The Centre(74)

“I wasn’t taking the piss.”

“Do you mention how I told you Mercury was in retrograde the day you met Adam?”

“I don’t think so. I can put it in if you want.”

“Obviously put it in.”

“Okay, I will. I really wasn’t taking the piss, by the way.”

“Well, even though you’re not portraying me in the best light, I’m still flattered that you started with me.”

“Who else would I start with?”

“Correct answer. Now go do some work or something, it’s weird to have you hovering over me while I listen.”

I went to my room, leaving the door ajar so I could listen to Naima listening to me. I heard myself recounting my relationship with Adam, our trip to Pakistan, his confession about the Centre, and then my visit to her flat before my interview. She hit pause again at this point and popped her head into my room.

“Is that really what we asked for in our manifestations?”

“I think so.”

“Hmm, it’s good to remember. I should write them down, stick them up on my wall. Oh, but I have to make sure to amend them over time. It’s not good to have your manifestations set in stone—”

“I don’t mean this in a bad way, Naima, but you seem to be most interested in the bits involving you. Are you even listening to the rest?”

“Of course I am. It’s about the Centre, isn’t it? I can tell.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, so quiet then. But hey, listen, are you hungry? Shall I make us sandwiches?”

“I can heat up some daal chawal?” I offered. “Does that work?”

“Perfect.”

“Great.”

“By the way,” she added, “what’s up with that ‘I wish I’d had an arranged marriage’ stuff? Do you really believe that?”

“I dunno. Just popped into my head. You see my logic, though, right?”

“Not at all. You know those matches were based on things like caste, class, skin color, right? It’s all about keeping the money in the family. You can’t be romanticizing that shit—”

“Naima, okay. Maybe. But it’s better than romanticizing the romance shit. That’s what you do.”

“What does that even mean?” She laughed and threw a cushion at me.

“I don’t know. But this isn’t the time. Just … keep listening.”

And so she kept listening while I heated up our food. I handed her a bowlful, and she responded with a thumbs-up.

A little while later, she paused the recording again, and I heard her get up to use the toilet.

On her way back, she nudged open my door. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“What’re you doing?”

“Just reading. What do you think so far?”

“The swoon.”

“Oh god.”

“We must address the swoon.”

“Ahh …”

“Do you fancy her?”

“Naima.”

“Tell me.”

“I described what I felt the best I could.”

“You fancy her.”

When I was recording the tape, I had this vague idea that it would be listened to, I don’t know, fifty or sixty years in the future, and by then, all illusions around gender and sexuality would have dissolved. And anyway, I wouldn’t be around anymore to be questioned about it. But now, I found myself stumbling.

“Yeah, I guess. Maybe.”

“Did you want to kiss her?”

“Oh my god, stop.”

“Did you want to kiss her, yes or no?”

“Maybe. I mean, if she’d wanted to … I don’t know, Naima.” I paused. “Sometimes, it felt like we were both just waiting for the other to extend her hand.”

“I feel like this is a side of yourself you should explore.”

“Why, though? Like, why actively pursue it? Why endure the drama if you have a choice in the matter?”

“It’s important,” Naima said. “Otherwise, parts of you will forever remain unwatered.”

I thought of Azeem and felt a stirring of resentment toward Naima. I felt like she’d never admit, even to herself, just how much her own choice of partner had to do with the comfort of heteronormative conventionality, of, basically, tick-boxing. And yet here she was advising me to take risks? But I didn’t say anything, and thank god I didn’t, because soon after she went back into the living room and pressed play again, my scathing indictment of Azeem and Naima’s early relationship sounded loud and clear. I’d said that he was putting out her fire, that his wokeness was all for show and that he was shallow and unworthy. I’d even called Naima complicit in the whole thing. Billee and I sat on my bed, his ears pricked and mine burning, while that endless section played. We listened for the tiniest sound from Naima: a sigh, a laugh, a groan, a sniffle, but heard nothing except my own annoying voice. It was only after my discovery of the email about Anna’s death that Naima returned to my room.

“Did they kill her?”

“No.”

“Oh, phew. What’s going on then?”

“It’s complicated—”