‘Wa Alaikum Salaam,’ I replied, offering him a stiff smile that was more grimace. Of course I had bloody made it! We had texted last night to confirm all the details. Why was he acting like he wasn’t sure if I would come? Was this for the benefit of his lady friend, who was looking curiously at me?
‘Salaams, I’m Zara,’ she said, offering her hand to me and smiling a perfectly straight, white smile. I made a mental note then and there to visit the dentist and get my teeth whitened. They weren’t bad, but they didn’t dazzle like hers did. I was suddenly desperate for dazzling teeth. ‘Zak is rubbish at introducing people. If I waited for him, we would complete the entire trek and I still wouldn’t know who you were!’
‘Salaams, Zara, I’m Maya. It’s nice to meet you,’ I lied, taking her delicate, manicured hand in my unkempt paw. She was speaking about him as if they were a couple and all the excitement I had felt at the day I was going to spend with Zakariya was replaced with nausea. Why had he invited me on a date with him and his . . . whoever this ‘Zara’ was.
Zara.
Zara and Zakariya.
Her name was an anagram of his. Well, partially. It sounded like a couple name, much better than Zakariya and Maya. Our couple name would be something hideous, like Makariya.
Zara began to chat animatedly about how she had got into fitness a few years ago and how she had wanted to do this trek for ages. She only recently started volunteering for Islamic Relief, blah blah blah. I tuned her out. All I could see was Zakariya’s reaction to her endless chatter. His eyes were bright as he absorbed her energy. The more she talked, the more deflated I became. I knew I would never be able to match that sort of vibe. If she was the disco ball in the centre of the room, I was less than the shadows dancing on the wall. I was the wall itself.
‘Hey, sorry I’m late, everyone.’
I was about to throw myself in front of the oncoming traffic when a deep voice came from behind me and I turned around to see the HOTTEST guy I’d ever seen. Literally. He was even hotter than Noah. I remembered Noah as polished and groomed; this man looked like he had rolled out of bed and straight onto the Tube, and still looked bloody amazing. He had chestnut-coloured messy hair and a beard that wasn’t sculpted like a royal park; more organic and natural, but still somehow neat and groomed. His eyes were almost hazel and he was so tall that he towered over us all. I forced my bottom jaw to stay connected to my top one as I soaked in his beauty.
‘Sorry, aşkim, don’t kill me,’ he said to Zara, throwing his arm around her. She elbowed him playfully and leant into his embrace. I looked at Zak to gauge his reaction, but he seemed genuinely happy to see this man. Could I have been wrong about the chemistry between him and Zara?
‘Salaams, Adam,’ Zakariya said, smiling. ‘This is my friend, Maya. Maya, Adam. See, Zara? I am capable of introducing people.’
‘Once doesn’t make you capable,’ Zara retorted. ‘Babe, did you get me a coffee?’
‘I did, indeed. Skinny latte, extra hot.’
‘I’ve trained you well, haven’t I, Turkish?’
‘You have indeed. I aim to serve.’
Ordinarily, I would have found all this cutesy behaviour a bit sickly, but instead I was relieved. Zara was with Adam not Zakariya! My spirits lifting, I raised my eyebrows at Zakariya and he shrugged. ‘They had their nikah recently, so they’re still in that loved-up honeymoon phase.’
‘What’s up with calling him Turkish?’ I asked quietly so they didn’t overhear. They were now talking to others in the crowd and I felt myself relax a little. The fact that they were Islamically married explained why they were comfortable with PDA in front of everyone, although I couldn’t imagine myself being tactile in public. I found it difficult to be myself in large groups, especially when I didn’t know anyone. My anxiety was beginning to kick in and I asked myself why I agreed to come on this stupid trek with a bunch of strangers. I should have done it on my own.
‘He’s Turkish,’ Zakariya shrugged, like it was normal to call someone by their ethnicity instead of their name.
‘You’d better not start calling me “Bengali”,’ I said, half serious, half trying to be witty.
‘Why would I? You’re not my fiancée. You’re some random who’s following me around,’ he retorted. Ouch! Was that supposed to be a joke? There was something in his tone that suggested that it was a dig at me, disguised as banter.
‘Oh, really? More like you’re some random who followed me to an art class and then showed up at my house, trying to marry me,’ I snapped, smarting at the implication that I wasn’t good enough to earn a nickname.
An uncomfortable silence followed and we both stood there, not knowing what to say next. We had hours left to spend together. If it was going to continue like this, there was a good chance of me jumping off the edge of the mountain.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The team leader came out of the coach and introduced himself as Musa. He was a short, broad man in his mid-forties, I guessed, with a big greying beard and a bit of a belly. He also had the strongest cockney accent I had ever heard on an Asian man and I suppressed a smile as he handed out forms for us to fill in, explained what the schedule was and checked our names off a register. When the formalities were complete, we all shuffled on to the coach, around thirty of us in total. Everyone seemed to know each other apart from me and, once again, I regretted my decision to do this without a proper friend by my side.
I climbed up the steps and waited behind Adam and Zara, wondering where I was supposed to sit now that things were awkward with Zakariya. He solved my dilemma by asking me if I preferred the aisle seat or window. Grateful, I told him I preferred the aisle – I didn’t want to be squashed between him and a wall. I didn’t tell him the reason, of course. He agreed genially and sat down. I sat next to him, hoping we had moved on from the earlier catty remarks.
Zakariya, I soon discovered, either had thick skin or didn’t hold grudges. Given the fact that he had been there for me multiple times despite my rejecting him as a potential husband, I guessed it was probably the latter.
Taking our coats off and stowing our bags, we settled into our seats and within seconds, Zak was fast asleep. So much for wondering what we were going to talk about for the entire journey. It looked like I wouldn’t need the conversation starters I had devised in my head and later wrote out in Noah’s notebook.
With a sigh, I took out my AirPods and looked over at him, sleeping away with his head against the window. He looked really cute with his eyes closed; his long, unfairly thick eyelashes resting across the crest of his cheeks. I was acutely aware of the (lack of) distance between us and though we were both in fleece hoodies, I could feel the heat emanating from his body. He smelt good too; spicy and warm, like Arabian oud and cinnamon. I swallowed nervously and looked away. Maybe sitting next to him wasn’t such a great idea after all.
‘Maya, do you fancy a snack?’ Zara asked and I turned to her. She was in the aisle seat across from me. Adam, next to her, had fallen asleep as well; his head rested on her shoulder and he was snoring gently with his mouth slightly ajar. I caught Zara’s eye and she smiled good-naturedly.
‘That boy is always either eating or sleeping,’ she said, pretending to be annoyed. But I could tell that she wasn’t. ‘Too bad he’s going to miss out on these bad boys.’ She held a plastic Tupperware out to me, containing still-warm samosas.
‘Thanks, I’d love one. I didn’t get a chance to have breakfast this morning.’ I took a delicate triangle from the container and bit into it. It was delicious, despite being lukewarm instead of piping hot. It had the right amount of chillies and spices in the mince, which was moist and juicy. I savoured every last morsel.
‘Yum, these are amazing,’ I told Zara. ‘Did you make them?’
‘Yeah, right,’ she laughed. ‘Don’t take the mick, but my gran made them. She makes loads every month, freezes them and then fries them whenever she fancies.’
‘Are you telling me your grandmother fancied eating samosas at five in the morning?’
‘Haha, no. But she’s a darling and wanted to pack me some food. Here, have another.’ She handed the box over to me again and I gratefully accepted.
As we bonded over our shared love of samosas and began talking more freely with each other, I learnt that Zara wasn’t Pakistani like I originally assumed, but Bengali like me. Her height had thrown me. Bengalis are notorious for being petite, including the men. If the shared motherland between us wasn’t bonding enough, I then found out she was a north Londoner as well, so we spent a good while longer trying to figure out if we had any mutual friends or family.
‘How did you meet your husband?’ I asked her once we had eaten her samosas and the spicy omelette paratha wraps she had also brought with her.
‘We used to work together,’ she explained. ‘And I guess he sort of grew on me.’
‘How were your parents about you marrying someone who isn’t Bengali? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘They’re fine,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Him being Turkish was never the issue.’