‘Nice to meet you, Mr Klutz,’ she said. Her grin widened and she held out her hand. ‘I’m Jamila.’
‘Yes, of course you are,’ said Chaudhry. He held out his right hand and then realised that he was still holding his napkin. He apologised, transferred it to his left hand and shook hands with her. Her skin was soft and smooth and her fingernails were bright pink with gold tips. ‘Great to finally meet you,’ he said. ‘In person, I mean.’
The waitress had put most of the pieces of broken glass on her tray. She stood up and smiled at Chaudhry. ‘Why don’t I move you to a table downstairs?’ she said. ‘Save you waiting while I finish cleaning up.’
Chaudhry smiled at her gratefully. She took the two of them down the staircase to the lower floor and handed them over to a tall Australian waiter with a surfer’s physique and sun-bleached hair. He took Jamila’s coat, showed them to a table by the wall and gave them a couple of menus. Chaudhry ordered another bottle of water.
As the waiter walked away, Chaudhry apologised again. Jamila waved off his apology. ‘I’m forever knocking things over,’ she said. ‘I just hope I don’t do it in the lab or thousands of people could die.’
‘Are you serious?’
She grinned. ‘No, they haven’t let me near the dangerous stuff yet.’
‘I never liked microbiology,’ he said. ‘Everything is so. .’
‘Small?’
Chaudhry laughed. ‘Exactly. I prefer patients that I can talk to.’
‘But it’s micro-organisms that’ll be making a lot of them sick. Viruses and bacteria, they’re the big killers.’
‘Well, cancer, heart attacks and strokes are the big killers, but I know what you mean,’ he said. He winced as he realised how he’d managed to be both arrogant and patronising in the same sentence. ‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘I mean, you’re right. It’s an important field.’
‘It can be boring at times,’ she said. ‘My dad wanted me to be a doctor but I told him that I couldn’t face spending the rest of my life around sick people.’
Chaudhry chuckled. ‘That would pretty much rule out medicine,’ he said.
‘I’m not even sure if I want to stay in science,’ she said. She shrugged. ‘Still, that’s part of the reason for being at university, isn’t it? To find yourself.’
Chaudhry nodded but couldn’t think of anything to say. He was finding it difficult to concentrate because every time he looked at her he got lost in her eyes.
‘Do you drink?’ asked Jamila, looking up from her menu.
He frowned, wondering if it was a trick question. He was a Muslim and Muslims didn’t touch alcohol. ‘Not really,’ he said. He grimaced. ‘Actually, not at all.’
‘Never? Not even a taste?’
Chaudhry chuckled again. ‘It would be like eating pork,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t even want to try.’
She put down the menu, looking uncomfortable.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Would you mind terribly if I had a glass of wine?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure I’m sure.’ He held up his hands. ‘Just because I don’t drink doesn’t mean others shouldn’t.’
The Australian waiter returned with the bottle of sparkling water. He poured it for them and Jamila asked for a glass of white wine. As he headed off she smiled at Chaudhry and his stomach turned over. She did have the most amazing smile.
‘So you don’t drink because you’re a Muslim?’ she asked.
Chaudhry nodded. ‘Sure. The Koran says intoxication is forbidden.’
‘Raj, I’m not planning to get drunk.’
‘I know, but that’s not what I meant.’ He felt his cheeks redden again. ‘I don’t know. . it’s just part of me. No alcohol. Pray five times a day.’
‘And one day you’ll make a pilgrimage to Mecca?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you give a percentage of your earnings to charity?’
‘I’m not actually earning yet. But when I am, yes, of course.’
She leaned forward and his stomach turned again as she smiled. ‘I’m making you uncomfortable. All this talk about religion. I’m sorry.’
‘You’re not. Really.’ That was a lie, he realised. But it wasn’t the conversation that was making him uncomfortable, it was her striking beauty. ‘Your father. Does he drink?’
‘He likes wine. But never more than two glasses.’
‘And he doesn’t ask you to cover your head when you go out?’
Jamila laughed, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. ‘Of course not.’ She laughed again. ‘Just the thought of it.’ She shook her head. ‘My dad’s not like that. He’s been in the UK since he was ten. And my mum was born here. I’ve never seen her wear so much as a headscarf.’
‘What about when she goes back to Pakistan?’
‘She’s never been,’ said Jamila. Glasgow’s her home. If you think I’ve got an accent, you should hear Mum. You couldn’t get her to Pakistan if you paid her.’
The waiter returned with Jamila’s wine. Chaudhry caught him smiling at Jamila in a way that made him want to grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall. He shook his head, wondering how she’d managed to provoke such strong feelings in such a short space of time. He’d been in her company for barely ten minutes and he was already jealous when another man even looked at her.
‘You’ve been to Pakistan, my dad says.’
‘Over the Christmas holiday,’ he said, nodding.
‘On a health programme, right? That must have been really interesting.’
Chaudhry’s mouth had gone dry and he swallowed awkwardly. This was the first time he’d met her and he didn’t want to start their relationship with a lie but he didn’t have a choice. ‘It was hard work,’ he said. ‘My dad said you worked in an orphanage.’ He hoped that the change of subject wasn’t too obvious but he was very uncomfortable lying to her and much preferred to be talking about her.
She nodded enthusiastically. ‘I did a gap year before I went to uni,’ she said. ‘I spent most of it in a city called Murree, in the Punjab. They’d had over twelve inches of rainfall and it was a real mess. A lot of people were killed, thousands of homes were destroyed and a lot of kids were abandoned so the number of orphans had gone through the roof. And food was in short supply; there were no medicines. It was horrible, Raj. It really made me appreciate what we have in this country. We moan about the NHS but at the end of the day at least you get to see a GP and if necessary you go to hospital for treatment.’ She smiled. ‘Why am I telling you that? You’ll be a doctor soon.’
‘No, I know what you mean. I hate the poverty out there. My dad’s always telling me how well Pakistan has done, how at independence in 1974 it inherited one jute factory, one textile mill and one university. But when I was there all I saw was the poverty.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Karachi,’ said Chaudhry. At least that much was true. He and Malik had flown there from London before being transported to an al-Qaeda training camp close to the border with Afghanistan. ‘It was a small clinic in a deprived area. I was giving them vaccinations and offering basic healthcare advice.’ He felt his heart race as he lied, and his hands were damp with sweat. He wiped them on his trousers. He liked Jamila, really liked her, and he hated the fact that any relationship he had with her would be based on untruths. He felt a wave of shame and he looked round for their waiter. ‘I could do with a Coke,’ he said. ‘Where’s our waiter gone?’
Jamila lifted her head and the Australian waiter rushed over, eager to please. She rewarded him with a beaming smile and nodded at Chaudhry. The waiter took Chaudhry’s order and then they both chose their pizzas. Chaudhry was a little annoyed that Jamila asked the waiter for his opinion on what was good and even more annoyed when she took his advice and had the Padana with its goat’s cheese, spinach, red and caramelised onions and garlic oil. It did sound good but Chaudhry couldn’t force himself to follow the waiter’s suggestion. His favourite was the Diavolo, but he figured that if there was any chance of a goodnight kiss then he’d be better avoiding the Tabasco, jalapeno peppers and hot spiced beef that gave it its kick, and so he went for a classic Margherita.