Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

Chapter 14

It’s just gone 1 p.m., my event is in full swing, and so far, everything is going really well.

The dingy church hall doesn’t look dingy any more; it’s vibrant, colourful and absolutely buzzing with people from all walks of life; exactly how I envisioned it to be. Scattered around the room are various stalls celebrating the diversity of the people who live in the borough and, at the far end of the hall, kids are going wild jumping around and squealing happily on the bouncy castle. The third act of the day is on stage: a West African drumming group, pounding away on their drums, the beat so infectious that a group of uni students have started an impromptu dance. Adam, who has been doing a fantastic job compering, gets up and joins them, effortlessly moving to the music. I laugh as I watch him grab a Nigerian stall lady and persuade her to dance with him.

I turn to see Francesca by my side, holding a bottle of water in her perfectly manicured hand. Lord knows when she had time to do it – her nails were a wreck when she left us last night. To be fair, she’s been fantastic today, weaving in and out of the crowds making conversation, taking photographs and even going outside to entice more people to come through our doors and have a good time. I decide to stop dwelling on her infatuation with Adam and put it behind me.

‘You’re doing a great job today,’ I say sincerely, giving her a warm smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘No problem,’ she replies, barely registering what I’m saying. Her response is uncharacteristically lacklustre, so I follow her gaze and see what’s got her attention. Surprise, surprise, it’s Adam, laughing and dancing away as he mimics all the moves of his dance partner. His energy is infectious and more people get up to join him. Francesca isn’t smiling, though, she looks a combination of wistful and forlorn.

The more I watch Adam lark about, the more yesterday’s goings on fade away until the memories take on a surreal, dreamlike quality. There’s something about the darkness that stirs up emotions that are better left unacknowledged.

Thankfully, when I woke this morning and drew back the curtains, the bright rays of sun killed off every silly romantic notion that had been playing on my mind, and I’ve since realised that last night’s flutterings and tinglings were nothing to do with Adam, per se. It was more about being in such close proximity to a warm, hot-blooded man, the excitement of riding a powerful motorbike, the thrill of speeding through the dark London streets, and the magic of being under the moonlight. And that’s it. It could have been anyone, I told myself – even Dr Farook Chowdhury – and I would have reacted in the same, carnal way. I’m almost thirty, after all, and yet to get laid and find out what all the fuss is about.

I give Francesca’s arm a squeeze and then turn away from her to see what else is going on. Kevin, my boss, is beaming from ear to ear, also watching Adam. He’s here with his wife and eight-year-old daughter, who’s currently munching away on freshly spun candyfloss, her freckled face sticky and pink with melted sugar while her mum gets an intricate henna design done on her palm. My mum, Nani and Amina were here for a while too, but Nani gets tired if she stays out too long, so after buying up half the goods on sale and sampling an array of delicious home-made snacks, they bade their farewell. My phone buzzes a couple of times: a call from Hamza and a text from Mo, but I’m too busy to read the messages or take the call.

At three, the local youth choir takes the stage. The loud chattering stops almost as soon as they start singing, their angelic voices aweing everyone into reverent silence. I take the opportunity to have a little break and, as I sit down with a bowl of jerk chicken and rice and peas, I spot Hamza tentatively walking through the arched wooden doors, peering around as if he’s looking for someone.

‘Habibti,’ Hamza calls out when he spots me. People turn to look at the commotion as he strides towards me and pulls me into a hug. I stiffen in his embrace, my arms hanging limply on either side. What is he doing here and why is he touching me? He said he couldn’t make it. Is this supposed to be a surprise?

In my peripheral vision I can see Adam, but I have no idea if he’s noticed our exchange. Not that I should care. Or he would care. But obviously I do. I don’t feel comfortable with him witnessing this behaviour from me.

As Hamza rambles excitedly about the event and how amazing it all looks, I glance over at Adam and our eyes lock. I expect him to break contact immediately, but he doesn’t, so I stare back, a dull ache forming inside my chest. Then Hamza grabs my hand and pulls me towards one of the food stalls, and the eye contact is broken.

I hope and pray that Hamza’s visit is a courtesy thing and that he’ll disappear as suddenly as he appeared. He doesn’t, though. He takes it upon himself to try out every single food item from every single stall whilst bopping along to the music. He’s having such a good time that I hate myself for being pissed off with him. I wish I could relax, but it’s impossible with my two male friends at such close proximity to each other.

‘Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your mate?’ Adam asks, casually sauntering over and draping an arm across my shoulders. I jump as if stung, and push him off me, glaring at him as I do. Hamza notices my reaction and then smiles his usual warm, open smile at that git, extending his hand.

‘Hi, I’m Zara’s boyfriend,’ he introduces himself, shaking Adam’s hand with vigour. I nearly choke on my own spit. Boyfriend? Since when? We’ve met, what, three times? And that’s when I remember that I told Adam that Jordan, my personal trainer, was Hamza. Shit. What if he mentions his name?

‘Oh really? I didn’t realise Zara had a boyfriend,’ Adam replies almost mockingly, and I feel Hamza tense up beside me. ‘You didn’t mention that when we had dinner last night and I dropped you home.’

Hamza lets go of my arm abruptly and I try, awkwardly, to laugh it off.

‘Ha ha, er, shut up, Adam. Stop chatting nonsense!’ I turn to Hamza with a forced smile. ‘He loves provoking people. Ignore him.’ With that, I tug him away, shooting Adam one last filthy look as I do and exhaling the breath I had been holding in.

‘What’s up with you and this Adam?’ Hamza asks as soon as we step outside. Despite the April sun shining down on us, there’s still a chill in the air. I wish I could go back inside and grab my cardigan to wear over my short-sleeved cotton shalwar kameez, but there’s no way I’m letting that idiot interact with Hamza again.

‘Nothing! He likes getting a rise out of me,’ I reply, rubbing my bare arms to keep them warm. ‘What are you doing here? You said you couldn’t come.’

‘Are you sure? It looked like he was jealous.’ There’s a strange look on Hamza’s face; a hardness I’ve not seen before.

‘Jealous? Adam? Ha! Trust me, it’s not like that at all!’

‘What was he talking about, him taking you home?’

‘Oh my God, Hamza, chill!’ I exclaim, beginning to get annoyed by the interrogation. ‘He’s my colleague. We worked until late last night, getting this event sorted. We went for a meal and then he dropped me home. It’s no biggie!’

A prickly silence follows as Hamza digests what I’ve told him, and honestly, I don’t get why he’s acting like this. He still hasn’t explained why here’s here, when he told me he couldn’t come today. Contrary to what he told Adam inside, he is not my boyfriend. We’re considering each other for marriage, the Islamic way, but we’re not dating. We’re not in love. We’re not committed. We’re not exclusive. We’re figuring out if we’re compatible and that’s it.

It’s while we’re both sitting there on the cold brick wall in sullen silence that I notice someone who looks vaguely familiar walk up the path to the church. Instead of walking past me into the hall, he stops right in front of us and smiles down at me.

‘Zara?’

I stare up at him, but it takes me a second to reconcile the man in the flesh, with the man on the phone, and for a moment I think it must be someone from the council here to check out my event.

‘It’s me, Mo. From MuslimMate?’ He sounds a bit unsure now and his smile falters, but that’s the least of my concerns. I shoot a quick glance at Hamza who remains silent, but the flush creeping up his neck says it all. Panic sets in as I desperately try and figure out a way to get out of this mess. Damn Layla and her stupid advice! Why am I talking to more than one man at the same time? What did I think was going to happen?