‘If you say so,’ she says ominously. ‘If you say so.’
We walk back to our corner silently, and I’m so engrossed in my thoughts that I don’t notice Kevin lurking around near my desk. It’s not until I sit down and take a sip of my tea that he coughs to make his presence known. I jump, knocking over my mug and spilling the scalding hot tea all across my desk.
‘Shit!’ I cry, leaping up and grabbing a handful of tissues. ‘You scared me, Kevin!’
‘Sorry. When you have a minute, come to my office so we can chat, please,’ he replies.
‘Sure,’ I say chirpily and I don’t think anything of it until I catch the grave look Adam exchanges with Francesca.
Once I’m done cleaning up the mess, I go into Kevin’s small, dull office with its eighties wooden furniture and ancient box files everywhere and look at him blankly with my red-rimmed eyes, waiting for him to speak. I can tell from the pained expression on his face that he’s not about to praise me for the amazing event I just threw. I shift nervously in my seat. Are we going through a restructure? Am I about to lose my job? Is this because I spent half an hour in the prayer room again?
‘Zara, I hate to do this because I know how hard you worked on the event, and it really was fantastic .?.?.’ he begins awkwardly and, as he struggles to find the right words to fire me, I feel my body turn cold with fear.
‘I’m so sorry!’ I blurt out. ‘I know my mind’s been all over the place recently, and I’ve not been at my best, but I promise it’s all over and I’m going to give this job everything! No more loitering in the kitchen ten times a day making tea, no more crying in the prayer room, no more passive smoking outside. I’ve just been going through some stuff but I won’t let my personal life affect my work anymore. I promise!’
I stare at Kevin desperately, my eyes once again beginning to water. ‘I love this job so much, Kevin. I need this job. It’s the only thing keeping me going right now. Please don’t get rid of me!’
‘Er,’ he falters, looking nervously at me, and then at the door, as if he wishes he could make a run for it. ‘I was actually going to ask you why Adam did the closing speech instead of you.’
‘Oh, right.’ I swallow nervously. Why didn’t I let him say what he wanted to say first? Why am I always such an idiot? ‘That.’
‘Yes. That.’ He smiles wryly. ‘Drink as much tea as you want, and passive smoke as much as you want. I don’t care so long as you get the work done. But that event was yours, and it should have been you closing it, not your graphic designer. Did you get cold feet? Do I need to send you on some sort of public speaking training? What happened?’
I wrack my brains for an answer that would be acceptable, but I can’t think of anything. ‘No, I’m fine with public speaking! I just had an incident outside the venue which momentarily incapacitated me,’ I ramble, as I cling on to the lifeline I’ve just been given. ‘It’s sort of gross, I don’t know if you want the details, but if you do, basically—’
‘No!’ Kevin almost shouts, looking panicked. ‘No, it’s OK. I don’t need the details. I just need your head in the game, OK? You three are my dream team. Let’s keep it that way, all right?’
‘Yes! Absolutely! Thank you and sorry. It won’t happen again!’ Before he can change his mind, I jump out of my seat and out of his office, well aware that I’ve just been given a second chance and I can’t mess up like this again.
I keep my head down for the rest of the day, feeling both ashamed and relieved. Adam and Fran try to engage me in convos but soon give up when they see that I’m not in the mood. How can I be? Despite my love life being in complete shambles, I’ve always prided myself on my work, but I nearly screwed it all up, and for what? A narcissistic midget with a nasty mouth on him?
Francesca’s analysis of Hamza’s pushiness bothers me as well. Has she got a point? Was his visit more of an ambush than a surprise?
Throughout that week, I take my phone out multiple times to call him. Even if he did ambush me, he still didn’t deserve to be confronted by two strange men acting like they had some sort of claim over me. He deserves an apology. But no matter how many times I tell myself that and hype myself up for a phone call, when it comes down to it, I can’t press the call button. Instead, towards the end of the week, I send another feeble text message.
Hey, Hamza, I hope you’re OK. I’m really sorry about last week. I swear to God that Adam is just my colleague and a friend of sorts. I don’t know why he was goading you like that. As for Mo – he was someone I used to talk to. We don’t talk anymore. Call me whenever you’re ready so we can sort things out x
He still doesn’t reply.
*
On Saturday morning, Mum sends Amina to my room to wake me up and force me to join them on their bi-annual trip to Luton, where both of my mum’s brothers live. When Nani lived in Luton we would visit every weekend without fail, but after she moved in with us about fifteen years ago, the trips dwindled to a couple of times a year.
‘I’m not in the mood for this impromptu visit,’ I moan at Amina as she pulls the covers off me.
‘You have to. Samia got back from Zim last night. Don’t you want to see her?’
‘Crap, I forgot about that,’ I mumble, rubbing my eyes and sitting up. Has it been two months since she left already?
‘Yeah, well, you’ve been a bit self-obsessed recently,’ Amina points out wryly.
As usual, we stop for tea and nastha, which can mean either breakfast or snacks in Bengali,at my elder uncle’s house before heading over to my younger uncle’s flat. Samia’s dad is two years younger than my mum, and whenever they get together, they spend hours singing old seventies music and reminiscing about the ‘good old days’ when they first came to Britain and things were ‘simple’ and life was ‘easy’. Mate, I’ve heard the stories and there’s nothing easy about going for a wee in an outhouse infested with spiders in the middle of the night, being one of three brown kids in a sea of white faces at school, or having to travel two hours to get hold of halal meat.
Straight after a massive lunch of ten different curries, Sam and I make our excuses and go and chill in her room, leaving the clearing up to Yas, Amina and Sam’s little sister Ameera. Well, I’m chilling and she’s unpacking, having returned from a two-month stint in Zimbabwe, volunteering in an orphanage.
‘What’s happening with your whole husband-hunting plan?’ she asks as I lie back on her single bed and sip my mug of masala chai.
‘You’ve come back from an epic adventure and we’re seriously going to talk about my boring life?’ I ask, rolling my eyes. ‘No thanks. Tell me all about what you got up to. I still can’t believe Suto Mama let you go.’