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‘I will cry when they sing ‘All I Ask of You’.’
‘I brought a handkerchief. It’s embroidered with my initials. Very soft. Good for tears.’ His smile turns devilish as he leans over the armrest expectantly. ‘I’m ready to hear my “Thank you, Zayan, you’re the best” now.’
I take a cursory glance around to see if there are any hidden cameras directed at us. When I deem the area safe, I pretend to lean in closer, like I’m going to press a kiss to his cheek.
Zayan’s eyes widen, his lips parting in anticipation, his body tensing. I notice that, surprisingly, he doesn’t move away. He stays still and ready. But right before my lips brush his cheek, I stop. His brows furrow in confusion, and I grin smugly because, for once, he’s the one who’s flustered. He’s the one trying to decipher one of my moves.
‘Thank you, Zayan,’ I say innocently, and then I reach out to pluck the handkerchief from his hand. His eyes drop to his now-vacant hand, still confused.
‘What?’ I ask, when he says nothing. ‘Were you expecting something else?’
He rubs a hand on his cheek, and then laughs – a reluctantly proud sound.
‘You’re very welcome, Farah,’ Zayan finally replies, his mouth flicking upwards. His eyes are lit up with a promise.
He’s going to get me back for that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
From the second the musical starts, my attention is stolen. I lose myself to the world of heartbreak and forbidden love being painted on stage, knowing I’m safe in the darkness of the theatre.
It’s only when the trembling opening notes of ‘All I Ask of You’ start that the memory of a conversation with Zayan plays in my mind. One of our 3 a.m. calls about The Phantom of the Opera – how he said it couldn’t be his favourite. This song will prove him wrong. I tear my eyes away from the stage to give him a smug smile, preparing my elbow to dig into his side, but I find him already watching me – comfortably, as if he never stopped looking.
His gaze is heated, his smile knowing, and I am unprepared for the combination of it. I tentatively grin back, before getting suddenly shy at the bluntness of his stare.
With Zayan’s eyes still locked on me, I turn back to the musical, allowing the song to lull me away. Tears prick in the corners of my eyes, the anguish of the character’s emotions cutting like a knife against the sinewy strings holding my heart together.
Slowly, painstakingly, I feel a soft brush against the delicate skin of my inner wrist.
What are you doing?
Zayan’s thumb circles the bone of my joint, growing more confident, before dipping back to my wrist. He can probably feel my thundering pulse against his fingertips. I hear his change in breath – the slight hitch in the rise and fall of his chest. I don’t shift away from him or make any sort of movement. I’ve never considered my wrist to be a particularly sensitive place, and yet every nerve in my body has been electrified.
As the song moves into dialogue, as the actors break and resurrect themselves on stage, as the music rises and falls and even when the scene with the chandelier crashing across the theatre passes, Zayan’s fingers never leave me. They pause, linger, move in a range of patterns, but they never leave. Not until the theatre lights brighten above us and we’re forced to get up from our seats.
‘Did you enjoy the show?’ Zayan asks as we step through the theatre doors. He speaks normally, like he hasn’t had his fingertips on the skin of my wrist for the last two hours.
‘It was one of the best I’ve ever seen,’ I reply, unable to hide my giddiness, unsure if we should talk about what happened in there.
‘Good. I’m glad.’
‘Thank you,’ I say earnestly. We’re walking out of the lobby now, people chatting all around us.
Zayan’s about to say something, probably something smug but sweet, when the sounds of shouting and cameras snapping fill the air. I’m blinded by white lights, stumbling backwards as black spots play across my vision. Zayan catches me, curls one strong arm round my waist, draws me close to his side. His voice is in my ear, fingers pressing into my waist.
‘Paparazzi,’ he says loudly over the questions being shouted our way.
‘Zayan! Farah! Are you two officially dating? Who are you both wearing? Zayan, what about Laiba? Both of you, look here! Pose here! Come on, give us something!’
My heart explodes in my chest, nerves fizzing in my blood. Zayan’s hand moves from my waist to the back of my head, and he gently pushes it down. I stare at my feet while he grips me close again.
‘We’re going through them. Keep your head low, and stay by me.’
Those are his last instructions before we’re launched down the steps of Her Majesty’s Theatre. The shouting intensifies as we wade through the cameras; my vision is filled with flashes, and my hearing is a cumulation of jeering and shouting. Only when Zayan all but deposits me in the car does everything become muted. He slips into the driver’s seat quickly, smoothly driving out of his parking spot. There’s a ringing in my ears, and my vision still has black spots dancing across it.
‘What was that?’ I grind out, disbelief colouring my voice.
‘That,’ Zayan says, aggravated, ‘was what I should’ve accounted for.’
