pangs of fear. Whenever this happens, I return to people-watching – those with their own hefty suitcase or a stroller or just a takeout cup of coffee – working out who they might be, where they might be going. Except my instincts are blank. My soul aches for a final destination.
The taxi driver is super nice and we chat the whole way to White Oaks. I give him a good tip before getting out and buzzing the gate.
This is it. I’ve arrived, and the whole world shrinks into one small space; the one I’m standing within right now. My body feels light, but the thump of my heart is heavy. God, this moment is long.
I await Gloria’s voice.
‘Hallo, yes?’
‘Hi, Gloria? This is Zara, Jim’s friend. We met last week.’
‘Zara, yes?’
‘Is Jim home?’
‘Uh, I don’t know.’
I pause. ‘Can you check, please?’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Oh. Why not?’
‘Because I don’t know where he is.’
‘You mean he’s not home?’
‘I don’t know if he’s home, but I don’t know where he is.’
This is rather confusing. Gloria’s first language is not English, but surely what I’m requesting is coherent? The intercom fizzes with muffled chatter. I’m hoping that Gloria will at least buzz me in to get me out of the rain.
‘Zara?’ Gloria’s voice says.
‘Gloria?’
‘Mr Griffin is here.’
‘Okay …’ I don’t have a clue who that is.
‘He wants you to come inside.’
‘Great!’
The gates to White Oaks open. After getting myself back to Liverpool and remembering Jim’s address without a hint of trouble, a moment of doubt has dared to creep in. I throw my shoulders back and grow tall. Pulling my single suitcase behind me, a notification alerts my phone. As I wait for Gloria to open the double doors in front of me, I check my messages to distract me from the cold.
It’s a private message from Leon Taylor.
Hey lady, long time no see! Looking forward to seeing you at Friday brunch. You still game? Should be a good’un. X
Raindrops splatter onto the screen of my phone. I smile, a warmth tickling my nerves. I’m so glad to have an excuse, to tell Leon I can’t make it. Something else has come up. I’m sure it will be a ‘good’un’; those sorts of brunches usually are. But this time, I will have to pass. Zara Khoury is busy.
Gloria answers the door and ushers me in swiftly. I slip my phone into my canvas tote bag and make a mental note to reply to Leon later. There are more important things happening right now. Jim is either home, or will be soon. And I’ll be here waiting for him.
36
Jim
I watched three full movies and drank double measures of Jack Daniels with Coke, surprisingly never feeling beyond merry, if a little tired. The food was pretty decent, too. I don’t know why so many people moan about it. It was like a hot school dinner, without semolina.
And now. Jesus actual Christ. Dubai International Airport is something else. Ha. And I’d thought Manchester was a bit of alright. The floors are so clean I can see my own sorry state in them. The carpets are so thick they could be trampolines. A giant fountain welcomes me and my fellow passengers into the arrivals area. Still, all of this is nothing compared to the rows and rows and rows of palm trees. Indoors. Palm trees inside a fucking airport.
‘I mean,’ I say to myself, ‘what the …?’
Once I collect my luggage, I meander around Duty Free. Having done my research on the local currency and worked out how many dirhams there are to a pound after spending seven hours drinking bourbon, I select a couple of bottles of wine to give to Leon Taylor as a thank-you gift. It’s overwhelming, all the booze shining brightly from bottles and fancy boxes, but the price tags aren’t so bad. I just hope my GCSE maths isn’t letting me down.
Leon Taylor is waiting, holding up a piece of A4 paper with ‘JIMBO’ scribbled across it. Nice touch.
Leon’s handsome in the way a straight fella can’t deny. Every angle on his face is chiseled to perfection and he smells so fresh that I feel compelled to kiss his neck. But I don’t, obviously. We have a brotherly hug, a sort of any-friend-of-Mikey’s-is-a-friend-of-mine hug.
‘I love airports, man,’ Leon beams in his home counties accent, confidently dropping in the American slang, as he heads towards his white four-by-four, dragging my suitcase with little effort. I follow, carrying the duty free. ‘I mean, everyone’s so happy,