I Can't Think Straight (20 page)

‘She’s having dinner with Ali,’ snapped Maya.

‘Oh, I’m so pleased,’ grinned Yasmin. ‘He’s such a good boy…’

‘Where are you going?’ Maya demanded.

‘I’m going out,’ Yasmin replied helpfully.

Maya sniffed at the lack of detail, the lack of respect, then she switched off the iron and chased Yasmin and Leyla away from the door and followed them into the kitchen where a massive pot of water was boiling away, steaming up the whole room.

‘I made you and Dad homemade pasta with shrimp for dinner,’ Yasmin explained.

‘If I want a sauna, I can join a health club,’ Maya said disconso-lately, and turned, ready to face Yasmin’s inevitable retort, only to find her youngest child regarding her with new respect.

‘That was quite funny, Mum.’

‘Someone answer the door,’ Maya instructed, for the bell had rung, but her daughters might have been deaf for all the interest they showed. Yasmin obeyed, returning with a large, long gift box which she handed to Leyla.

Leyla stood awkwardly by the stove in the soft folds of her black dress with her mother and sister watching and gingerly removed the lid to reveal an expansive, spreading bouquet of long-stemmed red roses. On top lay a fine envelope upon which her name was inscribed in a deep blue ink.

‘Ali?’ breathed Maya.

‘Jennifer?’ suggested Yasmin.

‘Tala,’ whispered Leyla.

They all looked at each other, embarrassed in their own way, then Maya turned to put on the kettle for her tea, Yasmin left to go out, and Leyla took her present upstairs.

In the sanctuary of her own room, Leyla switched on lamps and sat down to open the letter. A thin, crisp sheet of paper emerged, as translucent and delicate as a petal, but there was no letter, no introduction and no signature, only a poem: 

Every night I empty my heart, but by morning it’s full again.
Slow droplets of you seep in through the night’s soft caress.
At dawn, I overflow with thoughts of us,
An aching pleasure that gives me no respite.
Love cannot be contained, the neat packaging of desire
Splits asunder, spilling crimson through my days.
Long, languishing days that are now bruised tender with yearning,
Spent searching for a fingerprint, a scent, a breath you left behind.

Leyla brushed away the tears that sat thickly on her lashes. She hated Tala for doing this to her – for she knew it was Tala who had sat down and chiseled out that poem, who had crafted it and polished it for her alone. But why? It was late, too late. Leyla folded the poem gently along the delicate creases of the paper and slipped it under her pillow. Then she looked at the flowers, boldly crimson and exquisitely tinged with pink around the edges, a symbol of perfect beauty and perfect love. On an impulse, she picked up the lid of the box and closed them over, ready to give away, for they represented a world that did not truly exist, and she did not want a reminder of it too near her.

* * *

‘Reservation for Ali, seven thirty?’

Leyla gathered herself as the waiter consulted his book. The drive into London had given her time to recover a little, and she felt stronger now, a little self-conscious in the unaccustomed dress, but a little more confident also. She was glad she had worn it, for Ali had chosen an exceptional restaurant.

‘The other party hasn’t arrived yet, Madam. Can I offer you a drink at the bar, or shall I show you to the table?’

Leyla glanced over at the bar, all polished wood and clinking crystal glasses, but it was dominated by an odd-looking woman dressed in a wide-brimmed floppy hat that fell over the huge dark glasses shielding her face. Probably an actress, Leyla thought; there was definitely something familiar about her.

‘The table, please,’ she asked, and followed the waiter inside. The floppy hatted woman’s head turned to watch her as she went.

Tala waited in agony and in vain for any sign that Leyla had received the poem, and then, half an hour before she had to leave, started to get dressed. She did not have a clear idea of why Ali had insisted on inviting her to dinner, but she understood vaguely that it must be something to do with her wild-eyed, rain-sodden appearance and sudden disappearance the other night. She had made an effort to dress up a little, partly because the place he had booked was a very good one, but mostly to reassure him that there was nothing wrong with her.

She was not surprised when the waiter advised her that her dinner partner was already waiting – he was habitually early and she appreciated that about him, that he would prefer to wait than keep anyone waiting. She glanced at the gracious, old bar as she walked past, and felt the eyes of a strange woman in big sunglasses (at night!) and a big hat follow her as she passed. Tala shook off the self-consciousness that this moment induced and followed the waiter to the table.

Leyla had chosen that moment to unravel a napkin, which seemed to have been folded by an origami master, and so failed to notice that the waiter was leading someone to her table until she looked up to find Tala standing before her. She blinked, surprised, and saw her own confusion mirrored on Tala’s face.

‘I guess we’ve been set up,’ Tala offered, uncertainly.

‘So it seems.’

The chair was being held for her, and in the pause that followed, and not without a feeling of presumption, Tala sat down.

‘The gentlemen sends his regrets, ladies,’ the waiter said, handing them menus. ‘But he wishes you a pleasant evening at his invitation.’

Tala was very warm suddenly, her face felt flushed, and she reached for the bottle of water that stood in an ice bucket beside them. After she had taken a sip, she looked at Leyla.

‘You look wonderful,’ she said.

‘So do you.’

‘I know,’ Tala replied, deadpan. And Leyla laughed. Taking a breath, Tala smiled and felt a small measure of relief.

Out in the bar, a pretty young woman in a big hat and sunglasses paid for her drink, made a mental note never to order a watermelon martini ever again, and left.

Leyla knew that there was no way she could make small talk for very long, but she surprised even herself when, during the very first short pause in their early conversation she asked Tala how her husband was.‘I don’t have one,’ was the reply.

Leyla tried to look surprised (this was not hard, as the news did take her aback) but she tried also to stifle her other natural response, which was to laugh and punch the air. With a quiet dignity, achieved in part by staring hard at the butter dish, she waited for Tala to explain.

‘I called off the wedding. The day before the wedding,’ Tala said.

Clearly that kind of dramatic gesture deserved some response.

‘That must have been very hard,’ suggested Leyla.

‘It was the second-hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,’ Tala said, her eyes fixed intently on Leyla’s. Now Leyla blushed, for she could divine Tala’s meaning, not that she intended to let it go unarticulated.

‘What was the first?’

Tala looked away and smiled, then glanced back at Leyla.

‘Leaving you to go back to Jordan.’

Leyla smiled. Picking up her glass, she took a sip of wine. The taste spread lightly over her tongue and made her light-headed at once. Except that it was her first drink, and the giddiness could not be so easily blamed upon that alone.

* * *

Giving the taxi driver a huge tip, the woman in the floppy hat made her way past a crowd of after-work drinkers standing on the street, and into a much louder bar where the thumping beats made her shimmy slightly across the room, stopping with an upbeat wiggle in front of Ali. He looked a little tired and somewhat tense, she noted, as if he had been waiting for some time. Swiftly, Yasmin removed her glasses and hat.

‘Well, I’m glad to see you were discreet,’ Ali noted.

Yasmin grinned and shook out her hair, which had been pinned beneath the hat, and watched as he poured her some wine.

‘And? How’d it go?’ he asked, impatiently.

‘There eyes met,’ Yasmin said, pausing for dramatic effect. ‘A brief smile played across Tala’s mouth. Unconsciously, Leyla licked her lips…It’s all over.’

Ali winced and downed the remains of his drink. ‘You know, I’m still getting used to the idea,’ he told her.

‘Would it help if I drew you a diagram?’

‘Definitely not,’ Ali replied quickly. ‘But it might help – a bit – if you had dinner with me now.’

‘Don’t want to be alone to brood about Leyla?’ she asked, trying to be understanding. For she liked him, he was funny and intelligent and kind. How many men would set their ex-girlfriend up with their best friend? He was looking at her now, thoughtfully, and it felt a little too long before he answered, but when he did, she felt that he really meant what he said.

‘It’s not that,’ he said. ‘I’d just like to have dinner with you. That’s all. I know nothing about you except that you clearly love your sister a lot, and that you make a great Greek salad…’

Yasmin smiled.

* * *

‘I can’t believe your book is being published!’ Tala said. ‘I mean, of course I can believe it, it’s just that..’

To stop herself tripping over her own tongue, Tala reached out for Leyla’s hand and squeezed it. An expression of her pride, her excitement. And now that their hands were together, it felt too wonderful to break apart. Lightly, as nonchalantly as possible, Tala held onto the long fingers, but after a short moment, Leyla pulled gently away. Tala touched her hair, conscious of the rejection and changed the subject.

‘How’s your girlfriend?’

‘Jennifer?’

Tala cleared her throat. ‘Has there been more than one?’

‘No,’ Leyla smiled. ‘She’s fine. Thanks for asking.’

‘Do you love her, Leyla?’

Tala saw Leyla sit back slightly, perhaps because she herself was leaning forward now, earnest, demanding, as if this girl owed her any explanations when she clearly did not.

‘There are things I love about her.’

Now Tala sat back; the sting of being hit with her own words about Hani had struck her off-balance. Casually, she glanced at the tables next to them, followed the steps of a passing waiter, listened to the subdued, well-bred laughter from a table behind her.

‘And is that good enough for you?’ she asked softly. She held Leyla’s eyes now, would not let them shift away or find time to close off. Leyla shook her head, mutely, and Tala saw that she was on the verge of tears. Gently, she reached out her hand to touch Leyla, her cheek, her arm, anything to reassure her, to comfort her, but something indefinable snapped in the girl opposite. She pulled back and Tala saw at once that there was a new determination in her clear, dark eyes.

‘What is it?’ Tala asked.

‘Did you tell your parents why you broke off the wedding?’

Tala saw the hole looming and she danced around it. ‘I told them it wouldn’t be fair to Hani.’

‘Did you tell them why?’

The insistence, the stubborn need to push at things she didn’t understand needled Tala intensely. Irritated, she pushed away her plate.

‘Look, Leyla, you don’t understand. The Middle East is an unforgiving place. And my parents have a strong presence in that world, and it’s a culture that doesn’t change…’

‘And as long as people don’t dare to be truthful about who they are, it never will change.’

Tala leaned forward. ‘Leyla, I love you. Why should that be anyone else’s business? Even my family’s?’

Leyla had a good answer for this too, but it was temporarily lost to her as she tried to recover from hearing Tala utter the three words that she now realized she had longed to hear for so long. She marveled at how these three, ancient, hackneyed and probably over-used monosyllables, strung together by the right person at the right moment, could change her world. And yet, Tala did not feel able to explain that feeling, that love, to anyone else. It would remain hidden, illicit, unreal.

‘I don’t want to lie about who I’m with and why I’m with them,’

Leyla said. ‘I don’t want you to be my lover at home and my ‘friend’ everywhere else. I can’t live like that.’

She saw Tala look away, sliding out from under her gaze, wishing this conversation did not have to happen.

‘You know, you once told me to be more at ease with myself,’ Leyla said quietly. ‘Now I’m telling you the same thing.’

Tala tried to think of a reply, something that would explain why she could not do what Leyla expected, something to make her understand that just being in love with each other and together would be enough, but she realized with disbelief that it was too late. Leyla was standing up, gathering her bag and her things, and she was leaving.

‘Don’t..’ Tala whispered, and Leyla stopped next to her chair and pressed her lips against her hair in a kiss that felt urgent and final. Then she turned and walked out of the restaurant, leaving Tala floating in an acid state of shock and bitter regret.

Chapter Sixteen

It was strange and unexpected that by the time she got home that night, Tala found herself thinking much more about Hani than Leyla. She let herself into the house, which stood quiet and softly lit. Rani, the housekeeper, heard the click of the front door from the kitchen where she had just boiled the kettle. Recognising Tala’s steps, she poured the steaming water into a spotlessly clean cup which held a bag of herbal tea, then padded out to meet her at the foot of the stairs.

‘Hi, Rani. Where are my parents?’

‘Went out for dinner, Miss. Here, this is for you.’

Tala took the cup gratefully. ‘Camomile. Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome, Miss,’ Rani said, kindly.

‘Any calls for me?’

She hoped that perhaps Leyla would have telephoned, that she would have in fact found herself unable to live without Tala, even in the half hour that had elapsed since she had left the restaurant.

‘Nothing, Miss.’ Rani hesitated. ‘I’m sorry.’

Tala shook off the sympathy with a quick smile, and trudged upstairs. There were times when she felt her mother’s laconic housekeeper knew more than anyone else about everything that went on in the house.