Before She Was Mine (39 page)

‘I never claimed otherwise. I’m sorry if that’s what you thought.’

His eyes were a boy’s eyes, full of bewilderment.

‘I’ll email every day, I promise, Frey. Nothing’ll change. Nothing.’

‘You reckon? It had bloody better do.’

Without thinking, without stopping to spook myself or work myself into a state of failure, I just turned and kissed him. For a fraction of a second there was hesitation, a instant where I
panicked, got ready to apologise and retreat.
God, God, sorry. I’m so drunk I don’t know what I’m doing. I was just resting my face. It’s my brain in meltdown after such
a weird day. Forget it, forget this whole evening. I never said those things, I never touched you. I was never here.

Then, in a rush of relief, I realised he was pressing his face against mine, surely and deliberately, kissing me back. Heat crept through me, dizzying. After a while, his fingers came up
possessively to my cheeks; in turn I stroked his hair and his stubbly jaw and felt the muscles work under the skin as he moved with me. Only once he broke away to ask, ‘Are you
sure?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

Then he lay down, drawing me with him, to settle into his contours. The rightness of it made me want to cry.

What have we been doing all this while, Michael?

Nothing. Waiting for you.

Thought it would be my fault.

He tasted of almonds and coffee, he smelt of Swarfega. I said, ‘You can fast-track a passport, anyway.’

‘Shush.’

‘Don’t tell anyone yet. It’s a big deal, let’s give it a chance before we go public.’

‘Whatever you want, Freya. Whatever you want.’

He pulled me hard against him and I wrapped my arms around his lovely warm, solid body. I felt my brain go quiet, for the first time in ages. And there we lay, holding onto each other against
all danger, while outside the darkness whirled with madwomen and topiary rabbits, mutant cells and grubby, discarded wedding invitations.

When I step inside I can’t for several seconds make out Michael, or any of the detail of the workshop at all. It’s always that way when you
come out of the bright sunlight here. Every room seems like a cave till your eyes adjust.

‘Frey,’ he cries when he sees me, and there’s such enthusiasm in his voice I go tingly for a moment. But I soon realise it’s not for me, it’s for the big lump of
metal he’s hefting forward for me to admire. ‘See what I’ve been doing.’

He lays it with careful effort on the concrete floor. This is a piece of cast aluminium the size of a large shoe box, marked down the sides with sets of parallel grooves and various round holes
that look as if they connect up to pipes.

I take a guess. ‘It’s a cylinder head.’

‘Excellent! We’ll make a mechanic of you yet.’

‘What was up with it?’

‘I’ve been grinding it out, making the exhaust port and inlet tract bigger.’

‘Why?’

‘To give more power. This little beastie sits on top of the engine and feeds in petrol and air. You’ve got your pistons going up and down underneath, and these valves are what
control the air and petrol going in and the exhaust coming out. The more efficient your head is, the more horsepower you’re going to get.’

Now my eyes are used to the ordinary light I can see his ramps and shelving, his workbench and tools, a crowd of big plastic containers, his manuals, his piles of rags. Half a year he’s
had to set up his oily kingdom, and I can tell he’s got it exactly how he wants it. This garage could be anywhere in the world.

‘What vehicle does it belong to?’

‘Minibus.’

That makes sense. There are minibuses all over Nablus; also loads of Eighties cars, Opel Cadets and Novas, Fiat 127s. About half of them look to be on their last legs.

I toe the cylinder head respectfully. ‘Have you got your Young Mechanics this afternoon?’

‘Yup.’

‘Can you knock off for lunch, though? I’ve got some news.’

‘Is it past twelve? Yeah, OK. So long as you don’t make me drink any of that sage tea again.’

He’s keen on the coffee. I think it tastes like liquorice dissolved in water with some mud added for thickening. But I’ve only been here two and a half months, so perhaps it’s
an acquired taste.

While he hauls the cylinder head back onto the bench and packs away his tools, I check through my tote bag for the printout of Liv’s latest email. He wipes his hands, nods at the bag.
‘You still insist on having it inside-out, then?’

‘It’s meant to be reversible.’ A patent lie. The bag lining’s snagged, wonky and unfinished, threads trail at every corner. This was Melody’s Christmas gift to me:
a square cloth tote with wide straps and a Union Jack emblazoned on the front. ‘I made it myself,’ she told me. ‘What I thought was, bags are always useful when you’re
travelling, and you won’t lose sight of this one or mix it up with anyone else’s. It’s unique.’

‘It’s your jacket.’ I’d recognised it at once.

‘Yeah. It didn’t look right on me any more. I thought I could put it to better use. I was going to make you a matching purse with the sleeve but I ran out of energy.’ Working
in the gallery’s made her very arts-and-crafty; it wasn’t a bad attempt at sewing for someone who’s only ever tacked up a hem. I was sorry for the jacket, though. It meant that
version of Melody had gone for good. ‘Do you like it?’ she’d asked shyly.

Without hesitation I’d said yes, it was brilliant, but in truth I worried about the wisdom of carrying my national flag into a conflict zone. I thought at the least it might cause
confusion. Then again, there was no way I was leaving the bag behind. It’s my little piece of home. Which is why I cart a bundle of ratty cloth round the streets of Nablus with me.

Michael dumps his rags in the bin and peels off his overalls.

‘What have you been up to this morning?’

‘Copy-editing again, for Natia.’

‘For her Refugee Voices project?’

‘That’s the one.’

We step out into the blinding sunshine and begin to pick our way along the pavements, navigating round potholes and piles of rubble and plastic oil drums. The façades of the buildings we
pass are shabby and covered in flyers and graffiti. Some are seriously damaged. Top storeys are open to the sky, walls lean dangerously. In a house I visited this morning with Natia, sawdust and
ants kept dribbling out of the window frames.

‘Some boys in the street tried to lift up my skirt with a stick,’ I tell him as we turn the corner.

‘What did you do?’

‘Natia shouted something and they all slunk off. Apparently she accused them of “bringing shame on their country”. Works every time, she reckons. Better than any
ASBO.’

Michael pulls an approving face. ‘I might try that when we get back to the UK.’

The café’s thick with fag smoke. Local men turn and stare, even though this is a place westerners from the project generally hang out. It’s more than curiosity;
Michael’s talked about this sense he has sometimes of being “owned”, people he’s never spoken to knowing who he is, and I’m beginning to get what he means. He likes
it, says it makes him proud. I don’t know what I think yet. We settle in a quiet corner and I dredge up my tatty bag once more.

‘So here we go,’ I say, fishing out the email to show him. ‘The latest project, a joint venture. Mel and Liv Mid-Life Crises Inc.’

Liv’s pasted in a photo of them both standing in the backyard at Love Lane, Elizabeth’s topiary rabbit between them. In direct comparison like that, the two women look as if
they’ve been moulded out of completely different materials. Melody’s small, slender, dark and neat, in black trousers, white blouse, black waistcoat; Liv’s Amazonian, wilder, her
jeans baggy and her footwear mannish. I think her hair – short, still, but her own – might be a shade greyer than when I left, or perhaps it’s just the light. Makes me wonder who
took the photo now we aren’t around.

‘Go on,’ said Michael.

‘OK. Everything’s ticking over, basically – Melody’s blooming at the gallery, Liv’s had the all-clear from her last check-up so things are looking great there, plus
they’ve found a new rare beetle on the reserve. So pretty positive, on the whole. Only now Melody’s come up with this list of things they’re supposed to “do before they
die”. She got the idea after they went to see the wrestling together.’

‘God, the wrestling. I’d forgotten about that. Not what we were expecting, was it?’

‘You’re telling me. Never in a million years would I have guessed they’d enjoy watching massive men in leotards roll about.’

‘But they did.’

‘Liv actually called it a “hoot”. Unless she was being ironic. Anyway, what happened was, a week or so afterwards, Melody read an article in one of her glossy mags about a
nursery teacher who’d had some terrible life-threatening illness. Even though she was cured, this woman, she found she couldn’t move on. She got all bogged down in the aftermath. So her
best friend started a To Do list for her and there was some mad bollocks task every day, stuff like giving a flower to a random stranger, having a tattoo, or whatever. And it got her up and running
again. It helped her recover mentally.’

The waiter comes and takes our order. Two policemen walk past the window, coloured scarves wrapped round their automatic rifles.

‘Is this two individual lists Mel’s dreamed up, or one list covering both of them?’

‘Two separate ones. Melody’s done Liv’s, and Liv’s done Melody’s.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I know what you’re thinking, but listen to this: this is what Liv says her tasks are for the rest of this year.’ I hold up the email and read aloud. ‘“Take some
kind of dance lessons, go to the Notting Hill Carnival, write a fan letter, eat sushi” – only she’s told Melody it mustn’t be from blue fin tuna – “and book a
cruise.”’

Michael winces. ‘Oh, see there, her first mistake. She’ll never get Liv on a cruise. Ever. Too much consumption, not enough wildlife.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. Liv says, after a load of research, she’s “managed to find a special nature cruise where you sail round the coast of Vladivostok in an
old Russian container ship. You sleep on iron bunks and you have to do some of the cooking yourself, but the bird species you see are amazing.”’

‘Bet they’re inundated.’

‘Hmm. She’s not actually booked it yet. Prising Geraint off his armchair’ll be a feat in itself. Unless she goes alone. She might do that.’

‘What’s she come up with for Mel? Actually, don’t tell me. It’ll be badger-watching, installing a compost toilet—’

‘Nope, you’re wrong again. Nothing like that. According to this she wants her to “learn to throw a pot, train for the Sport Relief Mile, take a cookery course, tour the Houses
of Parliament and attend any BBC recording of her choice.”’

He looks impressed. ‘No shit? I wouldn’t mind having a crack at a couple of those myself.’

‘I know. You thought Melody’s list would be all facials and makeovers, didn’t you? And Liv’s all environmental.’

‘Yup.’

‘To be fair, so did I.’

He takes the printout from me and studies it for a long time. ‘Funny girls. Ah well, if it keeps them out of mischief. Your rabbit tree looks good.’

‘It does, yeah. Melody wanted to release a helium balloon on the anniversary, but Liv explained to her about them choking turtles so she bought some butterfly garden lights
instead.’

‘Is it strange, your mothers palling up the way they have?’

‘I don’t think about it.’ I daren’t.

Michael was right: I miss Shropshire like hell. Especially now, in May. I miss the landscape, the greenness, cold rain, the silly flock of chaffinches that used to come to our feeder every day.
‘“Don’t forget to tell me about the wildlife,” Liv said in her very first email. But this is a busy, noisy town. All I’ve noticed so far are doves, storks and
blackbirds, oh, and Michael says he once saw an owl. Probably a lot more lives in the desert scrubland outside the city and in the mountains.

I miss seeing the fox who visits the nursery, and the cheeky jackdaws. I miss Ray, grumbling because he’s put his coffee down somewhere and lost it. I miss tending to the plants, little
seedlings pushing up, the smell of herbs and damp commercial loam.

I’m still not used to the weekend here being Thursday and Friday, and to the TV in our flat only showing two channels (both Arabic). I hate the way all surfaces are dusty, and that
it’s too hot to sleep. I miss the quiet, especially at night. Everyone’s inside by nine and there’s a lull then, but often you wake in the small hours and there are armoured
vehicles trundling down the road below. Sometimes you hear shouting, sometimes gunfire.

There are days I’d kill for a buttered Welsh cake, or a pork and apple sausage, or a paper full of fish and chips. The sight of a packet of Kellogg’s Bran Flakes – which,
strangely, you can get here no problem – gives me a serious pang of loneliness.

Nicky I miss twenty times a day, whenever something bizarre or upsetting or fab or funny happens and I want to turn round and share it with her. She’s now training in employment law, which
apparently is ‘even more interesting than corporate’; also she’s moved out of her mum and dad’s and is sharing a house in Chester with two other girls she met at the Young
Solicitors’ Group. It’s ‘ace!’, she says, ‘a mega-laugh!!’. I think there may be boyfriends orbiting, but nothing serious. She’s too busy having a ball.
Last week she emailed a photo of herself and her flatmates at some street festival, posing under the Eastgate Clock. Nicky looks particularly gorgeous at the moment because she’s had her hair
layered and changed her parting and it really really suits her. She’s like a new, upgraded model of herself.

My hair, in contrast, is flat and brown because I was sensible and dyed it back to its natural colour before I left England. Michael says the time for whacky hues is past, and insists it looks
better anyway. Maybe it does, I wouldn’t know. There are hardly any mirrors on the compound. I still find it astonishing he wasn’t interested in dating Nicky, though. ‘She’s
just too
clean
,’ he always says when I ask him.