Chapter 16
It’s one of those rare, super-quiet days in the office. Kevin’s on leave so we’ve taken the opportunity to spend most of the day drinking tea and playing games. Francesca’s infatuation with Adam seems to have been short-lived as she’s back to acting like her usual self around him instead of flirting and giggling whenever he’s in the vicinity. When I mention that she seems a bit different lately, she reveals that she’s met someone via some new dating app.
‘What, just him and no one else?’ I ask. ‘I remember you telling me that the point of online dating is to simultaneously date as many people as possible.’
‘Yeah, I know, and I was,’ she says with a smile, coming over to my desk and perching on it. ‘Until I met Nathan. We’ve been out a few times now and I want to see where it goes without clouding my headspace with other men, you know?’
‘Makes sense. I can’t wait to hear all about him! Hang on, let me make some more tea. Do you want some?’ She nods, so I grab her mug. I move to take Adam’s as well – he never says no to a cuppa – but he decides to join me in the kitchen instead.
‘What are you doing this evening? Do you want to go out for shisha?’ he asks me as the kettle boils and I prepare our mugs. I look at him, the surprise evident in my expression. This is the first time he’s asked me to go out with him, apart from the time he asked me to the pub. And we all know how that went down.
‘Let me guess, shisha is haram and you don’t do it?’ he sighs, misinterpreting my reaction.
‘I do do shisha, but I’m not sure about tonight. I could do with a night in.’
‘Granny,’ he teases as we walk back to our workspace, him carefully balancing the three mugs while I carry the biscuits and snacks.
‘I am a bit of a homebody,’ I admit. ‘And proud. Are you still going to go out?’
‘Yeah. I need to get out the house.’ I look at him, waiting for him to elaborate, but his eyes darken and he doesn’t say anything further. I don’t feel right prying, so I let it go.
‘Right. Nathan.’ I say to Fran when we’re back at our desks and munching through a packet of chocolate Hobnobs.
‘Well,’ she begins, a starry look in her eyes, ‘he’s really tall. Like six feet two or—’
‘I’m six three,’ Adam interrupts. We both roll our eyes, for the millionth time that day.
‘Really built, with like, tattoos all the way up his right arm,’ Francesca continues, ‘which is not like you, Adam.’
‘How would you know? I might have tattoos in places you can’t see.’
‘Ew!’ Fran and I exclaim in unison, wrinkling our noses. We start to laugh, realising that we’ve basically reacted the same way to Adam’s antics for most of the day.
‘Ignore him!’ I groan, dipping my biscuit into my tea and licking the chocolate off. ‘Carry on!’
‘Anyway. He’s a builder, so, you know, good with his hands and all that .?.?.’
Now it’s Adam’s turn to screw up his face. ‘I don’t really want to hear this,’ he mutters.
‘Don’t then.’ I shrug. ‘But I do. He sounds really hot.’
With a scowl, Adam puts on his AirPods and Francesca continues to describe all the 18-rated ways Nathan fulfils her, physically and emotionally.
Fran finding love online plays on my mind the rest of the afternoon, and I wish I’d had better luck on MuslimMate. I wonder if I should log back in and try again, seeing as Hamza hasn’t replied to me. But then Mo’s parting words echo in my ears and I can’t bring myself to go through that whole palaver again.
I’m idly reading through various news sites when my phone hums and I nearly fall off my chair when I see it’s a text from Hamza. My reaction doesn’t go unnoticed by my colleagues, so I fill them in and stare at my phone in trepidation.
‘Open it!’ Francesca instructs. ‘How can you move on until you know what he’s thinking?’
‘I’ll do it if you can’t,’ Adam butts in, grabbing my phone out of my hands. It’s already unlocked and he opens it up without waiting for my permission. I’m so nervous that I don’t try to stop him.
‘Well? What does it say?’ I demand.
‘It says .?.?. “Piss off”,’ Adam replies, reading the words slowly. I feel heat flare in my cheeks.
‘What?’ I snatch the phone off him to see for myself, and almost weep in relief when I see that the actual message is an icy, ‘What’s up?’
‘You’re such a piece of shit!’ I wail, chucking a tissue box at him. ‘Not that “What’s up?” is much better.’