Page 17 of Statistically Speaking
“Right,” declares Asha, standing up to her full five foot nothing, “I’m done for the night! I’m pretty tired, Karim; I think I’ll head back to the hotel. Can I leave you to walk Gemma home safely?”
It is such a blatant setup that I actually laugh out loud. They both stare at me as though I’ve breached some essential point of etiquette, and I say: “Oh, come on! I only live around the corner! Karim lives farther away than I do, and who’s getting you home safely, Asha?”
She tries to remain stern, but in the end her face cracks into a smile, and she confesses: “I’m just an old lady with ahead full of dreams—indulge me, please! I’ve been talking about baby teeth all day! And my hotel is also around a very nearby corner, and my bed genuinely is calling me. I’m quite exhausted by all that chair dancing to Hot Chocolate.”
I shake my head in amusement and stand up to say goodbye. Her head only comes up to my chin, but she still manages to give me a hug that completely envelops me.
Karim walks her to the door, giving her instructions to text him when she lands at the hotel. I know the place where she is staying, and it is indeed only about a two-minute walk away. By the time he gets back, I’ve gathered up my bits and bobs and I’m ready to leave—alone.
“I don’t need walking home,” I say firmly. “I’m not fifteen, and I can look after myself.”
“I have no doubt about that,” he replies, joining me as we leave the pub. “You’re a very competent woman.”
Competent. Huh. I suppose I am, but it’s not exactly the kind of description that sets a heart on fire, is it?
“Competent, and wearing a lovely jumper,” he adds. We are standing together on the street, which is still busy with people looking for a late-night drink or a take-home snack. It is noisy with shrieks of laughter and the sound of a karaoke singer torturing “Sweet Caroline” booming from inside a bar. It’s a gorgeous evening, surprisingly warm, in that way it can be in September when Mother Nature seems to want a last hurrah.
“Come on,” he says, heading down the road in the direction of the beach. “I’m going to walk to your place anyway. You can join me or walk ten steps behind, whatever works best for you.”
I give some serious thought to heading in the opposite direction just to spite him, but realize that I am being stupid. I have enjoyed my night out in a way that would not have seemedpossible a few short hours ago, but I know with certainty that as soon as I am home and alone, I will dive headlong back into the emotional quagmire of me, Katie, and our possible relationship. It is inevitable, but I don’t have to rush into it—not when I have a perfectly good alternative.
We stroll down through the little side streets with their candy-colored houses and toward the beach. It’s not the quickest way, but the night seems to demand some meandering.
A path leads us over the sand dunes and onto the bay. The moon is casting silver glamour on the waves, and I slip off my heels so I can walk barefoot in the sand.
“Asha is lovely,” I say when we stop to admire the way the world seems to slide off into an indigo eternity. The iron men face out to the water, arms at their sides, standing witness. I wonder if they get bored, seeing this every night, or if it still amazes them.
“She is,” he replies. “She’s kind of my mum, really. Our actual mum died when I was three and she was sixteen. Dad was pretty hopeless after that, and Asha—well, she was magnificent. I don’t ever remember a time she lost her temper, or seemed fed up with us all, or when I didn’t have a clean school uniform or get nagged to brush my teeth. Even when she was training to be a dentist, she always had time for us. I love her to bits.”
I am silent as I digest this new and sad information. I have my own backstory, my own teenage trauma, and sometimes I suppose I forget that other people have them too. The surface happiness of the big family I envy can hide so much.
“You never told me that,” I reply quietly.
“Well, it’s a bit of a mood killer, isn’t it? It was breast cancer, and she left it too late to get help because she thoughtit was because of all the babies she’d fed. I don’t really even remember her, to be honest—just flickers here and there, certain hazy images, as though the memories are just in the corner of my eye and if I look too hard they disappear. I never felt her loss in the same way Asha and my sisters did, and sometimes I feel guilty about that.”
I pause before I reply, then say: “I was about to tell you that’s crazy, but emotions don’t work in a logical way, do they? Real life isn’t as easy as a pub quiz.”
“No, it’s not. But what about you?” he asks, turning to look at me. “What about your family?”
I blink a few times and am momentarily at a loss for words. I don’t want to lie to him, but I don’t want to pour out the whole sad saga either.
“It’s complicated,” I settle for. “Complicated and a bit messed up—and also a bit of a mood killer. Basically, I don’t really have any family.”
Even as I say it, I wonder if it’s true. I have never attempted to find my father—it seems pointless, given the scattered half-truths I know about him. I have never really attempted to heal the fractured thing that is my relationship with my mother, and that knowledge is like a thorn embedded in the sole of my foot—always there, always nagging, never quite painful enough for me to confront.
Mainly, though, I wonder about Katie. I wonder about the baby I held in my arms all those years ago, that genetic thread of red hair and anger, that wild and wonderful creature I brought into the world. I wonder if she is back in it again in the form of Katie, and if so, how that will feel. Wonderful, but disruptive, perhaps—because being alone is addictive.
“A story for another night, then?” he says gently. I like this side of Karim. The quiet and thoughtful version of a man who plays a part like we all do. He is usually so cocky, so sure of himself. Tonight, right now, he is kind and vulnerable.
I lean forward, kiss him on the cheek. Enjoy the look of surprise and pleasure that it provokes.
“Another night,” I promise as I turn to leave.
Chapter 8
Twelve History Projects, Nineteen Hundred Babies, and One Cheat Code
We are holding a meeting of the history club, which is always an entertaining experience. This time, Katie is not in fancy dress but is wearing a T-shirt that bears the slogan “History Repeats Itself,” with the wordHistorywritten five times beneath it. Funny.
