door to find Richard Griffin opening a package with a Swiss Army knife, reaching into the box and lifting out a small glistening red Ferrari. He holds the car up to his face and kisses it, unashamed that I’m watching him.
‘Jim didn’t,’ I say.
Richard places the car down onto his desk as if it’s a newborn baby.
‘Hmm?’ he mumbles.
‘Jim didn’t lie about anything.’
‘Good.’
‘It’s quite simple really,’ I say. ‘It was me.’
‘You lied?’ Richard scowls, and I feel quite afraid. It’s time to go.
‘No, Mr Griffin—’
‘Richard.’
‘Richard. Jim never lied. I never lied. What I did was presume. I presumed that he drove fancy cars and lived in this fabulous house and enjoyed some sort of charmed life. No offence.’
‘None taken.’
‘Jim never told me anything. He just helped me.’
‘That sounds more like our James.’
‘I have to go. But thank you.’
‘Do you know where you’re going?’
‘Yes. I believe I do.’
I turn to leave and find Gloria hovering at the bottom of the staircase, dusting things that already look sparkling clean. Smiling, I ask her politely if it would be possible to call me a taxi.
But there’s one obvious question I haven’t worked out the answer to.
‘Richard?’ I call.
Without making an appearance, he answers back with, ‘Yep?’
‘Where did Jim get his car from? His car?’
Three words echo down the hallway.
‘He won it.’
38
Jim
Today, I chilled on a beach which was impressive, if not natural. Skyscrapers stood proud against the backdrop of the bluest sky as I lounged on a sunbed, sipping a Long Island iced tea. Between chapters of a cracking book about the Coen Brothers I picked up at the airport, I watched skydivers parachute down to soft landings. Feet away, an infinity pool rippled, inviting me in for a dip.
I’m back at the apartment now and Leon’s arrived home from work buzzing with that Thursday feeling. The Dubai weekend has started; business hours are Sunday to Thursday here. We’ve decided to take it easy tonight, just a few drinks on the balcony (again) because tomorrow is the big brunch day. Leon’s wife, Cheryl, has invited a few friends over and we’re ordering in. Thai. Apparently you can get any sort of cuisine delivered here, twenty-four seven. I wonder if you can get a roast dinner.
Although this is supposed to be a quiet night in, already I can feel the vibes of a party on the horizon. The tunes are on; Leon’s playing DJ as he sorts people with drinks, gets the plates and cutlery out ready for when the food is delivered. Upbeat music bounces from another apartment in the building opposite, another group of expats with the same idea as the ones here.
I’m just embracing it.
Tomorrow’s going to be … well, I don’t know what it’s going to be.
I’ve never done anything as crazy as this in my whole life. I’m going to see Zara, the girl who crashed into my car, in a fancy five-star hotel on the other side of the world. And why? Because I’ve made it happen. Yeah, my mates gave me a kick up the arse, but they’ve kicked my arse a lot over the years and I always told them to do one. Every date they set me up on, every girl I chatted to in the pub, Christ, the pressure. It’s all they wanted, for me to have a girl, any girl. And it’s what I wanted, too. But I want more than any girl. I want the girl. I’ve never gone out on a limb like this. Something’s always blocked me, never felt right. When you know, you know, eh? It’s a good job that Leon’s ploughing me with cold beer otherwise my nerves’d be shot.
What if she annoys the living hell out of me, just as she’s done before?
I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something about Zara Khoury that I just can’t shake off. She’s unlocked a little door within me, already made me step outside and see what can be found. It’s only going to be brilliant tomorrow. Boss. It can go no other way.
‘SHIT,’ Leon shouts from the open plan kitchen lounge. ‘OH. SHIT.’
Cheryl shushes him and asks him why he always has to be so dramatic. I step in from the balcony, wondering if he’s smashed some beers on the floor and needs a hand cleaning up. Leon and Cheryl are squabbling over something, her hand covering her mouth in disbelief. She’s kind of laughing … or crying? No, laughing.