‘No!’ I bark, wincing at how loud that came out. My friends exchange looks with each other. ‘Honestly, I’m not. I fancy him and we did have a special relationship, but that’s it.’
‘If that’s it, then you need to stop this nonsense before you lose Hamza over it,’ Layla says, cutting through the niceties and getting straight to the point. ‘Seriously, Zara. You’re playing with fire here.’
‘I’m not doing anything!’
‘Good! Because no one’s forcing you to get married. If you don’t want Hamza, end it now. But if you do, get this Adam out of your head and your system once and for all.’
‘OK! Look. It’s nothing. You’re blowing it out of proportion. Go back to the table, I need to get some fresh air. I’ll be there in a bit.’
I half walk, half run out of the restroom and down a million steps in my dangerously high heels until I burst out into the chilly October night, gasping for air. What the hell is wrong with me? Why does Adam have such a hold over me? Was it because of the kiss? My friends are right. I need to snap out of this before I ruin my life and my future.
There’s a tall guy in a blazer smoking by the door and he looks over at me with curiosity as I stand there with a plastic tiara on my head doing my deep-breathing exercises.
‘You OK, hun?’ he asks and I nod at him, still unable to smile. ‘Want a smoke?’ He holds out his packet to me and although my previous attempts at smoking cigarettes have been a flop, I decide that today would be a good day to try again. Who knows, it might help calm me down. I nod again and he comes over to me and hands me the packet. I take one and he moves in closer to light it with his fancy engraved lighter. As the flame ignites the little death stick, someone violently grabs it out of my hands. I scream and jump backwards.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Adam demands, throwing it to the floor. The poor man who was helping me out, backs away and holds up his hands, and Adam turns to me, grabbing my arm. ‘You don’t smoke! Were you flirting with that guy?’
‘Let go of me!’ I seethe, yanking my arm away, my heart still racing. I can’t believe he’s down here. I wonder if he was looking for me or if he was going to have a smoke himself. ‘It’s none of your bloody business. Why are you here anyway? Go back up to your girlfriend before she comes looking for you.’
‘She’s not my f***ing girlfriend,’ he growls back at me. ‘Why were you about to smoke? You don’t do shit like that.’
‘So what? I felt like it. Maybe I’m sick of being such a goody two shoes. Maybe I want to live a little.’
He goes quiet. ‘Don’t say that, askim. You’re perfect. I love that you always do you, without trying to be someone you’re not.’
Did he drop the ‘L’ bomb on me? Not exactly, but he said it about me. What does this mean?I fall silent and we both stand there miserably for a moment, unable to speak.
‘I needed something to calm my nerves, that’s all,’ I say after a while. ‘Anyway, I’d better go back upstairs.’ I turn to leave but he reaches out for my arm again, gently this time, and stops me.
‘Don’t go up yet.’
My throat goes dry and I look up at him. Even in my heels, he’s still a couple of inches taller than me, and I wonder what it would feel like to have those arms wrapped around me. And then I remember that I already know what that’s like. The memory of that night and everything he made me feel floods my mind and I take a nervous step back.
‘You’re getting married tomorrow and you look like someone’s died,’ he observes, taking out his own packet of ciggies and lighting one up. I stare at him and he shrugs unapologetically at the hypocrisy.
‘Maybe someone has died,’ I mumble, for want of a better retort.
‘What? Who?’ Alarmed, his hand freezes by his mouth, just as he was about to place the cigarette to his lips. Oh God, his lips. What I would do to be that fag right now.
‘No one. I said “maybe”.’ Feeling stupid, I kick the pavement with my gold stiletto because I don’t know what to do with myself, and end up scuffing the tip. Swearing under my breath, I bend down and rub it with my fingertips before proceeding to wipe my dirty fingers on my tights, realising too late that the move is likely to cause a ladder. The tiara falls off my head. Shit. Shit. Shit! Why am I such a nervous wreck?
‘You’re a bloody nutjob, askim.’ Adam shakes his head as he watches the entire scene play out in front of him. Taking his final drag of the cigarette, he chucks the butt on the ground and stamps on it before turning his attention back to me. ‘Why are you getting married?’
‘What, nutjobs can’t get married then?’ I grumble, annoyed with myself for ruining my tights.
‘No, you idiot. I mean, why are you getting married to him? Is it because of your eggs and all that crap?’
‘No! I like him, OK! Why is that so hard to believe?’
‘“Like”? Like? Seriously? You don’t love him, but you’re marrying him?’ His expression is a mix of disgust and pity and I feel like I’ve been caught out. I cross my arms defensively.
‘Oh, shut up,’ I scowl. ‘What do you know about love or marriage, anyway? What would you rather I did, hop into your bed and everyone’s else’s bed like that cow upstairs?’
‘Watch it,’ he warns. ‘Don’t talk about her like that. You don’t know her.’
His scolding me and defending her feels like a slap in the face.
‘OK.’ I turn to leave, but again, he stops me.