by Hayley Doyle
‘I have to go. But thank you.’
‘Do you know where you’re going?’
‘Yes. I believe I do.’
I turn to leave and find Gloria hovering at the bottom of the staircase, dusting things that already look sparkling clean. Smiling, I ask her politely if it would be possible to call me a taxi.
But there’s one obvious question I haven’t worked out the answer to.
‘Richard?’ I call.
Without making an appearance, he answers back with, ‘Yep?’
‘Where did Jim get his car from? His car?’
Three words echo down the hallway.
‘He won it.’
38
Jim
Today, I chilled on a beach which was impressive, if not natural. Skyscrapers stood proud against the backdrop of the bluest sky as I lounged on a sunbed, sipping a Long Island iced tea. Between chapters of a cracking book about the Coen Brothers I picked up at the airport, I watched skydivers parachute down to soft landings. Feet away, an infinity pool rippled, inviting me in for a dip.
I’m back at the apartment now and Leon’s arrived home from work buzzing with that Thursday feeling. The Dubai weekend has started; business hours are Sunday to Thursday here. We’ve decided to take it easy tonight, just a few drinks on the balcony (again) because tomorrow is the big brunch day. Leon’s wife, Cheryl, has invited a few friends over and we’re ordering in. Thai. Apparently you can get any sort of cuisine delivered here, twenty-four seven. I wonder if you can get a roast dinner.
Although this is supposed to be a quiet night in, already I can feel the vibes of a party on the horizon. The tunes are on; Leon’s playing DJ as he sorts people with drinks, gets the plates and cutlery out ready for when the food is delivered. Upbeat music bounces from another apartment in the building opposite, another group of expats with the same idea as the ones here.
I’m just embracing it.
Tomorrow’s going to be … well, I don’t know what it’s going to be.
I’ve never done anything as crazy as this in my whole life. I’m going to see Zara, the girl who crashed into my car, in a fancy five-star hotel on the other side of the world. And why? Because I’ve made it happen. Yeah, my mates gave me a kick up the arse, but they’ve kicked my arse a lot over the years and I always told them to do one. Every date they set me up on, every girl I chatted to in the pub, Christ, the pressure. It’s all they wanted, for me to have a girl, any girl. And it’s what I wanted, too. But I want more than any girl. I want the girl. I’ve never gone out on a limb like this. Something’s always blocked me, never felt right. When you know, you know, eh? It’s a good job that Leon’s ploughing me with cold beer otherwise my nerves’d be shot.
What if she annoys the living hell out of me, just as she’s done before?
I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something about Zara Khoury that I just can’t shake off. She’s unlocked a little door within me, already made me step outside and see what can be found. It’s only going to be brilliant tomorrow. Boss. It can go no other way.
‘SHIT,’ Leon shouts from the open plan kitchen lounge. ‘OH. SHIT.’
Cheryl shushes him and asks him why he always has to be so dramatic. I step in from the balcony, wondering if he’s smashed some beers on the floor and needs a hand cleaning up. Leon and Cheryl are squabbling over something, her hand covering her mouth in disbelief. She’s kind of laughing … or crying? No, laughing.
Leon, however, is not laughing. At all.
‘Everything alright?’ I ask. I place my half-drunk beer onto the kitchen bar, catching a glimpse of my freshly tanned arm. Christ, I might look pretty healthy after this trip, less like a vampire.
‘She’s probably joking,’ Cheryl’s saying to Leon. ‘How well do you know her?’
‘Well enough to know she wouldn’t bail on a brunch,’ Leon replies.
‘Er, what’s going on?’ I say. For the first time since I arrived, I feel as though I’m standing in the wrong place, that I need to disappear. There’s an edge to the atmosphere, a haze of things being out of joint. Cheryl and Leon are talking aloud but it’s as if they don’t want me to hear. Their friends are still out on the balcony and although I could easily rejoin them, I’m eager to know what the problem is. And there’s clearly a problem.
‘Look, man,’ Leon says. ‘Zara ain’t coming tomorrow.’
I shrug.
Okay. Maybe I expected too much.
It’s fine.
But, fuck. The sudden nausea I’m experiencing isn’t nice. It brings my high crashing down to an awful low. I tell myself to get a grip; that things never usually go to plan.
‘Well, it was probably quite likely,’ I say, holding it together. It’s hard. ‘I was taking a bit of a mad risk.’
‘She said she’s in England,’ Cheryl says.
I snort a short laugh, pick up my beer and swig. ‘Of course she is.’
‘Man, I am so sorry,’ Leon says. ‘Unless she’s talking shit.’
‘Nah. God knows what she’s doing, but from what I know of her – and it’s not much – she doesn’t ever seem to be in the same place for longer than five minutes,’ I sigh. ‘Christ almighty. What the hell’s she doing back in England? And what the hell am I doing here? Ah, for Christ’s sake.’
Here I am, surrounded by a couple of bloody strangers, in the fucking desert.
Cheryl reaches out, compelled to give me a hug. I’m not too comfortable about her doing this. I stiffen up. This is just weird.
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ Leon says.
‘Find out what?’ I ask.
‘If she’s talking shit. I’m gonna video call her.’
‘Leave it, mate. If she doesn’t wanna come, she doesn’t wanna come.’
‘Are you serious?’ Leon cries. ‘Ah, man. This is your girl. You’re her guy. You can’t give up now. Let’s find out what’s going on here. And look, if Zara’s just making up excuses, seeing you here’s clearly gonna change that. Okay, so the surprise won’t happen how we planned it tomorrow, but come on, who cares? Right?’
This is all a lot of faff; a lot of fuss. Leon and Cheryl’s attention was welcoming at first, maybe due to the jet lag or the excitement of actually getting here, but it’s making me feel super claustrophobic now. If only I could just close my eyes and open them to find I’m back in my living room, watching my telly, drinking instant coffee and eating toast, waiting for Snowy to drag me out for a pint.
Except, no.
That thought, so comforting when I used to sit in the toll booth, doesn’t give me that warm and fuzzy feeling right now. It makes me feel cold, and it’s nothing to do with Cheryl keeping the air conditioning at Baltic. I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to sit alone in my flat above the chippy. I want to stay here. With the dry desert heat and the sandy floors, with the powerful sunshine and the bold moon, with the adventure and the ambition. It’s all-encompassing. Although I’m sweating from my pores, I don’t want to escape before I’ve even experienced it.
‘Go on then,’ I say. ‘Let’s do it. Call Zara.’
39
Zara
Wong’s is open and busier than when I’d sat outside in Jim’s car. Perhaps because it’s later in the day, and the dark evening is enticing locals to get themselves a chip shop dinner; fish and chips and mushy peas, or something else from the extensive menu lit up on the wall, mainly featuring Chinese dishes and British food deep-fried in batter.
‘Yes, love?’ the Chinese man behind the counter asks, after I’ve waited my turn in the queue. He’s working super efficiently, shovelling large portions of fried potatoes onto white paper and drowning them with salt and vinegar before wrapping them up into tight parcels.
‘Does Jim live upstairs?’
The man smiles, nods many times, and acknowledges the suitcase I’m lugging behind me, so he opens the hatch on the counter allowing me to pass through. He’s already started to serve the person who’s bee
n waiting behind me when a Chinese lady steps out from behind the large metal refrigerator.
‘Back door!’ she shouts into my face.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know where the—’
‘My kitchen. Not Jim.’
I point at the Chinese man and try to explain that he sent me this way, feeling terrible for passing the blame, getting the poor guy into trouble. It’s too late, though. The lady has stomped over to him and is yelling at him in Chinese. They both continue to serve the customers whilst arguing, so I go on ahead past the kitchen. I find myself with nowhere to go other than through a back door or up a staircase.
I leave my suitcase at the bottom, making sure it’s pushed against the wall safely.
Up I go.
Pieces of mismatching carpet sit frayed on most steps. On others, the wooden floorboards peep through. The walls drip with grease from the deep fat fryers downstairs and there’s no light bulb hanging from the single wire dangling from the ceiling. At the top of the stairs are two doors. One is covered in paper decorations with gold Chinese symbols, red tassels hanging from the frame. The other is painted black, in the middle is a single brass ‘1’.
Is this it? The end of my journey? Please, let this be the end.
I knock.
The second time, I knock so hard that I realise the door is already open.
‘Hello?’ I call out, taking a small step inside.
The TV is on and I can hear signs of life, fidgeting, readjusting on what sounds like a leather chair. My heart is racing, pumping blood to my cheeks, my head, every inch of me feeling so alive I think I might explode. This is so intense. I’ve finally arrived. Every step I take into Jim’s flat, this tiny, yet – wow – neat flat, is taken with caution, with a calm breath, because perhaps this will be one of those moments to cherish forever.
Four doors branch from the miniature hall, with just enough space to hang a mirror and a poster of Pulp Fiction in a clip frame on the wall. All doors are open wide, displaying a clear view of each small room. Nothing is out of place; everything is in order. It’s obvious where the sounds are coming from now, so I edge towards the lounge.
Some cartoon is blaring from the TV. I’m greeted by not one, not two, but three shocked faces, all wary of this strange woman towering over them. The faces belong to the children of, I suspect, the Chinese couple downstairs serving food. There are two boys, both of a similar sort of age, both protectively grabbing tight hold of the younger sister. With slippers on their feet and wearing what looks like pyjamas, these kids aren’t unfamiliar with their surroundings. I must have made a mistake. I’m in the wrong flat.
‘Hey!’ I say, giving a double wave with the enthusiasm of a kids’ TV presenter.
The three children don’t respond, barely blink. The boys squeeze the girl tighter.
‘I’m looking for Jim?’
The oldest-looking boy jumps up from sitting to his feet in one fast move. He points the remote at the TV, switching it off. As silence bolts the room, the children all scurry past me like mice. By the time I turn around, the front door has slammed shut and they’re gone.
Okay. So this is Jim’s flat.
The film posters, the vinyl; do these portray an image of Jim Glover? I’m not sure. But the bookshelves, filled with creased-up books that have definitely been read and aren’t placed there for show; yes, they must be Jim’s. God, there are so many; a whole wall covered in bookshelves, so many paperbacks crammed in tight. He always has a book with him, that’s what he told me. Always.
I can sense him.
A smell. Nothing bad – or good, even – but an aroma. Familiar.
‘Jim?’
I go into the kitchen and notice the photo collage on the wall. Jim’s face is featured multiple times, along with the faces of the boys in that photo in Richard Griffin’s study, and a striking girl, woman, her hair shocking red, sometimes ginger. Helen. A microwave sits on top of the refrigerator, which is covered with postcards – mainly from Florida – all lined up neatly in rows. The kettle stands beside a gas cooker, a mug tree with six mismatching striped mugs hanging to its right. A long red roller blind with an oriental pattern hangs from a sash window; a wooden table with two chairs is snug against it, with a red swirl tablecloth covering part of the wood, a half-burnt white candle positioned centrally in a holder.
I’m in the right place.
Come home, Jim. Come home.
Despite the warmth of the flat, the home he has made for himself, it feels wrong to continue snooping without him here. I’m an intruder and for all I know, those kids have run downstairs to tell their parents to call the police.
But I don’t want to leave.
This flat is lovely. Every corner is complete, every item has a place.
A home.
God, it feels like home.
And anyway, where else should I go? Right now? Surely Jim will be back soon, and without doubt at some point tonight. I’m so tired that the thought of traipsing back into the city and showing my face at that hostel again is too much to fathom. I might even have to share a dorm! Besides, I can’t handle any form of transport that isn’t my feet dragging me to a bed. Not tonight.
Sitting back into Jim’s sofa, I let my eyes close over. But my phone rings.
It’s one of those video calls.
Hm. Why is Leon Taylor calling me? I messaged him back to say sorry, I can’t make the brunch. What does he want now? Unless he’s calling me by accident. I look at the screen and laugh, because of course, of course, of course it’s a mistake. This guy has never called me in his life. Generic brunch invite, yes. Normal. A video call? No. He must have knocked his phone while it was unlocked, for sure. I let it ring out.
Closing my eyes again, sinking deeper into the sofa, I enjoy the near-silence, traffic echoing outside. I’m all safe, cocooned inside this darling little flat.
My phone rings again.
‘What the—’ I say, and decide to answer. ‘Hello? Leon?’
The screen is pixelated and a delay causes a rustle of feedback before I hear, ‘Zara? Is that you?’
‘Of course it’s me,’ I laugh. ‘You called me. Who else would it be?’
‘Zara, can you hear me?’
I still can’t see him properly on the screen. The sound quality is bad.
‘What did you say? Leon?’
The camera shakes, then comes into focus.
I sit up straight and hold the phone before my face, staring into the screen. With a white wall, a white tiled floor and a large grey L-shaped sofa visible in the background, there’s no denying that sort of apartment. Clinical, ultra-modern and drenched in Ikea, furniture bought to be temporary. I take in my own surroundings. This is a prank, surely. It’s a prank. Only who’s playing it on me? And why would they? Unless I fell asleep just moments ago and I’m caught in the middle of a bizarre dream.
‘No … it can’t be … Jim?’
‘Hiya, love.’
40
Jim
As soon as Zara answers the phone and switches on her camera, I know where she is. I know every crease in the back of that settee. There’s a Lightsaber behind her, resting against a cushion, and I know it belongs to the Wongs’ antisocial kids.
‘Jim? Am I seeing things?’
‘Wait, surely I’m seeing things?’
‘You’re in Dubai?’ she shrieks, but I can’t help cutting in.
‘Zara, hold on. Why are you in me flat?’
‘Because, because … no, you hold on. Why are you in Dubai? What the hell, Jim?’
‘I came here to … oh, I dunno. Fucking hell, Zara!’
‘What?’
‘What do you mean, what?!’ I tug at my hair, my fingertips cold from the fierce air-conditioning. Words fail me; my insides squeeze into knots. Oh, how familiar these feelings are at simply hearing Zara’s voice, and yet I can’t bear the sharp blast of disappointment that’s just hit me. Why isn’t she here? Why the holy almighty fuck is she there
?
‘You came here to …’ Zara says, repeating my words. ‘To what?’
‘I said I dunno!’
‘Stop shouting!’
‘I’m not shouting!’
‘You are!’
‘Well, so are you!’
The lens focuses – or the connection improves – and Zara’s face suddenly becomes even clearer, bringing her closer to me. Yet she’s so very far away.
‘I did what I do,’ she says.
I squint. ‘Go on.’
‘What?’
‘Elaborate.’
‘Oh God, Jim. You know!’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes! I did what I do, I came to find you, to surprise you and … No. No! This doesn’t make any sense. Why are you in Dubai? That’s where I live. Or lived. Oh, I don’t know anything or what to think. Agh!’
Her mouth hangs open and for a moment, I wonder if the screen has frozen.
‘Zara?’
‘Yeah?’
A sigh escapes me.
‘I don’t believe this,’ I say.
‘Well, neither do I.’
‘You’re in me flat?’
‘Yeah.’
‘In Liverpool?’
‘Where else would I be?’
‘But how did you know where I lived? Have you been stalking me?’
‘What?! No. No, Jim. I have not been stalking you.’
Honesty washes across her face, and Christ, it’s such a sweet face. I want to break the screen, reach through the cracks and touch it, tell her not to worry, to calm down. I’m here for her, after all. Oh God. I’m here for her. And she’s fucking there.
‘So, how did you find out where I lived?’ I ask.
‘I just did. But, Jim, seriously. Why are you in Dubai? Are you with Leon Taylor?’
‘Well, yeah, obviously.’
‘You know him?’
‘I do now.’
‘This still doesn’t make sense.’
‘You’re telling me.’
‘Jim, please. Why are you in Dubai?’
I pause. Her frantic blinking attacks me like strobe lighting.
Why am I in Dubai? The answer is clear, simple. I’ve got to tell her.
