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I can almost hear their thoughts as they do a double take: Is that Zayan Amin? Is that Hari Fairbanks? No. No. It can’t be. But, wait – he was shooting a TV series in London. But is it really him?
I follow Zayan, trailing behind in what I hope isn’t a creepy way. As he slides into his chair, I realize he’s not going to sit facing my direction. He’s got his back to me – his dark-green long-sleeved shirt stretches over his muscular shoulders as he answers a phone call. My throat dries up. I wish I’d ordered a cup of tea too.
I take a couple of seconds to collect myself.
You can do this. He’s just a boy. You’ve talked to boys before.
Yes, but not ones this cute!
I force myself to tamp down my internal monologue, giving a quick look back at the gang; Anushka gives a thumbs up, David nods encouragingly and Ben is grinning so widely it must hurt. Nur is the only one who looks as nervous as I feel.
Don’t let them down. Don’t let them down.
I turn back and move closer to Zayan, so I’m now within earshot of his conversation.
‘Listen, Pierre, I can’t do this play,’ he’s saying.
Every part of me screeches to a halt – my mind, my steps, the flutter that was pulsing in me before.
What did he just say?
His voice turns a little harsher with his growing frustration. ‘I don’t want to be on stage. I hate being on stage – I want to be in front of a camera, OK? Lacey knows this, and she’s still making me do this meeting.’ He pauses to listen, stirring his tea in short, frustrated swirls. ‘Look, I don’t care if Laiba supports this play. Her opinion is no longer my concern. I don’t want to be doing some kid-run play after spending years doing award-nominated TV and movies.’
A kid-run play. Like we’re children putting on some pantomime.
His voice pitches lower and I strain to hear more. ‘Sorry, Pierre, give me one second. I think there’s a fan waiting for an autograph.’
I’m not prepared for his expression as he turns to me – not for his full smile, or his slightly pointed nose, or his deceptively soft brown eyes – and a sledgehammer of disbelief whacks me straight in the head. How can he change his attitude that quickly? ‘Hi, would you like an autograph?’
There’s a slow-motion moment where I hear, very clearly, my grandmother’s voice in my head.
Anger is the feeling of the shaytan. Let it go. Drink a glass of water to cool your head.
Sadly, there’s no glass of water near me, but even if there was a whole river meandering through this cafe, it wouldn’t be enough to calm me down.
‘We don’t need anything from you,’ I snap, and his head cocks to the side. Briefly, I think he kind of looks like a confused puppy. Still, not cute enough for me to ignore what he said. ‘And we definitely don’t want your half-baked involvement in our “kid-run” play. So you can go back to your life in front of the camera, making TV shows that get cancelled after less than half a season.’
The recognition is slow to come, but when he realizes who I must be, he closes his eyes slowly and sighs deeply. If he makes any attempt to be placating, I’m not sure I won’t swing at him. I turn on my heel and stalk straight past The Tragedies, then out of the cafe. I hear their questions as background noise – faded, like a tinny buzzing – and in the depths of my anger I remind myself to message them once I’ve finally calmed down.
He hates being on stage?
I can’t believe I was trying to stop myself from drooling over him, when he just easily discarded something I love – no, something I need. Like how Tinker Bell needs her pixie dust – that’s the depth of my desire to be on stage. And people like Zayan Amin get full VIP access to my dreams, while I stand outside the stage door, begging to be let in.
Outside the cafe, I’m enveloped by the cool London air. There are far more people filling the cobblestoned streets of Covent Garden than when I first arrived. They force me to stop for a second, disorientation puzzling my senses as my anger slows to a low thump. As I ready myself to join the crowd and find my way back home, I hear a shout.
‘Wait!’
I stop, glancing over my shoulder to see Zayan weaving past people to get to me. I don’t know why I don’t keep moving – maybe a part of me thought it’d be worse if people saw him chasing me, or maybe thirteen-year-old me just isn’t ready to let the fantasy go. Either way, I wait for him.
He reaches me, and his words come out in a rush. ‘I am so sorry. You weren’t meant to hear that. I’ve been having a bad day, and I –’ The rest of his spiel is lost on me because my anger returns at full force. His voice. That tone. It’s the exact same one he used when he thought I wanted his autograph, the same voice I’ve heard him use in interviews. A disingenuous, polite, perfectly pitched voice made to soothe, made to allure, made to persuade you to like him. So different to how he sounded on the phone.
‘Don’t,’ I interrupt, incredulity colouring my tone. ‘I can see past this facade you’ve built –’ my hands wave dramatically – ‘and I’m not impressed. Like I said, The Tragedies don’t need you.’
His mask slips, and a curl of satisfaction settles in my chest. His jaw works as he chooses his next words, his eyes steelier than before – which for some reason sends a thrill down my spine. ‘Look, we got off on the wrong foot. I really didn’t –’
‘And I really don’t care.’ At my second interruption, a look of annoyance slides over his polite expression, and I notice a hint of his tongue kissing the top row of his teeth in frustration. ‘Let me say it a little slower for you: The. Tragedies. Do. Not. Need. You.’
This time I’m ready to leave. I’ve got my shoulders pinned back, no nerves curdling in my stomach, anger hardening my stance. In my peripheral vision, I see him reach out, likely so that he can keep me locked in a conversation I don’t want to continue.
