Two Steps Back (13 page)

Jaylah moved through the space looking for Jourdan and trying to decide on whether or not she’d finally have a glass of wine. Although she’d Googled “wine + pregnancy” several times trying to
be sure that an occasional glass wouldn’t harm the baby, she hadn’t decided if she would actually take the plunge.

Walking
through the gallery Jaylah admired Jourdan’s work. Her friend’s PR firm had spearheaded this year’s 30 Under 30 opening, showcasing the most promising emerging artists in the city and connecting them with the people who could be the difference between giving up their passion to get a day job, or being a world-renowned artist.

For months Jourdan vented about the difficulty of putting on such a show and how some of the more pretentious assholes, as she called them, took longer to confirm they would attend. But gazing out over the crowd it was clear Jourdan had pulled it off, and hopefully, it meant the tiny PR firm she’d started after dropping out of university
at 21 to throw parties could finally spread its wings and fly.

“You did it, J,” Jaylah said, looping
an arm around Jourdan’s waist, startling her friend. “This looks amazing!”

Jourdan hugged Jaylah
and grinned. “Can you believe it? I thought it would never come together!”

“But
it did!” Jaylah said, letting her eyes travel around the room again.

“I’m such a
bloody mess, though. I need a drink to calm me down. My heart is pounding like I just ran a fucking marathon and you
know
I don’t run!”

Jaylah laughed and shook her head. “Girl, me either. I believe a toast is in order. Let’s get you a drink.”

The pair walked toward the bar, which was situated along a wall of windows overlooking Wharf Road. Seeing her friend dressed in a chic paisley print jumpsuit, black blazer, and red heels made Jaylah feel underdressed. She’d planned on wearing the Duro Olow pencil skirt Johnny had bought her a few months ago and burgundy blouse, but she couldn’t zip it up. Jaylah was forced to settle on a black shift dress that made her feel like a cow and a pair of nude wedges instead.

“What would you like to drink?” the bartender asked them when they made it to the front of the line.

“Two glasses of champagne, please,” Jourdan said before Jaylah had a chance to speak up. “The good stuff from the bottom shelf. And don’t be stingy,”

Jaylah cocked an eyebrow at her friend. “It’s a celebration. I won’t let you mak
e it a habit, and I won’t let anything happen to Nemo on my watch.”

When Jaylah got her glass she
inhaled deeply, letting the bubbles tickle her nose before taking a tiny sip, hoping to stretch the decadent glass out for as a long as possible.

“So where’s the boy. Working late?” Jourdan asked after taking a gulp of
her champagne.

“No, meeting with his solicitor. He might meet us later for dinner if you
’re up to it.”

“Everything alright?”

Jaylah shrugged. “He says so, but I’m not sure. Fiona filed her own divorce petition. She’s suing him for adultery.”

Jourdan’s eyes went wide. “What?”

“Exactly. When he filed the papers he chose ‘unreasonable behavior’ as the grounds because he said it was the easiest, less messy option.”

“Right
, so I’ve heard. But she doesn’t want to go along with it?”

“I guess not. His solicitor thinks it’s just a negotiation tactic. Maybe she’s just trying to protect herself. I can’t really blame her.
I mean, if I were in her shoes I’d probably do the same thing.”

Jourdan nodded in agreement,
but her head suddenly snapped up. “Wait. Is she naming you?”

“Naming me i
n what?”

“Her petiti
on. That’s an option, you know, especially if you claim adultery. You can name the other person and they get pulled into the proceedings.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Jaylah said in disbelief.

Naming me? Would Fiona do that?

“Not at all. Happened to a mate of mine. He had an affair with this older woman, I didn’t quite get it, but whatever. A
nyway, when the husband found out, he divorced his wife and named my mate in the petition. He had to go to court and everything.”

Jourdan’s words crashed into Jaylah like
a hurricane, threatening to knock her off balance. Would Fiona actually sue
her
for adultery? And what would that even mean? Could it mess with her immigration status? Would the UK suddenly find her unworthy of a Visa because she was amoral?

Jaylah resisted the urge to bolt out of the gallery and find Johnny to get some answers. She could deal with helping him through the divorce, but she absolutely did not want her name sullied by Johnny and Fiona’s relationship drama. He said it himself; this was not her fault. But why did it always feel like it was?

“Be right back, Jay. I need to go chat with that bloke over there. He owns a galley in Mayfair.
A big one
. Maybe I can convince him to come on as a client.”

Jaylah could do little more than nod.
All of the excitement she just had was zapped away by the thought of being branded an adulterer
in court.
Jaylah couldn’t give Jourdan her typical “go get him girl!” pep talk right now, not that her friend needed it anyway.

She fumbled through her
purse to get her phone and sent Johnny a frantic text message: “CALL ME WHEN YOU GET A CHANCE!”

Forget dinner, there was no way she could eat now until she knew whether or not Fiona was going to stamp her with a scarlet A in the pages of her divorce document.

Does she even know my name?

The thought gave Jaylah a momentary reprieve. Johnny wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t give his
ex-wife Jaylah’s name as ammunition; he had probably told her that he’d met
someone
. Some vague, ambiguous woman who had reminded him what love was supposed to look like.

Jaylah exhaled and drained the last of her champagne, immediately wanting another glass.

“Dammit,” she said under her breath, knowing that another round of bubbly would be irresponsible, although it might calm the jumble of nerves growing in her gut.

She fired off another
message. “Does Fiona know my name???? Is she naming me in the petition??? I NEED TO KNOW!”

Jaylah fidgeted in place like someone trying to conceal a drug habit. Normal movements like gazing around the room
, or checking her phone, or waiting for Jourdan to drift back over and put her mind at ease suddenly looked manic and uneasy. She thought about leaving and running off to find Johnny again, but she couldn’t do that to her girl. She promised Jourdan she’d be here, and no matter how uncomfortable or crazy she looked, she was staying until her friend was ready to leave.

Instead of grabbing another drink or heading to the exit
Jaylah decided to walk around and actually look at the art. She hoped focusing on something other than the shitstorm brewing in her mind would release the knot growing in her belly.

After checking out a group of black and white photographs chronicling Brixton in the 1970s and 1980s, Jaylah paused in front of a painting of a naked woman with wild hair and round hips. The woman was leaning against
a multicolored wall, her expression lusty yet forlorn, and her hands gesturing to someone that was out of the frame. Jaylah couldn’t take her eyes off the woman whose dewy brown skin made her seem regal and almost otherworldly.

“
You like that one?” a man’s voice said from behind her. Jaylah nodded, but never took her eyes off the canvas. “She reminds me of you.”

Jaylah laughed to herself.
How could this magnificent woman remind anyone of me?
she wanted to ask, but she politely thanked the man without looking in his direction.

“I’m serious, Jaylah,
” he said, rolling her name through his mouth like it was a familiar tune. Jaylah’s headed ricocheted toward the voice, and she saw the man shrug. “You were my muse.”

She studied his face, took in his thick eyebrows, perfect olive skin,
and gorgeous brown eyes. He smiled and a bolt of electricity shot through her body as a scene from their night together flashed through her head. “Faraj…”

He steppe
d in close, gently kissed both her cheeks and squeezed her hand. “It’s been a while, yeah? I guess that night wasn’t as great as I remember.”

Jaylah blushed. He had it wrong, all wrong. T
heir night together was incredible. Jaylah had never had the gall to take a man she’d met in a club home, but there was something about Faraj she just had to have. He looked at her with unabashed desire and it made her feel sexy in a way that she’d never felt before that night. Jaylah could have easily gone back for more,
much more
, but she told herself that she didn’t want to get caught up in anything serious.

She sh
ook her head; that’s exactly what she’d gone and done anyway.

“No…it was,” she admitted quietly.
Faraj was standing so close Jaylah could smell his scent, an intoxicating mixture of ylang ylang and sandalwood; she had to stop herself from inhaling. “I just…I wasn’t planning on staying in London,” she stammered. “I…I was only supposed to be here for a few months and I didn’t want to get too involved and then leave.”

“But now you’re here…”
Faraj said, letting the rest of his sentence trail off in a way that signaled he wanted whatever she was willing to give.

“
Yeah…” Jaylah fidgeted like a crackhead again. “I am.”

H
e broke their gaze and turned to the painting that had captured her attention in the first place.

“I painted this about a month after we met. You never called and I still couldn’t get you out of my mind. This is the only thing I could think to do to get over you,” he said
meeting her eyes again. “But it didn’t quite work, innit?”

Her face
grew warm, and Jaylah felt a familiar tingling building between her thighs. For the first time since they met, Johnny wasn’t the only man turning her on.

“So what made you stay in London? A man?” Faraj asked, his eyes hoping for a different answer than the one he offered.

Jaylah cleared her throat, trying to quell the desire creeping its way through her body. “I got a job,” she spluttered. “With
Glamour
. I write a column.”

“Oh really? About sex and love? Girly things?” he said, chuckling.

She found her voice. If there was one thing Jaylah could talk about without feeling awkward no matter who she was speaking to it was work. “No. I cover lots of different things—theater, restaurants, music, art. Basically if it’s hot in London I want to write about it.”

“
Am I hot enough to be in your column?” he said, dropping his voice a seductive whisper.

Jaylah resisted the urge to bit her lip. Faraj was hot enough to be anywhere he damn-well pleased. A memory of them making out in the back of a cab flashed before her eyes but she quickly
tried to push it out of her her brain. “Well, it looks like you might be. For starters you’re in this show.”

“So, how can
I convince you to write about me? Do I need to take you to dinner?” He smirked.

“I’d need to see more of your work, hear your backstory. You know the usual,” Jaylah said, trying to keep things strictly
business.

“Okay, come by my studio tomorrow. It’s in
Clapham. I’ll show you everything I have.”

“Tomorrow probably won’t work—“

“Then come tonight.”

“Not happening,” she said, enjoying
their playful tête-à-tête.

Faraj laughed and threw up his hands.
“I had to give it a shot. How about this. You give me a call when you’re ready for me and we’ll hook up.”

When you’re ready for me…

Faraj’s double entendre echoed through her head, but Jaylah ignored it, excited by the idea of breaking a relatively new artist in her column. “Okay. I just need your number again, do you have some paper?”

He grabbed her phone, which she was still
clutching in her hand, and punched in his number. Then Faraj stepped in close and whispered in her ear. “Now you won’t lose it. I’m available,” he said, kissing Jaylah on the cheek again, “whenever you want me.”

Calling Faraj was as risky as
lighting a match in a drought-ridden savannah, but as she watched him saunter away, Jaylah already knew that she would.

Seventeen

“I need you to talk me out of something,” Jaylah said, as she walked to the Tube on her way to Faraj’s studio in Clapham. It had been a week since they’d bumped into each other at the 30 Under 30 exhibit and for the last seven days Jaylah had been trying to talk herself out of seeing him again. But when she pitched the idea to her editor, Hillary seemed excited about featuring one of London’s budding artists before he blew up.

“
You could be like Philip Faflick,” Hillary had said when Jaylah mentioned Faraj.

“Philip who?”

“The first reporter to write about Basquiat,” she said like it was common knowledge.

“I doubt Faraj is the next Basquiat,
Hillary.” The thought sounded completely ridiculous. Based on his paintings at the exhibit it was clear Faraj was talented, but the next SAMO? Jaylah couldn’t fathom it.

“Basquiat wasn’t Basquiat back when
Faflick wrote about him. He was just some homeless kid from Brooklyn. This could be big for us, Jaylah, especially if he turns out to be really talented.”

Jaylah knew Hillary had a point, but the thought of being close to Faraj frightened her. Not because he was dangerous,
or she thought he would hurt her, but because she was so excited to be near him again.

“What exactly am I talking you out of?” Jourdan
asked, bringing Jaylah back to the present.

“I’m meeting Faraj in an hour to
see his work.”

“
Faraj from the show? Wonderful! But why do you want me to talk you out of it?”

“Because…it’s Faraj. And I shouldn’t see him, right?” Jaylah
sighed, hoping her friend would convince her to skip the appointment. She had reached the train station and was pacing back and forth, weighing her options.

“
I don’t understand. Why shouldn’t you see him?”

“You don’t remember Faraj?”
Jaylah asked.

“Yes, of course. He was one of the artists f
rom the 30 Under 30 show, yeah?”

“Well, yes, but—
“ Jaylah exhaled, it was clear Jourdan had forgotten all about the man Jaylah danced with the night the women first hung out. It was seven months ago and Jourdan had left them alone to get acquainted and make out with another man across the room. Perhaps she really didn’t remember him.

Jaylah stood at the entrance of Arsenal Station trying to decide if she should head down the tunnel and get on the train
or if she should go back to her flat. Of course she didn’t reveal her tentativeness about meeting Faraj to Johnny. She only mentioned their interview, but left the details of their meeting—and their history—completely out of the conversation.
Why complicate things?
she told herself, especially when this was only work.

Still,
Jaylah was uncertain she should see Faraj at all and hoped Jourdan would give her a reason to call the whole thing off.

“
Ali Baba,” Jaylah finally said, hoping Jourdan’s off-the-cuff nickname for Faraj would jog her memory of that night. “He’s is Ali Baba, remember?”

“Shut up!” Jourdan squealed into the phone. “No fucking way!”

“Yeah.” Jaylah rubbed her temples, thankful she and Jourdan were finally on the same page. “Now you see why I shouldn’t go?”

“No
t really. That was like a million years ago.”

“
Seven months,” Jaylah corrected her.

“Same thing. Look, I’m sure he’s forgotten all about it by now.”

Jaylah lowered her voice when she saw the man at the newsstand smiling at her. He’d seen her and Johnny together on several occasions and always commented that he was a lucky man to have such a beautiful girlfriend. Jaylah didn’t need him overhearing her conversation and passing it along to Johnny when he bought the
Financial Times
on his way to the office.

“His pa
inting in the show was about me. He said I was his muse,” she said in a hushed tone. “And not for nothing, but he didn’t
sound
like he was over it when we spoke at the gallery.”

“Didn’t he notice you’re engaged? I
can spot that ring from a mile away.”

Jaylah
peeked at the newspaper man again. “I wasn’t wearing it.”

“Are you wearing now?” Jourdan
quizzed, and Jaylah glanced at her empty finger as if she’d forgotten the ring was still in the box on top of her dresser. She shook her head even though Jourdan couldn’t see her.

“You need to tell him,” Jourdan said,
probably sensing Jaylah’s silence meant she wasn’t wearing the ring. “And you need to tell Johnny that you’re have doubts about getting married.”

Jaylah suddenly felt like she had been slapped. Her voice rose
higher than she intended.

“I don’t have doubts,
” she objected to Jourdan’s accusation, even though it was true. She did have doubts, about
everything
. If she’d be a good mother, if she and Johnny would survive his drama, if she was ready to have her life altered in the most jarring of ways—twice.

“What would you call it then? Because that man thinks you’re engaged and you’re running around without your ring.”

“I…I…just,” Jaylah stuttered, feeling uncomfortable at the thought of second-guessing her relationship with Johnny. “I just need more time. Everything’s moving so fast. We just need to slow down a little, that’s all.”

“Then you need to tell him that, Jay. Listen, I know you love him, and
I know he loves you, but you can’t keep leading him on.”

“I’m not leading him on!”

“Oh yeah? Then when’s the wedding? Because I need to buy a new dress.”

Jaylah fell silent. What could she say? Everything about her relationship with Johnny felt
unsettled. She wouldn’t even dream of setting a wedding date until his divorce was final, and even then, she wasn’t sure she was ready to be a mother
and
a wife all at once.

Just like that.

Her life had gone from completely unexciting to damn-near too much to bear in less than a year; the speed of the shift was utterly terrifying.

“Look, I need to pop out to meet
with a client. But go see Faraj. Keep it professional, and if he tries anything, call me. I’ll straighten him out.”

Jaylah chucked at her friend’s overprotectiveness. Between her mother, Johnny, and Jourdan
, Jaylah had a crew of people who had her back and would run her life if she let them. She was thankful for all of them, but sometimes, especially with Johnny and her mother, their level of concern felt suffocating.

“Jaylah,” Jourdan said
, softening her tone. “You need to talk to Johnny. He deserves to know how you feel and you deserve to be heard.”

“I know,” Jaylah whispered. Jourdan was right. She
had to talk to Johnny, especially if she wanted them to make it as a couple. Jaylah couldn’t let her doubts fester and turn into an incurable cancer that would drag them both down. Even though she wanted to slow things down, she couldn’t comprehend not having him in her life.

“I love you
, sissy.”

“I
know,” Jaylah said, turning to head into the station. Before descending the stairs into the tunnel, she paused, “Love you back.”

* * *

As soon as he opened the doo
r wearing a paint-speckled tank top and low-slung jeans, Jaylah knew she was in trouble. Faraj’s smile was wide and welcoming, and his eyes shone like freshly polished mahogany. She followed him up the stairs to his crowded studio that also doubled as his flat, taking note of what looked like dozens of canvases leaning against the walls, which were already bursting with kaleidoscopisc paintings in every hue imaginable. Faraj’s space was almost too much for her heightened senses to take, her attention stolen by one thing then distracted by another.

“Can I get you something to drink? I have beer, wine,
water?” he asked, standing next to her as she spun in a slow circle taking it all in.

“Water. The colder the better, please.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and Jaylah walked around the airy living room, which appeared larger because of the row of bay windows facing Kings Avenue. She moved through his flat inspecting exotic-looking knickknacks and trinkets from his travels, then Jaylah paused at the mantle, gazing at a photo of Faraj riding a camel in the middle of the desert. Even though a scarf covered his face and head, she knew, just by looking at the intensity of the person’s eyes, it was Faraj.

“How old were you here?” she asked when he returned with her water.

“Twenty.”

“Why were you so sad?”

He stepped next to her and
their arms touched; a pang of electricity shot through her frame.  “What makes you think I was sad?”

She shrugged. “I can
just tell. Your eyes kinda give you away, and I don’t sense a smile.”

Faraj was silent for a moment, then moved closer to the picture, inspecting it like he needed to get a closer look. “I had just buried my father the day before
this was taken. I was feeling lost, like I was a ship without an anchor.” He picked up another photo of a smiling woman who had Faraj’s dark, sparkling eyes. “My mother,” he said, showing Jaylah the picture, “she died when I was 16. So when my dad died, I just felt completely alone.”

“
Oh Faraj, I’m sorry—”

He waved
off her condolences, stopping her mid-sentence. “It’s not your fault.” Faraj put the picture of his mother back on the ledge and seemed to get lost in his memories. Although it would probably make for a juicy backstory—struggling orphaned artist makes good—Jaylah suddenly felt like she was intruding.

“I thi
nk we should change the subject.” She tried to smile even though he wasn’t looking in her direction. “Let’s talk about something else, yeah?”

“My father was an artist,”
Faraj said, ignoring Jaylah’s proposed subject change. “He moved here from Morocco back in the 70s to study engineering at Imperial College. He was a very successful petroleum engineer, but in here,” Faraj pounded his chest, “he was an artist.”

Jaylah felt like she should be taking notes or recoding Faraj’s history for the article, but she didn’t want to cheapen the moment. Instead, she just listened,
transcribing all of the details to her memory.

“My mother was like the sun—bright, brilliant, sometimes blinding. She was all heart, all passion. Sh
e reminded my father of his art, even when he was forced to pursue other things to make money. She was the living, breathing embodiment of his work. My mother was his muse. And when she died…” his voice trailed off and he was silent again.

As a seasoned interviewer Jaylah knew she couldn’t rush
him. Moreover, she wouldn’t step on his recollections, because in truth, the silence made her feel closer to him. Although they had slept together Jaylah didn’t know anything about Faraj, or where he came from. Like the stories of the people who allowed her into their space, it drew her in.

So she waited, what else could she do?

After gazing at the photographs for several minutes Faraj opened up once again. “When my mother died, the fire seemed to go out in my father’s eyes. His passion was snuffed out, and soon, he was a zombie—walking around, but not living, innit. I knew it was only a matter of time before he joined her.”

Faraj picked up the picture of him trekking through the desert and grimaced. “You were right,
Jaylah, I was incredibly sad. After my mother passed away, my father said he wanted to be buried next to her back home, so I made sure to carry out his wishes. But when the ceremony was over I felt restless, like I needed to do something but didn’t know what.” He turned to look at her then. “Have you ever felt like that?”

“Yes,” she said slightly above a whisper. “That’s how I ended up in London.”

“Then you understand,” he said. “I was born here, you know. I only remember going to Morocco a handful of times. But for some reason I had this overwhelming need to reconnect to the land, to the people,
my people.
I hired a guide and I rode across the Sahara from Fez to Marrakech, just winding my way across the Merzouga Desert.”

“
Wow, that must have been incredible.”

“It was.
” Faraj smiled for the first time since Jaylah inquired about the picture; she felt relieved. “I watched the sun rise over the sand dunes, and even though they were gone, I felt so connected to my parents. It turned out to be one of the best experiences of my life. That’s when I decided to pursue my art. My father wished he could have, but he felt obligated to my mother and me. But I didn’t have anyone to be responsible for, so I just went for it. That’s sort of how I live my life. I just go for it.”

“And do you usually get what you want?”

“Not always,” he said looking into her eyes, “but it never stops me from trying.”