Chapter Twenty-Five
On Sunday morning, the three of us sat waiting in the cool, air-conditioned marble lobby of our apartment block, waiting for the taxi that was going to take us to the Skydive of Doom. Browsing through my camera roll, I looked for the best pictures from the previous couple of days to post to Instagram. We’d had a chilled Saturday, starting off with a morning at an exclusive ladies-only beach, followed by spa treatments and then shopping and shisha. As I scrolled, I could hear familiar music playing from Pretty’s phone and the two of them cackling away.
‘I can’t believe you posted it!’ Pinky chastised her sister while Pretty continued to chuckle.
‘I had to; it was gold!’
‘What are you guys laughing about?’ I asked suspiciously, still trying to place the music. I knew it from somewhere, but I couldn’t remember where.
‘Check Pretty’s Snapchat,’ Pinky managed between giggles. I obliged and absentmindedly went through the pictures and videos she had been posting, albeit never in real-time like you were supposed to on Snapchat. There was Pretty and I at the beach – only our heads, of course. The best thing about going to a ladies-only beach was being able to wear whatever we wanted without having to worry about modesty. For Pinky this was particularly special, as she was able to feel the sea breeze on her pink hair. I tapped through the rest: sea views, our meal, Pretty seductively blowing a plume of smoke from the shisha pipe. There were pictures from Friday as well: the majestic mosque, a video of the three of us squealing and screaming as the 4x4 flew over burnt orange sand dunes, Pretty getting her henna done.
I tapped again to change to the next video. I heard the music first – the pulsating, expert drumming from the desert camp – and then the blurry video slowly came into focus. And there I was, in all my sweaty-faced, wild-haired glory, dancing with the belly dancer. Calling it ‘dancing’ was being extremely generous. The blood drained from my face as I watched myself wiggle and shake out of time to the music, my forehead creased in concentration, my arms flailing like a drowning octopus, my boobs bouncing along with the rest of me and my hair swinging around my head like a jinn’s. It was like watching a car crash.
That night, I had found myself truly letting go for the first time in my life . I felt powerful, sexy almost. I thought I looked like Shakira.
I looked nothing like Shakira. I didn’t even look like her aunt twice removed. I looked like the ghost of Shakira’s sunburnt doppelg?nger, who had died and now haunted the desert.
Swallowing away the lump that had formed in my throat, I turned to Pretty, who had the decency to look guilty. ‘I can’t believe you posted this,’ I managed to say, my throat so tight that getting the words out was an ordeal. ‘How could you?’
‘It was just for laughs,’ Pretty replied lamely. ‘It’s not that deep. I can delete it if you want. Hardly anyone has seen it anyway.’
‘Thanks,’ I said flatly, looking away. Not that deep? That girl didn’t post pictures of herself on Snapchat until she had edited them to perfection, but it was fine to post a video of me looking like a maniac?
‘Ahmad’s here,’ Pinky announced, jumping up.
‘Who the hell is Ahmad?’ Pretty asked, clearly grateful for the change of subject and pace.
‘The taxi driver. Come on, let’s go. We have an aeroplane to jump out of.’
I didn’t have time to process the awful video because the next traumatic event was already looming. Not for the first time, I cursed Noah and his blasted list as I sat waiting on the plane, strapped to my instructor.
We had spent the past few hours being trained and briefed on the procedure. I barely listened to a word they said, I was so furious about the video. This trip was supposed to be epic. It was the first time I had gone on holiday with the girls and I was going above and beyond what was required from me to complete the list. I was beginning to make my own list, forge my own path. And now it was tainted.
Pinky sat next to me and Pretty was across from us. Both had their eyes squeezed closed and their fists scrunched up so tight that their knuckles had turned white from the pressure. Above the sound of the plane, I thought I could hear Pinky muttering prayers. Feeling faint from nerves, I closed my eyes and did the same, reciting every dua that came to mind. Ayatul kursi for protection, the travelling dua, the one the Prophet Yunus – or Jonah, as he was known in the Bible – recited when he was stuck in the belly of the whale. When I ran out of the relevant ones, I prayed whatever came to mind: the sleeping dua, eating dua, the prayer for rainfall. Everything and anything to calm myself down.
The speed with which life was racing by was insane. One minute I was in London, excited about finally getting my place at uni and holding Dina’s baby .?.?. and the next I was on a bloody plane, strapped onto a burly South African man called Fran?ois, about to fall to my death.
One by one, the others in our group leapt out of the plane. Then it was Pretty, followed by Pinky and before I knew it, it was my turn. I stood frozen, unable to move closer to the opening.
‘I can’t do this!’ I shouted above the noise of the plane, as Fran?ois all but dragged me to the opening where we were going to fall from 13,000 feet. My legs began to shake so violently that if he hadn’t been strapped to me, I would have collapsed.
‘You can, Maya! I’ll be with you every second, don’t worry!’ Fran?ois shouted back, a massive grin on his face. ‘You won’t regret this, trust me. No one ever does. But if you don’t do it, you will regret it.’
The opening was right in front of us now. The wind was fierce, whipping violently around us. I squeezed my eyes closed, my heart lodged in my mouth, pounding louder than the wind. Lenny, the cameraman, gave me a thumbs up and promptly jumped out of the plane. I stifled a scream. Ya Allah please do not let me die today! Please don’t injure me! Please let the parachute open!
‘You’ve got this, Maya! Let’s do it!’ Fran?ois positioned us in front of the opening, lifting me up when my legs refused to cooperate. ‘Three .?.?. Two .?.?. One .?.?.’
BISMILLAH.
Then we were out, careening towards the ground at 120 miles per hour.
‘OH MY GOOOD!’ I screamed as we fell, the wind and the pressure pulling my cheeks away from my face, making my eyes bulge out. A moment later, I felt a tug, then resistance and then the parachute had been activated. It worked! ALHAMDULILLAH, it worked! I wasn’t going smash into the ground and shatter every one of my bones. It bloody hurt though – the G-force causing the straps to cut into my thighs.
Once the parachute had been activated, I dared to open my eyes to the sight of the magnificent Palm Island, spread out below, surrounded by turquoise sea. Subhanallah, it was spectacular. We were no longer speeding down towards the ground, but gliding. I soaked it all up in awe, like a sponge in water. It was utterly breathtaking.
It was over all too soon and as we reached the ground, I bent my knees and braced myself for the impact, but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. I hit the ground, fell backwards and slid on my bum across the grass until I eventually came to a stop.
My cousins were waiting for me in the lounge and I wobbled my way over to them, my legs shaking from the adrenaline, a massive grin plastered on my face. As soon as they saw me, they began to jump up and down, screaming. I did the same and we hugged each other and continued to shriek, the earlier confrontation forgotten as we united over our shared experience of narrowly missing death.
That evening we went out to celebrate at a fancy restaurant. It was our last night in Dubai and our morning flight meant that we wouldn’t be getting any sleep, so we might as well enjoy our last moments.
The three of us went all out with our clothes and makeup. Pretty was in a slinky, black calf-length dress with sky-high stilettos. Pinky was more modest, in a teal-coloured jumpsuit and gold hijab. I wore a red satin maxi-dress and with the help of the twins, applied matching lipstick and fake lashes. It was difficult to walk though, with all the bruises on my thighs from the parachute straps digging into them. It was worth it. I probably wouldn’t be able to do it again – the hours before the jump were too stressful – but I was glad I had done it.
At least eight men tried to get our numbers, from Emiratis to a couple of white Brits. There must have been something in the water, I told myself, when the eighth guy, a good-looking Emirati in a pristine long white thobe, placed three business cards on our table as he walked past. Pretty was documenting the entire thing on Snapchat, capturing our giggles and our commentary.
‘I can’t believe he left three cards,’ Pinky laughed, grabbing the shisha pipe and inhaling it like she was breathing in fresh air. ‘Talk about not putting all your eggs in one basket.’
‘What happens if we all call him?’ I mused, stealing the pipe back.
‘Ménage arba’ah?’ Pretty quipped, using the Arabic for ‘four’.
‘Gross,’ we all said in unison.
I took my phone out to take some pictures and nearly dropped it into my plate of kunafeh when I saw that I had a text from Zakariya. There had been no meaningful communication between us for so long, so I stared at the phone in confusion, unsure how I should feel:
ZAKARIYA: Salaams Maya, how are you? How’s it going in Dubai?
I continued to stare at the message, wondering if I should reply. Who did he think he was, texting me out of the blue after ghosting me for weeks? It was unacceptable. I began to type this out and then stopped when common sense prevailed. I deleted the rant and put my phone down. Seconds later, another text came through:
ZAKARIYA: What’s happening? You were typing something and then stopped?
What the hell? Was he stalking me? Something in my face must have given away the irritation and confusion I was experiencing because Pinky picked up on it immediately. Pretty was too busy smoking and tracing her fingers over the embossed business card of ‘Salah Al Din Al Hashimi – CFO – Al Hashimi Group’ to pay attention to me.
‘What’s wrong? Has something happened?’ Pinky asked, worried.
‘Err .?.?.’ I stalled, trying to fabricate a believable story quickly enough for her to buy it. The twins didn’t know about the dynamics of my relationship with Zakariya and I intended to keep it that way. The last thing I wanted, or needed, was my aunt and uncle finding out that we sometimes hung out. They’d be on the phone to my parents before I could say ‘astaghifirullah’ – I seek forgiveness from Allah.
I decided to keep my answer as close to the truth as possible. ‘It’s just some guy. He’s texted me out of the blue when I haven’t heard from him in weeks.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Well .?.?.’ I took a sip of my mocktail while I figured out how to phrase it. ‘We sort of shared a special moment a long time ago. I thought we did, anyway. But then I never heard from him again .?.?. until now.’
‘What’s he saying now then? Has he explained his disappearance?’
‘No.’
‘Is it a booty call?’
‘Pinky!’ I spluttered, spilling a bit of my expensive drink in shock. ‘He’s asking how Dubai’s going!’
‘How does he know you’re here?’ Pinky continued, ignoring my reaction to her previous question.
‘He’s on my socials,’ I replied. ‘What do I do? Shall I reply? Ask him why he ghosted me? Ignore him?’
‘Definitely don’t ask him!’ Pretty interjected suddenly. I guess she was paying attention after all. ‘You don’t want to look desperate.’
‘I think you should ask him,’ Pinky disagreed. ‘He needs to know he can’t treat you like rubbish and then expect a booty call.’
‘Asking her about her holiday over text is hardly a booty call,’ Pretty rolled her eyes. ‘You’re so dramatic, Pinks.’
‘Oh and you’re not? What about the time that guy asked you for your number and you spent the whole evening looking at wedding lenghas?’
‘Piss off, I didn’t!’
‘You did! I bet while you’ve been touching up that business card, you’ve been wondering how much money that Salah guy has and if he’ll buy you an Elie Saab dress for your wedding.’
‘I haven’t!’ Pretty protested, her flushed cheeks suggesting otherwise.
‘Liar. You’ve bought half of Van Cleef in your head already!’
As the twins continued to quarrel, I took out my phone and typed an aloof message:
MAYA: How do you know I’m in Dubai anyway?
His response came immediately:
ZAKARIYA: I saw it on Pretty’s Snap.
My stomach plummeted faster than when I fell from the plane. WHAT. THE. HELL. DID. HE. SEE. ON. PRETTY’S. SNAP?
MAYA: What did you see exactly?
ZAKARIYA: You guys went skydiving? It looked incredible. Was that on your list?
MAYA: It was indeed. And it was pretty amazing. Did you see anything else?
ZAKARIYA: Where?
MAYA: On Pretty’s Snap?
ZAKARIYA: Bits and pieces. Are you having a good time?
I was, until I got his message. What did he see? Did he see the dancing video? If he did, I would never be able to face him again. A vision of myself throwing my hair and body around like an uncoordinated whirling dervish came to my mind, blinding me for a second:
MAYA: Yep, great thanks.
My answer was cold. I knew it was. But how was I supposed to react when he had been ignoring me for so long? He was lucky I was bothering to reply at all. I looked at the screen and watched as he started to type something and then stopped. I opened up Snapchat to see what the latest incriminating videos my stupid cousin had posted were and almost laughed when I saw a picture of the three business cards on the table with the caption, ‘Being propositioned everywhere we go’. Was that why Zak’s boxers were in a twist?
‘Preets,’ I interrupted the full-blown argument that was taking place between the sisters as they each went further and further back in time to provide examples of how the other had dramatised a situation.
‘Tell Pinky to shut up!’ she responded, her face scarlet. ‘Or I’m going back to the apartment!’
‘Pinks, drop it, will you?’ I implored. ‘This is our last night, don’t ruin it, please!’
‘Fine!’ Pinky huffed, crossing her arms.
Maybe being one half of a pair of twins wasn’t that great after all. When they had both calmed down, I tentatively posed the question that was burning my tongue to Pretty.
‘You know you said not many people had seen the video you posted of me dancing?’ I began, trying not to sound accusatory in case she threw a piece of hot coal at me.
Pretty gave me an ‘Are you serious?’ look.
‘I’m not trying to start a fight!’ I protested. ‘But I need to know if anyone I know saw it. I don’t want people chatting about us! You know how the gossip mill works!’
‘I can’t remember,’ she shrugged, blatantly lying to my face. ‘We did jump out of an aeroplane today to support you, you know. Sorry if my memory’s a bit shaky right now.’
I looked at Pinky then, who muttered, ‘See? Drama queen!’ under her breath.
‘OK,’ I said slowly. ‘Do you know if Zakariya saw it? Or anyone else who knows me?’ I quickly added so as not to give the game away.
Pretty’s expression turned from one of defiance to one of guilt. She looked away and took a long puff of shisha and I had the answer that I needed.