“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
Hazaar pulled back and laughed. “No, I don’t.” She pulled Charlie’s hand to her lips and brushed gently across her knuckles. “I definitely don’t.” She stared into Charlie’s eyes and felt more than the rush of desire. There was a shadow there that spoke of a deep sorrow, of regrets that she was too young to own, that gave a colour and texture to her voice when she sang, and Hazaar wanted to know what was behind it. She wanted to know her in every way possible. Hazaar shook her head. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before I ravish you on the street.” They both laughed as Hazaar led them down the street. “Have you eaten?”
Charlie shook her head. “I was too nervous.”
“Fancy something to eat now?”
Charlie smiled seductively at her. “Yes, but what I’m hungry for won’t be on any menu.”
Hazaar grinned as the fire hit low in her belly. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure something can be arranged.” She pulled Charlie closer to her as they walked, twining their fingers together. “In the meantime, how about we build up our strength? Chinese?” They were on the outskirts of Manchester’s Chinatown, surrounded by neon lights blazing out names and Chinese characters. One restaurant had ducks hanging in the window. Hazaar steered them toward her favourite restaurant and watched Charlie as she climbed the stairs in front of her, admiring the sway of her hips, and the perfectly shaped arse.
She leaned in and whispered into Charlie’s ear. “Nobody should have an arse that good.” She caressed her backside gently, shocked at her own brazen behaviour. She wasn’t usually so forward, especially in public, and she felt exhilarated. The waiter led them to a table in the far corner of the room, then left, returning quickly with their drinks and a basket of prawn crackers. Once they had ordered food, they sat staring at each other.
“Have you been here before?”
Hazaar nodded. “Yup. I play with the jazz band here every Wednesday night.” She pointed out the tiny stage with a piano lodged at the back against the wall.
“Cool. You’re an amazing pianist,” Charlie said, gingerly lifting her hand, turning Hazaar’s fingers gently in her own. “You have amazing hands. Such long, beautiful fingers.” Hazaar smiled as Charlie flushed crimson. “I can’t believe I just said that.”
“Why? I’m glad you like them.” The waiter arrived with their starters. Charlie reached over for the soy sauce and splashed liberal amounts into her chicken and noodle soup as the man leaned over and whispered to Hazaar. She smiled at him. “Maybe, after I’ve eaten.” Charlie looked up, one eyebrow raised. “They want me to play.”
“Will you?”
She shrugged. “Later. If you want me to.”
“Definitely.” Charlie sipped her soup. “How long have you been playing?”
“Forever.” Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. “My mother made me take it up when I was six. I hated it.”
“Why did she make you play if you hated it?”
“Well, school was pretty easy for me, and when I was bored I used to get on her nerves. It was her way of keeping me out of her hair, I suppose. Or from bothering my dad.” She shrugged at Charlie’s frowned question. “Dad was away a lot when we were young, building up the business, but when he was here he spent more time with me than any of the others. Taking me to and from recitals, exams, and stuff like that. She thought he was spoiling me or something.”
“Was he?”
Hazaar grinned. “Yeah, probably. I guess you could say I’m a daddy’s girl.” She laughed. “I used to complain for hours at first. I stopped doing that after a little while. I mean, I still hated it—even years later—but by that time I’d spotted my opportunity.” She slid a forkful of crisp seaweed into her mouth. “If I was good enough, I might just escape the family obligations and be able to decide my own life.”
“Do you enjoy playing now?”
“Yes. Those keys are the keys to my freedom.” She nodded in the direction of the piano. “Each note I play perfectly is another minute where my decisions are my own.” She continued to eat slowly, her stomach slightly queasy as she uttered the words she didn’t really believe.
“Is your family strict Muslim?”
Hazaar smiled around another forkful of seaweed. “Yes and no.” She smiled at the look of confusion on Charlie’s face. “Well, they are in most ways. They eat only halal meat and observe all the religious traditions for the main part, but they not only allow me to play piano, they encouraged me to do so. Traditionally, Islamic music is restricted to voice and a drum. Very occasionally, you can find guitars similar to a sitar. But not the piano.”
“So they’re, erm…progressive? Is that the right word? Because you don’t seem to wear the traditional clothes or anything.”
Hazaar laughed. “In some ways. My mother was born in England. My father was born in Pakistan. It’s kind of a mixture. There are some things that he won’t give in on, and some that he will. In some ways my mother is worse. Trying to live up to the expectations she thinks my dad has instead of ones he really does.”
“Tell me about it.”
“About my religion? Well, as you can probably guess, I don’t really follow it religiously, so to speak. My family is pretty devout, though. Ramadan, Eid, every religious holiday is followed, every practice. No pork, all halal. Much of my family is in Pakistan. My older sister is married with four children, and her husband took her to Pakistan when they married.”
“Do you miss her?”
Hazaar shrugged. “We were never close. I was always different, playing my music and practicing all the time, or studying. Anything I could to try to keep in my father’s good books and out of the family’s customs. My sister’s wedding was arranged. Her husband’s family are wealthy, and it gave my father good contacts for his business.”
“What does he do?”
“He’s an importer. Does a lot of business with companies in Pakistan, importing and exporting goods.”
“And what about you? Are you expected to marry to enhance the family business?”
Hazaar laughed. “Oh, it does sound so seedy when you say it like that. At this point in time, I think it’s still open to negotiation. I’m bringing honour and prestige to my father with my career in music so far, so no, he won’t expect me to marry yet. He will eventually, I suppose, but who knows where I may be able to take the piano to keep me out of the marital curse.”
“You see marriage as a curse?”
“For me, yes.” She placed her fork onto her plate. “I see marriage as a prison. I would be stuck in a house, a life, a bed, with a man I haven’t even met, who I don’t know, and I certainly couldn’t find attractive. I would be expected to bear his children, clean his house, cook his meals. I would be a glorified slave. If he cheated on me, I would be expected to bear it silently. If I cheated on him, I could be divorced, dishonoured, and disowned. Even killed.” She didn’t want to think about what could happen if, like her sister, she was also taken to live in Pakistan, but she couldn’t stop the thoughts from running through her mind. Images of her in prison without bars gnawed at the edges of her mind. She shook her head. “I couldn’t live like that. I know myself too well. I know I couldn’t bear it.”
Charlie’s eyes were wide. “What if you refused?”
“I would shame my father as well as the family of the man I was supposed to marry. I would be, at the very least, shunned within the community, and maybe disowned by my family.” She laughed wryly. “Definitely disowned by my family.”
“How do you accept it?”
Hazaar laughed. “I don’t. I keep my head down and hope they’ll forget about me. I’ll be the pianist daughter and nothing more. I pray that they’ll stay on the outskirts of my life so that I can be myself as much as possible.” She cringed inwardly, knowing that every word she spoke was a wish, and something she could only hope for. “I love them. And they love the person they think I am.”
“They don’t know you’re gay.�
� It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, but Hazaar shook her head anyway. “What would happen if they found out?”
“I would be disowned. It would be as though I never existed. I’d lose everyone I love.”
Charlie’s eyes were the size of saucers. “Like the film East Is East.” Hazaar stared at her. “Sorry. I was just thinking that it was a bit like the film, where the oldest brother refuses the wedding and turns out to be gay. The dad takes down all the pictures of him and everything.” Charlie stared down at the tablecloth. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Yes, it would probably be a little like that.” Hazaar smiled sadly, knowing that was the best she could hope for.
Charlie squeezed her hand gently. “You’re very brave.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You’re living your life, being who you are, knowing that there would be consequences if they found out.” She finished off her soup. “That takes guts.”
Hazaar wanted to deny it, to tell Charlie that it wasn’t bravery that allowed her to do any such thing. It was fear. She feared not experiencing everything life had to offer her as much as she feared what those experiences could cost her. And she lived in the shadow of that fear, too scared to stand still in case they caught her, too scared to run away in case they found her. She felt like she was treading water. Some days, there was a small part of her that wished she would be caught, that her father or her brother would see her in the arms of a woman and it would be all over. She wouldn’t have to make the decisions then. They would take care of it for her. That was her cowardice talking, and she knew she could never go that far, but some days she wished for the easy escape.
The waiter came to remove their plates. “Can I get you more drinks?”
“Vodka and cranberry juice and an OJ please,” Hazaar said, as he nodded and moved away. “So what about you?”
“Oh, I’m not religious at all.” Charlie grinned and Hazaar started to laugh. “I am close to my family, though. I have one younger sister, Beth. She’s sixteen, and we get on really well. She loves to tease me, and I tend to call her Flipper.”
Hazaar laughed. “Flipper? Why?”
“When Mum went for her twelve-week scan, I thought the picture looked like a little dolphin. So I’ve always called her Flipper.”
“Cute.” She waited while the waiter returned with their new drinks. “How does she like it?”
“She pretends she hates it, but she loves it really.” Charlie sipped on her drink. “How come you’re not drinking?”
“I am.” She sipped on her orange juice as Charlie cocked her head to the side. “I don’t drink.”
Charlie raised a questioning eyebrow. “Why? Do you have a problem with alcohol?”
Hazaar laughed. “Yeah. It’s against our religion.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry. I guess I should’ve known that.”
“Why?” Hazaar frowned as Charlie blushed.
“I Googled it.”
Hazaar burst out laughing. “Really?”
Charlie nodded, seemingly unable to raise her eyes from the tablecloth as she twisted a napkin between her fingers.
She looked so uncomfortable that Hazaar couldn’t help herself. “You Googled alcohol?”
Charlie lifted her head quickly, her eyes wide and her jaw slightly slack. “No. Muslims and Islam.”
Hazaar leaned back in her chair as Charlie threw the napkin at her when she realized she was being teased.
“You’re such a shit.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. Teasing me like that.”
Hazaar tried to school her face into an innocent look, but Charlie’s laughter convinced her it was less than successful so she smiled instead. “Sorry.”
Charlie shrugged. “It’s okay.”
“So what did you learn?”
“Not a lot, apparently.”
Hazaar reached over the table and entwined their fingers, again shocked by how demonstrative she felt toward Charlie. “I’m sure you learned a lot, and I really appreciate you trying.” Charlie blushed again and Hazaar had to fight the urge to kiss her again. “You’re adorable when you do that.”
Charlie cleared her throat. “You said you’d play for me?” Her lips curled into a tantalizing smile as she lifted her glass and watched Hazaar above the rim. Hazaar squeezed her fingers and leaned back in her chair.
“Okay. On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You sing.”
“What? With you?” Hazaar’s smile spread as she nodded. Charlie took a long drink, her hands shaking.
“Does the thought of singing make you nervous?”
“No.” Charlie shook her head and rubbed her hands over the tablecloth, clearly uncomfortable, but an explanation didn’t look forthcoming.
“Then…” Hazaar waved her hand in the direction of the stage.
Charlie looked at her. Hazaar shuddered under the weight of her stare, the cornflower blue eyes pierced into hers, and Hazaar felt they examined her to the very core of her soul. And she expected to be found wanting.
“Okay,” Charlie whispered softly.
Hazaar stood slowly and wandered over to the stage. Charlie took another drink and then followed her.
“So, what do you want to sing?”
Charlie shrugged. “You choose.”
“What if you don’t know it?”
Charlie grinned. “Then I’ll just have to sit it out.”
Hazaar frowned and let her fingers begin to dance across the keys. The first notes of the Roberta Flack classic “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face” swept through the room. Charlie smiled as she reached for the microphone and let the soft yet powerful lyrics fill the air.
Her voice rang sweet and true through the room, her eyes closed as she offered the song like a prayer. Hazaar felt every note in her belly, every harmony with the piano struck a chord in her soul, and she knew without question that Charlie would change everything for her. She knew she should run. She knew she should walk away from Ms. Charlie Porter and never look back, for both of their sakes. Instead, she played the song to its finish, and as applause drifted into the private world she and Charlie had created for them, she realized that it was already too late. In the space of a day, because of one chance meeting and a leap of faith, Charlie had already changed her.
She had walked away from her previous affairs without so much as a backward glance, knowing as she’d gotten involved that they were temporary, just a dalliance to pass the time and create a few fantasies that would help make the days in her future easier for her to bear; the tender caress of a woman’s hand to replace the indifferent touch of her unknown and unwanted husband.
Her head said “run away” just as surely as her heart drew her toward Charlie, and her fear immobilized her.
Charlie held out her hand, her smile soft and gentle, eyes shining with desire. “Shall we get out of here?”
Hazaar stared at her hand knowing that it meant so much more than Charlie realized. Should she, could she, accept it? Take what Charlie was innocently offering and let the chips fall as they may? Hazaar tried to remember where she’d heard the saying, but the soft kiss of Charlie’s palm against her own startled her from her reverie. She didn’t recall making the decision to move, but her body had done so. She couldn’t remember standing, or putting one foot in front of the other, but she was walking beside Charlie, out the door.
Neither of them spoke. They didn’t have to.
Chapter Six
The North of England, then
Hazaar slid her hands across the cotton sheet and smiled when she found soft, warm skin. “Good morning.” She smiled lazily and stretched her arms above her head, easing out some of the ache in her shoulders.
“Morning.” Charlie yawned before covering Hazaar’s forehead with soft kisses and jumping out of the bed. “So what are your plans for today?” Charlie called from the bathroom.
“Not a thing. I was hoping I could entice you into
staying in bed.”
“Sounds great. I just have one problem.”
“Oh yeah. What’s that?”
“I’m hungry.”
Hazaar laughed as her own stomach rumbled. “I think I can do something about that. What would you like?”
Charlie poked her head out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand and a mischievous smile on her face. “Bacon sandwich?”
“Wow. Google really does need to up their game.”
Charlie laughed. “I’m just teasing. I know you don’t eat pork.”
“Very true—” The phone beside the bed rang and Hazaar stretched over to answer it. “Hello.”
“Hazaar, we will be with you in a few minutes. Put the tea on.” Her father’s voice echoed down the line, and the look of concern on Charlie’s face confirmed her suspicion that the colour had drained from her face.
“Of course.” She replaced the receiver, the dial tone ringing in her ear before she finished speaking. “Shit. Fuck.” Hazaar threw the covers off and started to gather up the discarded clothes, tossing Charlie’s at her as she found them.
“You okay?” Charlie asked.
“Fuck.” She barely recognized the shrill sound that came out of her own mouth, and her hands shook as she grabbed at everything, trying to straighten the room. This can’t be happening.
“Hazaar, what’s wrong?”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” She pulled the duvet straight over the bed and pushed open a window, beads of sweat forming on her forehead, and every noise off the street made her flinch. “Hurry. You have to go.”
Nightingale Page 6
