by Hayley Doyle
Tell her!
It’s not as if I can run or hide, or invent some crazy story that turns this situation into a coincidence. We’re two people who met by accident. Only a calculated plan could bring us together again. These are the facts. Zara deserves them.
‘Zara, love. I suppose I did a you.’
‘A me?’
‘Yep.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I did what you do.’
A gasp, so light, so delicate, escapes her. ‘You came to find me?’
‘I did.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘I know.’
‘Oh, Jim.’
‘Yep.’
‘So we both …’
‘We both.’
Zara’s hands clasp her mouth and I let my head hang, my shaggy curls falling over my eyes. On impulse, I find I can’t stop myself from silently laughing, trying harder and harder not to, in fear of upsetting Zara. Through the speaker of Leon’s phone, I can hear her, too, sniggering. We both shake our heads, laugh out loud, and I’m grabbing onto my side where a stitch has formed. Zara tries to say something, but she’s taken over by a fit of giggles and this tickles me even more.
‘Why?’ she suddenly bursts out.
‘Honestly, girl. I’m not entirely sure.’
‘You know what, Jim? Me neither.’
We laugh some more and naturally it filters into a long, long sigh. We could laugh about it all night. Except this isn’t a joke. It’s a total shambles.
‘Look, Zara, I’ll come straight back. Tomorrow.’
‘To Liverpool?’
‘Where else?’
‘Okay …’ she says, breaking eye contact. She glances to her side, to where I know the window overlooks the flyover. The scented candles on my windowsill are unlikely to have been lit and I can smell the deep fat fryer from Wong’s chippy as if it were in Leon’s kitchen right now. Zara switches direction, her focus now towards my bathroom, a space so small that I feel squashed just thinking about it.
That flat, that life, that person called Jim Glover, isn’t anything she would’ve imagined.
‘I was gonna tell you. I wanted to tell you. But …’ I’m a coward, I want to say. To admit.
‘I like it.’ She smiles.
And for once, I don’t get that knee-jerking urge to argue with her.
‘Don’t come back tomorrow,’ she says. ‘Enjoy Dubai. You’ve never been to Dubai, right?’
I bite my lip. ‘I’ve never been anywhere, love.’
Zara doesn’t seem bothered by my embarrassment. In fact, she’s not even taking any notice; she’s clapping her hands, her eyes glistening and growing huge.
‘I just realised,’ she exclaims. ‘You’re going to the brunch, aren’t you? Tomorrow! This is why Leon invited me to that brunch. So, hold on, how do you know Leon?’
‘Ah, I’ll tell you another time, love.’
‘Tell me now.’
‘Well, it does involve some stalking. Not from me. Me mate. He’s a bit of a—’
‘Stalker?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Jim, you have to go to brunch tomorrow.’
I shrug. Surely brunch is just overpriced eggs three hours late.
‘Experience it, lap it up, go crazy,’ Zara goes on. ‘Make weird friends. Contacts.’
‘Y’what?’
‘Expats, Jim. Expats LOVE a new kid in town, you’ll have a ball. Trust me.’
‘It’s that good, is it?’
‘It can be.’
‘No, Zara. I should come back. I mean, you’re in me flat, girl. I need to come back.’
‘No! I’ll come back to Dubai instead. I’ll meet you there.’
‘At the brunch?’ I ask, not proud of how keen I sound. ‘Is that even possible?’
Zara chuckles. ‘No. In a few days.’
‘Well, in that case, I’ll come back to Liverpool instead.’
‘Please, stay there. You see, I can’t come back to Dubai tomorrow.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore …’
‘Eh?’
She slaps herself across her forehead. ‘No. It does matter, actually. It does.’
‘You’re making a whole lot of nonsense there, Zara.’
‘Sorry. I’ve got a meeting, like a meet and greet thing.’
‘In Liverpool?’
And she gives a shy smile. ‘At the university.’
‘Whoa, that’s boss. How come … oh, Jesus. Really?’
‘Yeah!’
‘You’re gonna do it?’
‘I think so.’
‘No, I know so. Zara, you have to do it.’
‘I know.’
‘You’re gonna get your degree,’ I cheer, and then hold Leon’s phone at arm’s length to raise my free hand. ‘Go ’ead, girl. Gimme five!’
Zara’s hand plasters the screen as she laughs, giving herself a little whoop.
‘Look, love, you’re more than welcome to stay there in me flat. Use whatever you need.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘You bloody well can.’
‘Well …’
‘Zara, just stay and do what you need to do, sort your uni stuff, make yourself at home.’
She skips a beat. ‘Thank you, Jim.’
‘Don’t be soft. I’ll do this “amazing” brunch, or whatever, and then come back to Liverpool in a few days once you’re all sorted. You’ve got to give this all you’ve got, girl.’
‘I feel kind of bad, though. I should really come back to Dubai. I mean, you went all that way!’
‘So did you.’
I bring the phone close to my face, as if somehow that means bringing Zara nearer to me. It must have startled her because she pulls back into my settee, stretching her phone away from her. Whether it was the jerk movement, or the internet playing up, her face has now become pixelated.
‘No, Jim. I’ll see you in Dubai in a few days,’ she says, filtering through after a slow delay.
‘Zara. Shut up. I’ll see you in Liverpool in a few—’
The connection is disrupted. Zara’s sweet face fizzles into a disfigured freeze. I press to call again, but it fails, and fails again. The battery is low on Leon’s phone; just three, no, two per cent remaining. I stare at the handset, a ringing in my ear confirming the immediate lack of Zara’s presence in the room.
She’s gone.
She was never even here in the first place.
And now I’m on the other side of the world, so far from her. So far from home.
Outside, it’s hot, humid, a sandy breeze creating a perfect outdoor evening temperature. Everything about it is so incredibly un-British, so unfamiliar to any climate I’ve ever experienced. A sea – in which I can swim – is a stone’s throw away, the desert imminent. The actual desert. With actual camels.
What the hell have I done?
‘Jim?’ Leon’s head peers around the glass door onto the balcony. ‘Everything alright, man?’
The party’s in full swing on the balcony.
I should ask Leon for his phone charger, try and call Zara back.
‘Grab yourself a beer, man. Come join us,’ Leon calls, before getting dragged off by one of his mates. A wave of laughter ensues, a joke shared amongst friends, a most enjoyable time being had out there, just feet away from me.
I should socialise.
I look down at Leon’s phone, the screen black, the battery dead. A dark heaviness falls on my chest and I slump downwards. What are the chances? How am I here, in Dubai? How can the one person I came here to find be there, in Liverpool?
A bang brings my awareness back into the apartment, my attention drawn to the windows. Lights dance through the sky, giant palm trees dangling, accompanied by shooting stars. Another delightful squeal, a further bang.
I smile, one corner of my mouth rising, the steady beat of my heart returning.
Fireworks.
These don�
��t half beat the ones in Snowy’s back garden. I wonder what the occasion is, but then again, I’m in Dubai, aren’t I? From what I’ve learnt so far, this place doesn’t need much of a reason to throw a celebration. I laugh, allowing the phone to slip from my hands and land on Leon’s sofa safely. Christ, there really are worse places that I, James Anthony Glover, could be right now.
It feels right to socialise. And I’ll tell Leon to charge his phone.
I can speak to Zara again later. Or tomorrow.
Or one day very soon.
EPILOGUE
41
Jim
20 months later
The boutique hotel on the corner of Hope Street fizzes with celebration, a sense of achievement breathing across the lobby. On my way to the reception desk, I zigzag through families meeting other families, friends sharing in-jokes with one another and making fun of the gowns draping over their unfamiliar formal attire. I straighten my black tailored jacket and loosen my silk tie a little. July’s not the best month to be wearing a suit.
‘There’s a thirty-minute wait for taxis,’ the receptionist informs me.
I know I should’ve hired a car at the airport, but it wouldn’t have been responsible. I’m an emotional mess and not afraid to admit it. Christ, I only arrived in Liverpool from Dubai last night, desperate to be here days ago, but work had my passport while they were renewing my bloody visa. I mean, talk about timing.
‘You’re best hailing a black cab on the main road, if you’re in a hurry?’
Exiting the main entrance, I step out into Hope Street. Concrete slabs lie beneath my feet in the Georgian Quarter, home to a fusion of classic exteriors and modern interiors. A mother stops me, asks if I’ll take their photo. Her family position themselves on the steps of the French bistro next door, the graduate in the centre looking almost as pleased with himself as his parents do.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Now say fromage.’
The family crack up.
I can’t help but look down at the mother’s shoes, wonder if she’s bought them especially for today. My heart swells and a lump crams into my throat. I hold the phone steady and capture the moment. The whole family thank me for the photo.
‘All the best,’ I wish them.
I walk down Hope Street, towards the Anglican Cathedral. The sun is high, beating down upon my head and although I’m used to a hot climate now, it’s uncomfortable here, as if the air isn’t ever prepared for it. I stop to put my sunnies on, glad to have an excuse to hide behind the polarised lenses. The Anglican Cathedral grows larger with every step I take, a giant icon standing strong and sure of itself. Behind me, the Catholic Cathedral, its crown pinching the clear sky, shrinks, although the stained-glass panels dance in the sunlight. My ma always felt guilty for preferring the Anglican over the Catholic, by design only, of course. That’s Catholics through and through, though, isn’t it? Even the postcard, the one tucked inside my suit jacket pocket, is riddled with guilt. My ma feeling awful about enjoying herself so much in Florida whilst poor Ethel Barton was having (another) hip replacement.
‘It just doesn’t seem fair,’ my ma had written.
I approach the main road on a hill. Many families flood the cathedral’s entrance, a crossover of ceremonies. Everybody looks so happy. I want to tell them all to stop, just for a moment, to acknowledge that the world isn’t spinning the right way around today. But even if they did, and a magical minute’s silence ensued, it’s not going to take my pain away, is it?
A rush of panic seizes me as I hail a passing cab. It drives straight past. I hadn’t noticed the light was off, passengers already inside. This gives me a quick sense of relief, buying me a little more time before I’ve got to say goodbye. I drag my eyes away from the road and let them wander up to the top of the cathedral and down again.
And that’s when I see her.
Throwing her mortar board into the air and catching it.
I blink hard. Perhaps it’s not her. She can’t catch to save her life.
‘Zara?’
I remove my sunnies, but the sun is so bright, I’ve got to squint. It makes my eyes water, so I put them on again. Amidst the many graduates, all dressed identically, I find her again.
It is.
It’s her.
Zara.
She’s stood in the middle of an older couple, one arm around each, and smiling, whilst a younger girl – maybe seventeen or eighteen and bearing a striking, natural blonde resemblance to Zara – takes a photo. A small gang appears and jumps into the photo, all wearing the same gown and mortar board, and raucous laughter follows. Two of the gang pick Zara up, as light as she still is, and she sits upon their shoulders, posing for even more photos. The woman is embracing many of these graduates whilst the man shakes their hands. Zara’s doing some sort of dance with the younger girl. Some of her pals joining in.
Christ.
I wonder if she still lives in the flat above the chippy.
I recall the view from the front window; the flyover, a far cry from my current apartment overlooking the golf course, a myriad of modern architecture framing the green horizon. Only Zara could manage to find beauty in that flyover. The rattling of the lorries, the swish of the rain, the whistle of the wind. It helped her to zone into her work without ever feeling alone. Her words, not mine. I remember seeing an easel grace the corner beside the DVD shelf. String hung from wall to wall, her drawings attached with wooden clothes pegs like bunting floating above my leather settee, my tile-and-teak coffee table, my record player. She listened to David Bowie on vinyl, sometimes Fleetwood Mac. She’d picked up a Supremes LP from a charity shop for three quid. I found it adorable that Zara had started to call a pound a quid. It had only taken her a couple of weeks to settle in, just as I was doing in Dubai.
‘It’s my urban art haven.’ She’d smiled at me across the screen, bringing her shoulders up to her ears as she snuggled into a giant woolly jumper, once belonging to me. ‘Minus a bunch of pretentious hipsters and artisan coffee.’
‘If I hear Wong’s has become vegan, I’ll come after you,’ I’d told her, winking.
‘No you won’t, Jim. You already did that once.’
I feel a shiver beneath the heaviness of my suit, despite today’s warmth. It’s been a while since I’ve thought about that particular conversation. The last time Zara and I spoke. It was the day I’d been offered the package; visa, healthcare, the lot. And all because of that one article.
‘You have to take it,’ she’d said; no hesitation, no plea.
I knew I’d have to take it. And we knew she wasn’t leaving Liverpool either. As always, the screen froze mid-conversation and we only picked it back up in pieces, to break free from the disjointed cyber cords of a long-distance twenty-first century relationship.
I take a step towards the cathedral.
I start waving.
And Zara stops dancing.
The sun slides behind a light cloud giving me an opportunity to take off my sunnies.
She could be the girl on the side of the road again, not far from the tunnel, in shock at the car crash. Her mouth drops open, her eyes pop out. Walking towards me, her cheeks rosy, her scar almost faded away, she’s as bright as the sun, a bounce in her stride.
We arrive face to face.
And I don’t know what to say.
Neither does Zara, so it seems.
A silent hello ensues, a wordless how are you?
A puzzled look washes over Zara and she stutters as she speaks.
‘So, are you …?’ she asks. ‘Here for …?’
‘No,’ I confirm. ‘Not this.’
‘Oh?’
‘Me ma. She …’
Zara takes in my black suit. ‘I’m so sorry, Jim.’
‘Me too.’
We stand in silence again, looking into one another’s eyes.
My hand brushes hers, our fingers interlacing slightly, naturally. Just for a moment.
It’s the night in the Travelod
ge once more.
‘Well, are you good? Happy?’ I ask.
Zara releases a laugh and sighs, throwing her head back, but her mortar board slips off. As she twists, stumbles and tries to stop it falling to the ground, I catch it. She covers her face with her hands and laughs again. I laugh, too.
‘Soz, bit of a shit question,’ I cringe, then mock myself with a squeaky voice. ‘Are you happy?’
She accepts the hat back, twirling it back and forth in her hands.
‘Remember the meerkat in the jacuzzi?’ she asks.
‘How could I forget?’
‘He’s about to take the app world by storm, I hope.’
‘Really? How?’
‘I’ve been working with an animation studio, here in Liverpool. I’m joining the team full time next week. There’s a new game being launched soon, so keep your eyes peeled. And that’s all I’m saying.’ She grins.
‘You’re not spilling the beans?’
She puts her hat back on, and holding onto the top, she pouts, shaking her head.
‘Bloody hell, Zara, it’s not like you to keep quiet.’
‘And it’s not like you to pry.’
And just like that, the emptiness between us starts to fill. Not having to rely on the strength of the local Wi-Fi really does make a difference. Zara had been right to end it. Not that I hadn’t understood her reasons. Her scar was a glaring reminder. Still, it hadn’t been easy to accept, to switch her off. Literally.
‘I’ve read your stuff online,’ Zara says. ‘I follow the mag.’
So, she’ll know I’ve been kept on as editor. I’m pleased. I don’t like to brag.
‘I told you, didn’t I?’ Zara smiles, knowingly. ‘The pace in Dubai is fast. You either run with it or get left behind. It’s so great that you ran.’
‘You mean that?’
Zara pauses, inhales her surroundings.
‘Of course I do,’ she says. ‘How long are you back for?’
‘Just a week.’
‘Your first time back?’
A dormant ache squeezes my chest, my face flushing hot. I’d meant to come back sooner. I’d meant to go to Florida. She’d been doing really well in the sunshine, my ma, and kept telling me to focus on my job, to make a life for myself just as she was doing. She sewed sequins and frills on little Sienna’s dance leotards, watched her recitals. She said she liked the beach – a shocker, but she swore on my dad’s grave. In the end, it was her heart that packed in and she went suddenly. Quickly. According to our Lisa and Emma. A small, small comfort, overshadowed by a regret I’ll never overcome.