by Amal Awad
Okay, calm. Not acting like a silly adolescent over email. Am adept, remember?
But, his email was a huge surprise. I mean, I guess I might have run into him in the city given that we worked within the same vicinity. That wouldn’t have surprised me even if it turned out to be an awkward meeting. That might have gotten us talking. That could have then cascaded into the online world.
But a direct email was different. Email was different, period. It had its own set of rules. Unwritten ones, which made them all the harder to follow.
Before I could properly digest it all, another two emails popped into my inbox, one from Lara, the other from Hakeem. I hadn’t even done a minute of work yet, I realised.
I opened Hakeem’s email first because Lara’s were frequently treatises and required a different level of concentration (as well as unlimited access to an online urban dictionary).
Subject: Re: ?
Anytime.
And it’s Catch-22, as you well know, Mary.
Hakeem
He didn’t seem upset. Bordering on normal actually.
Although. There was a certain tone to the email that I didn’t quite recognise. It was reasonably stilted. I suppose it was unlikely we’d fall back into our usual manner of conversing immediately, but at least we’d fixed things. And eventually it would go back to normal. We’d forgiven each other, and we’d be stronger for it.
I was just relieved because it put an end to Lara’s hyperbolic assessment. I’d tell her all about this and she’d have to concede that she was wrong (of course, in her own unique manner).
Then again, who on God’s green earth was I kidding? This was Lara. She’d take her theories with her to the grave. She’d wear them like a badge of honour, hold her head high and insist until the last breath that she was right about Hakeem and me. I could be married to another man and she’d still be asserting her genius in matters of the heart.
I moved on to her email, which was shorter than expected.
Subject: Boys suck
How’s Hakeem? You two should really discuss this. Or if you want, I can speak to him. No need to thank me.
Work is KILLING me. Today a patient ripped his drip out and spilt it all over the place.
Did wimpy brother take your number/email? Excitement! What kind of name is Menem anyways? It sounds like a type of curry. I’m sure I’ve bought something like that from Rushil, my curry dealer in London. ;o)
Love you, babe xx
The email might have been shorter than I’d expected but it was authentic Lara. No need for pleasantries and airy demands to catch up soon.
Subject: Re: Boys suck
This is why I don’t like telling you things. His name is Menem not wimpy brother. And everything is sorted with Hakeem. I’m sorry to disappoint you but there was no drama and no secret confession of longing (from either party). I’m sure you’ll deal with the disappointment.
Speak to you soon. ;)
Samira xo
I’d decided not to tell her about Menem’s email just yet. I didn’t lie so much as omit, which isn’t the same thing. I wasn’t sure what I thought about it myself. That and I didn’t want to have to deal with another mention of Lara’s “curry dealer” in London.
Thank God we weren’t the rebellious drug-taking type, otherwise Lara would be one of those people you’d see on the evening news, caught in some drug-smuggling ring. I often felt she would be well-suited to another era. Prohibition would do if we weren’t teetotallers.
I also wasn’t quite sure I wanted Lara’s opinion on Menem yet, especially as I was yet to form my own.
After I sent the reply, I stared at Menem’s email for a few moments. I reread it, then once again for good measure.
“Samira! You’re here early,” said Cate. She stood in front of my cubicle, coffee in gloved hand, a beanie perched on her head.
“Um, I had a few things I needed to get done before Jeff gets in,” I said.
“Samina! Coffee!”
And… there goes that. Cate winked at me then walked off to her desk. I abandoned the email so that I could make Jeff his coffee.
Should I reply straight away? I wondered, as I opened the jar. Was it better to leave it for a bit so as not to look desperate and unimportant? Or would leaving it too long look too nonchalant? And rude?
I’ve never been good at delaying correspondence. I was always concerned the person on the other end would think I’m ignoring them. Never mind that people would take their time getting back to me. The one time I’d do it would be the one time someone took offence.
But Menem was a stranger to me. It’s not like he knew me well but for two brief meetings, in which he managed to step on convention in more than one way, and I suppose I didn’t mind.
But I wasn’t completely at ease about it either. This is where the Arab and Muslim guilt would creep in with alarming ease and morph into a collective. A much mightier strength of the Guilt strain it was, and a good deal harder to treat. Completely blew Catholic and Jewish strains of guilt out of the water.
I could at least draft the response I decided as I sat back at my desk. Yes, a brief, polite, respectful response.
Salam Menem,
This is a pleasant surprise.
No, wait. Too keen? I mean, why was it a pleasant surprise? Maybe I should just say, “This is a surprise”. But that makes it sound like it’s an unwelcome surprise, and I couldn’t say in all honesty that it was.
Oh Lord. The thing is – and this might sound crazy – but the email seemed a bit like an excuse to contact me. It’s not that I have the highest opinion of myself, but I didn’t really expect Menem to pass on any questions about my degree to his cousin. Of course, I’d answer them all if he did. But he wouldn’t. Then again, I could be completely off the mark. It’s been known to happen.
I really wasn’t sure how to reply. I couldn’t think clearly. I needed more caffeine. Caffeine would help, it always did. I emailed Cate and asked if she wanted to grab something in ten minutes.
“Yep!” she yelled almost immediately from a few desks away.
Before I could get back to Menem’s email, another message appeared in my inbox. This one was from Zahra. Ah, the whole gang is here. Instantly I rolled my eyes (totally involuntary reaction).
Subject: Email
Samira, I gave your email address to Malek’s brother, Menem. He wants to ask you about your degree or something. Anyway, it’s not a big deal, so don’t get all precious about it. He’s family now.
Zahra
P.S: Mum says thanks for your help on Saturday.
Oh bloody hell. Her mum says thanks?
“He’s family now,” I said in mock disgust.
I rolled my eyes again for good measure, which did improve my mood somewhat. There was nothing like a good eye-roll to release the angst. Perhaps someone could write a book on it and develop an eye-roll treatment. I’m sure it’d end up on the American talk show circuit and everyone would be praising it as the latest in basic venting techniques.
My God but Zahra really wasn’t good for my health.
“When you pray, do you stand the whole time?”
I looked up, trying to refocus on my surroundings, taking a few seconds to understand what was being asked of me.
“Hi, Marcus,” I said, a little less than enthusiastically. The one day my inbox decides to hemorrhage, Marcus comes by for a scripture lesson.
Outside the weather was divine. Clear blue skies and a freshness that made me almost whimper at the thought of returning to the office. Cate and I would usually find a shady spot in the adjacent park when we could spare some time to have our coffees outside. This was our catch-up time, during which many a dud doorknock and many a dud date had been dissected.
We went to our favourite coffee place, a small coffee bar in Metcentre, the shopping centre near our building. We ordered then continued our conversation while we waited.
“So, did your cousin look good?” asked Cate.
&nb
sp; “Yeah, she did. Her dress was pretty, and she had her hair and make up done nicely.”
“Was the dress off the rack?”
“Nope. She had it made especially for the engagement.”
“Ah, she’s one of those,” said Cate.
“One of those what?”
“Bridezilla. You think you had it tough with the engagement, just wait for her wedding,” she said, taking out her coffee card.
“I’m not too worried about that. It shouldn’t have any impact on me,” I said with a shrug.
If Zahra wanted to have a big fancy wedding, she could be my guest. Or rather, I’d be her guest.
“You’ll see. She’ll be bridezilla before you can say a hundred per head.”
“Here you go, ladies,” said the barista. Cate and I called him Gus between ourselves, even though his real name was Frank which, to be fair, we only found out much later. Not sure how we settled on Gus, other than he looked a bit like a Gus. In any case, Frank was an old Italian man who would compliment me on my scarves.
“Bella! The green, it looks so nice!” he’d say, his hands going mad in front of him.
Cate and I suspected that Frank might have been embellishing the whole Italian thing. I mean, for all we knew his real name was Spike and he came from Penrith, and the Italian accent and hand gestures were just a way to get more business. If that was the case, more power to him as he made the best coffee in Metcentre, if not the CBD. Somehow he’d make it hot enough, without burning the milk, so you could drink it slowly.
“There you go, bella!” Frank said as he handed me my cup.
“And you, bella two!” he said to Cate. He stamped our coffee cards and returned them to us with a flourish.
We moved to the side, where the condiments resided.
“So why can your cousin dress up like that but you’re all covered up?” asked Cate.
“Well, she doesn’t wear hijab,” I said, lifting the lid off my coffee and pouring in some sugar.
Cate sipped her coffee, her expression thoughtful. “So the rules don’t apply to her then?”
“Well, no, I mean, she’s not wearing it, so she’s going to do things a bit differently.” Zahra wasn’t going to wear a long-sleeved, ankle-length gown when she didn’t even cover up on a daily basis.
I stirred my coffee then carefully placed the lid back on top. Just as we were walking away I heard someone say my name. I turned around, curious.
Cate turned with me and I found myself face-to-face with Menem.
“Hi,” he said. Then he smiled, a little shyly I have to say.
Cate hooked an eyebrow and looked at me. I was busy turning red and concocting a swift escape, but I managed a feeble hello back.
“Your building is close by,” he said.
Cate kicked me in the shin and I winced. Oh gawd, that hurt. I’d have to get her back for that because she was wearing heels today; long pointy, stilettoey ones.
“Oh, um, Cate, this is my cousin’s future brother-in-law, Menem,” I said, looking between them. “Cate is a colleague. You might remember her from team building.”
Cate smiled and greeted him.
“Hi,” he said with a slightly shy wave. He seemed marginally less confident and I wondered why. Then I remembered that my own reaction had been to bolt, so I couldn’t really fault him for it.
“I was just going to buy a coffee,” he said. He looked down at our hands cradling the coffee cups. “Ah, I see I’m too late to make good on my promise.”
I smiled at the sweetness of his gesture.
“It’s okay. We just needed a quick fix.”
“I emailed you by the way. I hope that’s all right,” said Menem.
I looked briefly at Cate, who hooked the other eyebrow, her expression growing increasingly amused.
“Yes! Um, I was planning to reply to that soon. You know how it is! Mondays!” I laughed awkwardly and looked down, wishing the floor would crack open and I could dive right in.
What utter pants. You know how it is, Mondays? This was too uncomfortable for words. And oh God, I could feel it, my face was all red. Where was my confidence and wit (well, there’d been a little) from team building?
“No, no, it’s fine, no rush,” said Menem. “I just hope you don’t think I’m too forward.”
“Not at all.” Maybe a little.
“Okay, well, I should leave you to your caffeine fix,” he said, more confidently. He smiled and nodded once before going to Frank’s coffee bar.
“You’re one for secrets,” whispered Cate as we left Metcentre
11
Hi Menem,
Thank you for your email. It was nice to meet you too, and a surprise to run into you in the city today! Isn’t it funny how these things happen? It’s like when you hear a new word for the first time, then hear it numerous times over the next few days.
About the Communications degree – I’m afraid what you heard is true, but please don’t hold it against me. I’m not a latte drinker and I could care less about Nietszche. It’s not too late for your cousin. She can be saved. Nevertheless, in order to ensure she has all facts at hand, I’d be happy to answer any questions.
Samira
This was only my 30th draft. What was the big deal? I never had to agonise over email to Lara or Hakeem. But here there were issues of appropriateness, of what kind of message I wanted to transmit. In this case, I wished to be polite and friendly, but I didn’t want to seem interested per se. I didn’t even know him after all. Hakeem said I was too trusting, and even Lara agreed. Well, they were just plain wrong.
Yes, I’d been friendly on Friday, and at the party on Saturday, but being a friendly and polite person didn’t mean I was too trusting now, did it? And this was clearly all business. He had a genuine enquiry and that’s why he’d emailed me. I had an obligation to respond.
Still, I was racked with doubt. Biting my lip, I deleted half the email then a moment later decided to keep it as it was. I couldn’t look at it anymore. I hit reply on his email and pasted my message in from the draft email I’d been using. Then I hit send without reviewing it so that I wouldn’t begin version 31.
“Samina.”
“Hi, Jeff.”
“The ads.”
“The-.”
“The ads, for the cadets. What’s the status?”
“Oh, um, I have the final drafts here, you just need to sign off on them.” I fumbled about, searching through a stack of folders in the corner of my desk.
“Well I would sign off on them if I had them, wouldn’t I, Samina? I can’t sign off on them when they’re with you, can I?”
The ads weren’t running for a couple of months, but this was typical Jeff. Never mind that I’d emailed every single version to him.
I sighed inwardly just as I located the piece of paper containing the two cadetship ads: one for three journalism positions, and another for two photography spots. We always ran the cadetships, only reducing the intake during the financial crisis. Even now, they paid peanuts.
“Jeff, um, do you remember our conversation about me applying for a cadetship?” I said, handing him the paper.
“Samina,” he sighed. “Did I ever tell you what happened to me at my first job?”
“No, Jeff. I don’t think so.”
“I got fired from my first job, Samina. Fired.” Then he gave me a look that said, “My point exactly”, even though I had absolutely no idea what he was on about. Then he walked off.
A moment later, I directed my attention to actual work, sifting through the mountain of papers Jeff had left for me last week. It wasn’t long though before my mind drifted to Menem’s email and the unexpected meeting we just had. It was such a coincidence. The kind of thing that happened in movies, not in real life. Or, at least, not in my life.
There had to be something wrong in the equation. A secret past perhaps? A string of fraudulent business deals and the jaunty young man look was just a front? Was he involved in Ponzi schemes?
But wait. Even I had to concede he was showing all the signs of interest. For starters, he was “looking” the other night. There’s a fine difference between just seeing someone and looking. And now he’d emailed me about something completely business-like, but with a premise wafer-thin. I was equal parts chuffed and mortified. He seemed so nice and normal.
An hour and three monthly budget sheets later, an email arrived. Nervously I looked up at the screen, surprised to find it was another message from Hakeem.
Subject: Re: ?
You sent this to the wrong person. My apologies for reading it, I didn’t realise it was meant for someone else.
Hakeem
Confused, I scrolled down to find my email to Menem and I stared dumbly at the words. My heart stopped. No, that couldn’t be right, I thought frantically. I went to my sent messages box and clicked on the email. Sure enough, it was addressed to Hakeem. I flicked my eyes to the bottom of my screen. Menem’s email sat beside Hakeem’s last response, which I hadn’t replied to. I hadn’t closed his email, and obviously I wasn’t concentrating when I hit reply because I replied to the wrong bloody email!
Craaaaaaaaap. Oh God, this was just so bad on so many levels. Things were already weird between Hakeem and I and now he’s read my email to Menem and probably gotten completely the wrong idea.
My face flamed hot within seconds and I felt an overwhelming urge to start crying. Pure panic settled in and put its legs up on the coffee table beside humiliation. “Make yourself comfortable, boys,” said humiliation. “Might be working overtime on this one.”