I Can't Think Straight by Shamim Sarif Page B

swallowed, leaning in to hear whatever it was that he might want to tell her.
    ‘There’s an article here you should read,’ he said. ‘About the best balance of assets in a pension fund.’ He folded the paper and passed it into her hands. ‘Let me know what you think.’
    The day was overcast but the subtle light seemed to Leyla to soften the edges of the river and the trees as she walked with Tala through the park after lunch. They had spoken a lot over their meal, exchanged information and ideas, had gotten to know each other’s family backgrounds and work and other tangible facts. Now, though, in the park, they walked for a few moments silently but together. There was space here, an open sky, a breath of wind to cast off the outer web of their conversation and to leave them time to pause. Pretend-ing to look out at the river, Leyla glanced sideways at Tala. Her soft curls hung over her collar and in the dim, cool light, the rich brown of her hair seemed to glint with a light of its own.
    ‘You know, you told me what you do, but not why you do it.’ Tala said.
    ‘What do you mean?’
    Tala looked at her. ‘You work for your father. The way I used to work for mine. But it’s not what I really wanted to do.’
    ‘And your new business is?’
    Tala shrugged. ‘It might be. I like the idea behind it. To create a market here using Palestinian suppliers of soaps and candles, things like that. It means working on product design and quality, and then selling them into shops. I enjoy the work. And it could make a difference to the quality of life of the people making them. And maybe give me a bit more independence.’ Tala looked away, as if the last comment had touched too much on the personal.
    ‘I hope you succeed. I’m sure you will.’
    Tala smiled. ‘And you? Do you like working with your father?’
    Leyla gave a slight laugh. ‘I don’t mind it. He always wanted me to work with him. And there was nothing else I ever wanted to do except…’ She broke off, surprised with herself for having come so close to revelation. She quickened her pace slightly, but it was too late. Tala had caught the moment and was now catching hold of her arm.
    ‘Except what?’
    Leyla stopped walking and laughed a little, nervously.
    ‘Writing,’ she answered. ‘Fiction’. It was a tense moment for her, the cracking open of the door to a secret life that few people knew existed. ‘I’ve had a few short stories published. And now I’m working on a novel.’
    ‘Can I read your work?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    Tala laughed. ‘Why? You don’t trust me yet?’
    ‘It’s not that.’
    ‘Okay. If you let me read something, you can ask me anything you like.’
    Leyla looked at her. ‘Anything?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘How did you manage to be engaged four times?’ she asked quickly, then laughed at Tala’s rolled eyes. ‘I mean, you seem so decisive.’
    ‘Well, I’m not proud of it,’ said Tala. ‘The first one – well, I was very young, and had no idea what I was getting into. The second one produced tonnes of dates. Which is great, and I love dates, but I didn’t love him. The third one ticked all the boxes – good family, Christian Arab, intelligent, handsome. But it just didn’t click.’
    She looked to Leyla for understanding and received it in the glance back.
    ‘What about you and Ali?’ Tala asked. ‘How’s that going?’ They had slowed to a halt now, under the protective, enclosing branches of an oak tree. Beyond them, the river flowed with a soft sigh. Tala watched Leyla as she hesitated. Her eyes were clear, her skin almost translucent in the pale light.
    ‘He’s nice. I like him a lot.’
    Tala nodded. ‘But does it click?’
    ‘Not the way I imagine it should.’
    Tala felt a sudden impulse to brush away a long strand of dark hair that had fallen across Leyla’s face. But she kept her hands in her jacket pocket and watched as Leyla pushed it away herself.
    ‘Maybe we expect too much,’ Tala