I Can't Think Straight (19 page)

‘Perhaps one of the most stunning archeological finds of that century, indeed, any century, was that of the lost city of Petra. Carved out of rose-coloured stone by the Nabateans, the city has become a symbol of Jordan’s history and its beauty…’

Tala opened her eyes and tried to focus on the lecturer. A few moments of closing her eyes could be interpreted as concentration or deep thought, but allowing the warm darkness to lull her to sleep could only be interpreted as rudeness, particularly when she was representing her family. The lecture series had been such a success in Oxford over the summer that it was being repeated in London. The speaker was warm and funny and had evidently captivated everyone else in the audience, but it was the fourth time Tala had heard about the wonders of Jordan, and she amused herself by taking in the intricate, wood-panelled carving of the grand hall in which she sat, in the midst of about twenty rows of people. She watched some of them, the ones she could take in by shifting her glance sideways without turning her head. They seemed interested, polite. There were many older people and more men than women, and there, about five rows in front of her, a girl who looked exactly like Leyla...

Tala’s heart jumped and she stopped and looked down to compose herself. It was not the first time she had thought she had seen Leyla in an odd place. Once she had caught a glimpse of silken dark hair and skin and had actually run down a busy street towards it, certain that it was Leyla at the other end, getting into a cab, only to find as she bore down on the taxi, that the girl in question – a stranger to her – had turned in fear of being mugged by a sprinting, curly-haired maniac.

She looked up now, and shifted a little in her seat, to get a better line of vision. She peered hard at the back of the head, at the set of the shoulders, both of which seemed so much like her that it caused Tala’s breathing to quicken. And then, the girl turned, she turned to the woman sitting beside her and whispered something in her ear, and they both smiled, and it was Leyla. Tala craned her neck to see something of the girl Leyla was with, but at that moment, the lecture ended and amid the applause, people began to stand up. Swiftly, Tala vacated her seat and made for the door. What she would do, she didn’t know, but something about the intimacy of that glance between Leyla and her friend had set her teeth on edge, and she could not stay around to see more of it.

‘Apparently you can only get into Petra on a horse. Or a camel,’

Leyla said as she descended the sweeping marble steps outside the lecture hall.

‘I’d like to see you on a camel,’ returned Jennifer. ‘Maybe we should go.’ Leyla smiled back at the sparkling blue eyes and considered how it might be to take a trip away with her new girlfriend.

‘Maybe we should.’ It was a step forward for her, and she saw the pleasure in Jennifer’s smile, and was wondering if she could kiss her right here, as they turned the corner of the staircase, when she felt the grasp of a hand on her arm. Leyla paused, looking up in surprise and found Tala standing there. She realized at once that she had already begun to forget the exact planes of her face and her features. That Tala looked more beautiful than she had remembered, but also different, less like the idealized image that Leyla had nurtured in her mind and more like a real person. She looked away from the hazel eyes that watched her and found her gaze on the soft hollow of Tala’s throat, where she had rested her lips once. Leyla tried to breathe more deeply, for she could feel her heart hammering in her chest, was worried that everyone could hear it as the echoing clatter of the footsteps around her, all the talk, all the chatter faded away. She remained painfully conscious of Jennifer, standing behind her.‘What are you doing here?’ Leyla asked, moving her arm away from Tala’s grip.

‘My family sponsored the lecture,’ Tala replied. ‘What are you doing here?’

Leyla cleared her throat, which was unaccountably hoarse.

‘I’m interested in Jordan.’

‘It has a population of five million and no natural resources to speak of. Petra’s lovely, but there really isn’t much to say about Jordan,’ Tala stated before hesitating perceptibly. Her voice dropped. ‘It’s me you’re interested in.’

Leyla felt the sting of embarrassment touch her cheeks, embarrassment that Jennifer had heard this, and embarrassment at Tala’s intuition. Certainly, there were one hundred other things she could have chosen to do on this Saturday afternoon in this city than attend a lecture about this particular country. Her eyes flickered away, to the marble floor beneath her feet, where they lingered to gather strength before coming up to meet Tala’s gaze again, pointedly.

‘How was your wedding?’ she asked, trying to mask an undertone of bitterness.

The relief that coursed through Tala at being asked this question, the question which she had longed to be asked by Leyla, made her almost light-headed. She tried to stop a smile coming to her lips as she opened her mouth to reply.

‘I…’

‘Leyla, let’s go,’ Jennifer interrupted.

Tala dragged her eyes away from Leyla to cast a savage gaze at the girl behind her. She was pretty, Tala noted, but seemed to have an attitude. Leyla followed the look.

‘This is my friend, Jennifer,’ she said politely. Tala noted that the ‘friend’ was holding out a hand, and she felt her stomach turn as she watched Leyla’s hand reach back, slowly, and take it. Tala stared at the hands, together, joined, entangled. Leyla’s slim fingers that she had once held in her own, that she had kissed, and felt caress her face, her back, her thighs, her breasts.

‘Your friend?’ demanded Tala, in a tone that she was dimly aware was inappropriate, but which she could no longer control.

‘Her girlfriend,’ Jennifer clarified helpfully, and she tugged at Leyla, and Leyla turned and began to walk down the stairs with her, leaving Tala behind, leaving her standing there. She waited, without moving, until the echo of their steps had disappeared completely, until the low undertones of their discussion (‘Who was that?’ ‘Oh just someone I used to know’) had receded into the background hum of the traffic outside.

There was half an hour to spare before she had to meet Ali, so she ignored the cabs that drove past her, a couple of them slowing down, expecting to pick up a fare from the well-dressed girl walking along the street, for it was raining hard. The droplets felt jagged on her head as she walked, and began to seep into even the resistant cloth of her jacket, but she continued on, head down against the wind-driven angle of the rain, so that she could see nothing of the majestic brick edifices around her, could not even take comfort from the low sodium light of the newly lit street lamps. What she wanted now was the heavy weight of the cold water soaking her clothes, the metallic smell of the city rain lying sodden in her hair.

She did not feel like seeing Ali, she felt like being alone, but she walked on, without haste, to their rendezvous, for this was also what she wanted now. It was right to have to sit there and remember how she had betrayed him, even while he was kind enough to try to make her laugh or smile, anything to pull her out of the sorrow that he would sense in her.

She reached the restaurant a few minutes early, but he was already there waiting. Hastily, aware now that she was dripping on things, she took off her coat.

‘You know they have these amazing inventions called cars. And buses. And taxis,’ Ali told her.

‘I felt like the walk.’

She stood there, feeling the water from her hair drip onto her nose and down to her chin. She shook it away, embarrassed suddenly, under his practical gaze, unable to explain why she was behaving so strangely.

Ali shook his head and smiled, and she noticed that they were sitting alone at a table for eight. He followed her eyes.

‘I have a few friends joining us,’ he explained

‘Who?’ she asked, trying to hide her annoyance.

‘Jeff and a couple of others. Leyla said she’d come,’ he added, persuasively. ‘I haven’t seen her in ages. We could all catch up.’

‘You know, I’m really tired. I need an early night.’ She couldn’t look at him, so she looked at the waiter, and asked for her coat.

‘What are you doing? Tala?’

She had no idea what to say, or how to explain her bizarre be-haviour. She only knew that she could not, unless heavily sedated, and possibly not even then, sit at a dinner table with Leyla and her girlfriend and watch them touch each other, feed each other, look at each other.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t feel that great. I think I’m coming down with a cold,’ she said, edging out of her seat.

‘Because you just got soaked..have some tea or something, you’ll feel better…’

But Tala was already kissing his cheek.

‘I’m sorry, Ali,’ she said, and she paused against him for a moment, and touched his cheek gently, where a slight evening stubble roughened her fingers. She pulled back to look in his eyes. ‘I really am sorry.’

‘Hey, it’s only a dinner,’ he smiled. But she was already gone.

Chapter Fifteen

Yasmin was perturbed to find that the pasta dough she had been kneading for ten minutes resolutely refused to become smooth and elastic. She continued kneading with an unabated enthusiasm though, because it gave her something else to focus on, something other than the phone call she was now stuck in.

At the time, she had thought that calling Ali to discuss her plan would be fun. She liked him, he had a good sense of humour, and a part of her relished the shock value of what she wanted to tell him.

But when she had heard his voice she had felt a rush of affection, mixed with just a little pity, and she had not wanted to just come out with it.

‘What I’m trying to say,’ she began again ‘is that love is a strange thing. Sometimes it springs up where you least expect it. You can’t control it. And I think you just have to act on it. Encourage it.’

There was a long pause at the other end, during which Yasmin cradled the phone on her shoulder and got on with her kneading.

‘Are you in love with me?’ Ali asked, and she could hear the smile on his face, but also the underlying confusion in his tone.

‘Well, you are cute, but this is not about me,’ Yasmin said dryly.

‘I want to get Tala and Leyla together, and I need your help.’

‘But why?’

‘Why what?’ she asked, trying to force a modicum of patience into her tone as she fed dough into the pasta machine.

‘Why do you want to get them together? The other night I suggested it and Tala didn’t seem interested at all… In fact, it feels like she wants to avoid Leyla for some reason. No idea why.’

Yasmin sighed. ‘Listen, did you ever see the TV show, “The L Word”?’

‘No, but did you ever consider not speaking in riddles?’ Ali shot back.

Yasmin took a breath and let her next words tumble out in a mess. ‘They’re in love with each other.’

‘Who?’

Yasmin rolled her eyes at her uncut ravioli. ‘Leyla and Tala.’

She waited. Clearly, he had understood at last, because there was no further sound from Ali, only the background noise of his phone.

‘Ali, I….’

‘I’ll call you later,’ he interrupted quietly and hung up the phone.

* * *

When Leyla had turned and walked away from Tala that afternoon after the lecture, she had felt a momentary sense of relief that she had Jennifer’s protective hand to hold onto, that she could show Tala how she had moved on with her life, that she had not let Tala’s marriage affect her. There was a tinge of pride too, she had to admit, in demonstrating that she, at least, would remain honest about who she really was. But both pride and relief were subsumed all too quickly beneath a much heavier sense of loss and she had made an excuse about not feeling well in order to avoid going back to Jennifer’s flat. She could not think of Jennifer now, and she did not want to encourage an intimacy that would allow her to close her eyes and imagine Tala while she was with someone else.

And so for the past three days she had stayed at home, except for her hours in the office, which were becoming fewer as she prepared for the upcoming publication of her book. The idea of the book thrilled her but she came to realize that the low hum of excitement that quivered constantly in her body was somehow more related to Tala, to having seen her and felt the touch of her hand on her arm, and having caught the scent of her that she had forgotten.

In her robe, Leyla walked into the kitchen, past Yasmin who was doing something odd to a bowl of prawns, and through to a small laundry room, where her mother was applying a hot iron to her father’s shirt. The room was warm, with curls of steam that settled around the windows’ edges, and a welcoming light that pushed away the creeping dusk outside.

Maya looked up and held out her hand for the black dress that Leyla held over her arm.

‘I can do that for you.’ she said. ‘You haven’t worn a dress in ages.’

‘I’m going out.’

‘Who with?’ Maya asked automatically, and then instantly regretted asking. She had made a point of never asking such things since Leyla’s unfortunate revelation, because if she didn’t ask, she wouldn’t have to find out things she’d rather not know. But here, lulled into drowsiness by the warmth and the slow, rhythmic shift of the iron, she had lowered her guard and forgotten. She dropped her eyes back to the fabric before her.

‘Ali asked me to have dinner with him,’ Leyla replied.

Maya looked up, alert. This was news.

‘He’s a lovely boy,’ she began.

‘Mum! He’s a friend.’

Maya bit her tongue against articulating her belief that a good friendship was what real marriages were all based on anyway, and went back to making sure the dress was ironed perfectly. Perhaps if he actually saw her looking like a girl, Maya thought, Ali would sweep her off her feet and at the same time sweep away this whole sorry phase of Leyla’s life. She handed Leyla the dress and she slipped it on, twirling around for approval. Maya smiled.

Yasmin appeared at the doorway, car keys dangling in her hand, and let out a low wolf whistle at her sister’s appearance.

‘You should wear that for Gay Pride,’ she advised Leyla, mainly for their mother’s benefit. ‘They’d eat you alive.’