mall’s air conditioning has hit me, thrown over me like a bucket of water.
George.
The guy responsible for the fucking hole in my face.
‘Hey,’ I find myself saying. And again, louder. ‘Hey! George.’
He turns around, looking rather pleased that somebody has noticed him. I’ve got no intention of actually talking to him, hearing his pompous voice, so I honestly can’t fathom why on earth I want to grab his attention, but somehow, I do.
I just want him to look at me.
At. Me.
And he does. His eyes fall upon mine, and all too soon, they fall upon my cheek. The only thing left to fall is George’s face. Which does. To the floor.
I wave, a spontaneous reaction at seeing someone familiar and yet without an ounce of friendly intention. The woman beside him smiles, unknowing, and waves back to me.
The heat returns to my body and just seeing George falter, so incredibly unsure of himself in that simple, small moment, brings me huge comfort. Perhaps the thought of Jim behind me is helping, although I’m not going to rely on that or give a figment of my imagination the credit for the strength I’m now feeling. A funny term pops into my head, one that sums up George to perfection. I can’t work out where I heard it. George is a total bellend.
Oh how I’m trying not to laugh.
Where did that expression come from? It’s not something I’d ever say.
George moves from the railing. He ushers the unknowing woman away, leaving space for the children in the family to spread out and get a much better view of the impending fountain display. I glance down at my phone again, the email from Liverpool University still hanging there.
Jim!
It was Jim who had called Nick Gregory a total bellend, during our journey to Heathrow.
‘… just ’cause he’s a total bellend doesn’t mean you can’t go back to uni.’
Yes, that was it.
I read the email again, this time with full concentration.
I have been accepted into the school of Art and Design to complete the second and final year of an Illustration degree. Not Nick, not George, and not even Jim. Just me, Zara Khoury. It’s here in black and white. This news, coming through to my private email address, has nothing to do with any guy, or anybody other than me.
Why can’t I go back to university? Does a man define my right to complete my studies? No, of course not. Never.
A wave of disgust hits me, ashamed at how thoughtless I’ve been towards my own true self. All those sketches, all those comic strips – hilarious according to the few people I’ve dared to show – have come from my mind, my hands. Nobody else’s. Even my papa, who disapproves of the arts unless it suits his mood, found the meerkat in the jacuzzi sketch amusing and had been the one to suggest I ‘put it on a t-shirt or something’, planting the idea of getting it printed onto a canvas tote bag.
But I’ve lost my inspiration so many times. I’m so easily led by others. What if I fail again?
Silence strikes, broken by the twinkle of lights and awe of the spectators. A tremendous chute of water powers into the sky accompanied by traditional Arabic music, bold and dramatic, its energy blasting across the heart of the Middle East’s modern metropolis. It’s the perfect soundtrack for this dance as I watch the water swirl and swoosh, around and around, with as much attention as I’d given the second reading of my email. Because this will be the final time I watch the dancing fountains. I’m going to leave Dubai for good.
And go back to Liverpool. Definitely.
32
Jim
Haddon Park Way is where my car sits stationary in the pound.
Griffo’s used his dad’s contacts to find out this information behind his dad’s back, so no matter what the outcome might be from the task ahead, I’ll be forever grateful – and owing – to my old pal.
‘This is so fucking exciting,’ Snowy says, like a balloon on the verge of popping.
He pulls a balaclava over his face and does a series of punches that can only be compared to a Power Ranger. Griffo’s dressed for the part, minus the balaclava, and his height and width make him look like a doorman for a dodgy club. Mikey, in general dark stuff, just looks pleased with himself.
‘I knew you’d think of something,’ he tells me.
‘Even though I’m an ungrateful bastard, a massive twat and a piece of shit?’