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Stop it. Don’t ask him. Don’t. Ask. Him.
But his silence is starting to become so unbearable that I blurt out the next question. ‘How did Laiba handle it?’
As soon as I say it, I wince internally. Maybe even externally. Obviously, right now he won’t want to discuss his ex-girlfriend – the one I have a sneaking suspicion he’s still in love with, given that he’s sworn off relationships.
Zayan’s eyes flash with something harsh, a muscle in his jaw jumping from how tight he’s got. ‘She’s in the business as well,’ he mutters, sounding robotic as he speaks of his ex-relationship. ‘She knows how to handle herself.’
The ‘unlike you’ sits between us, unsaid. I’m about to apologize for bringing her up when he continues.
‘I’d be less concerned about my lifestyle, and more about your appearance from now on,’ he says, eyes dropping to my upper body. Had it been any other guy, I’d have called him out on it, but Zayan’s not leering – he’s analysing. ‘What are you wearing, actually?’
I look down at my outfit. Per Pierre’s request, I’m wearing my bright plum-purple short kurti stitched with gold designs on the borders. I got Maha to do my hair – after deep-conditioning it with my go-to Moroccan hair oil – in an intricate fish-tail plait to finish the outfit off. I left the flat to the sound of wolf-whistles from the girls. I even got The Tragedies’ approval – especially after Nur helped me pick out this outfit, since she is a first-year fashion student.
‘I’m wearing a kurti with a twist – you see, it’s short enough to be considered a shirt, but it obviously isn’t,’ I reply. ‘Why?’
‘It’s just very …’ He pauses, searching for the right word. ‘Pakistani.’
I’m instantly offended at his off-handed tone. ‘I am British-Pakistani.’
‘I know you are. It’s just – you wear your culture a lot. Don’t you want to fit into this country’s aesthetic? Don’t people stare at you on the street?’ Zayan asks, his voice taking on a genuinely curious tone.
I shrug, uncaring. ‘Sure. But it’s London; people wear wilder things. And I’m comfortable in my kurtis and kameezes – why should I sacrifice that?’
‘Because people will always know you’re South Asian,’ Zayan replies.
‘Why is that a problem?’ I ask. ‘Anyway, unless I’m dressed in Pakistani clothing, no one has ever guessed where I’m from correctly. I’ve had everything from “Are you from Saudi Arabia?” to “Wow, I’ve never heard an American accent like that!” But people never guess South Asian.’
Zayan’s reply is terse, the line of his broad shoulders tense. ‘You’ve got to be a digestible version of yourself. That means dressing a little more Western instead of Asian, like I do.’
That swell of pity rises inside me again. I wonder if this is why he took the TV-show deal, because he couldn’t see the harm he was doing to himself.
‘You do realize you’re giving up your culture for your career, right? You’re trying to fit into Hollywood’s version of diversity by toning down the very thing that makes you different.’
Clearly, Zayan doesn’t see that my response comes from a place of concern, because his next words are intended to hurt.
‘If you want to wrap yourself in the Pakistani flag, feel free to do so. But don’t expect it to be easy achieving your dreams because you’ve done so. Lesson number two, Farah: come to terms with the idea of sacrificing something you love for what you want.’
‘I want good advice. If you don’t have any, then maybe you aren’t exactly the best actor to be learning from,’ I shoot back, wishing the boy from yesterday would make an appearance today.
But my cheeks burn with the searing realization that he’s not wrong. Not entirely. He can wield his stardom like a sword, and I have no accolade-shaped weapons for myself.
The silence from before returns with a vengeance. I force a smile on to my lips again. The stretch of it feels unnatural. The paparazzi better get a good shot of us. Zayan’s eyes trail over my face; his own is lined with a look of something I can’t place.
When it’s our turn to order, I quickly request my taro milk tea and The Tragedies’ orders too, before letting Zayan do his own. His brow furrows as he looks over the menu. I’d have helped him if he wasn’t being so prickly.
‘Uh, could I get one mangonada, please?’ Zayan asks, with a lilt at the end of his question.
The Bubble-Me-Mine girl nods and goes off to make his drink. We stand in utter silence, and I avoid looking directly at him. A part of me wishes I could time-travel back and stop myself from questioning him, but at the same time I’m glad I did.
Unintentionally, I’m sure, Zayan’s unveiled another part of himself. I know he’s ambitious, but I never knew how much he was willing to give up to get where he wants to be. I can’t see myself doing the same in his situation. I can’t imagine giving up my sense of home.
‘What the –?’ Zayan’s bitten-off curse has my attention snapping back towards him in a flash.
He’s staring, half horrified and half awed, at the enormous drink being handed to him. The mangonada is sunset-coloured, with a tamarind candy straw and black tapioca pearls at the base. It’s much larger than my taro milk tea, which is sitting right beside it, along with the rest of The Tragedies’ drinks.
‘Would you like a large straw with that, sir?’ the Bubble-Me-Mine lady asks, and Zayan levels her with such an incredulous look that I can’t help the laughter that escapes my lips.
He shoots me a glare, making me laugh even harder, before gingerly picking up his order. I grab mine too, taking my first sip of sweet, vanilla-like goodness. I love this drink. Almost as much as chai. Almost.
