and frills on little Sienna’s dance leotards, watched her recitals. She said she liked the beach – a shocker, but she swore on my dad’s grave. In the end, it was her heart that packed in and she went suddenly. Quickly. According to our Lisa and Emma. A small, small comfort, overshadowed by a regret I’ll never overcome.
‘Things … escalated,’ I say.
Zara nods. She’d been the first to read that article, telling me it was ‘right on the mark’. I’d written it on a whim, alone in Leon’s apartment, sat at Leon’s spare laptop, after being unable to get hold of Zara to find out how her meeting at uni went. So, I wrote. My first impressions of the futuristic metropolis had inspired me somehow, perhaps after visiting a cheap Pakistani restaurant on the other end of town, devouring the delicious food amongst a very different crowd to the brunch crowd. Dubai has stories to tell. The surface can be scratched. Anyway, I emailed my article to some fella I’d met at that first brunch, chatting about everything and nothing beside the frozen daiquiri stand. I’d been using that fella’s business card as a bookmark for my Coen Brothers book, the one I was reading by Leon’s communal pool.
Turns out that fella liked what I’d written.
Two days later, he took me out for dinner, introduced me to shisha. An official interview took place the following week, thanks to Leon lending me a suit. And now here I am – in my own suit – nearly two years later, back to before. Almost.
I’m aware of how close I’m standing to Zara, how I tower over her, and I look down, see that she’s wearing little shoes with a wedge, although she doesn’t seem any taller than I remember. Like a little doll. The clouds pass and I’m about to shield my eyes with my hand, but Zara lifts her arm at the same time, on the verge of speaking, and our hands meet again, only in an awkward fumble. We laugh, exchange sorries.
‘May I ask you a question?’ she says.
I shrug, unsure of why I don’t just say yeah.
She laughs.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘This is the Jim I know and love. The one who makes me work so damn hard for an answer, the one who has so much inside him but won’t let any of it out.’
I smirk, then give her a broad smile.
‘What’s your question, love?’
‘What – what was your mom’s name?’
I swallow. ‘Patsy.’
And whatever strength has been holding me together completely falls apart.
‘Ah, shit …’ I say, because I’m choked, eyes welling up. ‘Sorry, love.’
Zara reaches out and grabs my left arm with her right hand, giving it a squeeze.
‘Oh, Jim. Why didn’t you call?’
‘’Cause you told me not to.’
‘I know, but I didn’t mean you couldn’t ever call me again. Like, ever.’
‘You said no more. It wasn’t working.’
‘Well, it wasn’t!’
‘And I respected that.’
‘Our calls were hindering us. We survived together in a car, but we were never going to survive over a screen, over the damn internet. This was the only way,’ she says, her gaze locked into mine, nothing whatsoever between us. ‘It is the only way.’
‘I know … Which is precisely why I never called.’
I look past Zara, to the crowd she had been standing with.
‘Is that your dad?’ I ask.
Zara rolls her eyes a little, accepting my diversion.
‘He took me for dinner last night,’ she says. ‘Told me he was proud of me.’
I feel my heart tighten, hard, followed by a release so large, so weightless.
‘This is their first time to Liverpool,’ Zara goes on. ‘That’s my mom, and my sister, Paige. Quite the reunion, which is going okay. I think. Papa’s not doing so good, he’s going through his second divorce, which is why my brother isn’t here. They aren’t talking. Anyway, I’m taking them on the ferry this afternoon, and my mom’s dragging me on the Magical Mystery Tour tomorrow. Such a tourist.’
‘You know, I’ve never done it,’ I admit.
‘Seriously?’
‘I’m not a tourist.’
‘Neither am I.’ She smiles.
‘Yeah. Eh, did you know George Harrison’s uncle used to drink in me local?’
‘The Pacific Arms?’
I laugh. It sounds funny in her accent; a bonkers blend of regal fantasy, a true world away from my lot and how they talk. But I’m touched that Zara Khoury knows the name of the pub that holds a million memories of mine, most of them bog standard pissed-up nights, but many highs and a fair few lows.