I lean out of the window, peer down upon the car, eye its length, take in the tyres. It’s not an almost-replica of the car that once belonged to me. It’s an almost-replica of the car that still belongs to me. Enough is enough.
‘You having some sort of problem up there?’ the fella asks, his tolerance level fading.
I am, yep. One hell of a problem, in fact. The high-vis jacket is digging into the back of my neck like a flea biting for the title. I can’t stand wearing the bloody thing for a minute longer. So I’m taking it off. Now.
I leave it hanging on the sad excuse for a chair and walk away from the toll booth, across the tarmac, not looking over my shoulder once.
Because I, James Anthony Glover, am never going back.
I quit.
There’s method to what many – Derek, Gayle, amongst others – believe to be my madness. You see, while I’ve been sitting in that toll booth, there’s a car out there sitting in a pound belonging to nobody else but me. Yes, the car, with its sorry, crumpled arse, isn’t a pretty sight, and if I want to drive it anywhere, I’ll have to endure embarrassment, questions.
But I don’t want to drive it anywhere.
In fact, it’s the last thing I want to do right now. Because I want to travel in something much more adventurous than a car, or a train or even a boat. I want to stop making excuses for the sad little life I’ve created for myself and get on a plane. I’ve got an idea, and it could be totally bonkers, a reason for my mates to laugh at me or even frown upon me, but it’s an idea. It could work. And if it does, then, I’m going to go to Dubai. I’m going to see Zara.
I ring Griffo. Ask for help. Four minutes later, Griffo calls me back.
‘Meet me at Haddon Park Way tonight at midnight,’ he informs me.
‘You think it’ll work?’ I ask.
‘Wear something dark.’
‘Of course.’
That’s the easy part.
31
Zara
The Dubai Mall. The perfect way to kill time for anybody who loves to shop.
I’m on the top floor of one of the planet’s largest indoor shopping arenas watching animals in the wild leap across the latest LED plasma screens.
‘Can I help you, ma’am?’
I blink, snapping myself back into the bright lights of the electronics store.
‘I’m just browsing, thank you.’
I love to shop, but one thing I’m not is a window shopper. There’s very little I can shop for without a job securing my purchases. I take out my phone, hoping Katie is on the move. She’s meeting me outside the mall to watch the dancing fountains, a pastime that never tires in Dubai, only she’s stuck in traffic. In the car with her are two mutual friends of ours that I’ve done a variety of promo work with. Despite the scar sunken into my cheek, I’m wearing a bright yellow off-shoulder dress and tan wedges, hoping that a mint lemonade and a catch-up might persuade them to put in a good word for me.
My phone flashes with a notification, but it’s none of the girls. It’s just another marketing email from Liverpool University. I’m losing my patience with all this. Why did I ever bother entering my details into their system? I’ve been getting bombarded with emails ever since. The last email was the top ten tips for how to be vegan on a tight budget. Super.
I make my way through hordes of shoppers, following the pristine walkway through the mall, down the escalators, past an array of food courts and outside to the waterside viewing deck where the dancing fountains are currently on a break. A plethora of eateries surrounds me, from international chains to independent restaurants, all spilling with a multicultural blend of locals, expats and tourists. It’s as if the whole world has gathered right here, right now. To my right, my eyes scan from the ground up, up, upwards, taking in every inch of the Burj Khalifa, a shimmering rocket kissing the Arabian night sky. Families pose for photographs, whoever is taking the picture crouching as low as possible, trying to get the whole tower in the background. Many more are taking selfies. The warm atmosphere has an edge, that feeling that something exciting is about to happen, like when a crowd awaits a rock star’s appearance onstage.