by Hayley Doyle
‘Things … escalated,’ I say.
Zara nods. She’d been the first to read that article, telling me it was ‘right on the mark’. I’d written it on a whim, alone in Leon’s apartment, sat at Leon’s spare laptop, after being unable to get hold of Zara to find out how her meeting at uni went. So, I wrote. My first impressions of the futuristic metropolis had inspired me somehow, perhaps after visiting a cheap Pakistani restaurant on the other end of town, devouring the delicious food amongst a very different crowd to the brunch crowd. Dubai has stories to tell. The surface can be scratched. Anyway, I emailed my article to some fella I’d met at that first brunch, chatting about everything and nothing beside the frozen daiquiri stand. I’d been using that fella’s business card as a bookmark for my Coen Brothers book, the one I was reading by Leon’s communal pool.
Turns out that fella liked what I’d written.
Two days later, he took me out for dinner, introduced me to shisha. An official interview took place the following week, thanks to Leon lending me a suit. And now here I am – in my own suit – nearly two years later, back to before. Almost.
I’m aware of how close I’m standing to Zara, how I tower over her, and I look down, see that she’s wearing little shoes with a wedge, although she doesn’t seem any taller than I remember. Like a little doll. The clouds pass and I’m about to shield my eyes with my hand, but Zara lifts her arm at the same time, on the verge of speaking, and our hands meet again, only in an awkward fumble. We laugh, exchange sorries.
‘May I ask you a question?’ she says.
I shrug, unsure of why I don’t just say yeah.
She laughs.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘This is the Jim I know and love. The one who makes me work so damn hard for an answer, the one who has so much inside him but won’t let any of it out.’
I smirk, then give her a broad smile.
‘What’s your question, love?’
‘What – what was your mom’s name?’
I swallow. ‘Patsy.’
And whatever strength has been holding me together completely falls apart.
‘Ah, shit …’ I say, because I’m choked, eyes welling up. ‘Sorry, love.’
Zara reaches out and grabs my left arm with her right hand, giving it a squeeze.
‘Oh, Jim. Why didn’t you call?’
‘’Cause you told me not to.’
‘I know, but I didn’t mean you couldn’t ever call me again. Like, ever.’
‘You said no more. It wasn’t working.’
‘Well, it wasn’t!’
‘And I respected that.’
‘Our calls were hindering us. We survived together in a car, but we were never going to survive over a screen, over the damn internet. This was the only way,’ she says, her gaze locked into mine, nothing whatsoever between us. ‘It is the only way.’
‘I know … Which is precisely why I never called.’
I look past Zara, to the crowd she had been standing with.
‘Is that your dad?’ I ask.
Zara rolls her eyes a little, accepting my diversion.
‘He took me for dinner last night,’ she says. ‘Told me he was proud of me.’
I feel my heart tighten, hard, followed by a release so large, so weightless.
‘This is their first time to Liverpool,’ Zara goes on. ‘That’s my mom, and my sister, Paige. Quite the reunion, which is going okay. I think. Papa’s not doing so good, he’s going through his second divorce, which is why my brother isn’t here. They aren’t talking. Anyway, I’m taking them on the ferry this afternoon, and my mom’s dragging me on the Magical Mystery Tour tomorrow. Such a tourist.’
‘You know, I’ve never done it,’ I admit.
‘Seriously?’
‘I’m not a tourist.’
‘Neither am I.’ She smiles.
‘Yeah. Eh, did you know George Harrison’s uncle used to drink in me local?’
‘The Pacific Arms?’
I laugh. It sounds funny in her accent; a bonkers blend of regal fantasy, a true world away from my lot and how they talk. But I’m touched that Zara Khoury knows the name of the pub that holds a million memories of mine, most of them bog standard pissed-up nights, but many highs and a fair few lows.
The chatter around the cathedral seems to heighten. Another graduate skids past and clasps Zara with a high-five. She passes some comical remark, a private in-joke perhaps, and Christ, I realise I’m about to lose her all over again. Somebody calls her name and as she turns to acknowledge them, I notice a cab with its light on and back away, giving the driver a gentle thumbs up. It’s time to go.
‘Anyway,’ I say, placing my hand upon her shoulder, just gently. ‘Congratulations, love.’
And a smile encases my heavy heart watching Zara skip away, a spring in her step but with roots firmly planted. I clamber inside the cab and I’m right where I should be, going home. Life – its journey and beyond – is awaiting me.
42
Zara
My jaw is aching. For the first time in my life, I don’t think I’d like to get married, or at least have a wedding. Not only am I tired of the endless posing and pictures, but my parents are starting to drive me crazy. I guess I could always elope.
‘Zara has made a reservation at an Italian place, Samir,’ my mom is telling my papa, although my papa is wafting his hand in her face, as if her words are creating a pungent odour.
‘The Hilton has a steakhouse,’ he says, loosening his tie further and yet refusing to remove his jacket. ‘Let’s just go there. It will have air conditioning.’
Paige reminds us all about how she doesn’t eat animals. We’re crammed together around a small table in the Philharmonic, a grand old pub famous for its even grander washrooms, overpopulated today by gangs of friends hanging onto their last few hours of student life, and, of course, by other bickering families. The ceremonies are over and everybody is hot and hungry. My friend, Dom, is at the bar after insisting on buying us a round of drinks.
‘Who is this Dom, anyways?’ my papa asks. ‘Your boyfriend?’
‘Papa, hush.’
‘So he is. He’s your boyfriend.’
My mom gets the chance to waft her hand back at my papa.
‘Samir, when will you grow up?’ she says. ‘Dom is not Zara’s boyfriend. He’s just her lover.’
‘Mom!’ I say, along with Paige.
We blush together and giggle, a real sister moment if ever there was one. Actually, there have been a few of these moments over the past couple of days, natural, uncanny and comforting. Thanks to her tagging along with my mom to my graduation I no longer feel like that distant relative, the one who once gave her a My Little Pony when anything from High School Musical would have been more appreciated. Until Paige takes out her phone to document what just happened with GIFs and emojis and her perfect pout. She looks exactly like our mom, an all-American girl with well-maintained teeth and flowing natural blonde locks, the only major difference between them being Paige confidently exposing her midriff whilst our mom’s toned figure is covered demurely with pastels and pearl. Paige shows me the image of us both that she has posted to her four thousand plus followers. I’m unmistakably Samir Khoury’s daughter, with his short height and long nose, thankfully minus his bulging belly and sweating temples, which he is currently dabbing with a napkin.
‘Forty likes? Already?’ I ask, impressed.
‘That’s nowhere near enough,’ Paige sulks, then snaps her fingers repeatedly. ‘The pace needs to pick up if I’m to be an influencer.’
‘Remind me, what is it you want to influence people with again?’
‘Anything. Everything. I mean, I don’t care!’ She looks upwards to find inspiration and then turns her attention back to our picture. ‘That’s definitely your best side, Zara.’
Dom arrives with a tray of drinks, his energy refuelled from a double vodka Red Bull. He twists his pointed beard, arguably his most favourite thing on
this earth, before planting a wet kiss on my cheek. My mom creeps me out by winking at me, like she’s pretending to approve. God, she really doesn’t know me at all, does she?
‘The steakhouse has good reviews,’ my papa pipes up again. ‘And they do fish.’
But a commotion by the bar drowns out his restaurant pleas and we all look in the direction of the students – well, graduates – doing some sort of buddy ritual, downing shots and making one hell of a noise in doing so. I think about Jim, how I hope he’s in the company of his own buddies, perhaps in the Pacific Arms, drowning his sorrows with them all.
Oh, Jim. Jim Glover.
There’ve been times when I’ve wondered whether we even met at all. It was all so brief, you couldn’t even describe it as whirlwind. Yet, somehow, he opened a door for me, and I guess I opened a window for him to escape. To think that I’m just here, and he’s just there … Wow. I never got to think like this before. It was always me being here, and Jim being way, way, way over there, beyond Europe, across the desert, up a skyscraper and heavily pixelated due to an illegal VPN.
I hope he’s okay. God, I really hope he’s okay.
And his poor mom; his ‘ma’. Patsy.
‘Zara! Zara!’ Dom says, yanking the straps of my dress.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I was a million miles away.’
‘Your dress is soooo pretty,’ he says.
I smile. It is pretty, second hand with a vintage floral print and damn comfortable, too. I planned that carefully, knowing I’d be sitting down for three solid hours on a wooden bench waiting for my name to be called out. I wish I’d been as smart about my sandals. I thought wedges were supposed to be comfortable.
But Dom’s clearly drunk too much on an empty stomach. He’s harmless, if a little too keen. And definitely too young for me. He tickles my bare arm and tries to take my hand, but I pull away.
‘Cheers,’ Dom says, raising his glass a little too abruptly and spilling beer onto his Hawaiian shirt, worn in solidarity with his four housemates. ‘To us.’
We clink and I gulp, the red wine feeling sticky in my throat. It’s bizarre to think that I’m drinking in a pub in Liverpool, and Jim probably is, too. If only it were the same pub. Would we talk? I laugh. Of course we would talk.
‘What are you laughing at?’ my mom asks.
‘I was just thinking about a friend of mine,’ I say. ‘It was his mom’s funeral today.’
‘That’s not very funny.’
‘Oh no! That’s not why I was laughing.’ Because it wasn’t. Yet I’m still laughing. I’m just sitting here, thinking about Jim and all I can see is us screaming at each other at the side of a road, in the damn rain. And this makes me laugh even more. And I remember him sitting in that old lady’s house … Mary? Yes, Mary! And reading her book on her rocking chair because I had fainted, and …
‘What’s wrong with Zara?’ my papa asks, perplexed.
‘She’s thinking about her friend,’ my mom shrugs.
‘Good God. Another boyfriend?’
Dom sits up. ‘Huh?’
‘Look, Zara,’ my papa says, unaware that he has just banged his fist upon the table. ‘Let’s go eat. Even if it’s your cheap Italian, I don’t care. I just need to eat.’
I drink up my wine, a little too fast, and stand up. My family follows suit and we face the gauntlet of people, squeezing and sidling through the Philharmonic until we’re outside. It’s still sunny, although it’s almost seven. Dom is lingering in the doorway. He asks if he will see me tomorrow before he heads home with his parents to Somerset.
‘I’ll try,’ I say, honestly. It will be nice to say goodbye.
Paige gathers us all together for a final selfie outside the pub and I lead the way down Hope Street towards the main road. Except instead of turning right and heading towards the ‘cheap’ Italian, as my papa calls it, I stop on the corner.
‘Mom,’ I say. ‘Would you be offended if I wanted to call it a day and just go home?’
My mom smiles. ‘Of course not, honey. You tired?’
I nod. ‘It’s been really great.’
‘But what will you eat?’ my papa asks.
My mom places a hand on my papa’s back. ‘She can feed herself, Samir. Don’t worry.’
‘I’m within my rights to worry about my own daughter, aren’t I?’
‘Papa, go to the steakhouse. Spoil yourself.’
And we stand on the corner of Hope Street, all kissing each other’s cheeks and saying goodnight, and I watch my family walk away from me, together, perhaps to even eat together. Whether they do or they don’t, I guess it doesn’t matter. Today has been good.
And tonight?
Well, I told a lie.
I’m not tired. And I’m not going home.
I hail a black cab.
‘Where to, love?’
I get inside and slam the door.
‘The Pacific Arms, please.’
The Pacific Arms is only about a five-minute walk from my little flat above the chip shop, although I’ve never been inside. I always meet friends for dinner or drinks in town and the bus stop is in the opposite direction to the pub, so I’ve no reason to go in there or past there. Besides, drinking in Jim’s local without him being there would be totally weird. I’d miss him, which sounds silly, especially since I live in his old flat, but I would.
I thank my cab driver and stand on the sidewalk, looking at the pub in all its faded glory. The windows have intricate globes carefully designed into the glass and a neon orange poster saying ‘Karaoke Wednesdays’ has been not-so-carefully taped against it. The doors are all open, more to allow a cool breeze to enter than invite a crowd, so the mumbled chatter of punters and sports commentary filter towards me.
I step inside.
There are two guys sitting in silence with their arms folded watching the big screen; some sort of track athletics. A much older gentleman is standing at the bar, sipping his beer. Beside the flashing lights of a quiz machine is a gang of men and women, a similar age to me. They could be the after-work crew, all smart shirts with top buttons undone, smart dark trousers and little black dresses. Except their attire isn’t from the office.
‘Whose round is it?’ one guy asks, knocking back his whiskey. He yanks his much shorter friend into a headlock. ‘Come on! Your turn.’
‘No way, Mikey lad. You haven’t bought a drink all day, you stingy fucker,’ the shorter guy shrieks.
Another guy – wearing a long black leather coat, despite the heat – drags himself away from the quiz machine, offering to keep the peace and buy the round. The door to the ladies’ room swings open and a woman with long red hair emerges, marches straight over to the short guy and whacks him across the head. His response is to pull her towards him and smack a kiss on her lips.
Of course, I recognise this gang. Their smiling faces were hanging on the wall of Jim’s kitchen before it became mine. I’ve always wondered if and when those pictures would come to life: perhaps a chance meeting in the queue of Primark or waiting for the 87 bus. Maybe we’ve all been at the Baltic Triangle together, drinking craft beer and eating sourdough pizza, but I just didn’t notice them amongst the crowds. I want to say hello. I want to ask, where’s Jim? But, I linger, like a ghost haunting a past I almost had. Almost.
‘Where’s Jim?’ I hear, but it’s not my voice speaking. It’s the woman, Helen.
‘Left ages ago,’ the shorter guy says. There’s no mistaking that’s Snowy.
‘Should we ring him? Check he’s okay?’
‘Leave him be,’ the guy in the coat says, who must be Griffo. He’s aged the most from the youthful faces I was accustomed to seeing whilst waiting for the kettle to boil, before I packed the collage into a box to be shipped to Dubai. ‘If Jimbo needs time on his own tonight, then that’s what we’ll give him.’ And he swings one arm around Helen and another around the most drunk of them all, Mikey. They both lean their heads on Griffo’s big shoulders.
‘No!’ I hea
r. Oh my God. It’s me. I’ve spoken out loud.
Helen catches my eye before I shoot my glance to my painted toes popping out of my sandals. I’ve just forced myself into a private conversation between a gang of strangers, and why? Because I selfishly want them to call their grieving friend so I can … what? Catch up with him? Until today, Jim and I hadn’t spoken in more than a year and a half. We never parted ways badly, because we’d already parted. We never broke up, because we never got the chance to be together. We never did anything, because in many ways, we gave each other everything we ever needed.
So this, whatever I’m trying to do right now, is a mistake.
‘Are you alright, love?’ Snowy asks.
I smile and point to the big screen. There is a woman from Finland doing the pole vault and the slow-motion replay is showing her failure. I’ve never been more grateful for somebody failing.
‘Oh, no,’ I say, giving a terrible acting performance. I even slap my palm to my head. ‘I’m devastated for her.’
‘You American?’ Mikey asks.
Griffo gives him a shove with his elbow.
‘No, Mikey,’ he says. ‘She’s Finnish.’
It’s my cue to leave. I am wonderful improvising with a pencil, but not with my words.
‘Bye,’ I say.
Helen narrows her eyes, but the sing-song of ‘ta-ra’ from the guys allows me to leave the Pacific Arms with a small spot of dignity remaining. If I could only leave. I reach the open doors and stop, deflated from my spontaneous idea not working out. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this way and I don’t like it, don’t appreciate how it’s making me feel. I shouldn’t have come. I stopped putting myself in situations where the likelihood of disappointment was far greater than the wish. And it’s worked for me, so far.
For me?
Who did I come here for? For Jim? Or for me?
