We carry on talking and I put my fork down, not wanting to risk being caught with a mouth full of food again. Now that my coughing fit has subsided and I’m getting over the embarrassment of it all, I’m actually feeling rather relaxed. His family is so much more peaceful than mine. There’s no Amina getting offended every five minutes, no Mum being condescending, no Dad tuning out and not contributing. The only thing that remains exactly the same is a lost grandmother trying – but not quite managing – to keep up with the conversation.
As the afternoon progresses, I almost forget about Adam and all those mixed emotions I was struggling with. There’s too much happening in front of me, and while the guilt is still there, the rawness and intensity of the kiss has started to diminish.
After lunch we move back to the sitting room and enjoy some fresh watermelon with our tea, followed by a big tray of baklawa and little cups of Arabic coffee. I make the mistake of calling it Turkish coffee which they’re all extremely affronted by, and I’m promptly given a lesson on how the Turks and Greeks are always trying to take credit for Arab inventions, like hummus and stuffed vine leaves and baklawa and coffee.
‘Shakespeare is Arab as well,’ Hamza’s dad says with a completely straight face. ‘Sheikh Zubeir. Shakespeare. You get it?’
And then, as the coffee runs out and the tray of sweets gets barer, the day winds to a close. I thank everyone for their hospitality and kindness, lavish more praise on them as they hug me tight and kiss my cheeks over and over again and I’m told that their door is always open and to come and visit them whenever I like.
They all come to the driveway to see us off, like we’re newlyweds about to embark on our honeymoon, waving and blowing kisses until we disappear from sight. It’s only when we’ve turned the corner that I dare to exhale and lean back into the seat. I think I must have a weird look on my face because Hamza keeps glancing at me, his own expression a mixture of pride and nervous anticipation.
‘Well? What did you think?’ he asks, when the silence becomes too much for him to bear. I let him stew for a moment to get back at him for springing all this on me.
‘Firstly. How could you do that to me? That was really out of order, Hamza! You completely deceived me and lured me here on false pretences!’
Hamza looks abashed. ‘I’m sorry. But if I had told you, you would have refused to come! And say by some miracle you agreed, how stressed would you have been all week? You were a wreck when you thought it was only my sister!’
‘All week? So you’ve known about this for a week?’
Shamefaced, Hamza nods.
‘I should have been given a choice,’ I continue. ‘Meeting your whole family is a massive deal and one I should have made an informed decision about. You completely took that choice out of my hands. That wasn’t fair.’
‘I’m really sorry. I didn’t think of it like that.’
Turning my face away, I stare out of the window, pissed off. I can’t believe he hid this from me for a whole week. It makes me wonder what else he’s capable of hiding to get his own way.
‘Hey, you’re passing the station,’ I say when Rayner’s Lane passes by.
‘I want to drop you home.’
‘But it’s over an hour’s drive!’
‘So?’
‘Er, OK. Thanks.’ I’m still too annoyed with Hamza to talk much more. I continue to stare out the window and I can feel him looking at me from time to time. I check my phone to see that Hiba’s added me on Instagram and has tagged me in the picture she took of me eating. I accept the request and repost the image to my stories, busying myself with my phone so I don’t have to engage with Hamza. The silence goes on for a while before he finally breaks it.
‘I’m really sorry, Zara. What I did was out of order. Can you forgive me please?’ He sounds so despondent that I sigh and nod.
‘Fine. But only because your family were so nice. But why did your mum keep calling me “haraam”?’ I remember to ask, still puzzled. ‘Is it because I don’t wear hijab?’
‘Huh?’ Hamza looks as confused as I am, then starts to chuckle.
‘What is it?’ I groan, covering my face. ‘What did I do?’
‘Nothing, habibti. It’s an expression in Arabic, it doesn’t literally mean “haraam” as in forbidden. It’s more like the equivalent of “oh dear”, or “oh my goodness”.’
‘Phew,’ I sigh, leaning back in my seat. ‘That had me worried for a moment.’
‘Anyway.’ Hamza gives me a sidelong glance as he continues to drive down roads I’ve never seen before. ‘Did you honestly like my family?’
‘I really did. They were so warm and genuine and welcoming. And it’s really easy to talk to your sister and cousin, too.’
‘They liked you too.’
‘Really? Even though I choked and nearly died because I don’t know how to eat properly?’
‘Ha ha, Baba and Hiba are doctors, they’ve seen a lot worse than a coughing fit. But yes, they think you’re amazing. And beautiful.’ Hamza stops at a red light and turns to look at me, his eyes bright with happiness. ‘I knew they would love you.’
A sudden shyness comes over me and I look away. Hamza doesn’t say anything further, but he reaches over and takes my right hand into his left. We stay like that for the rest of the journey, holding hands in silence. And all the while I feel like a complete and utter bitch because the previous day I was in someone else’s arms .?.?.