between us stretches as we chew, passing cars filling in the blanks. Jim takes large bites, with his large mouth. There’s definitely something a bit Mick Jagger about him. Just something. Maybe it’s the whole band thing.

  22

  Jim

  ‘Video killed the radio star …’

  The words aren’t very coherent, but I make them out.

  Again.

  ‘Video killed the radio star …’ Zara’s only started bloody singing, hasn’t she? Quietly, her mouth stuffed with tuna butty. I’ve finished mine and scrunch the empty paper bag into a ball with one fist.

  ‘Video killed the radio star,’ she sings again, a touch louder now.

  I toss the ball towards her feet and she sings a little more. She clearly doesn’t know any of the lyrics other than the title words of the song, so she’s making them up, some mumble jumble of ‘mi-mi-mi’ and ‘ma-ma-ma’, with a ‘doo-doo-doo’ and a ‘da-da-da’ thrown in. My head’s still banging from last night, and I’m trying hard to ignore her. I catch my reflection in the rear-view mirror. Ha. I look like a bad actor doing some serious driving-acting. I mean, I like a bit of a sing. Who doesn’t, eh? But, not now. Not here.

  ‘VIDEO KILLED THE RADIO STAR,’ Zara ups the volume. ‘Come on, Jim! VIDEO KILLED THE RADIO STAR. DA-DA-DA and DOO-DOO-DAH, MA-MA-MA-MA-MI-MI-MA-MA. OH! OH-OH-OH!’

  ‘Shut up, Zara.’ Please.

  ‘Ah, was that a smile I just saw, Jim?’

  ‘No, you’re giving me a headache—’

  ‘VIDEO KILLED THE—’

  ‘Agh! You’re tone fucking deaf, girl!’

  ‘MA-MA-MAAAAH!’ she wails. ‘Oh! VIDEO KILLED—’

  ‘The radio star,’ I sing, involuntarily, teeth gritted. I do NOT want to be doing this. But fucking hell, if you can’t beat ’em, eh? I’m singing. So, what? I’m singing. ‘Video killed the radio star. In my mind and in my car, we can’t rewind we’ve gone too far!’

  Hey. At least I know the words.

  ‘Woo-hoo!’ Zara cheers. ‘Yeah!’

  Great. And now I’m blushing. I can feel that hot tingle in my cheeks and my face is breaking into a smile completely against my will. I don’t want to smile. This is so lame. Zara’s pure buzzing though, and still out-singing me in the volume category, which is fine. I’m not competing with that. I just continue to sing in my own way, and she carries on badly, making up loads of her own words as I sing the correct ones. Okay, maybe I am accentuating my diction here. Just a bit, like. And we come together during the ‘Oh-a-aho oh’ parts, bopping our heads in time to the beat we’ve created. As we reach a natural finale, Zara gives a huge round of applause and drum rolls with her feet.

  ‘You’re such a dickhead,’ I say.

  ‘That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day,’ she says. ‘So, what were you called?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your band. What were you called?’

  ‘Oh. The Dentists.’

  ‘WHAT?’

  I give a shrug. What’s her problem?

  ‘The Dentists?’ she cries.

  ‘Yeah. It was funny. You see, Snowy and the others, Mikey and Griffo, they all wore them train tracks.’ I flash my teeth and point to them. ‘But, me, I had naturally straight pearly whites. See? Never needed them. And … what? What the fuck you laughing at?’

  ‘That’s NOT funny,’ Zara howls.

  ‘It is! It was!’

  ‘You called your band THE DENTISTS ’cause you had perfect teeth? And your bandmates had braces?’

  ‘Ah, fuck.’ I slap my forehead. ‘It’s not fucking funny at all.’

  And I laugh so much that it hurts my sides. Christ, I’m struggling to catch my breath, and Zara’s laughing beside me, wiping away tears. Eventually, we slow down with a sigh, then another. It’s quiet again, but, I have to admit, a whole lot better than before. Nothing about today can be described as easy, but right now, it’s easier. Just a little.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask, a few miles further.

  ‘At least I’m not dead,’ Zara says.

  ‘That much is true.’

  ‘I mean, imagine if I’d died in our crash today.’

  ‘Bit morbid, girl.’

  ‘Not only would I be dead, but I wouldn’t have achieved anything.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve done a lot to me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’ve seen the world.’

  ‘Been dragged around it, more like. I’d rather keep still.’

  I shake my head. What I’d give to swap.

  ‘I thought I was home,’ she says. ‘I thought I had it all sorted.’

  ‘Not ’cause of Nick?’ I ask, aware of how me saying the word ‘Nick’ sounds like I want to be sick. The sick bastard. I hope that somehow gives Zara a bit of comfort, if she noticed.

  ‘Well, he was a damn good liar. But, I had more than just romance pinned on this trip, you know. I was hoping to go back to university, too, finish my degree. I’ve always regretted dropping out. A stupid snap decision. But, everyone on my course was either so damn talented or so sure of themselves, I couldn’t keep up. My papa called that my excuse for being lazy. And guess what? Guess whose bright idea it was to go back and complete it?’

  ‘Nick’s?’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘He’s not the boss of you.’
>
  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, just ’cause he’s a total bellend doesn’t mean you can’t go back to uni.’

  ‘No way, it’s a sign. This whole day’s been a sign.’

  ‘What were you gonna study?’

  ‘Art. Well, illustration. Which is such a pipe dream of a subject anyway.’

  ‘That attitude’ll get you nowhere, Zara.’

  ‘I’m being realistic.’

  ‘You’re being depressing.’

  ‘Realistic IS depressing.’

  I laugh out loud. ‘Bloody hell, girl.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I only asked if you were okay.’

  She finally finishes that tuna butty and dabs her mouth with a brown serviette.

  ‘We’re making good time,’ I assure her. ‘We should be at Heathrow in about an hour.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, just because of … everything. Today. And … Oh, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You’re not making any sense, love.’

  ‘You seemed a bit upset after you spoke to your friend on the phone,’ Zara says, a careful tone to her voice, tip-toeing on egg shells. ‘I’m sorry. I could be totally wrong again, or maybe it was me that you were pissed off with … understandably … and I—’

  ‘You weren’t wrong.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘That was me best mate on the phone,’ I swallow. My words rich, precise. ‘And he’s marrying me ex.’

  ‘Helen?’ Zara asks.

  ‘They’ve got two kids.’

  ‘Twins?’

  ‘You picked up a lot from that conversation, didn’t you?’

  ‘Small details are one of my few skills.’

  ‘They’ve been together years, like. With me blessing,’ I tell her.

  ‘But?’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I sensed a …’

  ‘A but?’ I sigh. ‘Nope.’

  I sit forward, my eyes on the road as we cruise down the middle lane.

  ‘It’s just a bit – I dunno – weird?’ I ask myself, aloud.

  ‘Complicated?’

  ‘Yep. Complicated.’

  There’s an open end to this conversation, but definitely an end.

  Heathrow’s getting close; a relief for both of us.

  ‘You wanna know why I got expelled from boarding school?’ Zara asks.

  ‘I’ve a feeling you’re gonna tell me anyway,’ I say. ‘Fire away, love.’

  23

  Zara

  The navy-blue blazer lined with yellow ribbon, matching socks pulled up to the knee, was more costume than uniform. The straw boater only stayed on my head thanks to a string of thick elastic, so tight that it created a deep dent beneath my chin. In the heart of a Berkshire village, the school’s main entrance stood regal like a medieval castle, with smaller Victorian houses dotted around the premises; a quaint village of premium education. The acoustics of the main hall created decadent sounds, lush with pure echo and vibrating a grand warmth, whether from the headmistress addressing the school on Monday mornings, or from choir practice in the build-up to the annual carol concert.

  My imagination went wild at first. What a novelty – the Malory Towers dream. But it all wore off as quickly as chocolate pudding was devoured on a Friday lunchtime. Teachers were strict, girls could be mean. It became stifling, no room for escape. Whichever corner I turned, I was still in school.

  One novelty, however, remained.

  His name was Adam Jeffrey Blackmore, head of Art and Design in the lower school, known to the pupils as Mr Blackmore, but known to me as AJ. He wasn’t that old, late twenties at most. To a girl in Year Nine, that should be considered ancient, but when the majority of faculty were women with children old enough to be having children of their own, Mr Blackmore – with his thick blond curls and clean-shaven jaw – stood out like a fresh daisy amongst wilted daffodils.

  All the girls looked forward to Mr Blackmore’s lessons, even the ones who couldn’t sketch a smiley face without it looking distorted. It became a game for us to vie for his attention, to get him to roll up his shirt sleeves to the elbow, lean on our desks and help us stroke our paintbrushes with a perfect water-to-paint ratio. The pretty girls, those who could pass for eighteen and smoked out of the dorm windows but never got caught, flirted unashamedly, undoing the top buttons of their white blouses to flash a dash of trainer bra, batting their eyelashes caked in clear mascara. Those who were awkward, riddled with acne or hanging onto much-loathed puppy fat, those with crooked teeth awaiting braces, or those who excelled in mathematics and found endless excuses to skip sport, oh how they blushed a deep purply rouge at Mr Blackmore’s very presence.

  For a kid like me, I was neither one nor the other. Accepted by both the popular and unpopular, I hovered in the centre, not part of a group but not a clear outcast. I wasn’t attractive enough to be a part of Octavia Langford’s gang, but I wasn’t smart enough to keep up with the discussions that Ruth Gilbert’s clan had over cheese sandwiches and green apples. So, I never participated in outrageous flirting with Mr Blackmore, nor did I shy away behind the easels. Art happened to be the one subject I enjoyed. And I was good at.

  ‘Zara Khoury, I’d like to see you after class,’ Mr Blackmore said.

  Whoops and laughter followed; a massive lack of subtlety.

  ‘You have a talent,’ he told me. ‘An eye for detail, for colour.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I beamed. Praise was quite alien to me, and I was forever seeking it, trying a little too hard in areas where I had never shone, such as drama or debate class, or tricking my parents into ruffling my hair, the way moms and dads do to their kids in movies. ‘I like art because I don’t have to think.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You are thinking, you’re just utilising a different part of your brain.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course. You choose what colour, what intensity, what stroke. It’s just coming to you effortlessly compared to other subjects, perhaps.’

  Whether this happened to be true or not, I didn’t care. I was bowled over by his kindness, how he spoke to me like an equal, his clipped English accent crystal sharp. I joined the art club, and worked on an intricate lino print that required more hours than the weekly extra-curricular activity offered.

  ‘Can I work on this during lunch break?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Mr Blackmore replied.

  Lunch breaks progressed onto Saturday mornings, when I’d usually only be tagging along with other girls into town on the bus to buy clothes from Miss Selfridge. Many of the British girls went home for the weekend.

  ‘Zara Khoury is having an affair with Mr Blackmore,’ Octavia Langford announced to the dorm. ‘He makes the paint on her canvas ever so moist.’

  ‘You’re filthy,’ Ruth Gilbert stuttered, aiming at Octavia, but shooting a quick dash of disgust my way.

  In truth, I played up to both teams. I giggled and blushed when Octavia patted the seat beside her in the common room, desperate to show me how many dirty words she knew and how she strung them into sentences that mentioned Adam Jeffrey Blackmore, her posse surrounding us both, some twiddling my wild untamed hair, some offering me a Skittle. And when Ruth Gilbert pointed out that my mixed-medium still life of a boudoir dresser was ‘accurate yet magical, giving a rather shallow item a blast of personality,’ I lapped up the chance to discuss art in detail, convincing my peers that I really was putting in the extra hours for my work, and only my work.

  But Mr Blackmore contributed much more to my world than watercolours and acrylics. I had a friend; I belonged. When I worked on my creativity, I wasn’t trying to be as cool as Octavia or as intelligent as Ruth. I wasn’t figuring out ways to make my nannies desert me, or shaking my jazz hands to play the star in the school musical, anything to make my parents give me more attention.

  ‘You never take a break,’ I said, one l
unchtime when February’s snow sat thick on the windowsill, the girls outside squealing as they slid about on the ice, arm in arm, overreacting to the minor danger this weather could impose.

  ‘Believe me, this is a break,’ Mr Blackmore said. ‘I can sit here in peace, eat my lunch and encourage young talent, or I can drown in Mrs Llewellyn’s cigar smoke, trying to look interested in staffroom talk about baking bun loaves or how quickly arthritis progresses.’

  ‘Mrs Llewellyn smokes cigars?’

  ‘Can’t you smell it on her?’

  ‘I never get close enough.’

  He never suggested I call him AJ, although when I pointed out his initials on his leather art folder, he told me that’s what his mates at uni had called him. I just started calling him that, and AJ never corrected me.

  We worked in silence often, and I loved how he wasn’t the kind of teacher to just sit behind his desk and pretend to mark things, the way others did during detentions. He was always working on a project of his own, usually sketches in charcoal or oil pastels, using the edges of his fingers to smudge or define. We commented on each other’s art, then carried on without fuss, or sometimes struck up conversations that enthralled me.

  Once, it was about how the ending of A Chorus Line was more terrifying than uplifting, how the dancers became identical, lost all sense of their beautiful individuality in order to get the job, and how that happens too often in all walks of life. Another time, we discussed abortion, and I didn’t feel uncomfortable in the slightest. One particular chat that unfolded came after I’d taken photos on a disposable camera during a weekend trip into town. I’d snapped three homeless people in the doorway of a closed-down video shop. The shutters hovered a few feet above the ground, creating the opportunity for a den of sleeping bags and cardboard boxes. It inspired a collage of snaps and sketches, a chance for me to try out charcoal, too.

  ‘It’s sad, isn’t it?’ I ran my fingers over an image. ‘Makes me feel lucky.’

  ‘These people might have been lucky once upon a time,’ AJ said. ‘Depending on your perception of luck. Not only those without a physical home are homeless.’

  ‘You mean like people who don’t know where they belong?’