Chapter 3
As I get ready for work the next day, I revert to my usual trampy self and pull on my favourite old tatty jeans with the frayed hem, a baggy cream-coloured jumper with a hole in the elbow, and my trusty trainers. Scraping my hair back into a greasy ponytail, I forgo the contacts for my glasses and only decide to put on a bit of blusher because I don’t want to scare anyone.
‘I take it you’re no longer looking for a husband?’ Adam observes with a raised eyebrow when I quietly take my seat at my desk and open up my calendar and task list.
‘I take it you think you’re at some grungy gig?’ I reply, looking his scruffy hair and falling-off jeans up and down.
The morning passes quickly, and I’m so absorbed in writing an article about diversity in the borough that I don’t notice the email that’s come through from a ‘H. Hegazi’ until it’s time for lunch.
Salaams, Zara, hope you’re good. Sorry for not emailing sooner, wasn’t sure if you wanted to hear from me or not. It’s taken me a while to realise that unless I get in touch, I’ll never find out. Are you free for coffee/dinner/shisha today after work? Hamza.
Sooner? It’s been less than a day!
‘Shit,’ I squeak, reading and then rereading the email as Adam approaches our corner balancing two mugs of tea and a packet of Hobnobs in his hands.
‘What’s up?’ he asks, placing a mug in front of me and opening up the biscuits.
‘I needed this! Thank you!’ I exclaim, grabbing a biscuit and shoving it in my mouth to calm me down. ‘This American guy from the chocolate-making event last night has emailed me. He wants to meet up tonight!’
‘So?’
‘So I don’t like him like that. He was fun and everything but .?.?.’ I trail off, not sure if I really want to go into the intimate details of my lacklustre love life with a bloke. Yes, we’re friends .?.?. sort of. As friendly as you can be without hanging out, outside work.
‘But what?’ Adam asks, taking a gulp of his black tea. He always drinks it black and sickeningly sweet, Turkish style.
‘But I don’t fancy him?’ I avert my eyes. I feel as if our relationship has moved onto another level and we’re crossing the boundary of colleagues. I hear my nani’s ominous voice cautioning, ‘No man from a good family wants to marry a girl who is friends with boys, moni.’
‘Why not?’ he asks with genuine curiosity.
‘He’s not my type.’ He doesn’t need to know that I usually like guys with a bit of an edge to them. Hamza is so .?.?. proper. Where’s the excitement in that?
‘Don’t meet him then.’ He shrugs, as if it’s that simple. As if I might not regret it five years down the line when I’m still single and alone, but it’s too late because he got married to Wahida the auditor instead.
I say something to this effect out loud, my voice getting smaller and smaller because I know how silly I must sound to a man who never has to worry about growing old alone.
‘That’s the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard,’ he says, sounding completely baffled. ‘You can’t meet him purely because you’ve got no one else on the horizon. What’s going to happen if you do meet him, and then tomorrow, someone better comes along? You can’t lead the poor bloke on like that.’
Deep down, I know he is right, but hearing him say it out loud makes me feel dirty. What the hell does he know about being a Bengali woman in Britain today? What does he know about familial and societal expectations? What does he know about eggs, and expiry dates, and diminishing beauty? In fact, what the hell does he know about anything? He’s a good-looking, practically white guy with limitless options, no pressure and all the time in the bloody world.
So what if I don’t fancy Hamza right now? Fancying someone isn’t the be-all and end-all of a relationship. I could grow to fancy him. One day. Right?
‘You know what? I think I will meet him,’ I say stubbornly, partly to piss him off. ‘Thanks for your advice.’
His eyes narrowed, Adam mutters something under his breath and turns back to his screen. I don’t know what his problem is and, quite frankly, I don’t care. I do the same and, for the rest of the day, we ignore each other.
Hamza and I have agreed to meet at Leicester Square at six thirty. Since I finish at five and it’s only half an hour away on the Tube, I have more than enough time to go and sort my face out in Boots before I head over. But I don’t. Instead, I stay on at the office to get some work done. Adam also stays behind, giving me sidelong glances every so often. I know he’s itching to say something but is too proud to be the first one to break the silence.
‘Aren’t you going to go and freshen up before your big date?’ he jeers as he gets up to leave.
‘Nope.’ I continue typing and don’t bother looking at his condescending face.
‘Well, that says it all, doesn’t it?’ He puts on his leather jacket, grabs his motorbike helmet and walks out of the office.
When I’m sure I’m not going to bump into Adam and his stupid logic by the lift, I pack up my things and make my own way out into the chilly evening.
*
Leicester Square, as always, is buzzing with tourists, lights and traffic and I weave in and out of groups chattering away in different languages as I make my way to the restaurant Hamza has suggested. There’s something about this place that always energises me and by the time I arrive, I’m feeling a lot more positive. So much so, that I pull out a lipstick from the depths of my handbag and put it on in an effort to look like I care.