mates. Would my dad be proud, I wonder?
‘How much extra?’ I ask.
‘You’ll be paid in … respect.’
‘Ah, for fuck’s sake.’
‘Language, lad. I chose you ’cause you’re smart.’
‘I’m touched, Derek.’
‘Don’t be a smart-arse.’
The words I quit are tickling the edge of my tongue. I want to say it – scream it – but for some reason, they don’t escape.
‘Now, get back in the booth,’ Derek says. ‘Break’s over.’
Predictably, I obey.
3
Zara
I’ve just landed in Heathrow Airport.
My teeth are brushed, my hair is behaving, likely due to the expensive product I’d felt obliged to buy after treating myself to a chestnut and blonde balayage. It was worth it. My Lebanese genes are to be thanked for my hair, which has a mind of its own, like my papa’s. I ate a small cheese sandwich offered to me before we started our descent and now it’s sitting in my stomach like a brick. For such a frequent flyer, I can never seem to sleep on planes, not unless I drink a huge amount of red wine. Last night, I didn’t touch a drop because I wanted to be as fresh as possible for this long drive to Liverpool. I tried to rest, I did, except I managed to get through three whole movies. The sky here is low and thick and white. It will be lunchtime in Dubai now, an endless blue rooftop stretching high above the locals and expats, the sun shining its warmest rays across the desert.
But I’m not here for the sky or the sun. I’m here for more than the whole damn sky.
I’m here for the universe.
I’m here.
I buy a UK SIM card for my phone from one of those machines in the terminal and call the guy selling me his car. We arrange to meet outside of Boots and he shows up like a taxi driver, holding a piece of crumpled paper with Zara Khoury written in bold marker pen. He reminds me to get insured, then mentions something about me having to go online to tax the car and hands me some paperwork. I’ll go through all this in detail with Nick later. I handover my cash and the guy tosses me the keys – which, of course, I drop – and he tells me where the car is parked. A no-frills deal for a no-frills car.
Pushing a luggage trolley with two large suitcases, a holdall, a canvas tote bag and a mop – yes, a mop – I wander around Level Two of the airport parking lot, looking for my new car, shivering. God, I’d forgotten how damn cold this country is.
Nobody gave me a huge send off in Dubai, not even Katie. I’m not embarrassed or anything, I just don’t think they got it. What I’m doing. Maybe if I was on the outside looking in, I wouldn’t get it either. Or, maybe I just didn’t know my friends as well as I thought I did. That happens when you move a lot; multiple settling-in periods. But I always listen to my gut. It will lead me to put down roots one day. I know it.
Anyway, if I’m honest, I haven’t socialised much during the past six months. Work has dried up since the scar lodged into my cheek. Companies aren’t keen on employing promo girls with something that isn’t a beauty spot or a beaded jewel. At first, I hit an all-time low, but once Nick helped me to find some confidence again, I knew I had to hold onto my small pot of savings. I wouldn’t be here today otherwise, looking for my new (well, used) car.
Where is it? I hope I haven’t been fooled.
I can hear Katie in my ear, tutting. She’s my oldest friend because she’s lived in Dubai her whole life, consistently too, unlike me. She’s Irish and belongs to the tight-knit, well-connected Kelly family who own a chain of Irish pubs planted inside big-brand hotels. One pub even has a cartoon drawing of a fish dressed up as a leprechaun framed behind the bar, something I drew back at uni before I dropped out. So, whenever I returned to the Sandpit, whether as a kid, a teenager or an adult, Katie was always there to jump back into the scene with.
It’s a transient place, Dubai, people coming, people going. You’re at the mercy of your sponsor or your work visa and when people feel like they’ve done a good stint, they’re ready to move on. Or go home. It’s a