‘Salaam Alaykom,’ Hamza booms out from behind me in a thick Arabic accent and I chuck my lippy back into my bag before turning around to see him striding towards me with a huge grin on his face. His excitement is infectious and as we enter the warm, dimly lit restaurant, my spirits begin to lift. He helps me out of my coat and even pulls out a chair for me before the waiter can. The gesture is sweet and chivalrous, something I’ve never experienced before.
‘The steak here is halal,’ Hamza informs me, surveying the menu with uncontained glee.
‘Yay, I can’t wait.’ I grin. ‘I hate ordering vegetarian or pescatarian options at nice restaurants. It’s all about meat.’
‘Thank God,’ he responds, putting the menu down. ‘You’re not the limp salad type then?’
‘Hell no. Do I look like a no carbs sort of girl?’ I scoff, gesturing to my stomach. ‘I’m getting the steak for mains. With the sweet potato fries. But I’m not sure whether to get the mini mac ’n’ cheese for starters or the baked camembert.’
‘Get both, if you want. No judgement here.’
I look at Hamza’s expressive face; so simple and unassuming. What you see is definitely what you get with him and it’s really refreshing.
The evening passes smoothly and I’m surprised at how much fun I’m having. I find out that Hamza is Egyptian, which explains the Arabic accent whenever he says Arabic/Islamic phrases. He was born in the US and lived there for most his childhood, hence the American accent but the British turn of phrase. His dad was the personal cardiologist to a Saudi sheikh, so ended up moving from Egypt to Saudi, the US and then the UK when Hamza was twelve, just to work for him.
‘How the other half live,’ I say a little wistfully. ‘I’d love to live abroad.’
‘It’s not as fun as you would think,’ he replies. ‘We moved around a lot, even while we were in the States. It was hard to make friends and fit in, over and over again. I never quite knew where I belonged.’
‘Even without moving around I’m not sure where I belong,’ I admit. ‘I always feel that I have one foot in each culture.’
From what he tells me about his culture, it doesn’t sound much different from mine, and we swap stories of the things our families have done in order to find us a spouse. He keeps making me laugh out loud, especially with his wicked Egyptian aunty impression.
He tells me about his family. His dad is a doctor, his mum is a teacher and they live in West London. He has a younger sister, also a doctor, and a younger brother, who he speaks fondly of, and generally he seems to have a good relationship with them all. His dad, apparently, was disappointed in him for becoming a chartered accountant instead of a doctor and reacted as badly as he would have had Hamza become a gamer.
In return, I tell him about my own parents, sisters and, of course, nani. He thinks Amina sounds hilarious and Yasmin a little intimidating. I find myself wondering what they would think of him and if they would get along. Yasmin would definitely like his good manners. I’m not sure what Amina would think. She’d probably be impressed by his career and income. Nani would love the fact that he is ‘foshha’ (light-skinned), Abbu would like that he’s educated, but I don’t know about Mum. In fact, I don’t even know if they’d allow me to marry someone non-Bengali. Mum’s always dropped threats about disowning me if I ever considered a non-Muslim man, but she’s never said anything about Muslims who aren’t Bengali.
You know what’s really weird? As the evening has been progressing, he’s becoming more and more attractive in my eyes. In fact, with a different haircut and some strategically sculptured facial hair, he might be considered cute. I look into his twinkly green eyes and wide smile and search for a sign that I fancy him; a tingly feeling in my gut, a fluttering in my heart, a butterfly in my belly. But so far, there’s nothing.
When the waiter brings the bill over, Hamza won’t even let me look at it, let alone get my wallet out, despite my protests.
It’s almost ten when we finally walk out of the warm, cosy restaurant and into the cold January night. Walking through London at this hour, with a man by my side, feels strange, but I have to admit that it feels comforting as well. I don’t know if it’s the magic of Leicester Square, or it’s the fact that I’ve spent most of the evening laughing, or it’s because of the delicious meal, but right now, I feel pretty content.
‘This is me,’ Hamza announces when we stop in front of the entrance of the Tube station.
‘It’s me too,’ I reply after a moment, still lost in my thoughts. ‘We’re going on the same line remember, but I’m going in the opposite direction to you.’
‘Oh, er, about that,’ he stammers, shifting from one foot to the other. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but, er—’
‘What?’
‘I hope you don’t mind but I ordered an Uber for you.’ The words tumble out of his mouth, as if the faster he says them, the less likely I am to be offended by the interference. ‘I didn’t know your address, though, so I scheduled it for Finsbury Park Station. You can give the driver your postcode.’
‘You what?’ Now that’s unexpected.
‘I know it’s a bit presumptuous of me, but it’s quite late and it isn’t safe for you to be getting the Tube at this time.’
I stare at him as I try to figure out what to say. He looks back at me sheepishly.
‘I can’t let you do that, Hamza,’ I say once I’ve finally got my words back. ‘Thanks, but I’m perfectly capable of getting the Tube.’
‘I know you’re not some damsel in distress, Zara, but I don’t feel comfortable with you having to take public transport at this time. You’re out late because of me, so let me sort out a safer way for you to get home.’
Once again, I give up and accept the gesture as gracefully as I can. He looks relieved; and when the car pulls up, we stand awkwardly for a moment, unsure of the correct etiquette to part ways. He leans in for a hug and I half reciprocate it and half jump into the car.
It’s only once we’re a good few minutes away from Leicester Square that I lean back against the seat and let out a deep breath. Making the most of having phone signal over ground, I call Layla to get her advice on Hamza.
‘Wagwan, sexy one,’ she sings down the phone when she picks up – like she’s been doing every time I’ve called her for the past twelve years.