The Girlfriend Act, page 21
Zayan is blushing.
‘Yeah,’ he replies softly, taking the phone from my hand. ‘You look at me like you’re not in love, and I’ll look at you the way I always do.’
He doesn’t wait for my reply, just shifts closer as we pose with our burgers, looking somewhat ridiculous in our fancy outfits and greasy food – both of us standing firmly behind the line.
Celebrity Leaks
Published 11 November 2021
BREAKING NEWS: LOVE CONTRACT REVEALED
We urge all of you to look at this incriminating piece of information we were able to find about Farah Sheikh, alleged girlfriend of award-winning actor Zayan Amin. The image below shows a fragment of a contract between Farah and Lacey Parker, Zayan’s agent.
The contract reads: ‘I, Farah Sheikh, agree to the terms set by Lacey Parker of Parker’s Artists’ Agency, with regards to involvement in The Tragedies’ play and in the relationship …’
While the rest of the contract cannot be found, it is clear what this is. Many have speculated that Farah is with Zayan for economic reasons, and this just confirms our beliefs. Clearly, Farah Sheikh is with Zayan Amin to solidify her own career.
Our source told us that they needed to release this snippet of a contract in an attempt to help Zayan see who Farah truly is.
Our final message to Zayan is: RUN WHILE YOU CAN!
ARTICLE COMMENTS:
JadaColon: Wow, totally unexpected! To think she was using him for her own career!
Lopex83: Of course their relationship is fake – she is fake herself! Finally – maybe Zayan can be free from her now.
Anon: Farah had the MOST to benefit from this relationship. No wonder she set it up. Sad that Zayan was forced into it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Zayan’s instructions are exceptionally clear. Do not, under any circumstances, say anything. I am dealing with it.
I tried calling him after seeing the article, panicked and terrified, but his line was busy, and when I attempted to get Lacey, I was greeted by her stern voicemail. Then Zayan sent me that twelve-word message, worsening my already gnawing sense of guilt and heightening my fear.
I can’t, for some terrible reason, stop my mind from repeating the same question on a loop: did Zayan release the contract for better publicity?
He made a show of ripping it into pieces outside the Limelight, but maybe he released only a snippet of the original copy. He drew that contract up a month ago. He needs the good publicity – everyone is sympathetic towards him now. The victim in all of this is Zayan.
I am the villain.
But I don’t want to think he would stoop this low. Not after last night. Not after he declared he was going to be a part of my ‘circle of trust’. He wouldn’t do that – would he? I have to believe in him.
In the end, I’m saved from my spiralling thoughts by a phone call. Not from Zayan.
‘Come out, Farah.’ Gibitah’s voice is too chirpy on the other end of the line. ‘Staying holed up in your flat makes it look like you’re hiding.’
‘I am hiding,’ I argue, face pressed into my pillow. Gibitah’s ability to understand my garbled words is a talent.
‘Well, stop it. Whatever that contract was – and you don’t have to tell me what it was – Zayan is dealing with it.’
In this moment, I love Gibitah. I love her for not probing for more, even though she undoubtedly deserves answers. I love her for being there when I need her.
‘You’re right.’
I don’t mention how terrified I am of what he’ll say. What if Lacey instructs him to dissociate from me? I didn’t … I didn’t get to say goodbye to our fake relationship. I haven’t had the chance of imagining my life without Zayan in it.
‘Then the best thing you can do is appear unaffected,’ Gibitah continues, completely unaware of my inner turmoil. ‘Now, come to the library. We’ll study, and then we’ll gossip about how this contract was most definitely released by the LSDCATS.’
‘You don’t know that,’ I remind her, trying to focus on the mysterious ‘inside source’ the article mentioned rather than the impending end of my fake relationship.
I know, logically, that this screams LSDCATS, though it’s underhanded and cruel in a way I didn’t think they were capable of. But my mind won’t shut up and stop telling me that it could be Zayan.
Gibitah snorts disbelievingly. ‘Whatever you say, Farah. Now, come on. Library, thirty minutes.’
I’m in a mental torture chamber.
I can’t focus on what I’m supposed to be studying, so my mind wanders and drifts. I force myself not to think of the article – even as I feel the eyes of all the students around me glaring holes into my skin – but that just means thinking about Zayan.
Why did Zayan touch me like that? What did it mean?
Did he want to cross that line, or did he just get caught up in our attraction?
Was it real or pretend?
The words in my textbook are blurring in front of my eyes from how tired I am. When I look up, I see a couple of people whispering together, eyes darting towards me. A blush warms the back of my neck, worsening my headache.
‘You look ready to keel over,’ Gibitah murmurs from the seat beside me.
‘Your observations are amazing.’
My forced smile causes Gibitah’s eyes to narrow in suspicion. Not sleeping has thrown me off my game. But before she can give in to her curiosity, I make a show of turning back to my books and appearing studious. She lets me be, and I spend all of five minutes reading a passage before giving up and searching my bag for my lunch.
While I’m bent over my bag, I hear the first whispers of a conversation, catching the stray sound of my name from someone else’s lips. I look up to see two girls on my left. The one who’s talking has a smile etched on her face, and her pale skin has a slight pink tinge to it from the cold.
‘Did you see that article about Farah Sheikh?’ she says, giving a cursory glance around the library. The girl beside her, wearing a sweatshirt that reads ON WEDNESDAYS WE WEAR PINK, perks up, while my heart turns to stone. They haven’t noticed me yet, but it’s only a matter of time. ‘I mean, I’m not surprised. Her people are so opportunistic.’
My people?
‘Just your average Paki,’ the Mean Girls-sweatshirted one mutters, loud enough for her friends and me – the eavesdropper – to hear.
I gasp, unwillingly, at her use of the word. I’ve never heard anyone say it before. I know it exists, but I didn’t think someone would ever say it. No one.
Their heads turn to me, and instead of blushing, or paling, or looking even slightly remorseful, they break into quiet giggles. A cold feeling seeps through my body, and as much as I’d like to look away from these girls, I can’t. I feel compelled to keep staring. Waiting. Waiting for them to say something. To apologize.
‘Maisie,’ the first girl whispers, ‘I think she just heard you.’
‘So? I’m not scared,’ Maisie replies, just loud enough for me to hear. ‘She’s already lost Zayan. She’s going to go back to being a nobody.’ Then her eyes fall to me once more. ‘I’m not afraid of a Paki.’
‘What did you just say?’ Gibitah’s voice is loud, and it makes me jump. The three girls startle as well, looking away from me to my friend behind me.
‘Gibitah,’ I hiss, as other people begin to look our way as well. I can feel them working out who I am, recognition replacing confusion.
‘No, Farah! You can’t just let that slide.’ Gibitah turns to me, all thunderous fury. ‘She just called you –’
‘Please,’ I beg, my heart throbbing in my chest. The whispers around the library are so loud now. The three girls have whipped their phones out, and I just know they’re twisting this story into something else.
Unsuitable.
White-passing. Paki.
Not. Good. Enough.
Suddenly, all I can hear is their giggles. It pulses in my eardrums, light and mocking.
‘Farah,’ Gibitah says, urgently grasping the sleeve of my kurti. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I n-need to go,’ I gasp out, pushing myself away from the table. Something clatters on to the floor from the strength of my abrupt movements, and it feels as if every gaze in the library lands on me.
I love the spotlight – intensely, wholly – but at this moment, I want nothing more than to be in shadow. Hidden from everyone. I spare one glance at Gibitah, her expression confused and concerned, before fleeing the library, my fear leading me to the one place I know I belong.
@CelebNews: From a live inside source, we’ve just got wind of some sort of meltdown from @FarahSheikh – she was seen fleeing her university library for some unknown reason. Outlets are speculating the possibility of drugs, a break-up with @ZayanAmin or just your general teen melodrama.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
‘Are you sure you’re OK, child?’ Marvin asks, as the key slips from its slot twice. ‘You’re looking very pale and clammy. You’re not planning on throwing up, are you? I would very much appreciate it if you made it to the bathroom instead.’
‘I’m f-fine,’ I say, my breath still coming in bursts.
Just get to the stage. Just get to the stage. Just get to the stage.
I would’ve gone home, I would’ve gone straight to Amal and Maha, but I can’t, because they don’t know the truth. So I can’t let them see me like this, no matter how lonely and heartbroken I feel. Instead, I’m going to the only other place that feels safe – where I’ve always felt safe.
‘All right, doors are open –’
I sidle past Marvin, making sure the door closes on his suspicious-looking face. My eyes are burning with tears as I struggle to find the stage in the dark. I haven’t spent enough time with the tech crew to work out how to get the lights on.
Just get to the stage.
I eventually stumble on to the stage, my knees hitting the wooden floorboards. Pain explodes down my legs as I brace my arms for the fall. Still cloaked by darkness, I clamp my mouth to stop myself from yelling out. I don’t want Marvin coming in and seeing me like this.
I don’t want anyone to see me like this.
Why didn’t you say anything? Why? Why? Why?
I eventually fall into a sitting position, hugging my jean-clad knees to my body. There will be purple bruises marring my kneecaps tomorrow, but for now the pain has begun to fade into a dull ache. My bag is thrown beside me, with the script for the play in it. I could take it out. Use my phone flashlight to read it again. Say some lines. The feeling of being on stage wants to fall over my shoulders like a warm, comforting overcoat – beckoning me to step out of my skin and into Heer’s. I consider it, resting my forehead against my knees, but the memory of what’s just happened refuses to leave me alone.
Why did you run away? What if someone took a picture of you? What would they say about you – about Zayan?
On my third cycle of the same thoughts, replaying the same scenario, I feel a warm heat blossoming over my neck and a hand brushing against mine. My head jerks up, my eyes quickly adjusting to the loss of darkness because of the spotlight being switched on. It’s bathing both myself and Zayan in a circle of light.
His brown eyes are coloured with concern, there’s a crease between his eyebrows and his full lips are turned into a worried line. His thumb brushes against the top of my palm, and something about that simple, comforting, movement releases the dam of tears I was holding back.
‘Oh, sweetheart,’ he whispers, and before I know it he’s wrapped me up in a hug. An odd hug, considering I’ve still got my knees up to my chest, but I feel a sense of safety nonetheless.
‘H-how did you find me here?’ I ask eventually, when my sobs have quieted down. I pull away to look at him. ‘Zayan?’
He sighs, his arms dropping as he moves to sit cross-legged in front of me. ‘There were tweets about your leaving the library, and I had a feeling you’d come here. Marvin all but confirmed it when he let me in.’
A new set of tears wets my lashes, and guilt burns a hole in my chest. ‘I’m so sorry. For the pictures, for running out, for everything.’
Zayan’s hands grab my own as panic wedges in between my lungs, growing as my mind conjures up scenarios of Lacey telling Zayan to cut off all contact with me.
Then the fear returns, and I can’t hold back my questions – no matter how harsh they sound when spoken aloud.
‘Did you leak the contract?’ I ask, as terror wraps round my heart like a vice.
Please don’t be true. Please don’t be true. Please don’t be true.
His expression goes through stages of emotions: initial disbelief in the furrow of his brow, horror at my question in the slight O-shape of his mouth, anger in his jaw and then understanding, finally, in the light of his eyes.
‘Farah,’ Zayan says, and it sounds like both a command and a plea. ‘I would never, ever, do that to you. I’m sorry that I made you believe I would.’
If I went on Zayan’s words alone, I wouldn’t believe him. Me over his reputation? The thing he’s spent two months fixing? Unbelievable. But I know how honesty sounds on Zayan, how desperation looks on him. He isn’t lying, and the realization brings a fresh wave of tears to my eyes. Relief forces me to slump in his arms.
‘I’m sorry,’ I choke out. ‘I’m sorry that I thought –’
‘You don’t have to apologize,’ Zayan interrupts, not an ounce of anger in his voice. ‘I understand why your mind jumped to that. Especially when I didn’t pick up your call. I should’ve been there, helping you through this. I was caught up doing damage control, and not thinking about how you’d be affected by this. I’m sorry. But I’m here now, so tell me what happened in the library.’
At my silence, he squeezes our interlaced hands twice. His hold on me is unwavering, strong in all the ways I feel like I’m not.
‘You can trust me, Farah,’ Zayan whispers. ‘Tell me what happened.’
He waits patiently, and for several long moments we just breathe. Breathe until I’m sure our hearts must be beating in sync. It’s hard for me to justify my silence when I realize that I owe him the truth, in return for how much it must have cost him to trust me. Especially since my public breakdown probably detonated a bomb over our partnership.
‘I don’t want to burden you,’ I confess, and something close to agony shadows his gaze.
‘Burden me, Farah,’ he replies, his voice tinged with a desperation I’ve never heard before. ‘Please.’
And it’s that last word that forces me to speak.
‘There was this girl,’ I mumble. My eyelids fall shut, like I can’t bear to look at him. ‘She called me … a Paki.’ Pure silence sits in the small gap between us. But I keep going, every word hurting as it escapes me. ‘And I didn’t say anything back. I never would have thought someone would call me that. I know that sounds arrogant. I’ve had a lot of benefits from having fairer skin. I had someone once tell me I was a six out of ten: four points for having a British passport, and two because I looked foreign, despite having Pakistani heritage.’ My voice turns into a shameful whisper. ‘I didn’t know what a privilege that was, not until I came here, and some people started … started using my skin as an insult. But then there are people online, since we started our relationship, who think I’m not brown enough. Half of the world sees me as white-passing and opportunistic. The other sees me as too brown and untalented. I don’t know how to keep up: am I brown or not?’
‘Farah.’ The fury with which Zayan says my name causes my eyelids to snap open.
I knew it. He thinks I’m a spoiled brat. I shouldn’t have said anything. I try to disentangle our hands, but he tightens his hold, forcing me to stay in place.
‘I’m not angry at you,’ he says quickly. ‘I’m furious at everyone else. For how you’ve been treated.’
‘It’s not a big deal,’ I whisper, my jaw trembling with sudden nerves.
‘It’s not an overreaction, Farah,’ Zayan says. ‘You’ve just been verbally attacked, and then you’re also dealing with this confusion about your own culture and what it means to be brown in a society that says you’re anything but. It is a big deal.’
Twin feelings of relief and terror pulse through me. ‘It’s not,’ I say. ‘Look, I don’t even get the worst of it. Anushka and Nur –’
‘Don’t,’ Zayan interrupts urgently. ‘Don’t start playing Oppression Olympics in your head. What you face is different, but valid. It matters, Farah. You shouldn’t have to pretend to be OK when you’re so clearly hurting.’
His words sink into my mind slowly, like treacle. A part of me resists; a part of me wants to shout at him and say, I’m fine. That everything I’m feeling is just me overreacting, because if it’s just that then I have nothing to confront. Nothing to deal with. I can just move on. But I can’t. Everything Zayan says shines a new light upon the previous events of my life, and it’s impossible to look away.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ I reply. My head feels tangled with so many emotions that I’m too tired to work out right now. ‘I don’t know where to start dealing with all of this. What … How … What do I do?’
‘You’re not going to work this all out in one go,’ Zayan says gently. ‘But you have to stop running from this, Farah. The only way you’re going to really work through it is by talking about it. Maybe we should talk to The Tragedies –’
‘No,’ I gasp out, attempting to wrench my hand away from his, but he has an iron-clad grip on me. ‘I can’t – I won’t –’
‘OK,’ he says softly. ‘OK. No talking to them. Yet. We’ll build up to that, yeah?’
I nod, before hesitantly taking one tiny, miniscule metaphorical step forward. ‘Maybe … Maybe.’
‘Good. I mean, not good, but it’s a start,’ Zayan replies. ‘Acknowledging that you will talk about it one day is a brave thing, Farah.’
