Never Saw You Coming

by Hayley Doyle

  True, the look of the bar was impressive, each corner of the floor pristine, but it lacked a soul that I won’t ever give up searching for. It made me miss those laid-back bars in Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos, with their power ballads and their many, many lanterns. If only I could have found some sort of job there; some reason to stay, to be needed. Promo work in Dubai could be fun, at times lucrative if I landed the right event, but it was ad hoc, inconsistent, and depended upon the weather being cooler – just hot, as opposed to burning like an angry furnace. At least the quiet times gave me the chance to escape, to travel.

  ‘Shots!’ Katie announced.

  I cheered alongside the girls, but made a swift exit to the ladies’ room before having to neck sambuca. Locked in a cubicle, I scrolled through my phone. Nothing. Why hadn’t George been in touch? The last exchange of messages was so promising, the proof in words right there on the screen. Okay, so he wasn’t my dream guy, but we’d enjoyed numerous hilarious dates that included a lot of alcohol and a lot of mutual appreciation for Stranger Things. We also had pretty wonderful sex. Often. So, why the silence?

  Ah fuck it, I was going to break the goddamn silence.

  Hey You … at Sky High 68 with the girls. You out tonight? x

  Delete, delete, delete.

  I tried another approach.

  Just bumped into a girl at Sky High 68 who is the double of Winona Ryder … Delete, delete, delete.

  I reapplied my lip gloss. Maybe a shot was a good idea after all.

  As I left the ladies’ room, the hot desert air hit me hard after spending so long inside the cold air-con. I took a breath, adjusted myself and felt my heart begin to race as I caught sight of someone across the bar. There was no need to text, to wonder, to speculate. There he was.

  ‘George!’

  He turned. His shirt was crisp, white, and tucked with precision into his slim, black jeans.

  ‘Hey babe,’ George said planting one, two, then three kisses on my cheeks. I don’t know why he went in for three. He’s English. ‘How’s it going? I didn’t expect to come out tonight – I was working late. We’ve got a big event starting next Sunday, been in meetings all day. I’ll be project manager again, which is nuts because my role never started out that way.’

  I was baffled as to why he was educating me with this drivel.

  ‘Who’s your friend?’ another guy asked.

  George put his arm around me and gave me a little shake, like a tambourine.

  ‘Oh, this is Zara. Zara this is … everybody.’

  I gave a half-hearted wave and rocked back and forth in my high heels.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked turning to look at George.

  He made a huge effort to create a blank expression across his wide, clean face.

  ‘George. I was under the impression we were having fun.’

  ‘We did have fun.’

  ‘Yeah, exactly. We are.’

  ‘So what’s your problem, Zara?’

  ‘I don’t have a problem. It’s just that we’ve been having fun for five months—’

  ‘You’re counting?’

  ‘No! I’m just good with dates. A wasted talent.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And I was just wondering when we were, I dunno, gonna meet up next?’

  ‘Hmm. Hadn’t thought about it.’

  ‘Okay …’

  ‘What? Is that not good enough for you, Zara?’

  It wasn’t good enough for me, no. But George was being quite aggressive, a side that I hadn’t witnessed at all apart from when he yelled at taxi drivers for taking a wrong turn.

  ‘Look, babe,’ he said, lighting a cigarette. ‘I’m in the middle of a work thing here.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Sure.’ He gave my bare shoulder a hard, but subtle squeeze. I brushed him off and took a step back. George was not as good-looking as I made out and his voice was definitely higher pitched in reality, as if stuck behind his nose. But we had definitely been having fun. Nothing bad had happened between leaving his place on Saturday morning and now. A couple of texts, a touch of interaction on social media, nothing to suggest things were over.

  ‘Why are you treating me like this?’ I asked.

  ‘Babe. Not now.’

  ‘Yes, now. Why not now?’

  ‘Zara. You’re drunk. Fuck off back to your mates.’

  ‘Why are you being so mean? What did I do?’

  He came in closer, his spiced scent overpowering, his cheek resting against mine.

  ‘Look, babe,’ he said. ‘You’re not my girlfriend.’

  I jerked myself away.

  ‘Well, thank God, if this is how you treat girls,’ I said.

  ‘Will you lower your voice?’

  ‘No. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’

  A petite blonde bounced over to join us, her figure designed for lycra, the volume of her locks unaffected by the outdoor heat. She introduced herself as Amanda from Australia. She seemed hungry for gossip, eager to know who I was and how I knew George, or Georgie, as she referred to him.

  ‘Georgie knows EVERYONE,’ she said, continuing to bounce.

  I made a pained effort to bounce back. ‘We haven’t known each other long.’

  ‘Oh, are you guys dating?’ Amanda asked. ‘Oh, yay!’

  George said, ‘No,’ as I said, ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Oh, shame! You guys have amazing chemistry. Just saying!’

  Another guy put his arm around George, offered him a drink. George turned his back on me.

  ‘So, how long’ve you been in Dubai?’ Amanda asked. The first question every expat asks another when left alone to make small talk.

  ‘On and off since I was a kid,’ I said. ‘But, I’ve lived all over … Singapore, Hong Kong, New England, actual England, sort of, for school and uni …’

  Sometimes, I wish I could record this story to play aloud to new people I find myself chatting to, saving me from repeating it. My story is exhausting, unspecific. There’s no strength in its background, no meat to its middle. The present is an ongoing maze.

  ‘I was born in the states,’ I went on, Amanda chewing on her straw.

  ‘Cool. And what do you do?’

  Another inevitable question I struggled with. I didn’t really do anything.

  ‘I can doodle,’ I laughed, avoiding an answer. ‘But I just like to party.’

  Oh, God. How my own words made me cringe.

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ Amanda clinked her glass with mine. ‘You’re awesome. Hey, Georgie! Zara. Is. Awesome.’

  George touched the arm of the guy he was drinking with. ‘Excuse me,’ he smiled. Then, he clasped my hand and pulled me across the bar, next to the entrance. Ping! The elevator doors opened and a small group of beautiful people embraced the rooftop with gusto. George took a long drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke sideways.

  ‘I don’t want to do this,’ he said.

  ‘Do what?’ I asked.

  ‘You’re NOT my girlfriend.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard you the first time.’

  ‘So why were you making a tit of yourself just now?’

  ‘I wasn’t making a tit of my … you’re a total bastard.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard me. You took me out and led me on, now you’re just tossing me aside.’

  ‘How did I lead you on?’

  ‘Well, I mean, I wouldn’t have slept with you all those times if I’d have known.’

  ‘Known what? That I didn’t want to marry you and have children with you?’

  ‘God. This is so harsh. I’m not that kind of girl, George.’

  ‘You’ve got a pretty high opinion of yourself, haven’t you, babe?’

  ‘Fuck you, George.’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘In case your precious colleagues hear what a total dick you are?’

  ‘I said keep your voice down.’

  ‘Why? Is it Amanda’s turn tonight? Are you worried she wo
n’t fall for your charm?’

  ‘Stay the hell away from me, Zara. I mean it.’

  The next moment happened so swift, in fact, so slick. George, his face as hard as stone, lifted his hand and stubbed his cigarette into my right cheekbone. The lit end twisted in deep, the motion fast but the moment long. Then the elevator doors pinged open again. George stepped in, the doors sliding shut just as I fell to my knees. The pain was so sharp, so intense, I couldn’t find the strength to scream as I emptied my lungs with one long, heavy breath.

  I remained crouched over for what felt like some time, all my concentration keeping me quiet, as though I might just disappear if I stayed down there long enough. My hands were pressed into my cheek, wishing the burn away. Echoing around me were the sounds of laughter, of air kissing, of ice clattering in glasses, people enjoying other people. The beat from the speakers thumped along, pulsing across my forehead, creating a dull ache.

  I couldn’t go back past the bar now. Not only because this incident would ruin Katie’s birthday, but because I was too afraid to slip past George’s crowd, to be stopped by Amanda. What would they say about my hand pressed against my cheek? How could I lie and conceal the fact that the person responsible was their old buddy, Georgie? Oh God, what would he do to me if I told them the truth?

  The bare skin on my back felt warm, and it wasn’t the night air. It was somebody’s hand. I was going to get told off for blocking the entrance, asked to leave. But, as I slowly began to unravel, the hand on my back kept me steady and another hand helped me to standing. I lost my balance a little in my heels.

  ‘Are you okay, sweetheart?’

  Sweetheart. Such a simple word played like a string quartet in my ears. I kept my eyes closed. The man’s hand touched my bare shoulder and with such tenderness, he asked if he could take a look at my face, to see what ‘that horrid prick’ had just done to me. He’d seen the whole thing and regretted not moving in sooner.

  ‘I didn’t want to interfere,’ he said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  He was definitely British, but I was unsure of his accent, perhaps Northern.

  I wanted to speak, to say, ‘Don’t be sorry, it’s not your fault,’ but I was still trapped inside my own mind in my shock. Allowing my eyes to open, I looked at the man. He was medium height – tall next to me – and fair haired, a little freckly, with a smile that invited me to feel at home. His cheeks were dimpled, his brow damp, his shirt creased with the heat. I guessed that he was either new to Dubai or here on business.

  ‘We should speak to the manager,’ he said, his hand still stroking my shoulder. ‘Get them to call the police.’

  ‘No,’ I found my voice. ‘We can’t do that.’

  ‘Why? You’ve been attacked, sweetheart.’

  ‘Honestly, no. Forget it. I won’t be seeing him again.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m serious. There’s nothing the police can do. It’ll look like I was asking for it.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘I’m a girl in a bar, I’ve had alcohol, I’m dressed like this,’ I sighed. ‘Believe me, it’s not worth the hassle.’

  The man’s smile dropped. ‘I’ll go downstairs now and see if I can find the prick.’

  ‘You won’t find him. Look down,’ I said, my head tilting to the rooftop balcony. Below the hotel were twelve lanes of traffic, a spider of a junction just yards from the entrance. ‘You see how busy it is down there? He’s gone.’

  The man mopped his brow with a napkin.

  ‘Well, can I get you something?’ he asked. ‘A drink? Some water? Something stronger?’

  ‘Water. Please.’

  He returned in seconds with a pint of iced water. I put my hand into the glass and grabbed a few ice cubes, pressing them against my cheek. The ice melted quickly between my fingertips, dripping down my dress, onto the floor. The man took a clean napkin from the side of the bar and wrapped up the remaining ice, and without asking, held it up against my face.

  ‘Is it bad?’ I asked.

  ‘No. It’s actually like a beauty spot.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You don’t have to be so nice. I can take it.’

  ‘Okay, it’s quite a red and raw beauty spot … but that won’t last long.’

  I laughed, and then began to cry. The man brought me close to him and hugged me tight. This simple act of kindness from a stranger was the truest form of comfort that I’d experienced in a long, long time.

  ‘Do you want to get out of here?’ the man asked. ‘I mean, I can’t say I know the area, but do you want to go for a walk?’

  ‘And get some fresh air?’ I managed to joke.

  He laughed. ‘I hear the air conditioning in the lobby is out of this world.’

  ‘I should go home.’

  ‘You live here?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Alright for some. This time tomorrow I’ll be back in Blighty.’

  ‘You here on business?’

  ‘How did you guess?’

  I pressed the ice deeper into my burn. ‘You seem a little overwhelmed by the heat.’

  The man cracked another smile. ‘Am I that much of an amateur?’

  ‘I’ve seen worse.’

  ‘Look, can I at least see that you get home okay? I’ll get a taxi with you?’

  ‘That’s kind of you, but no, I’m fine.’

  And I did feel fine, within reason. This man’s calm presence had to get credit for that.

  ‘Well, at least give me your number,’ he suggested. ‘And I’ll give you mine. Then text me when you’re home so I know you really are fine.’

  As I took my phone from my bag, the man held the napkin full of ice against my cheek, keeping the fresh wound cool. At the far end of the bar, I could see Katie and the girls helping themselves to a bottle of vodka served with sparklers, the bar’s signature birthday treat. I wasn’t going to be the person to bring the mood down. I’d take Katie for lunch next week, apologise for leaving so abruptly.

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Thank you for … I dunno, saving me.’

  He blushed, which I found rather sweet. ‘You’re very welcome,’ he said.

  I headed towards the elevator, pressed the button, waited. In the last few minutes, whilst enduring unbearable pain and complete humiliation, I had felt lighter than usual, a gentle atmosphere of safety encompassing me.

  I heard the man’s voice again.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?’ he asked.

  The elevator pinged open.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, shall I come down to the lobby with you, and then, when you’re safe inside a taxi, you can decide whether or not you want me to go with you?’

  I smiled. ‘Yes.’

  As the elevator doors closed, the man put his arms gently around me.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I asked.

  ‘Gregory. Nick Gregory.’

  14

  Jim

  I look across at Zara. She’s gone pale, taking deep breaths.

  ‘Do you need me to pull over?’ I ask.

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘You look like you’re gonna be sick.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  ‘Look, just don’t be sick in me car, alright?’

  For some reason, this makes her laugh and she has the cheek to give me an ‘aye aye captain’ with salute.

  ‘Boys and their toys,’ she says to herself, all smug, although loud enough for me to hear.

  I’m seething, but I don’t respond. It’s sounds daft, but yeah, I want her to think I’m just a boy and this BMW is my little toy. Not her, specifically. I couldn’t give a flying fuck about what she thinks. But in general. I want the whole world to think it. I want it to be my truth. I want to be genuinely only annoyed that my car’s had a bash up and it’s going to be a pain in the arse to get it sorted, but life goes on. It’ll get sorted. Worse things happen at sea and so on.

  But. FUCK.

  This isn�
��t my truth, is it?

  For me, this is a shipwreck. I’m a grown man with a lost chance, not a boy with a toy. Not that it’s easier being the latter. Not in my experience, anyway.

  My sisters are both older, Lisa by seven years and Emma by five.

  Growing up was like watching a telly show where they starred as a double act, me always on the other side of the glass, admiring, listening. Whatever I suggested – playing MouseTrap, watching Fraggle Rock – it got dismissed with a big ruffle of my hair and an ‘Ah, he’s so cute,’ sometimes from Lisa, mostly from Emma. They were a force. And I was blown away by them.

  My ma took on three cleaning jobs to pay for their tap and ballet lessons. I was dragged along, but not to dance. I was too young to be left home alone. I had to sit and wait amongst the other mothers and bored siblings, in the cloakroom of the church hall, the tinkle of an out-of-tune piano seeping through the wall. The newsagents across the road became my saviour.

  It was there I found a hobby.

  I’d seen an advert on the telly for a magazine about maps of the world. Each week, the edition came attached with a little clear bag of plastic pieces and stickers, all part of building your own globe. Collecting all twelve editions meant completing the globe, the final piece allowing it to spin on its axis. My pocket money had gone up from one to two pounds since Emma and Lisa began dancing, my dad sneaking the extra quid my way with a wink and a shush behind my ma’s back. And the magazine cost just that: two pounds a week.

  So I began collecting.

  Every Tuesday, as Emma and Lisa fought their way to be first into the church hall, I’d stop, look, listen and think, cross the road and buy my magazine. Then, curled up beside the metal radiator, its paint chipped and peeling onto the cold, tiled floor of the cloakroom, I’d read it from cover to cover, completing the wordsearch, the spot the difference, the weekly quiz; one time on rivers, another on mountains. Keeping the little clear bag safe in my coat pocket, I waited until I got home to build my globe, slotting the new piece into place.