by Amal Awad
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Hakeem. “I can’t believe you would even think that. It’s an insult to you and to me.”
“Right. Well, um, sorry?” I offered feebly.
“You should be. You’re too hard on yourself, Samira.”
“I’m not. I just meant that I know what everyone thinks about me.”
“Obviously you don’t. Do you have any idea how proud your parents are of you?” continued Hakeem. “You should hear the way they talk about you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I wouldn’t make that up. If you feel inferior, it’s because you let people do that to you.”
I was dumbfounded. I had absolutely no idea how to deal with this information. My parents were proud of me? It was practically a new concept to me. They certainly never showed any signs of it. Then again, while they’d mastered Arab Guilt in most areas, they’d never made me feel like a failure.
“Stop spending time with Zahra. She’s a negative influence,” said Hakeem, interrupting my shiny new realisation.
“I don’t do it voluntarily, believe me,” I scoffed.
There was a pause between us while I looked at the ground and kicked a pebble about. For reasons unknown to me, I wanted to ask Hakeem if he was proud of me. But even the thought of it was shameful. I felt like a student sucking up to the teacher all of a sudden, the one who’d bring in a shiny apple. Or did that only happen in American TV shows? We never did that in Sydney. My primary school teachers would have looked at us like we were mad if we’d brought them apples, shiny or otherwise. They never seemed to mind the tray of baclawa Mum would always make me take in at the end of the year though.
I decided not to ask him. Instead, my brilliant response was, “Anyway!”
“Okay, well, assalamu alaykum,” he said. “Be safe.”
“You too,” I replied.
Lara beeped the car horn again and I quickly walked back to the car.
“I’m coming, I’m coming!” I said, as she let out a deluge of self-pitying complaints.
23
It was a Monday afternoon and I had an appointment with Menem. We generally saw each other on Monday afternoons (routine coffee break) and, lately, on other days too. Today, however, I had a list of tuxedo hire shops that he needed to collect from me. So it was a completely legitimate meeting, you see.
Wedding plans were a frequent feature in my life now. The weeks were flying by, a mishmash of orders and requests from Zahra, dress fittings, weekend expeditions to find this and that. And then there was Menem, who didn’t seem to be going anywhere. He was still emailing me, and I was still responding.
Of course, I could have emailed this list to him, but he asked if he could get it directly from me. I was surprised and a bit nervous, because although we’d meet up, it was unusual for Menem to be so specific about seeing me.
Cate was with me, as she wanted an afternoon coffee. While we waited for our order, and for Menem, she was updating me on a recently discovered medical condition – in great detail, I might add.
“So it turns out I may have psoriasis, which is just a shitter!” said Cate, waving around her coffee card dramatically.
“Gosh, that’s awful,” I replied. Just as I was about to, reluctantly, ask her more about it, Marcus snuck up behind Cate, his long legs moving comically in elongated strides. He motioned me not to say anything as he did so. He pinched Cate on either side of her waist and she jumped in fright.
I laughed despite my skittish mood. It was rather cute. I still didn’t quite get it. But it was cute nonetheless. They had a little cuddle and Cate took Marcus’ hand before he pecked her on the cheek.
“Samira.”
I turned around and Menem was standing before me. Then I turned to Cate, who raised her eyebrows at me and barely suppressed a smile. Marcus’ eyebrows were slightly raised, but he also had a hint of a smile.
Cate reached over to take her coffee and passed me mine.
“I have to get back to the office,” said Cate meaningfully, and she winked. One for subtlety, she was.
“Bye,” said Marcus. “By the way, I like your scarf today, Samira! Ow!”
Cate turned back once and winked at me again then took Marcus’s hand as they walked off together.
“Interesting guy,” said Menem.
“You could say that, I guess.”
By now I had my coffee and was trying, and failing, to nonchalantly pour some sugar into the cup.
“It helps to take the lid off,” said Menem, amused.
This was embarrassing. I smiled awkwardly, my face already blushing a furious red, wondering how I’d managed to become such a bonehead in the space of a few minutes.
“Of course,” I mumbled.
“Look, um, is it all right if we just sit for a second?” he asked, his voice soft. He seemed quite serious and for a moment I wondered if he was about to reveal something awful about himself. I just knew I had bad instincts when it came to people. I just knew it. He was a spy. No, he’s married already.
Wait. No. His mum asked about me, so that wasn’t likely.
“Sure!” I replied, a little too loudly.
“Okay, good. Let me just grab a coffee first, okay?”
“Sure!”
Oh for goodness sake.
Five minutes later we were seated in the food court.
It was near empty at this hour and we had plenty of tables and chairs to choose from. We sat by an entrance, where a soft breeze floated through every time the sliding doors opened. It was lovely and peaceful and I was feeling sick.
“How’s your day going?” asked Menem politely.
“Yeah, you know, busy.”
Lie.
“Yeah, me too.”
More lying.
We were at a food court in the middle of the afternoon. How busy could we be? I had work to do. Of course. There was always work to do. Or a microwave oven to clean. Or coffee to make. But busy would be stretching things.
I was feeling uncomfortable. I’d managed to justify almost every interaction with Menem so far, but I wasn’t sure what to do with this little rendezvous. While I spoke to men all the time (no drama), they weren’t all dashing. And it was usually business-related or to share a sigh over the state of the world. I also didn’t fall asleep thinking about them and when I’d next see them.
Then the Guilt came knocking. I wasn’t about to go all evangelical about it. But still, this felt a bit wrong or maybe it was just weird because I wasn’t used to it. Or ... maybe I was just ridiculously nervous.
Before Menem could say anything else, I produced a folder containing the list and handed it to him. “Here’s the list, by the way,” I said, doing my best to project calm. “Enjoy.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking it off me. He put it aside immediately. I fiddled with the lid on my coffee cup while I waited for him to speak.
“Look, I have to ask,” Menem began purposefully. “How are you still single?”
See what I mean? Wrong, wrong, wrong.
But then – and okay, this is going to sound really pathetic – I blushed a little when he said it.
“Is there something I should know? Do you secretly have a husband stashed away somewhere?”
“No,” I laughed, feeling shy all of a sudden. “Um, you know, I think you’re being too generous here.”
He shook his head. He looked a little nervous and uncomfortable too, so I wasn’t alone.
“In any case, I’m not sure why. Maybe I’m a dreamer?” I said, biting my thumbnail. Not in a coquettish way though, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was purely to fend off the nerves. (“Reporting for duty, ma’am!”)
“Or maybe no one worthy enough has come to you yet,” Menem ventured, but not in an insulting way. The gem.
I was blushing even more by then.
“No, that’s not it,” I assured him. I could have said more, but the Guilt and nerves were overtaking the blushing, killing all possibility of a snappy
comeback.
“Look, I think I’ve gone about things the wrong way,” said Menem, his tone growing more serious.
“Okay.” Must learn to control nerves, may be time to inject some discipline into the household.
“I’ll be honest with you, I’m fairly new at this,” he confessed somewhat bashfully.
“Right,” I said, unable to contain a smile.
“Look, is it okay if I come for a visit?”
I’d been holding my breath. The whole conversation was a swirling morass of … confusing weirdness. Yes. And there I was, right there at the bottom of the bog, looking up at Menem who was more comfortably positioned above, looking suave and sophisticated.
“Okay, that’s not a good sign,” he said, looking down at his cup in embarrassment.
I was mortified. I’d completely forgotten to actually answer his question.
Oh God.
“No, no,” I said, flustered. “I’m sorry. It’s just, well, I’m fairly new at this too.” Doorknocks were never like this!
He nodded, seemingly relieved and pleased.
“And so the answer is?” he prompted.
“Yes,” I said, finally. “I think that would be just fine.”
It’s just a visit. At least now he was doing things The Right Way. No biggie.
Menem let out a sigh of relief and pushed away his coffee cup.
“Okay.” (Menem.)
“Okay.” (Me.)
I was feeling a bit light and silly. A hundred emotions pulsed through me. Annoyingly, I couldn’t pinpoint a single one of them.
Never mind. I held back a squeal of excitement.
Wow.
Wow, wow, wow, wow.
We left it at that, our coffees barely touched. His mother was going to give my mother a call. Probably in the next ten minutes if the look on his face was any indication.
I smiled like an idiot all the way back to the office, feeling thick with excitement. But the moment I stepped into the lift in my building, I fell abruptly back to earth. I had immediately agreed to the visit. What did that mean? I hadn’t agonised over it. I was flattered and excited at his confession. All of which I presumed was a good sign.
Yet I’d never experienced this before. That is, knowing the doorknocker beforehand and, very importantly, liking him already. Then the nerves sauntered back in. “You called?” they said, smugly.
As previously mentioned, Arabs had an inexplicable change in organisational abilities when it came to potentials, so everything was happening speedily. By that evening, a Saturday night appointment had been settled upon.
It was only a few days away, but I wasn’t nervous so much as unwilling to think about it. It wasn’t because I didn’t care. I just didn’t know what I was feeling unfortunately. The nerves had well and truly done their damage.
I told the girls the news. Lara was surprised he was coming (“Bloody hell! He’s got guts!”), probably shocked that Menem was not turning out to be a copy of The Boy. She didn’t seem very pleased, but she didn’t launch into a Hakeem advertorial either. Sahar was quietly optimistic (several short prayers were invoked).
But the nerves remained, relaxed in a “we’re not going anywhere” sort of way. Maybe I’d just confused myself. I was managing to convince myself that it was all too good to be true. Which was a bother, particularly as I was doing such a spectacular job of it.
Why couldn’t I be one of those self-assured, never-second-guess yourself types you’d see on the back page of city weekly magazines? You know, those women who started a business with little more than a coat hanger and a phone line and now were multi-millionaires and such?
In any case, I decided to avoid contact with Menem, to calm the nerves and subdue the over-thinking. I pre-empted an onslaught of emails by sending out a “group” one that said I’d be very busy over the next few days on location and wouldn’t be very communicative. Not a lie so much as a partial truth. There is a difference.
In fact, I had been at a shoot yesterday, and another one today, with Gabriel. As usual, he got me to assist with setting things up. He asked me how I would compose the shot, describing the theme of the spread in detail. Happily, I managed to tear my thoughts away from Menem for a good three hours.
After we were done, I sat with the wonderful Gabriel on the slope beside one of the Harbour Bridge pylons. It was early evening, my favourite time of day. Daylight saving would set in shortly, and I couldn’t wait for the long, balmy days of summer.
We could see Luna Park in the distance and I was content watching the lights flicker across the water while Gabriel smoked a cigarette. Oddly, the smell coming from Gabriel’s cigarette was comforting. It reminded me of my father, who used to be a smoker when I was a child.
I always felt comfortable with Gabriel, though. And I didn’t need to justify my outings with him because it was work. We never really got personal apart from weekend recaps and mentions of friends and girlfriend.
I sipped on a coffee, trying to imagine what it would be like on Saturday. Mum and Dad would undertake their usual shopping expedition and stock up the fridge. We’d be frantically cleaning and dusting and putting away any unsightly pieces of furniture.
The usual. The only difference was that I wouldn’t be nonchalant and curious, I’d be sick with nerves.
All of this made sense in my head. But I didn’t want to say it all out loud and explore it with anyone, even Cate who kept asking me if everything was all right. What if she told Marcus? He’d be coming up to my desk everyday asking me questions like, “So, Samira, when you get engaged can you be in love with the person first?”
I shook my head and gulped down the rest of my coffee.
“You okay, girl?” said Gabriel.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “I’m a little distracted, I guess.”
“I noticed.”
“Sorry, Gab. Don’t mean to be rude. I just have a lot on my mind.”
He smiled and held up the camera. “There’s never a better time.”
Gabriel handed me his Nikon D80, a lesser model than the one he used at shoots – this one won’t give the full frame effect, he explained. I had no idea what that meant, but as I wasn’t shooting a photo spread for a glossy magazine, I decided it wouldn’t matter. It was a good camera either way, and I knew my way around this model pretty well. The menu wasn’t too complicated, and while a little heavy, it was manageable.
“I want Luna Park,” Gabriel said, butting out his cigarette in an empty coffee cup.
“Everyone shoots Luna Park,” I complained.
“Exactly. Now make it different.”
The next day at work, Jeff walked frantically past my desk and asked to see me. He was carrying a stack of folders and had his Very Important Person expression on his face. I abandoned what I was doing (doodling, I’ll admit).
“I need to talk to you,” he said, when I entered his office. He motioned to the chair opposite and leaned back into his own.
“Sure. Is everything all right?” I sat down, notebook and pen at the ready.
He looked very grave. God, maybe I was in trouble. Was this about the Facebook conversations? The personal emails? I scanned my mind quickly for other possible offences. Nothing else came to mind. To be honest, if he fired me – not that it was likely – I almost would have welcomed it just then.
Awfully reckless thinking, I know. Totally unlike me too.
“Samina. I’d like to talk to you about the cadetships.”
The bloody ads. They were running already, so what could the problem be?
“What about them, Jeff?”
“Are you going to apply for one?”
“Pardon me?”
“Are you bloody deaf? You should apply for a position,” repeated Jeff.
“But I tried to tell you-.”
“I’ve been meaning to say something for a while now, but there’s too much to bloody do around here. Anyway, I think Childhood is right up your alley.”
He looked at me a
nd I sat mutely, waiting for him to continue. I crossed my legs then did the same with my arms.
“It’s a magazine about children designed for parents,” said Jeff when I didn’t respond.
“Yes, I know it,” I said.
Childhood resided in the same publications stable as Bridal Bazaar but had much higher circulation figures – more children than weddings. It was also a quarterly magazine, but that’s about as much as I knew.
“I’m not sure if I’m right for that,” I told him.
“Samina,” sighed Jeff. “Do you not have a masters in communications?”
“Um, actually, no. But I graduated with honours,” I replied.
Jeff raised an eyebrow. “Do you not have a degree in communications?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Have you not worked at this magazine for just over a year? Is this not magazine publishing? Have you not written for us and dealt with correspondence and sub-edited copy?”
I’d written a couple of feature articles for Bridal Bazaar. While they were adequate enough, I was surprised Jeff remembered them. After all, he still hadn’t gotten my name right.
“Yes, Jeff,” I said, finally. “I am qualified, but I don’t have actual reporting experience. I’m sure this would limit my chances.”
“It bloody well won’t. I’ll recommend you.”
It took a moment to sink in, and I felt a tiny ripple of anxiety. Jeff seemed serious; he’d be a referee and as editor-in-chief of a cash cow, a recommendation from him was extremely valuable.
I wasn’t quite sure how to respond.
“Samina. Take some time to think about it,” advised Jeff. “But you can’t be my assistant forever, as much as I’d like you to. You make very fine coffee.”
I smiled and nodded slowly, still trying to gather my thoughts on the situation. An actual junior reporter’s position? It sounded rather professional and intriguing.
Samira Abdel-Aziz, junior reporter. Breaking news, Samira Abdel-Aziz reports!
Well, that would be more on television really, but nevertheless, junior reporter was a step up from editorial assistant.
