by Hayley Doyle
Oh, Jim. Jim Glover. Who’s not even on Facebook.
‘There’s no going backwards,’ I murmur, aloud, not giving two hoots how crazy I might seem to my fellow passengers. ‘Only forwards.’
‘Deep,’ some guy says, sitting opposite.
I nod, agreeing, although deeply wishing I knew where the hell to go forwards to.
Ah, damn. I miss my stop.
I get off at Kings Cross St Pancras to change trains, but God, there are SO MANY people. It’s stressful and hectic. I feel the need to get out of the Underground, and fast, so I wander into St Pancras International.
For a train station, this is a delight.
I sample all of the Jo Malone fragrances, and as a result smell like a walking, talking florist. I buy a Chanel lipstick for Katie, my way of saying sorry, you were right.
But what I really need is a drink.
I don’t fancy the rowdiness of a British pub, so I go to the champagne bar.
‘A Merlot, please,’ I say, pointing to the second cheapest on the wine list.
It’s delicious. And it’s going down too quickly.
I’ve got a lot of time to pass. A. Lot.
Jim went on and on about how time passes by beautifully with a book. I don’t mind reading, especially by the pool or on the beach, but today I’ve been struggling enough with the most banal celeb gossip. I’m not sure I could focus on a book.
Although …
It’s still another six hours until my flight.
I finish my drink and head to WHSmith, browsing through the A–Z of fiction, reading the back of anything that catches my eye. There’s a theme unfolding; I notice anything with the words ‘lie’, ‘deceit’, or ‘stranger’ in the title. Hmm. The more blurbs I read, the more all the stories start to sound the same. I move on to fact. Some healthy lifestyle hardbacks: interesting. I read a few vegan recipes. Everyone will be vegan one day, so this book tells me. Then, I find all the biographies. Who was that guy Jim had been reading about?
Oh God. Zara!
Why is everything I’m thinking directed towards Jim? Why? Yesterday morning I’d been in love with Nick, and now I’m pining after Jim? What will tomorrow bring? Tears over letting another random guy slip through my fingers? I need to stop this train now before it derails – let’s face it, I’m already on slippery tracks.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ a shop assistant asks.
Startled, I pick up the first book I can get my hands on, lying in a pile on the table beside me.
‘Found it,’ I say. ‘Thank you.’ And I make my way to pay.
It’s a biography, paperback, about an old movie star, Judy Garland. It’s only when I’ve already paid for it that I realise I know who Judy Garland is. Well, was. She was the actress who played Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, one of my favourite childhood films. This could be kind of cool. Maybe I should tell Jim about it when I’ve finished.
Oh, wait. Jim’s gone.
Have a good one, Jim. Kiss.
Kiss?
No, I’m reading far too deeply into a simple goodbye note. A goodbye note. And what did he mean, ‘have a good one’. Have a good what? Flight? Life?
The champagne bar beckons me. I climb up onto one of the high stools and order another glass of Merlot, large. I open the first page of the Judy Garland biography, attempting to let some words sink in. But, oh, here I am, flying back to Dubai tonight, only a day after arriving in the UK. I’d been so sure about leaving Dubai, and now I’m completely unsure about returning.
I know what I need to do.
I need to speak to somebody in Dubai. Tell somebody I’m coming back. That might make me feel better, or at least give me a sense of purpose; a genuine feeling that I’m going home.
I’ll have to use a payphone, though. How retro.
Does this train station even have a payphone? Are they still a thing? Will I need some money or can I use my card? And who should I call? It’s quite intense, calling a pal long distance from a public phone. Of all the ways you can make contact with people these days, a phone call now seems the most drastic. The least breezy. If I’m going to call anybody, I guess it should be Katie, but I’d much rather see her face-to-face, and all will be super between us after thirty seconds. Besides, she won’t answer her phone. She’ll see some long, unknown number from abroad and think it’s someone cold calling her about insurance.
Agh. Hold on.
I don’t even know Katie’s phone number. I don’t know anybody’s phone number because all of my numbers are still in my phone.
God, I’m so directionless. So pointless.
I open my passport and turn to the back page. My next of kin; my papa. His number is written there in black and white, to be called in case of an emergency. Is this an emergency? Holy crap, I’m crying. I’m drinking wine, one page into the life of Judy Garland, and crying. And I can’t stop them flowing, the tears, they’re just falling, falling, running away from their ducts. I’m not even making any noise; I’m barely breathing. Seriously, I’m just so desperate to know where the fucking hell I belong.
Oh, look.
There’s a payphone. Beside the bar.
I’ll call my papa. Yes. I’ll let him know that I’m on my way back, and say that maybe once he arrives back from Saudi, we can all go to dinner somewhere fancy.
The payphone accepts card; wonderful. I dial the number written in my passport.
It’s ringing. I hear his voice.
‘Samir Khoury. Leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.’
The tone beeps, and I intend to leave a message. Except I can’t find the words, not even a simple hello. It feels so damn forced. There’s nothing for me to do other than hang up and return to my bar stool.
‘Another?’ the bartender asks.
‘There’s a reason he left so abruptly,’ I say.
The bartender looks down at the empty stool beside me.
‘Oh, no. Not here,’ I assure him. ‘This morning, at the hotel. There has to be a reason.’
Yes, I know. I’m back to thinking about Jim again.
But last night something almost happened, I’m sure of it. A window opened.
‘I think he’s loyal,’ I say to the barman. ‘Jim. I don’t think he’d leave without a reason.’
‘Okay. You just let me know when you’d like a top-up, madam.’
‘Oh,’ I sigh, a little whiney. ‘I was hoping you’d say something more profound than that.’
‘Profound?’ the barman asks, like he’s never come across that word before.
‘Yeah, like, “Go after him, tell him how you feel!”’
‘Go after who?’
‘Jim!’
Unlike the stereotype, this barman is clearly not an actor. His blank expression tells me there’s no chance he’s going to indulge in my fantasy Hollywood movie scenario. He wipes the bar down, keen to stick to his true role, bar tending.
‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘I can’t go after him.’
I wait for the barman to ask why. He doesn’t, but he does pause to raise an eyebrow.
‘I’ve a more than good reason not to go after Jim Glover. And that reason is called Nick, or Greg, or whatever the fuck he’s called.’ I look up apologetically, not meaning to swear before this perfect stranger. He softens a little, still listening. ‘I can’t possibly do it again.’
Two ladies are waiting to be served and I lose the barman to them.
I think of Zein, my first boyfriend. I’m sure that was love, in some way. Except neither of us ever made a leap; we always kept our gestures small, our decisions on the line. Maybe Zein wanted me to go with him when he studied in Europe; wanted me to initiate. I just sat back, though. I let him go, let him leave me. Any hurt I’d felt from Zein meeting somebody else, well, I blamed on myself for never committing to him fully. It was easier to be happy for him.
The barman returns.
‘Should I let Jim go?’ I ask, taking a huge gulp of wine. ‘Or will I alway
s wonder?’
My new book is on the bar. I could pass the time beautifully by reading this. Or I could go after Jim, take a leap of faith.
I gently edge my empty glass towards the barman.
‘Well?’ he asks.
‘I’m gonna make a move,’ I reply. ‘Or I’ll always wonder.’
Yes, I’m going to do it. I am! I’m going back to Liverpool, today, now. Right now. I arrived in this country with a plan, didn’t I? And true, that plan has not gone how I’d originally hoped, but it was a plan nonetheless to go to Liverpool and make a new life for myself. Perhaps the plan is still in motion; it’s just taken a different direction. Screw my things. They’ll be safe in Heathrow, surely? Somehow, I’m going to go and find Jim Glover.
Katie will crucify me for this, but I don’t care.
And this time I’ve got no mop to drag me down.
I get to Euston station, where trains go direct to Liverpool.
I stand beneath the vast timetable and see the next train to depart is 17.07. There’s a long queue at the ticket office, but there are also plenty of self-service machines free. They’re pretty simple to work out. I put my card into the slot.
I hover over the square on the screen that says ‘Buy Tickets’.
Press, press, press …
Hmm. What I’m doing is nothing short of crazy, right? To go all the way back to Liverpool, after such an epic journey getting away from the place? This is totally fucking crazy. And what’s more, I’m going to find the guy who brought me on that epic journey?
An energetic ball of nerves performs somersaults in my stomach.
We almost kissed … we …
Yes! I want to see Jim. Yes! I want totally fucking crazy. Otherwise what’s the point in living? I haven’t found what it is I’m looking for yet, so what harm can it do to keep trying, to give something else, something potentially wonderful, a damn shot? I have nothing to go back to Dubai for other than a nice room in my papa’s villa for a half decent rent, so why not? Why the hell not?
All I have to do is press the button, buy a ticket, get on a train.
I press. My finger presses the screen in front of me and I wait.
Nothing happens.
I press again, a little harder, but it’s quite obvious that the goddamn screen has locked. I look over my shoulder, trying to find a station attendant, somebody to help me. The screen flickers, briefly, and it seems like it might be working now.
‘Buy tickets’.
I hover. Again.
Attempting to pull myself together, I feel a brush across the heels of my suede sneakers. A faint apology ensues. I turn, but nobody is there. Twisting around the other way, I see a lady mopping the station floor, cleaning around the bottom of the self-service machine beside the one I’m standing at.
A mop.
How did such an object, used to eliminate crap off the ground, once play a major role in my life? The fire in my belly is drenched, sodden. I can see the front door to the house on Clifton Crescent opening, those little girls staring at my witch’s broom. I can see Abi’s cold recognition of who I must be. I can see Nick. Greg. The story I’d participated in. The happy ending I’d gotten oh so wrong. And I see George, laughing; another story I’d read back-to-front.
I won’t do this again.
I won’t turn Jim into another story, one to tell Katie and the latest gang of expats. I won’t ridicule myself in the Irish pub, drowning myself in enough tequila shots to feel confident, to be funny. I can just picture it, the drunken rounds of pitying applause, Katie howling, ‘You did it again, Zara! You hopeless fecking romantic!’
Hopeless.
It has to stop.
I have to stop.
A beep beeps from the machine and my card ejects. I’ve hovered too long.
I back away, avoiding the lady with her mop, and meander down the escalators, deep into the London Underground. Just over an hour later I’m at Heathrow again, and this time I check in. I’m handed a boarding pass for the next Emirates flight to Dubai International Airport. In the departure lounge, I buy my second tuna melt of the day and pick away at it, sitting amongst the crowds and wiping the tears that fall down my cheeks with a brown paper napkin. On the plane, I read a few chapters about the early life of Judy Garland, drink more red wine and, inevitably, cry.
Night turns into the brightest of mornings as the grand A380 touches down onto the hot, dry runway. The Dubai sky is so perfect, such a beautiful, confident blue, that there’s nothing to dislike about it. The warmth outside is delicious. November is the expats’ favourite month. Inside the airport, a member of the ground staff catches my eye, smiles and says, ‘Welcome, ma’am.’
Maybe I am home after all.
Maybe.
28
Jim
The seat in my toll booth today has seen better days. The yellow sticky sponge is emerging from the plastic faux leather cover. My high-vis jacket scratches my neck, something that’s perhaps always happened. I can’t quite remember.
‘Y’never heard of a barber, mate?’
It is – of course – the fella in the Ford Focus. Connie and Carl’s laughter about something not likely to be funny blasts through his speakers and I’m reacquainted with that aftershave; too many spices for a Monday morning.
‘Have a good day, mate,’ I reply, handing over the change.
‘Nice one.’
And with that all-too-familiar unnecessary rev, the Focus speeds through the tunnel. I’m doing my utmost to deliver decent customer service today, but I’m forced to multitask, exchanging coins while reading messages appearing on my phone from my sisters.
Jim! Landed. We’ve hired cars. On the motorway. Emma and co in the car behind. Heading straight to the hospital. ETA 9.40 rush hour traffic permitting. Meet us there. Love you. Lisa
Hey little bro!! We absolutely can’t wait to see your hairy face. Sienna, Mason and Bree can’t believe they’re going to meet you in the flesh. Well, Bree doesn’t really understand but we think she’s got a high IQ for a 6 month old. A bit like her Uncle Jim, eh?! She slept for the whole flight. If only she’d do that on land haha. See you soon. Love ya loads. Em x
Oh, I forgot to say Jack’s super excited to catch up with you. Like you, he’s from a whole family of sisters haha. Love ya loads. Em x
Relief wafts into my nerves. I’ve been kind of dreading seeing my sisters and hearing about their dramatically changed lives, but these messages already confirm they haven’t changed too much. Lisa’s always the practical one, straight to the point and never afraid to offend so long as the job gets done, and she gets her way. Emma never stops talking.
How was Mum yesterday? In good spirits? I don’t want us all to overwhelm her in the hospital, she hates fuss. Do you think Lisa and Paul should go first and then I take the kids in with Jack this afternoon? Lisa thinks we should all go right now. What time are you getting there? Or are you there now? Love ya loads. Em x
I hand change to the person waiting in the car below. The messages stop and I take a moment to glance away from my screen and engage in being friendly. The fella in the driving seat looks ever so bloody pleased with himself. And with good reason, too. He’s driving a clean, white BMW M3. I can’t exactly mistake it. Its whole shape will be imprinted in my mind forever. The fella’s eyes meet with mine through his smart specs. Pity oozes from them.
Pity for me. Fucking hell.
By the way, Mum mentioned to Lisa on the phone that you’ve met somebody. What’s her name? How did you meet her? How long have you known her? Sorry about the fifty zillion questions but I’m hoping you’re easier to get hold of when I’m actually in the same country as you. It drives me nuts how impossible you are to get hold of (GET A FACEBOOK ACCOUNT FOR GAWD’S SAKE!) and your Skype connection sucks. Ok, lecture over little bro. Who’s the girl? Love ya loads. Em x
The BMW M3 speeds off, the noise of its engine ringing in my ears like Fleetwood Mac playing live. Christ, this high-vis jacket is taki
ng the piss. My neck’ll be raw red by the end of my shift.
They’ve only been back in Liverpool five minutes and already they’re bickering with my ma. I can hear them from the corridor.
‘I’m not having it!’ my ma’s protesting.
‘You bloody well are, Mum,’ Lisa dictates.
‘I said NO.’
‘And I am saying YES.’
‘Who do you think you’re talking to?’
Emma’s intervening with ‘Stop it’ and ‘Listen’ and ‘Can I get a word in?’ and ‘Nobody ever listens to me’, getting trampled over with words like football studs on a freshly mown pitch.
Griffo, who’s kindly given me yet another lift, stops in his tracks in the corridor. He wanted to say hiya to my sisters, especially Lisa, his first crush; his mouth would drop into a giant O, iced with a bit of dribble, whenever she used to barge into the room. But he hands me a selection of magazines for my ma that he picked up on the way.
‘I’ll leave youse to it,’ he says, pressing his lips into a thin smile and narrowing his eyes.
‘Mate, ta for the lift. Again.’
He punches my upper arm. His hair’s combed over with gel and his whole appearance is flabby around the edges. Middle age has hit him earlier than most would welcome it. Griffo doesn’t seem to care in the slightest, though; if anything, he embraces it. He’s even started drinking bitter.
‘I’ll be an independent human again soon,’ I wince. ‘Promise.’
‘Pacific Arms tonight? After visiting hours?’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’
‘Pints are on me. I know this is the last thing you wanna hear right now, mate, but a new contact of mine just paid me three grand cash for … well, something.’ Griffo laughs, just like a stupid kid who’s let off a stink bomb, which looks creepy coming from his puffed-up, grown-up face. No wonder Griffo never got himself a proper job. His dad’s keeping him close to protect his blabber mouth. Maybe not close enough, though.
‘Surely you’ve just given me too much info there, lad?’
He mouths a silent oops. ‘Pints on me. See you in the Pacific later.’
‘You’re impossible,’ Lisa squeals at my ma from around the corner, the staff on reception glancing away from their screens in disgust. I close my eyes and frown, anticipating the response.
