by Hayley Doyle
‘Ah, what now, lad?’
‘We’ve covered Zara.’ Snowy counts out on one finger. ‘Ish. But this is just the start, Jimbo. We need to know what happened to your car.’
Ah.
The car.
‘Well,’ I start, unsure how to begin. The thought of it all still frazzles my insides like a newspaper being set alight. ‘Zara kind of crashed. Into me. It’s, erm, how we met.’
Snowy’s head is in his hands. Mikey’s mouth is flopped open and Griffo keeps his poker face straight. Something tells me they weren’t expecting that. In fact, I’ve shocked myself. I overlooked how Zara and I met to tell my mates what I liked about her. I feel sick. Not the bad kind of sick, but sick nonetheless.
Snowy’s harping on.
‘Now me mind’s blown here, mate,’ he says, tugging on his short hair. ‘You told Griffo’s dad it got stolen, ’cause Griffo’s dad told Griffo. But you never told me that, did you, mate? When you finally rang me on the way to see your ma in the ozzy, you told me you’d fucked up. “I. Fucked. Up,” you said. And you said the car’d been taken to the pound. So, come on. Spit it out.’
Blowing out my lips, I ruffle my hair and scratch my scalp.
‘It’s in the pound. Illegal parking, no insurance. I don’t wanna talk about it.’
Griffo’s stroking his chin, looking eerily similar to his dad.
‘It’s still rightfully yours, though,’ he says. ‘At least that much is true.’
‘Griffo, what good’s it doing to me half smashed up in the pound?’
‘It’s still rightfully yours.’
‘Yeah, I heard you the first time, mate.’
‘What’s her name?’ Mikey chirps, eyes still glued to Facebook. ‘Zara what?’
‘Khoury,’ I say.
‘Curry?’ Mikey asked. ‘As in curry and chips?’
My voice is croaky, so I clear my throat trying to remember how I saw her name spelt on her passport. ‘No, K-H-O-U-R-Y. I think it’s Lebanese.’
‘Boss … okay, is this her?’
Mikey flashes his phone into my face and yes, there she is, sunglasses on her head and standing on a beach with her arms outstretched, that iconic Dubai hotel shaped like a white sail in the background. Beside her photo is the option to ‘add friend’. I’ve never joined Facebook – I originally thought it would be a stupid fad. And how people seem to use and abuse it makes me want to steer even clearer of it.
‘Mikey, you’re a total stalker,’ I say. ‘Put it away.’
‘All I did was type in her name.’
Snowy grabs the phone to take a look. I insist they all leave me – and Zara – alone.
‘Mikey, you’ve got a mutual friend,’ Snowy says.
‘What?’ Mikey asks, peering over Snowy’s shoulder and trying to get his own phone back.
‘Who’s Leon Taylor?’
‘Snowy lad, gis me phone back.’ Mikey snatches it and looks closely, clicking away and scrolling through. ‘Leon’s a mate I went to uni with. How does he know Zara? Small world, innit?’
‘I swear to God,’ Snowy says, standing up to go to the bar. ‘Every time I get a new Facebook friend, I’ve already got mutual friends with them. Fucking weird. Like the whole world’s interconnected. I befriended this fella in Tenerife when me and Helen took the kids there last year. Turns out our mutual friend is me Aunty fucking Eileen. His ma used to work with me Aunty Eileen’s second husband, Frank. Weird, eh?’
I’ll be honest, I don’t really have much of a clue what they’re talking about, but Snowy and Griffo seem to understand and are sharing similar stories with enthusiasm. I go to the bar instead, ordering a round and putting it on Griffo’s tab. I’ll be getting paid in four days and I’m counting. Good job I’ve got a large bag of pasta in the cupboard at home, although the opened jar of pesto now seems extravagant. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to try and win some money on the quizzie. I return to the table expertly carrying four pints in my hands and four packets of crisps in my teeth. Mikey’s talking about Leon Taylor.
‘And here’s me, stuck in a freezing cold classroom, giving meself piles from sitting on a bloody radiator teaching little shits about crotchets and quavers, and there’s Leon fucking Taylor in fucking Dubai. I bet his classroom’s got a chandelier. You know what? I’m gonna go home and tell Tori we’re moving to Dubai. I’m gonna say, “Babe, pack your bags, we’re moving to Dubai.” If Leon Taylor can get a job in some fancy international school, then Mr Farley can, too.’
‘At least you won’t have to go to your ma-in-law’s for Chrimbo,’ Snowy says.
I spit the packets of crisps into the middle of the table.
‘How’s your Lisa?’ Griffo asks.
I just shake my head, roll my eyes and to my relief we mutually agree it’s time to have a go on the quizzie. Well, three of us anyway. Nobody can tear Mikey away from his phone, stalking Leon Taylor on Facebook and obsessing about how to ask Tori if they can move to Dubai.
29
Zara
‘You decide yet, ma’am?’ The nail technician grins.
Well, if a grin could kill.
I apologise and shuffle in my flip-flops. No, I haven’t decided yet.
A woman waiting to pay taps her credit card on the reception desk while the other nail technicians ignore her, chattering amongst each other and pretending to look busy. She checks her phone and releases a heavy sigh. I can see how much she’s trying to be patient. Customer service is excellent in Dubai. When you demand it.
‘Please,’ the woman says, squeezing a polite smile. ‘I haven’t got all day.’
I catch her eye, give a sympathetic nod, but in truth I’m envious of her. Not because of her glorious height or even the brilliant bling shining from her left hand, but because this woman doesn’t have something I’ve got. All. Damn. Day. I wouldn’t be killing time in a nail salon with Marina otherwise.
Analysing my mood, I run my index finger across the rainbow of colours. Something with a sparkle? No, something pastel, like lemon or baby blue? Oh, no. Perhaps, a blast of shocking neon? Or, how about plain old red? Standard pink? Black? I go back to the beginning again, then make a decision. White. The label beneath the bottle calls it ‘Blizzard’.
‘This way, ma’am.’
I’m led into a clinical white-tiled room by a nail technician with the name badge Rubylyn, and settle myself into a big white chair. Music trickles through the speakers, pleasant sounds strung together to make some sort of relaxing noise, rather than a tune. Not that any of the women getting treatments are listening. They’re all wearing headphones and watching the plasma screens hung upon the white walls playing episodes of New Girl. Or they’re like Marina, who’s reclining on the chair beside me with a whole entourage of technicians painting fingers, toes, threading eyebrows, waxing upper lips, fitting eyelash extensions … the list goes on. And, due to the amount of staff tending to Marina, just one lady is assigned to do my feet first, followed by my hands.
‘Not a problem,’ I say. ‘I’ve got all day.’
Rubylyn doesn’t offer me any headphones so I take out my new phone, a gift from my papa. It’s a gift out of guilt rather than kindness. When I arrived back at his villa a couple of days ago, it was a surprise to find him there, lounging on his leather sofa in golf attire, having flown back from Saudi early. Apparently it was a public holiday, announced at short notice and not uncommon in the United Arab Emirates, but news that had slipped off my radar due to being out of the country.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked me.
I was speechless.
‘Looks like you’re moving out,’ he laughed. ‘Why so much luggage?’
‘I was,’ I said.
‘You was what?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
I decided to take my things up to my room, one suitcase at a time.
‘Hey.’ My papa stopped me. ‘I know when my daughter’s upset. You’re upset.’
‘Oh, really?’
�
�What’s with the attitude?’
‘Papa. I was moving out. Remember?’
He removed his glasses, narrowed his eyes as if calculating numbers in his head.
‘I told you.’
‘Told me what? When?’
‘That I was going to live in England, Papa. You took Marina and me for dinner at the Sheraton, that Thai place with the jumping fish, and I told you about how I’d—’
‘Wait, wait, wait. Slow down, Zara.’ He stood up, switched the TV off. ‘What’s the jumping fish got to do with anything?’
Again, I struggled to find the correct response. Hoisting my suitcase up the marble staircase, I couldn’t believe that my own father had forgotten. Actually no – I could totally believe it; as clear as the sky is up and the sea is wet; my own father had forgotten.
Well, at least I’ve got a phone now. A good one, too.
I open Facebook, like a few photos, comment on the odd amusing status. The massage taking place on the soles of my feet is heaven, so I put the phone down, reminding myself that a bit of much-needed pampering isn’t killing time, it’s making good use of it. Marina is the only person I know in Dubai who doesn’t work during the week. The whole place is so work hard, play hard, all my friends – well, acquaintances – do long, stressful hours and release all their tension by partying at the weekend. Sure, there are plenty of women like Marina; housewives, stay-at-home mommies, but I’m not in those circles. I wonder where the party will be this weekend, where I can let my hair down and forget.
About Jim.
Oh, Jim Glover. Why am I still thinking about him? Four thousand miles stand strong between us and that’s nothing compared to the strength of my head telling me this is a No Go Area. The last long-distance attempt resulted in disaster and I must, must, must learn from my stupid mistakes. I need to find a job, and fast. Throwing myself into some sort of work will be the best solution and, of course, a great way to meet new people. Maybe I should just put it out there and ask the universe (well, social media) if my services are needed? It’s knee-deep into event season here. Surely some companies need an extra girl to dish out a shot and a smile?
I peep down at my toenails, transforming into flawless white, smooth and party ready.
Maybe someone’s having a pool party this weekend. The weather is perfect for barbecues, too. And isn’t it that girl’s birthday, the one hosting the yacht cruise on Friday afternoon? What’s her name, Layla? Lola? Or is it Nayla? Friend of a friend. I’m sure I’ve seen an invite to that in my inbox.
‘You want headphones, ma’am?’ Rubylyn asks, a little late into the treatment.
‘I’m good,’ I say, the spacey ambience kind of working for me.
I start to type a status before my fingers are preened and polished, attempting to find out if any of my Facebook friends can point me in the direction of some work.
God, I sound so needy, though. Delete, delete, delete.
I try again.
And totally sound like a prostitute. Delete, delete, del—
BEEP.
I click on my new notification; an invitation entitled Brunch … Because.
Dubai has a slightly different take on the wholesome late breakfast, early lunch ordeal, with hotels offering customers a deal on unlimited international cuisine and unlimited alcohol every Friday afternoon. These events are often extravagant, luxurious, littered with expats from all corners of the globe, and, of course, a perfect way to make new friends.
I read through the details.
At ‘Oceanic O’, the new beachside/poolside restaurant in the new Marriott. 10 live cooking stations, cocktails on tap, a purpose-built chocolate room, ice sculptures, stilt walkers and live jazz band. Because it’s Friday. Because we can. Who’s in?
When? This weekend.
The guy inviting me isn’t somebody I know well. In fact, I can’t work out how I even know him at all. Most probably a previous brunch. That’s how the expats roll, isn’t it? I know a handful of people who’ve already said yes to attending so it should be good fun, a chance to throw myself back into the social circuit. I no longer have the option of hanging onto my laptop in my PJs, looking forward to a Skype call from Liverpool, and besides, I can’t hide away forever. Never, ever again will I jump into a relationship unless its flesh and blood and bones are within my physical grasp. So I have to get out. I have to say yes.
Rubylyn starts to massage my right hand, leaving only my left hand free to keep browsing. I’ll take some time to think about how to write my job-hunting status, maybe come up with something catchy, witty. Then my heart sinks. The date for the brunch isn’t this weekend. It’s the following weekend. Right, I’ll update my CV and contact all the promo companies I worked for last year. They might let me wear a mask, or face paint. Or maybe they just won’t care. And I’ll draw. I’ve got a new sketchpad waiting to be put to use. It won’t amount to anything, but it’s something to do, something I enjoy, at least. I sit up straight.
‘Relax, ma’am,’ Rubylyn snaps.
I say sorry and receive a tut, then a tug to my index finger. Using my left hand, I accept the invitation to brunch. Yes, I’ll definitely go. And I spend the rest of my manicure trying to remember how I know the guy who’s invited me. A guy called Leon Taylor.
30
Jim
In the booth, I open the paperback I took from my ma’s house last night when I nipped in to grab some essentials she wanted bringing into hospital. About the comic genius of Dudley Moore, it’d been one of my dad’s books and I was thoroughly surprised to find it there on the shelf, having never noticed it before.
Two sentences in, I’ve got to explain to a driver that she can’t pay on card.
‘Why not?’ the woman asks.
‘Cash only, love.’
‘But, I wanna use me card.’
‘You’ll be able to use it soon.’ I attempt a smile.
‘But, I wanna use me card now.’
Dudley Moore’s story’ll have to wait.
Ah, what a difference a week can make. Or not. Exactly one week’s passed since I received that phone call from Connie and Carl on Mersey Wave 103.4 and yet, despite the pandemonium over the past seven days, here I am again, in the toll booth, reading a paperback, getting stiff knees. The BMW’s still in the pound. I’ll have to put a few quid aside over the next few months before I can think about getting that back, if it’s even worth bothering. Only yesterday, as I sat in the canteen to eat my ham and pickle on brown bread (courtesy of the tenner I won on the quizzie at the Pacific Arms), Derek Higgins had swung by to remind me about the card-payment training day.
‘How could I forget, Derek?’
‘I hope you know this is a privilege.’
I opened my packet of Cheddars and crunched one slowly.
‘You’re The Chosen One, Jim.’
The woman wanting to pay the toll fee on her card seems to have finally comprehended that she can’t. Gayle Freeman’s in the booth beside me, and being the perfect team player, she’s waving all cars over to her, allowing the woman to reverse without commotion. Really, Gayle should be The Chosen One.
A welcomed lull encases me and I delve into the first chapter about Dudley Moore. I make it through three full pages before I’ve got to give change again.
Our Emma sends me a message.
Hey little bro!! What time do you finish work today? We’re doing tours of both footy stadiums today (Jack’s idea obviously!) and then going for food at the Albert Dock before going to see Mum. Wanna join us? Lisa and Paul are coming too. Love ya loads. Em x
No, I don’t want to join and listen to Jack harp on about soccer. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m glad they’re making the most of their time in Liverpool. Emma’s kids are sweethearts, and they’ve warmed to their Uncle Jimbo since I gave them a Mars bar the other day. Plus, their politeness is bloody astounding, a million miles from the Wongs’ antisocial kids. Well, four thousand two hundred miles to be almost exact. I message Emma back to sa
y I’ve got errands to run and to have fun without me this afternoon. In truth, it’s the perfect opportunity to go and visit my ma. Alone.
‘Y’never heard of a barber, mate?’
He’s late today, the fella in the Ford Focus. I laugh, as usual, wishing him all the best.
Then I get another message, from Mikey.
Ring me now.
Can’t mate. Working. I reply.
Fuck work. Ring me now.
Something up?
Quite the opposite.
It’ll have to wait. Speak to you later mate.
Twat.
BEEP!
I apologise to the driver waiting for his change and tend to the queue that’s built up within a matter of seconds. I catch Gayle Freeman’s chin sinking into the many rolls of skin surrounding her neck, a look of disapproval beaming from her eyes like headlights in fog. She does such an excellent job of being efficient and pulling faces simultaneously. Really, quite a talent. The queue disappears almost as quickly as it began. Gayle leans out of her open window, calls my name.
‘What’s got into you?’ she yells.
My response is a shrug and a one-sided smile. I’m wondering the same thing. At least I’m not predictable anymore.
I receive a series of angry doorbell buzzes at my flat above the chippy. It had totally slipped my mind to speak to Mikey after work.
‘What’s your problem?’ I ask Mikey, who’s also been banging on the door, too.
‘I can’t stay long, I’m parked on double yellows.’
‘What’s going on, Mikey?’
‘I knew if I sent you another message, you wouldn’t reply. Ungrateful bastard.’
‘So, you’ve come over to insult me for … what exactly?’
Mikey undoes his Goofy tie, sits on my settee, then stands again. I don’t sense that he’s in any trouble, that his haste is any cause for concern. In truth, Mikey seems excited, like a kid waiting for his turn on the bouncy castle. Maybe he’s been bumped up to Head of Music, but why that’d be of any interest to me is a mystery. Or perhaps Tori’s pregnant again.