The Girlfriend Act, page 17
I scoff loudly, arms uncrossing. ‘I never wanted that! You’re the one who didn’t want this to be anything more than a partnership.’
‘Not true!’ he shoots back, his heated tone matching mine. ‘OK, partially true. But do you tell all your friends every single thing?’
I open my mouth to say a resounding yes before snapping it shut. The audition with the LSDCATS flashes like a bright neon sign in my head.
A smug, satisfied smile touches Zayan’s lips before softening. He edges closer towards me, breathing in deeply just as darkness starts to edge into the sunset.
‘I want to be your friend, Farah,’ Zayan says, his voice soft and firm all at the same time. ‘I like The Tragedies. I like the play. You make me like being on stage. I like that you and I know each other’s rituals.’ He swallows tightly, looking as if what he’s about to say next physically pains him. ‘I don’t have a lot of friends. I have old school friends that I’m out of touch with, one guy I grew up with, but that’s about it. I’ll be there whenever you need me. I’m dependable. I believe in loyalty above anything else. I’ll respect you when you don’t want to talk about things. I’ll defend you forever. So, if you’ll accept my friendship, I can promise you those things.’
My heart stutters, and a yes is on the tip of my tongue. But then I think of what saying yes really means. I’ll be around him even more now, this time with added friendship duties. What if my feelings change? When this was just a mutually beneficial partnership, I knew there was an expiry date on how long I’d get to be with Zayan. There was no opportunity for my feelings to evolve. But if we’re friends, I’m potentially agreeing to have him in my life forever. What if, somewhere in forever, my feelings for him go from attraction to something more? What if I start to want something from him that he can’t ever give me?
‘No,’ I blurt out, horrified at the realization. ‘I can’t.’
Zayan’s face transforms, shattering into hurt so quickly that it pulls at my heart. ‘Why not?’
‘Because …’ I trail off.
‘Tell me, Farah,’ he says, just above a whisper. ‘I can handle it.’
There’s no self-depreciation in his tone, no condescension either, just genuine curiosity. My chest aches when I realize he actually wants to know. He wants to fix himself, so it won’t happen again.
‘It’s because … because … Oh, fine, it’s because you’re attractive,’ I eventually say, all the words I held back before tumbling out now. ‘I think you’re good-looking, all right? And I’m worried that if we become friends it will mean further closeness, which will mean more attraction. I can’t promise those feelings won’t deepen. I can try to ignore them; I think it would be best if we didn’t tempt –’
Zayan’s laugh cuts off my rambling. It’s a violent laugh, one that judders through him. I watch, amusement coursing through me at the sound, even as my cheeks brighten a little in embarrassment.
His laughter finally fizzles out, and he scoots closer to me, our knees brushing. He leans in, eyes gleaming with delight. ‘Do you know how adorable you are?’ My blush heightens. ‘You don’t think it would be hard for me to be friends with you? You’re gorgeous, Farah. Have you seen yourself perform? You’re enchanting. You won’t be alone in reining your feelings in.’ His broad smile pushes a dimple into his cheek.
That abrupt beating of my heart from before has skyrocketed into something that can’t be entirely healthy. I need to say something, anything, before I dissolve into a puddle.
‘I know you’re not looking for a relationship, and that you’re focusing solely on your career. I’m doing the same thing, and either way, I want someone who’s in it for the long term. Someone who wants to fall in love,’ I say, and something in Zayan’s eyes dims. Like a spotlight fading. ‘I just don’t want to make it harder for you to stick to your relationship ban, if we’re already, you know, attracted to one another.’
Zayan says nothing for several moments, his gaze locked on mine, and I’d give anything to be in his mind right now.
‘I won’t let myself step over that line,’ Zayan says, his tone serious. But then his lips curve into a half smile. ‘Not unless you ask me to.’
My stomach clenches at the challenge in his voice. My fears are still there, but if Zayan is confident nothing is going to change between us, then I suppose I have to trust him not to cross that line – or to let me cross it.
‘All right, fine. If you don’t think it’s going to be a problem for you, then it won’t be a problem for me. We can be friends, and just that.’
His grin makes another dimple pop on his other cheek, and in a sudden movement he hoists me up by the arm and propels us so that we’re facing one another, our side profiles visible to the street.
‘Paparazzi. Lacey kind of told me that we needed to be photographed together today to help get our edge back from the LSDCATS,’ he says in the face of my confusion. Of course. That makes sense. No wonder he was sitting outside, waiting for me. However, surprisingly, his smile doesn’t melt into his practised one. ‘Thought we should give them a little something.’
Thinking of Lacey reminds me of the contract, and I look down to see I’m still holding it. Zayan’s gaze follows mine, and he gently takes the folder from my hands. He flips it open and reads the contract, regret shadowing his eyes.
‘I was going to sign it today,’ I explain, ‘and give it to you.’
He doesn’t respond to that. Instead, Zayan pulls the contract out of the folder, hands the plastic cover back to me, and rips the paper into big square pieces. He makes a show of letting them fall from his hands, like confetti, before silently meeting my incredulous stare.
‘That’s littering,’ I say finally.
He snorts, a new sound I’ve never heard from him. It triggers a laugh from me too. And then, the next thing I know, we’re in hysterics. About the fact that I didn’t want to be his friend because he was too pretty. About the fact that he was too emotionally unaware to ask for my friendship. About nothing. About everything.
We laugh until my ribs hurt, and my heart aches, and this moment solidifies as a memory in my mind.
The day Zayan Amin became my friend.
TRENDING INTERNATIONALLY: #Zarah
Theatre Guru
Published 25 October 2021
CHEMISTRY – MORE THAN A SCHOOL SUBJECT?
AN INTERVIEW WITH THE LSDCATS
As you all know, The London School of Dramatic and Creative Arts Theatre Society has years of prestige. They’ve performed numerous plays, they’ve entertained hundreds of audiences and we are incredibly excited to share an exclusive quote from the director of this year’s play, Henry John Findon.
‘In my humble opinion, a play only does well when the people chosen to play the leads have chemistry. That is what makes or breaks a play. Especially when you are performing a romantic tragedy like Romeo and Juliet.
‘Our actors, Mary Whitter for Juliet and Rowan Kent for Romeo, are incredible. If I didn’t know them beyond the stage, I’d think that they truly were in love. That is what makes this rendition of Romeo and Juliet so special. Our leads care for one another beyond the roles they’re meant to play, and that translates on stage.
‘Clearly, we are very lucky that our leads like and respect one another. Not every play can say the same.’
You’re absolutely right, Henry, and I’m sure the public is going to be beyond excited to watch your Romeo and Juliet – especially with those sparks flying!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
For the last couple of days, we hadn’t had to worry about the LSDCATS. Their only retaliation to our TikTok Live Q&A had been a quote from Henry about ‘chemistry’, which was an obvious attempt to make it seem like Zayan and I still had none. Nur had had the brilliant idea of releasing a clip on The Tragedies TikTok account of Zayan and I acting together – thereby showing just how much chemistry we do have. It had led to a lot more people shipping us together than the LSDCATS’ lead actors.
All that success meant we’d needed a celebration. David had had an idea for a group date involving the whole cast and crew. We’d gone to watch The Mousetrap by Agatha Christie, a classic play that has been running on stage for thirty-eight years – nothing dissolves the social anxiety of theatre students better than contemplating fake murders.
It had been a fun day – essential for Zayan and me, because it had given us an excuse to hang out and return to our normal tempo, without that awkward post-fight phase. We also hadn’t talked about the whole I think you’re attractive/Oh, me too conversation we’d had outside the Limelight.
But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped thinking about it.
‘Hypothetically, what does it mean when a guy calls you enchanting?’ I ask, voicing my thoughts aloud.
Amal, who is sitting opposite me at our very small dining table, shares a look with Maha. Our differing schedules make it hard for Amal, Maha and I to hang out as often as we used to. But then we have times like this, where we stay up till late, just eating a takeaway round our dining table, chatting about the most random things. Nothing is off limits. Global warming, the price of petrol and, in my case, the things Zayan says to me.
‘I’d say he was pretty into you,’ Amal replies, leaning back in her chair to give me an appraising look. ‘I mean, most guys don’t go around dropping words like that for any girl. Owais sure doesn’t.’
‘Please don’t tell me all the romantic things my cousin says to you,’ Maha interjects, looking queasy. ‘I still can’t believe you two went from rivals to crushes to rivals again to partners, only to end up as soon-to-be-engaged-and-making-single-people-jealous, all in the span of a year.’
Amal grins, her eyes sparkling with delight. Usually I would tease Maha about her cousin falling in love with her best friend, but right now I still need the answer to a question that won’t stop blaring in my mind.
‘OK,’ I interrupt, pulling their attention back to me. ‘But – again – hypothetically, if he followed it up with, let’s say, wanting to be friends, what would that mean?’
‘Did Zayan say he just wants to be friends with you?’ Maha asks, eyes widening. ‘Everyone thinks you two are together!’
‘No, no!’ I rush to fix my mistake, mentally smacking myself for even trying to bring this up with my friends. ‘Not him. Anushka. D-David called her “enchanting” but then said he just wanted to be friends.’
Note to self: tell Anushka and David that I have added them to my very, very elaborate lie.
‘Oh.’ Maha deflates. ‘Well, yeah, I mean, he’s probably not interested in her, then. He could be attracted to her, sure, but it obviously means he’s holding himself back from acting on it. But that doesn’t have to be a bad thing – if David knows that he’s in a place where he can’t give Anushka anything solid, or anything she wants, then it’s smart for him to set up that boundary. He’s preserving their friendship.’
I turn to Amal, waiting to see if she agrees. When she nods, something akin to disappointment flutters in my chest. I know I should be happy that Zayan is respecting the rules we set up when we started this partnership; I should be relieved that he’s so clear about his intentions.
But this conversation now marks the official death of my celebrity crush. Zayan is firmly in friend territory. No more thinking that his looks might mean something more, or that his smiles might have hidden meanings. No crossing lines. Just friends.
‘Thanks, guys,’ I say, trying to keep my tone upbeat. Amal’s eyes narrow on me, and I avoid looking directly at her. ‘I’ll pass this on to Anushka.’
‘Farah –’ Amal begins, but her sentence is cut off by the sound of my phone buzzing.
Gibitah
Did you see?
I quickly try to think of everything that might’ve been said about my relationship. Last time I checked, Zarah was trending on Twitter – a ship name that Ben had way too much fun teasing us about. What possibly could have happened now?
Gibitah
Are you alive?
I roll my eyes at her dramatics, a smile tugging at my lips regardless. It’s strange to think there was a time that we weren’t friends, that we never spoke like this.
Still got a pulse. What’s happened?
Gibitah
Grades are out.
Relief hits me at the realization that this isn’t about Zayan, just as a swell of panic blossoms in my chest.
I stand up from my chair, startling my friends. ‘Grades are out for my coursework, aka a deciding factor in my final mark.’
‘Go and check them!’ Amal says, shooing me out of the room. ‘Don’t worry – Maha will grab your plate.’
‘Why me?’ Maha asks, affronted.
‘Because I’ve done your dishes three days in a row now.’
‘Yeah, but I did your laundry.’
‘I did your laundry too.’
‘One time!’
‘One time too many. Why do you wear so many outfits in one week, by the way?’
‘It’s called style.’
I leave them bickering and race into my room, to my laptop.
This year, every module I have is coursework-based. I’ll have exams in my second year, but for now every essay holds heavy weight in my final mark. And by no means am I a brilliant student – I’m not like Amal or Owais, who excel at everything they study. I’ve got my fair share of failed grades (my Year 8 school report was a collection of Cs and Ds). But I’ve always had a good memory, which is why I chose to study history.
My hands are shaking as I click open the online grading book under my university profile. I squint my eyes, afraid to see the number. Through a sliver of sight and lashes, I find my mark.
Eighty per cent!
Blood rushes to my ears, pounding against my skull as I open my bedroom door and call out the mark to my flatmates. I hear the cheers of celebration right before I collapse on to my bed and start reading through the comments my professor has left. A giddy smile perches on my lips as I read Good job! and I love this!
I’m so excited I almost miss the final comment.
This was such a surprisingly delightful paper to read, Farah – you are so articulate, and you write so well in English! It’s a genuine pleasure to see students from all over the world succeed against the odds.
Bile rises up my throat, and this odd sensation starts to pulse right from the centre of my chest down to my fingertips. I read through the comment again, trying to decipher its hidden meaning, if it even has any. Like, why would she be surprised it was a good essay?
No. No. This is my overthinking kicking in. There are compliments in these comments – delight, good writing, pleasure. All good, positive things. I’m trying to see something that’s not there.
Unless she thought you weren’t going to be good enough to pass her class?
Fear creeps into the ache in my chest, a coldness sweeping through me. I think of the LSDCATS again, and the word ‘unsuitable’ echoes in my thoughts like a tape recorder that refuses to stop. That feeling of not being good enough, not for the stage, not for my professors, not for my friends, rises in me like a tide.
The sound of my phone ringing is a life jacket I didn’t know I needed. I swipe to accept the call with little thought of who it may be.
‘I thought I’d change it up a little.’ Zayan’s voice is warm and scratchy down the line – as if he’s woken up earlier than usual. ‘Me calling you, instead of you calling me.’
I swallow against the stone that’s lodged itself in my throat; my eyes are still trained on the comment.
‘Farah?’ Zayan asks, and I can vividly see the concerned furrow squished between his brows. ‘You OK?’
I imagine reading the comment aloud. Zayan would tell me, with complete and utter honesty, if my worries were right. He wouldn’t hold back. He’d see the truth as a way for me to improve, a motivator. But hearing him say it – They’re right. You’re good, but you’re not enough. Not yet – would press too sharply against the tenderness of my heart. For now, I’ll envision him saying it, and I’ll internalize it without his help. I can do it. I can work harder. Prove people wrong. I can be enough.
I clear my throat before responding. ‘Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine.’ And before the awkward silence solidifies between us, I ask him about his night. ‘What were you up to?’
‘Up to?’
‘Before you called. Were you sleeping?’
The idea of Zayan specifically waking up to call me makes something hot and molten erupt in my chest – the idea that someone would knit me into their life in such an integral way.
‘I wasn’t, actually.’ My chest cools; the momentary lapse passes. ‘I was – I was rereading reviews.’
‘Reviews?’ I question, while nestling into my pillows. I close my laptop, hiding away the results, and focus on Zayan instead of the whirlpool brewing in my head.
‘Yeah, reviews from critics.’
I wince. ‘That doesn’t sound like a good idea.’
Zayan huffs out a laugh, a genuine-sounding one. ‘You’re right. A lot of them are saying I’m past my prime – that I’m “destined to be a Hari Fairbanks and nothing more”.’
His haughty change in tone has me laughing a little, but I can’t ignore the undertone of bitterness in his voice.
‘You know that’s not true, right?’
He pauses before replying. ‘Rationally, yes. Irrationally, at 3 a.m., I’ll admit I had a bit of a crisis.’
‘Zayan, you’re a good actor.’
‘I know,’ he says, and it takes all my strength not to scoff at him. ‘This isn’t about my talent. If I thought I couldn’t act, I wouldn’t put you or me through this. I think …’ He exhales sharply. ‘I think I’m more angry than analytical right now.’
‘You’re angry at yourself?’
‘At them.’ Zayan’s rage becomes more evident as he continues. ‘At the public. At the reviewers. I know that TV show was awful, but it was a mistake. And no one wants to hear my side of the story – they’ve chosen a label for me, and I’m supposed to just live with it. It’s like they’ve forgotten how much of myself I’ve given to this industry.’
