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‘I’m an aspiring journalist,’ she says. ‘I write for my school newspaper. I bought tickets today just to see you.’
‘Me?’ I ask. ‘Not – not Zayan? Because if so, I can take you to him.’
Jamilah ignores the offer. ‘I wanted to thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘For being the lead in this play,’ Jamilah replies, tone soft and reverent. ‘For not being the secondary character. For holding your own narrative. You’ve already done so much for young Pakistani girls like me, and I think you’re going to change the face of this industry.’
My throat aches with emotion, tears prick behind my eyelids and I just know that if I cry, Nur will kill me for ruining my make-up. Jamilah takes a pencil from behind her ear and a notepad from her bag, looking at me eagerly.
‘Before I go back to my seat, I was hoping I could get a quick quote …?’ she asks hopefully.
I motion for her to continue.
‘When people leave here tonight, what would you like them to be thinking?’
Immediately I want to tell Jamilah that I hope people leave with a sense of joy in their hearts, and heartbreak from the ending of the play. I want them to leave the Limelight thinking about what they’ve just watched, replaying their favourite moments in their minds and remembering our names. But that’s the surface-level answer.
‘I hope …’ I begin, scouring deep in my heart for the truth. ‘I hope people leave with an understanding of how multilayered this story is. It’s a play of forbidden love, of heartbreak, but also of identity. It’s about two people struggling to work out who they are, both alone and when with one another.’
‘And,’ Jamilah continues, ‘why do you think a play like this is needed?’
My lungs expand with the deep breath I take, fear crawling through my bloodstream, but I bite my tongue to temper it. I’ve spent too long ignoring this – weighed down by guilt, by terror, by worry – but I know the answer now. And I want to give an answer I believe, not some line I’ve been fed or some watered-down version of what I mean.
‘Because this play celebrates the colour of your skin, the roll of your accent, the country you come from, the religion you follow, the friends you have, the people you choose to love. It’s a play that will – hopefully – open doors for others.’
Jamilah’s pencil moves rapidly. I’m excited to see that printed online tomorrow. And scared – my truth will be laid bare for everyone to see. And not everyone will like it. But I can’t worry about that. Not any more.
I refuse to measure myself by anyone else’s standards. I think of Jamilah’s hopeful eyes, her soft words, her pride in me. I may not represent every Pakistani – and I physically cannot – but there’s a group out there that looks like me, speaks like me, has stories like my own.
I’ll go out on stage for them.
For me.
And that will be enough.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
We have a celebratory party at the end of our first show. Anushka and David have rented out the pub opposite the Limelight, and soon it’s filled with cast and crew members, friends, people from the audience and anyone else who wants to come and revel in our success.
‘You were stunning,’ Anushka shouts over the music. ‘Amazing. Fantastic. That final monologue? You killed it. Killed it!’
David is behind her, his face bright red with excitement. ‘Stunning. Brilliant. A star!’
‘And now we just have to do it again,’ Nur says, with a mock cheer.
‘You think you can make the audience cry with that final monologue to Zayan again?’ Ben asks.
I grin. ‘I can try.’
‘Where is he, by the way?’ Anushka asks, changing the topic.
‘Getting ready,’ I reply, while taking a sip of my coke.
‘I swear, you’d think he was coming to a fashion show and not an afterparty.’
I snort at her tone – no matter how derisive it may be, I know Anushka likes Zayan.
