Finding Mr Perfectly Fine

Chapter 24

I screen-record Fran’s story and then watch it over and over again, the pain growing with every view. I try and shake out of it – telling myself that he was never mine, that the kiss was an act, that he has every right to do whatever he wants, that I’m into Hamza and not him. My brain repeats this on a loop, but my heart doesn’t get the message and it constricts painfully every time I watch the video.

How am I supposed to go to work like this? How am I supposed to plaster on a professional smile and act like I’m OK for eight whole hours, knowing what I know, feeling what I feel?

I can’t do it. I can’t face him. Them. Not after he told me he wasn’t into her and that he would never go there. Not after our kiss.

The plan formulates while I’m scrubbing away all the pain and hurt, and when I get out of the shower, all I know is that I need to get the hell away from here. I need to get away from Adam, Francesca, Hamza, Samia and even my parents.

Tiptoeing down the stairs to Yasmin’s room, I tap on the door lightly and when there’s no response, I push it open. She’s sprawled out on her single bed, an arm and leg hanging off the edge. I don’t want to wake her up so I decide to go ahead with my plan without her advice.

Back in my room, my hands clammy from what I’m about to do, I text Kevin that there’s been a family emergency and I need to take the week off. He replies immediately, telling me to take the time I need but to email across a handover as soon as possible. Next, I text Sabina to find out if I can come to visit her for the week. She replies fairly quickly, while I’m looking at flights in fact, so I book the next available flight from Heathrow to Dubai International. Now I have less than an hour to get ready, pack and be in on the Westbound Piccadilly Line if I want to make it on time.

I move fast, packing a small suitcase with whatever summer clothes I can grab quickly; dresses, T-shirts, sandals, linen trousers. In my gigantic tote I stuff my sunglasses, a book, makeup, AirPods and other aeroplane essentials like hand sanitiser. I’m fairly certain I’ve forgotten things in my haste, but I’m not fussed because Sabina and I are a similar size in clothes and shoes, and I can also use it as an excuse to go shopping.

The stairs creak when I get to the landing outside my parents’ and Nani’s rooms. I pause for a moment, wondering if I should tell them what I’m doing. I can hear my mum’s gentle snores alternating with my dad’s rumbling foghorn ones; a geriatric symphony of sorts. But if I wake them up now, there’ll be shouting and possibly tears, accusations and questions I can’t answer, and I might miss my flight.

I know I’ll get a right telling-off when they wake up and get my text, but I’d rather deal with that over messages than face to face.

‘Sorry, Mum, Abbu, Nani,’ I whisper. ‘Don’t murder me when I get back.’

Then, I pick up my suitcase so it doesn’t thump down the stairs and head outside to the Uber that’s waiting to take me to the station.

*

The journey to Heathrow is long, more so because I don’t have the energy to read or listen to music. My head is throbbing, and continues to do so until I get to Duty Free and down two ibuprofen. I usually love looking at all the designer goods, makeup and perfume at Duty Free, but today I don’t have the heart.

When I finally get on the plane, it’s so quiet that I have the entire middle row to myself. Dumping my stuff on the seat next to me, I take off my trainers, slump into my seat and watch Francesca’s video again and again, until we have to switch our phones off. I send a message to the family WhatsApp group telling them what I’ve done and then put it away.

At least now I can’t keep torturing myself,I think as I scroll through the entertainment system and try to find a film to watch. Only it’s not as simple as that, because now that I can’t get online, I’m desperate to know if either of them has updated their social media, and what they’re doing now.

The entire journey continues in this manner, and by the time we land at quarter past ten at night, UAE-time, I’m an emotional wreck.

Dubai International is as clean, glossy and vast as I remember it to be from my last trip a few years ago, when I came with Nani, Mum, my sisters and Samia. I stumble through passport control and customs in a daze, shivering involuntarily. I tell myself it’s because it’s chilly in here with the air-conditioning on full blast, but deep down, I know it’s because I feel empty.

When I turn my phone on, a million texts from my family come through, responding to the message I put up on our WhatsApp group before boarding the plane. I don’t read them, but just tell them that I’ve landed and I’ll call when I can. For once I’m relieved that you can’t make WhatsApp or Facetime calls in Dubai; it will make it all the easier to avoid my family.

Sabina is waiting for me outside in the pick-up area, so I make my way to the revolving doors and as soon as I exit the airport, I’m hit with a welcome burst of heat, like I’ve walked into an oven.

‘All right, tart?’ She grins, striding up to me and swallowing me up in a massive hug. Up until this moment, I never realised how much I needed one of these and I will myself not to burst into tears. I think she senses my heightened emotions because she hurriedly lets me go and then leads me to her VW 4×4 parked up close by with the hazard lights on.

‘Where are the kids?’ I ask, turning to find the backseats empty.

‘Asleep. It’s nearly eleven, you know.’

‘Oh yeah. My head’s all over the place.’

‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on now or later?’

‘Later, please.’ I love that she knows me well enough to give me the option.

We drive to Sabina’s house in comfortable silence, the radio on quietly in the background. The roads are still relatively busy and I stare out the window as we cruise down the huge twelve-lane highway, dotted with the occasional date palm and unfamiliar signs in both English and Arabic. She’s a lot better at driving here than in London, but I still clutch on to the door handle when she swerves into the exit lane so fast that the car almost topples over. We drive deeper in to the desert, leaving the gargantuan highway far behind us until we pull into a gated community with massive Spanish-style villas, luscious greenery, countless palm trees, playgrounds and water features.

‘Wow, is this where you bought your house then?’ I ask in awe. The last time we came to visit they lived in an apartment by the beach.

‘Yeah, we’ve been here for three years now. When we first moved in after the house was built, the grounds were literally just sand, but they’ve finally sorted the landscaping out and there are shops, a supermarket, salon, everything you need, really.’

‘It’s gorgeous.’