‘None.’
‘Well, I do believe in God,’ he says when the nibbles arrive and he digs in without offering any of it to me first. ‘I believe in the spirit of Islam, but not the dogma, if you get what I mean. I guess it’s different for you.’
‘It is. People assume that because I don’t wear a hijab I’m irreligious, but I’m not. I believe in God, and I believe in the rituals, and I believe in the way the Prophet set out for us to live our lives.’
‘You don’t find it controlling?’
‘No. I find it liberating. I can’t imagine getting through life thinking that this is it, there’s no greater purpose to our existence than just .?.?. living.’
He ponders this and nods. ‘Yeah, I get you. Anyway,’ he says, tearing off a piece of warm bread and dipping it into hummus, ‘enough of the deep shit. How are things with you and Hamza?’
‘Seriously?’ I raise an eyebrow, too tired to react any further. ‘You really want to go there?’ First religion and now Hamza? The two most contentious topics between us?
‘Sorry, just making light conversation,’ he mumbles, his mouth full of bread.
‘If you must know, everything’s fine,’ I answer shortly. ‘I invited him to the event but he’s got plans so he can’t make it.’
‘You know,’ Adam begins slowly, ‘I honestly don’t get why you’re so fixated on finding a man, as if it’s difficult for someone like you.’ He says this nonchalantly, his eyes focused steadily on the salad he’s loaded his plate with.
‘What do you mean?’ I have no idea what he’s getting at, but right now, I’m too distracted to analyse it. The food has arrived and I’m so hungry that I grab my plate which is piled high with succulent lamb doner and buttery rice and take a huge mouthful. It is at that precise moment that Adam chooses to reply to my question.
‘Are you telling me that you honestly, hand on heart, don’t know that half the guys at work fancy you?’ he says, completely straight-faced.
‘What?’ I gasp, forgetting that my mouth is full of food. I take a gulp of water and somehow manage to choke out, ‘What the hell are you going on about? No, they don’t!’
‘Yes, they do,’ he insists with earnest. ‘Why do you think they’re always hanging around our corner, offering to help at our events?’
‘Er, to chat to our resident next top model, perhaps?’
He laughs at this and shakes his head. ‘What? Francesca? She’s already slept with most of the single guys, and probably a couple of the married ones as well.’
‘She hasn’t! Don’t make up shit about a female colleague Adam, that’s a nasty rumour to spread!’ Bloody hell, this evening is full of revelations. A few minutes ago I was about to nod off, but now I’m wide awake.
‘I’m not! I heard it from the horse’s mouth. She tells me everything.’ Adam leans back, grinning. He loves shocking people and I’m reacting exactly as he hoped I would.
‘Good for her,’ I croak, taking another long swig of water.
‘Yeah, so getting with Fran isn’t much of an achievement,’ he continues. ‘You, however, are a bit of a mystery. Everyone’s wondering about what our Bengali beauty gets up to in her free time.’
‘Oh, shut up,’ I say, part-annoyed, part-embarrassed. ‘You’re chatting rubbish now. I know you like shocking people, Adam, but I’m not that gullible.’
‘Seriously. You never come out with any of us, you never get too close to anyone. You never go for lunch with anyone. You’re like this chatty loner. You’re an oxymoron and it doesn’t make sense to them.’
I shake my head in disbelief; partly because I didn’t think he knew what an oxymoron was. ‘Me? A loner? I talk to you and Fran, don’t I?’
‘We know you’re not,’ he explains. ‘But you’re aloof with everyone else. The thing is, at the same time, you don’t come across as shy, either. No one can figure you out. Some of the girls think you’re stuck up, but the guys find it hot.’
There’s an uncomfortable silence while I try and digest everything he’s told me. I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended by it all. Maybe it’s time I actually went to some of these stupid social gatherings, pubs or otherwise.
‘How come Francesca confides in you then? Have you and her .?.?. ?’ The unfinished question hangs in the air like a dead body hanging off a noose and my voice trails off as I realise that it isn’t really any of my business.
‘What?! Me and Fran? No flippin’ way! She ain’t my type.’ Now it’s Adam’s turn to look affronted and, weirdly, I’m pleased by his reaction.
‘Your Instagram paints a different picture,’ I reply primly, playing with the food on my plate so I don’t have to look him in the eye.
‘Aw, have you been stalking me online?’ he teases, digging into his doner and grinning simultaneously. This guy seriously has no table manners – or any sort of manners, actually. It’s no wonder Francesca hasn’t added him to her list of conquests.
‘Get lost! I haven’t been doing anything of the sort. It’s not my fault your crap is always showing up on my feed. I’m not in charge of algorithms.’