by Hayley Doyle
I took a taxi to the airport. Nobody was home at my papa’s villa to give me a ride, to wave me off. The goodbyes were completed a short while ago, before the first trip to Liverpool, and in truth, they’d failed to have any sort of impact on anybody. Including me.
My life has ended in Dubai. I should never have come back.
‘Never go back,’ I say to myself, handing my passport over.
Then, I stop, keeping a grip on my passport.
‘You okay?’ the guy on the desk asks.
Never go back. My own advice. And yet here I am, going back.
I close my eyes, think about the dancing fountains and recall that wonderful feeling of warmth as I listened to the music, made that decision, envisioned Jim behind me, urging me on.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I say.
I release the passport.
I never did catch up with Katie, but we chat on WhatsApp. She’s being positive about my decision, in a polite, two-dimensional way. The chat is pretty boring, if I’m honest. She’s engaged to the ‘lettuce’, which is nice. I’m a bit upset that I found out on Instagram and not from her directly, although I know it’s nothing personal. It’s the modern world, isn’t it? In the staged photo, she’s kissing her guy, her hand stretched out to the camera as if to say talk to the hand, but her palm has ‘I said yes!’ written across it in black marker pen, a retro filter added for a whimsical touch. Like I say; nice. That’s her life.
Mine is waiting for me in Liverpool.
I board the plane.
34
Jim
I’m fucking terrified.
Thirty-three years of age and I’ve never been on a plane before.
Two days ago I was stealing from my own car and now I’m jetting off to the Middle East. My head’s wrecked. It doesn’t soften the blow having everyone I know waving me off from Manchester Airport. I’ve been silent the whole way, sitting up front as Griffo drives the minibus, letting my league of Scousers gab away to each other in the back.
Helen was gabbing away to Lisa, who was trying to entertain Maisie, who was stealing crisps from Rocco, who was crying. Emma was listening to Snowy relive tales from his tour-managing days, revealing that whatever happens on tour doesn’t actually stay on tour. Mikey and Tori were arguing, kind of about the same thing, him saying how he wanted to move them all to Dubai so he can teach music at an international school and Tori yelling at him to sort his life out and move them all to Dubai so he can teach music at an international school.
The Americans stayed behind with the kids, and of course, my ma.
It seems to take forever to check in, the queue moving ever so slowly. My entourage are waiting in the Costa, but the very thought of caffeine gives me the jitters. My fingertips are sweaty, my knees like jelly. A dryness coats my throat and droplets of sweat dance around my brow. I should’ve got a haircut.
‘Is there a bar in there?’ I ask the fella in front.
I don’t want to be scared. But, Christ, I am.
The fella looks befuddled, and I realise that maybe he doesn’t speak English. But he indicates his head to the signs pointing to the departure lounge and nods. This relaxes me, for a short while, and gets me through the last part of the queue.
My hand trembles as I take hold of the paper boarding ticket. I drop my passport not once, not twice, but three times whilst waiting for my suitcase to plod along the conveyor belt. I’ll be surprised if they let me on the bloody plane, the way I’m behaving. I look dodgy as fuck.
‘No going back now, lad,’ Snowy says when I join them all in the Costa.
I pull him to one side, eager to know.
‘So?’ I ask, quietly.
Snowy gives a slight shake of his head, glancing towards Helen. ‘Bottled it, mate.’
‘Right, this is where we leave you,’ Lisa says.
She stands up, gives me a hug, a single kiss and steps away to allow the next person to have a go, as if saying ta-ra to me is some sort of dance ritual.
‘Hold on,’ I say. ‘Why are you leaving me here?’
Nobody answers my question, and if anything, they ignore me, gathering their bags and putting their coats back on, telling Maisie and Rocco to put the empty cups in the bin like it’s a game they’ll enjoy.
‘No, I’m being serious,’ I reiterate. ‘Aren’t you coming in to have a pint with me?’
Emma squeezes my arm. ‘We can’t do that. Passengers only.’
Well, at least she’s remembered I’ve never done this before.
Showered with hugs and kisses, I disconnect myself from everyone and tell them I love them.
‘Now, piss off,’ I say. ‘The lot of you. Piss off. I’ll be back in a week.’
Christ, they’re all getting on my bloody nerves. And guess what? They won’t even piss off. They just carry on faffing about, Helen wanting another coffee and Snowy thinking he’s lost his wallet before he realises Rocco’s sitting by the bin with it, shaking it like a tambourine. Lisa’s flirting with Griffo, oblivious to how obvious she is. I’m just going to have to go. I can hear an out-of-tune sing-song of ‘safe travels’ behind me, but I walk on, waving one arm and refusing to turn around.
Once I’ve got a pint in my hand, I feel okay. More than okay. Boss.
I like it here, in the airport. There’s a buzz mixed into the boredom that’s lit a fire in my belly. It’s fun wondering where everybody else is going. This is such a different sort of wondering to the one I’ve been used to in the toll booth. This time, I’m not watching, I’m doing. Just like every other person here, I’m bloody well going somewhere. I’m going to find Zara. I’m not going to get all cosmic or anything; that’s all bullshit. The fact is, she crashed into me. And yet I made a lot of decisions that day. Some were forced upon me, yeah, but they were decisions all the same. It’s led to something bigger. It’s getting me out. Maybe we did crash for a reason.
A second pint confirms my feelings on that point.
I’d been anxious that I’d get a bit lost in the airport, not know how to find the correct gate, board the plane in time. But, I have to say, the whole experience has come to me with ease. Even getting onto the plane itself (which I thought I might chicken out of) is a breeze. The tunnel is a boss trick, you don’t even realise you’re on the plane until you’re, well, on it. Christ, them pints have gone to my head. I should’ve eaten something.
As I work out how to fasten my seatbelt, I find myself chatting to the woman in the seat beside me. She’s Iranian, married to an English fella, and they’ve lived in Dubai for two years. They like it a lot, says it’s an amazing place to raise a young family. She’s got two sons.
‘Why Dubai?’ I ask.
‘My job, actually,’ she tells me. ‘But my husband found work easily, too. There’s plenty of opportunity. Is this your first time to Dubai?’
‘It’s me first time flying.’
‘Oh my God. Really?’
‘Yep.’
‘So, I should ask you. Why Dubai?’
I give her a smile with one side of my mouth.
‘A girl?’ she asks.
‘Sounds daft, doesn’t it?’
She returns the smile. ‘Good luck.’
My comfort zone has been left behind on that shabby seat in the toll booth. The plane taxies to the runway. It powers its engines and roars forward, tilting back and shooting into the sky. What am I doing? Jesus Christ.
What on earth am I actually doing?
35
Zara
Learning from my mistakes, I knew to fly direct from Dubai to Manchester this time.
I’m so exhausted with travelling. I’m not sure when I’ll finally grind to a halt. This isn’t like hopping on a bus in Thailand with just a backpack and a plan to get drunk, jiggling about for half a day across bumpy roads to get to Laos with more drinking objectives. Nor is it like being passed from one parent to another, seven thousand miles apart. Yo-yoing to and from Liverpool has made me so drained, it keeps my nerves fr
om spinning out of control. Perhaps all this to-ing and fro-ing from here to there and back again has just become the norm; an intensified version of my whole life, really.
That’s not to say I don’t get pangs of fear. Whenever this happens, I return to people-watching – those with their own hefty suitcase or a stroller or just a takeout cup of coffee – working out who they might be, where they might be going. Except my instincts are blank. My soul aches for a final destination.
The taxi driver is super nice and we chat the whole way to White Oaks. I give him a good tip before getting out and buzzing the gate.
This is it. I’ve arrived, and the whole world shrinks into one small space; the one I’m standing within right now. My body feels light, but the thump of my heart is heavy. God, this moment is long.
I await Gloria’s voice.
‘Hallo, yes?’
‘Hi, Gloria? This is Zara, Jim’s friend. We met last week.’
‘Zara, yes?’
‘Is Jim home?’
‘Uh, I don’t know.’
I pause. ‘Can you check, please?’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Oh. Why not?’
‘Because I don’t know where he is.’
‘You mean he’s not home?’
‘I don’t know if he’s home, but I don’t know where he is.’
This is rather confusing. Gloria’s first language is not English, but surely what I’m requesting is coherent? The intercom fizzes with muffled chatter. I’m hoping that Gloria will at least buzz me in to get me out of the rain.
‘Zara?’ Gloria’s voice says.
‘Gloria?’
‘Mr Griffin is here.’
‘Okay …’ I don’t have a clue who that is.
‘He wants you to come inside.’
‘Great!’
The gates to White Oaks open. After getting myself back to Liverpool and remembering Jim’s address without a hint of trouble, a moment of doubt has dared to creep in. I throw my shoulders back and grow tall. Pulling my single suitcase behind me, a notification alerts my phone. As I wait for Gloria to open the double doors in front of me, I check my messages to distract me from the cold.
It’s a private message from Leon Taylor.
Hey lady, long time no see! Looking forward to seeing you at Friday brunch. You still game? Should be a good’un. X
Raindrops splatter onto the screen of my phone. I smile, a warmth tickling my nerves. I’m so glad to have an excuse, to tell Leon I can’t make it. Something else has come up. I’m sure it will be a ‘good’un’; those sorts of brunches usually are. But this time, I will have to pass. Zara Khoury is busy.
Gloria answers the door and ushers me in swiftly. I slip my phone into my canvas tote bag and make a mental note to reply to Leon later. There are more important things happening right now. Jim is either home, or will be soon. And I’ll be here waiting for him.
36
Jim
I watched three full movies and drank double measures of Jack Daniels with Coke, surprisingly never feeling beyond merry, if a little tired. The food was pretty decent, too. I don’t know why so many people moan about it. It was like a hot school dinner, without semolina.
And now. Jesus actual Christ. Dubai International Airport is something else. Ha. And I’d thought Manchester was a bit of alright. The floors are so clean I can see my own sorry state in them. The carpets are so thick they could be trampolines. A giant fountain welcomes me and my fellow passengers into the arrivals area. Still, all of this is nothing compared to the rows and rows and rows of palm trees. Indoors. Palm trees inside a fucking airport.
‘I mean,’ I say to myself, ‘what the …?’
Once I collect my luggage, I meander around Duty Free. Having done my research on the local currency and worked out how many dirhams there are to a pound after spending seven hours drinking bourbon, I select a couple of bottles of wine to give to Leon Taylor as a thank-you gift. It’s overwhelming, all the booze shining brightly from bottles and fancy boxes, but the price tags aren’t so bad. I just hope my GCSE maths isn’t letting me down.
Leon Taylor is waiting, holding up a piece of A4 paper with ‘JIMBO’ scribbled across it. Nice touch.
Leon’s handsome in the way a straight fella can’t deny. Every angle on his face is chiseled to perfection and he smells so fresh that I feel compelled to kiss his neck. But I don’t, obviously. We have a brotherly hug, a sort of any-friend-of-Mikey’s-is-a-friend-of-mine hug.
‘I love airports, man,’ Leon beams in his home counties accent, confidently dropping in the American slang, as he heads towards his white four-by-four, dragging my suitcase with little effort. I follow, carrying the duty free. ‘I mean, everyone’s so happy, innit. Everyone coming, everyone going. Look at us, I never met you before in my life, man! And yet here we are, bro.’
‘Here we are.’
‘I love people coming to visit. Me and my wife, we love it.’
‘I’m dead grateful, mate. Honest.’
‘I love Scousers, man.’
‘Cheers. I love …’
Luckily, Leon laughs just hard enough for it to be infectious, so I laugh too, shaking my head and throwing my hands into the air, declaring that I’m tired, or something. Leon tells me he totally understands, totally, totally, totally, as he closes the boot and climbs into the driver’s seat.
‘And wait ’til we take you to brunch!’
‘Brunch?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, man. Did Mikey not fill you in on the brunch?’
‘Erm. You mean like breakfast before lunch?’
Leon bashes his steering wheel and wipes the tears from his eyes, laughing harder.
‘It’s so much better than that,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell you all about it.’
I gaze out of the window to see the first country I’ve ever been to outside the UK. It’s night-time and as we drive across the six lane flyover, I take in the thousands of rooms lit up inside huge hotels, boats floating on a stretch of water below us, all decorated with fancy lights. Everything’s so big. In the distance, I can see the skyscrapers, getting larger and larger the closer we drive. Apparently Leon lives on the twenty-second floor.
‘You know who’s gonna be at the brunch on Friday, don’t you?’ Leon asks.
Christ, I can’t even think what day it is today. Wednesday. Leon looks across at me, eager for my answer. I guess correctly, of course.
‘You’ve got one hell of a story to tell us, man,’ Leon says. ‘We need to get back to my apartment, get on the balcony and crack open some beers.’
I laugh again. Yep. That’s exactly what we need to do.
Already, this trip to Dubai is the best thing I’ve ever done. Ever.
37
Zara
He introduces himself as Richard, holds out his hand.
It’s as if I’m at White Oaks for an interview.
He leads me into that study, the one with the garish gold trophies and model cars, and gestures for me to take a seat on the leather Chesterfield. He swivels in a chair behind the vast desk a fair distance away. Broad and bald, he seems in a hurry to be somewhere else.
‘I’m gonna make this quick,’ he tells me. ‘James Glover is a liar.’
That single word, liar, cuts me like a sharp knife.
Richard drops his pen down and stands up, starts to count on his fingers. ‘If James Glover told you them cars are his, he’s a liar. If he said the minibus is his, he’s a liar. If he gave you the inclination that he was me, or anything like me, he’s a liar. And if he told you that this house is his house, well, sweetheart, he is a liar.’
It’s such a dirty word, liar.
I shudder. If Jim has lied about all of that, then who the hell is he? How could this happen to me twice? What is wrong with people, telling fucking lies?
‘Excuse me,’ I say, tears choking me, that dirty word liar hammering into my head. I notice the door to the small bathroom ajar and run towards it, locking myself inside. Tha
t man, Richard Griffin, is terrifying. His bald head shines pink and he speaks through gritted teeth. I don’t want to ever hear him say the word liar ever, ever again. I’d happily escape out of that tiny bathroom window, like a runaway bride, if only my damn suitcase and canvas tote bag weren’t in his study.
Splashing my face with cold water and dabbing it dry with a freshly rolled hand towel, I stare at my reflection, tired and beaten. How far have I come since the last time I stood in this exact room, doing pretty much the exact same thing? Thousands of miles, and yet a million steps backwards. How much longer can I keep doing this?
I see my reflection again, ignoring my scar with all my might. My dark eyes are glaring back at me. The last time I was here Jim changed his t-shirt. Except he didn’t. Because this house is not Jim’s house. Which means he changed it somewhere else.
I remember sitting in his car, the rain battering down, the ladder in my tights. The smell of the grease, the grey of the flyover. I have been to Jim’s home, haven’t I? But it’s not White Oaks. It’s somewhere very different indeed.
I unlock the bathroom door to find Richard Griffin opening a package with a Swiss Army knife, reaching into the box and lifting out a small glistening red Ferrari. He holds the car up to his face and kisses it, unashamed that I’m watching him.
‘Jim didn’t,’ I say.
Richard places the car down onto his desk as if it’s a newborn baby.
‘Hmm?’ he mumbles.
‘Jim didn’t lie about anything.’
‘Good.’
‘It’s quite simple really,’ I say. ‘It was me.’
‘You lied?’ Richard scowls, and I feel quite afraid. It’s time to go.
‘No, Mr Griffin—’
‘Richard.’
‘Richard. Jim never lied. I never lied. What I did was presume. I presumed that he drove fancy cars and lived in this fabulous house and enjoyed some sort of charmed life. No offence.’
‘None taken.’
‘Jim never told me anything. He just helped me.’
‘That sounds more like our James.’