‘Why not? Don’t tell me you’re one of those nutters who doesn’t eat carbohydrates?’
‘I do usually, but remember that list I told you about? Doing this programme called the Whole 30 is part of it.’
‘You don’t look very happy about it,’ he observed solemnly as he began to dig in with vigour with his hands. I picked up my cutlery. I had to do everything that was in my power not to ruin my beautiful new outfit.
‘I’m not,’ I admitted. ‘But I wasn’t happy reading over a thousand pages of Ulysses and I still did it. If I only do the things on the list that are easy, then what’s the point?’
‘True,’ he agreed. ‘And you found this list on the Tube, you said?’
‘Yes. Well, it was in a notebook. But the notebook was left behind on the Tube.’
‘I don’t know if that’s the coolest or craziest thing ever. To find a random list and then start doing the things on it, no matter how difficult or challenging they are . . . You’re something else, Maya.’
I caught his eye; he was gazing at me almost in bewilderment. I shrugged.
‘It’s changed my life,’ I said. ‘The more things I do, the more I experience and the more I grow and get out of my shell. It’s pretty liberating.’
‘Hang on,’ Zakariya said suddenly, ‘is that why you attended the art class? Was it on the list?’
Surprised (but also not surprised) that once again he had opened up a contentious topic, I wondered if I should use the opportunity to tell him off again. But as I looked at his earnest face, I couldn’t bring myself to say something that would alter the mood, so I nodded.
‘Yep. Well, the list actually said I had to attend an art class and I booked that one without thinking. I had no idea what I was in for.’
‘So you really were there by mistake? I’m sorry for my idiotic comments. I often say the wrong thing at the wrong time.’
‘It’s OK,’ I shrugged amicably. ‘It happens to all of us.’
The night flew by and we talked about work, the Arabic lessons, his move to Dubai and all the other things I had done, and was planning to do, on my list. When I told him about trekking Mount Snowdon, he looked at me in surprise.
‘The charity I volunteer for is doing a sponsored Snowdon trek next month, I think,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t going to go, but if you want to do it, I’ll join you.’
He volunteered for a charity? Why was I so hasty in rejecting him? It made complete sense at the time. He was judgy at the art class and arrogant at the dekha dekhi. How was I supposed to know that he was, in fact, an endearing, Arabic-learning, charity-volunteering, mountain-trekking knight in shining armour who rescued annoying girls stuck in the rain? Yes, he was serious and he didn’t laugh much, but who cared? If I wanted to laugh all the time, I would have looked for a comedian.
I’d had so many arguments with my parents about not giving him another chance and it was beginning to look like they were right. Now it was too late. He was no longer interested in me; his pride had been bruised and he was moving to another country. The most I could hope for was to be his friend.
Zakariya polished off three full plates of food and dessert, while I watched him miserably, wishing I could do the same. He also insisted on footing the bill, his justification being that there was no point in me paying for my share since I ate so little. I let him. It was the first time I’d had dinner with a man that wasn’t some guy I was doing a project with at uni and it felt nice to have someone look out for me.
Afterwards, we walked down to the station together and caught the same train to King’s Cross, the conversation still flowing like a river. There weren’t any pauses, comfortable or otherwise.
On the train, we sat across from each other and I couldn’t help but compare him to the last man I had conversed with on the train. Zakariya – or Zak as he preferred his friends to call him (I was a friend now? Wow!) – was the opposite of Noah. He was as dark as Noah was fair, his build leaner and narrower, his style muted and subtle. He was also shorter, with shiny black hair. Noah’s was more of a medium brown and looked coarser than Zak’s.
In the looks department, Noah was a head turner, but Zak was also attractive. Not in the obvious, ‘look at how hot I am’ kind of way, more in a slightly geeky, well-mannered sort of way, if that made any sense. I wasn’t sure whose look I preferred, but based on personality and the fact that I had spent much more time with him, Zak had definitely taken over the role of Leading Man in my life.
King’s Cross Station came far too quickly. We both got off, with Zak hanging back so I could alight first. His manners were impeccable and I wondered if his dad was like that with his mum. His dad hadn’t looked chivalrous. He looked like any other uncle who didn’t have a beard and chewed too much paan.
‘This is where we part,’ I said brightly a few minutes later. I felt an odd, tugging sensation deep in my ribcage. ‘Thanks for dinner and the Arabic school recommendation.’
‘It was my pleasure,’ he replied, giving me an easy smile in return. ‘See you next week, Insha’allah.’
‘See you.’
I turned and began to walk in the direction of the Piccadilly Line and it took all my willpower not to look back to see if he was watching me.
Chapter Nineteen
The next couple of weeks raced by. Work was extra busy, as it always was after Christmas and New Year’s when clients suddenly woke up to the fact that they hadn’t done anything in the past month and were behind on their deals and contracts. Between work, Arabic classes, Arabic homework and running, there was very little time for much else.
Zak and I hadn’t hung out after class again. The week after my first lesson, I saw him briefly as we were entering the building and then Nadira and I went for dinner after class. The two weeks after that, I didn’t see him at all. I had lost count of the number of times I picked up my phone to text him to see if he was OK, but I always stopped myself. Desperate wasn’t a good look on anyone, least of all me.
Lucy and I were also on day twenty-two of the Whole 30. We had become used to the restrictions and our complexions and hair were beginning to look brighter and more lustrous. We had also got to a point where we stopped accidentally adding dairy to our tea and feeling hangry all the time. I had, anyway. Lucy still looked weary and was less patient than usual. I had asked her more than once if she was OK, but she claimed it was because she missed sugar and alcohol. I couldn’t force her to tell me what was on her mind, so I decided to let her come to me whenever she was ready.
‘Maya, check this out,’ she said one day, entering the little kitchenette where we often ate lunch together. I was in the middle of devouring my baked salmon and avocado salad and put my fork down to take her phone from her.
‘You did it!’ I cried, taking in her brand-new Instagram page. The first post was a stylish black and gold logo with the name StyledByLucy in simple lettering. ‘It looks amazing! So classy and elegant. Congratulations, Luce!’
My grin faded when I opened the next post. On the screen was a before and after picture of me and it was simply horrifying.
I stared at the screen, at the girl on the left. Me. Did I really use to look that bad? I couldn’t have done. But the photographic evidence was right there, in my hand, my shortcomings highlighted by the ‘after’ picture on the right. Dry, frizzy black bush on the left. Sleek chestnut waves on the right. Blotchy, discoloured complexion on the left. Smooth, glowing brown on the right. Unruly, uneven eyebrows versus perfectly manicured beauties. Drab, ill-fitting, functional jumper and jeans combo beside a tailored, flattering, stylish trousers and top ensemble. The left me – the old me – oozed misery and insecurities. The one on the right radiated confidence and happiness.
Neither were me. Both were me, depending on the day and circumstance. But the picture didn’t paint a 3D, layered, nuanced story of me. Maybe the caption did, I thought in desperation. Maybe the caption conveyed that I wasn’t a miserable ogre before the makeover and while I loved my new look, it didn’t completely change my life as the photo implied. My eyes anxiously scanned the words, my heart pounding:
Hey everyone, let me introduce you to my lovely client, Maya, who came to me for some simple style advice and ended up going for an entire image makeover! Maya was a beautiful woman hiding beneath boring, dull clothes that did nothing for her figure. She had thick hair that was in desperate need of some TLC and needed a little guidance on what makeup worked best for her and what clothes would suit her fuller figure. Six hours was all it took to transform Maya’s life. And here’s a secret – she went home with a mysterious man later that evening! I saw her climb into his Mercedes myself. DM me if you want to be #StyledByLucy #fashionblogger #style #london #selfridges #MACCosmetics #fashion #OOTD #imageconsultant #makeover #beforeandafter #makeup #trends #glowup #glow #hotgirlwinter
What. The. Hell.