Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

Adam laughs and, to his credit, doesn’t dwell on my little blunder. In fact, he swiftly steers the conversation away from what people at work think of me and I grudgingly concede that I’m having a good time. If there’s one thing Adam excels at, it’s making me laugh, and he alternates between having me in stitches, shocking me, and winding me up. He’s the type of person who has no filter and you never know what’s going to come out of his mouth next. We talk about anything and everything and, slowly but surely, the memory of him having a massive go at me the other day dissolves in the peals of laughter. In fact, he reminds of Layla and her inability to keep her thoughts to herself. My phone buzzes a few times with texts from Mo, but I don’t want to break our flow by reading and replying to them now, so I put my phone away and ignore it for the rest of the night.

‘So you live at home with your parents? And aunt?’ I ask, a little surprised when he mentions who he lives with. I always assumed that extended families living together was a South Asian thing.

‘You judging?’

‘It would be a pot and kettle thing if I were. I live with my parents, sisters and my grandmother.’

‘Yeah, well, I don’t have a dad so it’s me, my mum, her sister and my older brother at home.’ He looks subdued when he says this, and I feel a pang of sorrow. I mumble an apology, not knowing what to say next.

‘Hey, it’s OK,’ he says, smiling a sad smile. ‘He died when I was six. I don’t remember much of him. But apparently I look like him.’ He scrolls through his phone and shows me a picture of a man who looks exactly like him holding a chubby baby.

‘Wow, he was proper good-looking. And that baby is so cute.’

‘That’s me, of course.’ He grins, a bit of the fire returning to his eyes. ‘I’ve always been cute.’

We carry on eating, talking and eating some more. Adam finishes all his kebab and the rest of mine as well, not to mention all the bread, dips and salad. I have no idea where he packs it all away. He’s wearing one of his usual T-shirts with a long-sleeved top underneath and when he stretches I catch a glimpse of tanned torso. If it wasn’t for the bits of doner grizzle on his chin, he would be quite fanciable. I quickly avert my eyes before he notices me checking him out and makes a big deal out of it.

‘Right, that’s it, I seriously need to get home,’ I say after we’ve polished off all the complimentary baklava and sweet Turkish tea. ‘My mum’s gonna kill me if she catches me rolling up after midnight.’

‘Really? What did she say when you didn’t come home the other night?’ As soon as he says it, I can see in his eyes that he wishes he hadn’t. But Mr No-Filter couldn’t help himself, could he? I take a deep breath. I’m not going to let his throwaway comment ruin what’s been a surprisingly pleasant evening.

The pause is so pregnant that it’s practically in labour. I wonder if I should correct him and tell him what really happened that night, but in the end, I decide to let him think whatever the hell he wants.

After splitting the bill, we trudge back up towards the office where Adam’s parked, too full and too tired to hurry, each step making my bones ache with fatigue.

‘Here we are,’ he announces when we get to a quiet side road. I look around for his car, eager to climb in and turn the heating on full blast, but instead of pointing out his car, he points to a black motorbike and then opens up his rucksack and pulls out a matching helmet.

‘What the hell? Adam! I thought you meant you’d give me a ride in your car!’ I shriek, staring at the monstrosity, my hands beginning to get clammy. Am I supposed to trust him and hop on? Adam, who has no regard for his life or limbs and likes to participate in all sorts of life-threatening activities, like bungee jumping and sky diving? Adam, the most immature and unreliable man-child in North London?

‘Why did you think that?’ he asks, a blank look on his thick face. ‘You know I ride a bike. I bring this helmet with me to the office every day. It sits on my desk, right in front of you!’

‘I thought it was a prop to help you look sexy! I didn’t think it was actually being used!’

‘Are you serious?’ Adam stares at me as though I’ve completely lost the plot, so I shove him in response and take my phone out.

‘That’s it, I’m getting an Uber. I’m not risking it with you and your deathtrap.’

‘What’s wrong with you? Are you scared? I thought you would be up for a bit of excitement.’ I know he’s goading me into giving in but I’m not going to fall for his transparent tactics.

‘Of course I’m not scared,’ I scoff. ‘I just don’t trust you. You’re going to show off and speed like a maniac.’

‘I won’t,’ he says with a smirk. ‘I promise I’ll take it nice and slow.’ He sings this last part and he almost sounds as good as Usher.

My cheeks flare up at the innuendo and to hide my face, I grab the helmet from him and push it down over my head. It’s big for me and I fiddle with the straps, my nervousness making me clumsier than usual. Damn Adam and his shameless comments, and damn me for letting him get under my skin.

‘Here, let me.’ Adam pries the straps out of my reluctant fingers and leans in close, adjusting it in one swift motion. He pauses for a second and stares into my eyes, his own completely unreadable. They really are the most beautiful shade of brown. I feel like I’m in a Nespresso ad and I’m suddenly going to fall into a pool of Dulce de Leche coffee. Butterflies flutter in my stomach, and I tell myself it’s the imminent bike ride doing this to my innards, not Adam.

‘Come on then, let’s go,’ I say gruffly, turning away and climbing onto the bike, trying to distract him from the fact that I’m a hot mess right now. He clears his throat and does the same, and I lean away from him as much as I can without falling off altogether. Things are getting a bit intense already, without me adding to the tension by pressing up to him. And there’s no way I’m going to hold him either. I’ve found these little handle thingies and I use those instead. This evening is becoming far too romantic. Well, it would be if I wanted to be there, and if it wasn’t Adam but someone I really fancied, like Jordan, perhaps.

‘Look, Zara, you’re going to have to hold on to me unless you want to fly off.’ Adam turns around to look at me with his eyebrow raised and I smile thinly.

‘It’s OK, I’m fine. I’ll hold on to these handles. That’s what they’re here for.’

‘All right, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ He puts the key into the ignition and the bike roars to life, like a lion awakening from a deep slumber. My throat dry and my hands still clammy, I hold on to those tiny little handles as tight as I can, praying that I’m not flung off as soon as he moves, all the while whispering Ayatul Kursi, the travelling prayer, and then all the other prayers I can think of, over and over again.

‘Ready?’ he calls out, turning to look at me again and catching me mid-prayer. I hold up my hand, finish my prayer and then squeak that I’m ready. I’m not, by the way, but I’ve left my fate in God’s hands. Although I don’t think God is very impressed with me right now, sitting on the back of a bike with a non-related man, our bodies close enough for me to smell his Eau de Parfum.

Adam pushes the bike forward with his feet as he checks for oncoming traffic, and I brace myself as he joins the road and whizzes off like a bullet. The force throws my body back, and I let out a glass-shattering scream and grab on to him for dear life; all previous reservations disappearing as fast as we do down the busy street.