We talk about everything; work, family, friends, movies, books, music, and I have a such a good time. His cheerfulness is contagious, and I almost forget the shitty day and shittier weekend I’ve had. He’s so engaging that the more I laugh, the more attractive he becomes. I wonder if I’m going to have to start taking our ‘thing’ a bit more seriously. Look what else is out there: amidst the limited fish in the sea, there are sharks, jellyfish, and other unpleasant creatures that I don’t want to become entangled with. Would a simple, stable – and sometimes a bit serious – tuna really be all that bad?
He’s also taken my mind off Adam and our snarky exchange, and I love that he knows exactly what to say to make me laugh. And unlike Adam, his jokes are never at my expense.
‘I’ve had a nice time tonight,’ I say, as we sip our strong, super-sweet Turkish black tea while enjoying the complimentary crispy baklava, sweet syrup oozing out of every bite and dribbling down my chin. Hamza looks so elated by my admission that I instantly regret being so forthcoming. I don’t want to lead him on; not when I’m completely unsure about us and exploring every other avenue for someone I’m more compatible with.
I gesture to the waiter for the bill and then force myself to look into Hamza’s expressive eyes that are full of warmth. I’m not sure what he sees in my eyes in return. Probably wariness laced with a bit of guilt.
‘Sister, your bill was already paid by the gentleman,’ the waiter announces, his sudden appearance making me jump.
‘What?’ Guilt goes flying out the window and I glare at Hamza. ‘You promised I could pay this time!’
He shrugs, a small smile on his round face. ‘Sorry, not sorry.’
‘If you keep doing this, I’m not going to meet up with you again!’ I warn him, my irritation fading the more I look at his pleased expression. It’s pretty hard to stay annoyed at someone so guileless, but the nicer he is, the worse I feel about leading him on.
‘I’ll take my chances,’ he retorts, still smiling. ‘How are you getting home?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll book a complete waste-of-money Uber,’ I sigh, smiling to let him know I’m not actually pissed off. ‘Even though my house is like, five minutes from the bus stop and it’s completely unnecessary.’
‘I’m glad.’
Hamza gets up and helps me put on my jacket. It’s the first time a man – well, anyone – has done this for me and I’m not sure if I like the gesture. For starters, getting my padded arms into the sleeves is tricky, and then, during the struggle, our fingers brush and once again, I yank my hand away from his accidental touch. I sense him stiffen from the rebuke. I’m sure my rebuffs will stop being charming at some point and start becoming offensive, but I don’t know how to stop myself.
We walk downstairs to where my car is waiting. Hamza opens the door for me and this time he doesn’t lean in for a hug or even a handshake. With a wry smile, he bids me farewell and when I’m safely deposited into the back seat of the car, he closes the door firmly behind me, gives me a little wave and then walks away.
I lean back into the leather seat, still as muddled as ever. His goodbye seemed a bit on the cold side and I wonder if this is it, if I’ve screwed things up between us. And that’s when I realise that if Hamza were to walk away right now, I would spend the rest of my days wondering if I made the biggest mistake of my life.
If this were a romcom movie, I would jump out of the Uber, chase Hamza up the High Road and throw myself into his bulky arms, and he would swing me around as if I were as light as a feather. But it’s not a movie and I can’t do stuff like that. For starters, I can’t run, remember? I’ll need more than two gym sessions before I can start literally chasing men. And also, there’s no way I would let anyone try and pick me up, not unless I’m bleeding to death and need to be lifted onto a stretcher.
I turn away from the window and decide not to fret over it tonight. What’s done is done. If Hamza and I are meant to be, if our fates are entwined and God has written it for us to be together, it’ll happen.
On that positive note, I take out my phone to distract my wandering thoughts. There are a few unread messages from Mo, but I ignore them and open up Instagram instead, half-heartedly scrolling through carefully filtered shots of elaborate meals, pretty scenes, pouty selfies and edgy fashion, pressing ‘like’ even when I don’t particularly care for the image, for the sake of being polite.
Layla at a fancy restaurant with her husband; some faceless fashionista showing off her designer handbag outside a Central London townhouse; one of those perfect, Muslim married couples hugging and staring at each other with pure happiness. How is it that they’ve succeeded in making me feel inadequate, even though I’m mature enough to realise it’s all pretence? I wonder how many naïve Muslim teenagers aspire to nothing more than finding a perfect husband based on all this nonsense. Anyway. Moving on. Adam and Francesca hugging; Amina and her friends at a .?.?.
Hang on a second. I scroll back up to the picture of Adam and Francesca. I don’t know what happened to the demure outfit she was wearing at work, but there she is, in a seriously low-cut vest, pressed up against Adam as if she can’t stand without him propping her up. He is grinning, a beer in one hand and the other firmly around her narrow shoulders, his hand dangling dangerously close to her ample bosom.
I look back at the Cheshire cat grin he’s wearing in place of his ethics and feel like slapping it off him. Adam was the one guy in the office who didn’t drool all over the resident English rose, and I know it sounds stupid, but I kind of thought he preferred me. But why would he? Look at her, she’s tall, slim, young and perfect. White. And she doesn’t mind going to pubs with him. And look at me. The old, brown, flabby, judgemental prude.
The bloody picture already has forty-three likes and it’s only been an hour. Well, you know what? Adam isn’t the only one who can post a picture with a good-looking creature.
I feel my blood pressure begin to rise, and before I persuade myself otherwise, I scroll through my photos and find the one of me and Jordan. You know, Jordan, my super-hot, buff and all-round perfect-looking personal trainer. I play around with the filters and editing tools until I look radiant and flawless (Jordan doesn’t need any extra help) and then post it with the slightly mysterious caption, ‘Having a fab night with my BAE’. Thank God my account’s private and Hamza isn’t following me. I don’t think he does social media.
With a satisfied smirk, I put my phone away and close my eyes. Ha. Let’s see what Adam makes of that.