PART ONE
1
Zara
‘I’m going,’ I tell Katie over the phone. ‘My bags are packed.’
I’m sitting at a waterside cafe drinking fresh mint lemonade, watching people ferry back and forth across Dubai Creek on traditional wooden water taxis, known here as abras. To my far right, the Burj Khalifa pings from the Downtown skyline like a giant pen, touching the cloudless blue sky with its tip. Katie was supposed to be meeting me, but as usual of late, she cancelled again.
‘So, you’re leaving Dubai,’ Katie says, ‘to go and live in some British city that you’ve never been to before, with a fella you hardly know?’
‘Nick and I talk about living together all the time,’ I say.
‘And yet you haven’t seen Nick for six months.’
‘That’s nothing when you plan to spend a lifetime with somebody.’
‘Zara Khoury. You’re not thinking straight.’
How patronising. It’s not about not thinking straight. It’s about thinking off-course, doing something that’s out of the ordinary. And there’s nothing wrong with that, is there? How can wonderful things happen to us if we don’t do wonderful things to start off with?
‘Your daddy can’t bankroll your love life,’ she says.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I reply. ‘He won’t.’
She doesn’t respond, unless she’s waiting for an explanation.
‘I’ve got some savings, Katie. And a plan. I want to study again; finish my degree.’
‘Right. You know what they say? Once a dropout …’
‘Look, it’s not just about Nick Gregory.’
‘Ah, come on, Zara, don’t kid yourself. It’s all about Nick Gregory.’
The call to prayer filters across the creek, a beautiful and somewhat haunting melody that pauses me momentarily as I glance towards the mosques in the distance. Dusk will fall soon. Day turns into night so quickly in this patch of the world, the bold sun taking a break to allow an even bolder moon to rule the purple sky. I’ve never felt at home here, even though it’s been the place I’ve spent the majority of my thirty years. I long to feel an urge to root down, but all I can feel is flight; a gentle breeze trying to lift me from this seat and take me far away. The scar sitting on my right cheekbone, the size of my middle fingernail and the shape of Australia, is no longer a reminder of what can go wrong, but a sign of what can turn out right.
‘Believe me,’ I say. ‘This is all meant to be.’
Katie tells me she has to go; she has a meeting. I don’t get wished a safe flight, or nudged to give her all the juicy gossip. She doesn’t even mention the weather; and expats love to mention the British weather. She just goes.
As I intend to.
Tomorrow morning, I will land at Heathrow Airport. I’ll go and buy that second-hand car I found online and drive two hundred miles north of London, to a city famous for its football, its accent and, of course, The Beatles. A place where they call something good boss.
‘If only you could come here,’ Nick says, often. ‘You’d love it.’
Well, Liverpool, here I come.
2
Jim
‘Unknown’.
I always answer my phone if the number’s unknown.
It’s one of my three life rules. Being up at six to get here, the Mersey Tunnel toll booth, for work at seven a.m. is another. This rule’s partnered with navy pants, a V-neck pullover and high-visibility jacket, otherwise I’ll lose my job. And the last rule’s making sure my ma takes her tablets and climbs the stairs five times daily to keep her heart pumping.
Beyond this, I let myself be.
Except now, ‘Unknown’ flashes, skittering beside my hand, vibrating.
My phone lies face up on the small desk my knees are crammed beneath, next to a tattered paperback. Gene Wilder’s autobiography; another Oxfam bargain. I’ve been at work for the best part of an hour, but this desk isn’t mine. Tomorrow I might be put in the toll booth next door. Yesterday I worked three booths to my left. I watch my phone, itching to answer.
‘Y’never heard of a barber, mate?’
It’s the fella in the Ford Focus. He exchanges his quid for the correct tunnel fare every morning whilst listening to local radio, some crass breakfast show churning out the latest, not-quite-greatest hits. I’ve met with the overbearing stench of his aftershave many a time, not to mention the same old jibe about my hair.
‘Have a good day, mate,’ I reply, handing over the change.
‘Nice one.’
And off the Focus speeds through the tunnel with an unnecessary rev. The next car pulls up; the window winds down; I hand over change.
‘Unknown’ continues to vibrate.
Christ. I always answer unknown numbers. Ever since my dad died eight years ago. Look, I don’t want to delve into it. But seeing that word flashing before me reminds me. I hadn’t answered the first time, had I? Or the second. And it was only on the third attempt I bothered picking up. It’d been the hospital, calling to ask for a Jim Glover, and I said, ‘That’s me.’ The voice, light and female I recall, asked me to come and identify a man, thought to be Roy Glover, brought in dead on arrival. A heart attack on the Dock road.
But guess what?
There’s a gleaming problem with answering my phone right now. You see, it’s a sackable offence. I’m allowed to read. We all are. Books, papers, even a good old crossword. But phones? Nope. The use of mobile phones whilst working within the cage of a toll booth is a sackable offence. No ‘three strikes and you’re out’. It’s an automatic lock-in.
‘Unknown’.
I hunch over the desk, press the green circle, grumble, ‘Hello?’
‘WELL, SOMEONE’S STILL HALF ASLEEP,’ the male voice belts into my ear. It’s a harsh, nasal twang. I can’t place it but it’s an altogether familiar sound.
‘Who’s this?’
A flurry of laughter ensues, overpowered by a husky female voice.
‘HEAVY NIGHT, WAS IT?’ she asks, finding herself hilarious.
Shit. Noticing a lady waiting in her car beside my booth, I whip my phone beneath the small desk and dish out some change. Then, peeping over my shoulder to check there isn’t another car behind, I bring the phone back to my ear.
‘WE’VE LOST HIM,’ the male voice says.
‘I’m here,’ I say. ‘Who is this?’
‘SHALL YOU TELL HIM, CONNIE? OR SHALL I?’
‘OH, GO ’EAD, CARL, THE PLEASURE’S ALL YOURS.’
‘Hurry up, I can’t really talk.’
‘JIM GLOVER?’ Carl sings.
‘How do you know me name?’
‘YOU’RE LIVE ON AIR, MERSEY WAVE 103.4.’
‘Y’what?’
Connie’s husky laugh takes over. ‘You’re live on the breakfast show with Connie and Carl, Jim. Now’s your chance to become a winner.’
‘A winner?’
Stretching ahead of me, and behind me, is grey tarmac. That single word, winner, is not part of my daily vocabulary. The two simple syllables sound full and foreign in my mouth, my breath still fresh from instant coffee.