Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

You’re gonna be in deep

S

H

I

T

And there’s one from Mum. Bracing myself, I open it.

ZARA!

Why is there a picture of you and a good-looking black man on your InstaSnap?

I don’t think it’s very appropriate given that we are trying very hard to find you a husband here.

Please delete it.

Before I show your dad.

InstaSnap? Does she mean Snapchat? I don’t remember snapping anything last night .?.?. Oh, but I did snap the food, I think. Was Hamza in the background? He’s hardly a good-looking black man, though.

And it goes on, and on, and on. Even friends who I haven’t spoken to in ages, have messaged me asking me who the ‘hot/fit/sexy/buff/banging/peng’ guy is.

My head throbbing from the lack of sleep and my mind confused from all the pending work-related tasks, I can’t, for the life of me, figure out what they’re talking about.

I rewind back to yesterday. Tower Hamlets rejecting me. Crying. Fighting with Adam. Meeting Hamza. Our weird farewell. The atmosphere changing. I remember sitting in the Uber, feeling tense and confused after Hamza’s chilly goodbye, and discovering Adam’s cosy picture with Francesca. There was that little twinge of envy that, as the seconds passed, grew into full-fledged jealousy and a bit of rage.

And then that moment of true madness when I posted the selfie of me and Jordan and pretended that he was last night’s date, to get back at my colleagues.

Bingo.

‘Bloody hell,’ I groan, covering my face with my hands. This is so embarrassing. If the truth ever comes out, I’m going to be completely humiliated. I will forever be known as the single desperado who pretends that her personal trainer is her boyfriend.

On and on it goes. WhatsApps, DMs and comments demanding to know who my ‘BAE’ is.

Reading through all the gushing comments, I can’t help but begin to enjoy the attention. This must be how influencers feel, except better, as I don’t have any haters on my account, only my friends and family. A part of me has secretly always wanted to be a famous influencer. But I don’t have the confidence to get up there, flaws and all, and have everyone pick away at everything I say and do. Besides, my mum would kill me if I decided to parade myself online. She’s a huge believer in black magic and the evil eye, and is always telling us off for posting pictures on social media, even though our accounts are private.

Ah yes. Mum. I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do when I get home this evening. She probably won’t believe that Jordan’s my trainer, and even if she does, I know I’m going to receive a good telling off for hiring a male trainer. Oh well, it’s worth it. Adam hasn’t liked the picture but he must have seen it because he spends half the day online. He’s probably in the loo right now, inspecting his lack of upper body muscle in the grimy mirror. In my picture, Jordan’s ripped biceps are very obvious, and his arm around me is more obvious. Ha! Let’s see what he makes of that.

I skip back to the office, enjoying the warmth from the sun that has finally fought its way through the thick clouds.

Adam and Francesca exchange another glance as I saunter past them and head to the kitchen to make myself a well-deserved cuppa. Before the kettle has a chance to start boiling, Adam slips in and quietly fetches his plain black mug and places it next to my hot-pink personalised one. If that’s supposed to be an apology for yesterday’s appalling behaviour towards me, it’s a pretty crap one. But I’m in a benevolent mood so I say nothing and add two heaped teaspoons of sugar to his mug, and one in mine.

‘Only one sugar?’

‘Yeah, I’ve decided to cut out the crap in my life,’ I reply pointedly, giving him a ‘look’.

‘Touché. Point taken.’ He takes the kettle and pours the boiled water into my mug first, and then his. I stir the sugar until it dissolves while he takes the milk out of the fridge and pours a generous amount in mine.

‘Biscuit?’ he asks, offering me a packet of chocolate Bourbons.

‘No thanks.’

‘Wow. A lot has changed in your life, hasn’t it?’ he notes, looking a bit dejected.

‘A bit.’ I know he’s dying to know more about my post but there’s no way I’m offering any information unless he swallows his pride and asks me. I sip my tea and look at him coolly. His complexion is still pale and he has greenish-blue shadows under his eyes. His jaw is usually adorned with fashionably sculpted facial hair, but today, the hair has jumped over the fence from stubble to full-on beard. He looks rough.