Callum’s phone rang when our falafel and tagines were delivered. He answered before the the first ring had really occurred, his voice tentative, worried.
“How is she?”
There was desperation in there, a feeling he’d done well to hide as we wrangled our way through the souks and streets.
“How long?”
I tuned out, knowing he’d tell me, that he’d need to tell me, once he’d finished his conversation. I watched the square. The colours were heady, the music loud with the constant sound of drums beating. I’d become familiar with that beat, the tempo of Africa, the sound of its heart. I wasn’t sure how I was going to leave this place.
And Callum.
Last night, another just one night, had scarred my heart. If he offered what he did all those years before now, I knew I wouldn’t be able to turn him down, even though I understood that he came with enough baggage to sink the Titanic.
A woman walked into the square, looking too warm, too overdressed for the Marrakesh heat. She was with a man, possibly her boyfriend or husband and they were clearly laughing.
I longed for that; the closeness and intimacy that I saw between them, the easy, casual laughter. That knowledge that someone accepted you, for whatever you were and knew you well enough to understand it too.
“She’s fine and awake. Groggy and swearing a lot. The swearing means she’s fine, by the way.” Callum’s voice sounded like he’d just back away from a precipice.
“How did the operation go?”
“As well as they’d hoped. Her small bowel was intact and alive. They’ve been able to put all bits back where they should go, as gross as that sounds. No need for a colostomy bag – I know that wasn’t the end of the world, but it would be something to adjust to. And they only had to cut horizontally so the healing should be a bit easier. Less painful.”
I felt light. I felt Callum’s lightness. The heavy grey that had loomed overhead had shifted away leaving blue skies.
“We need to take some pictures.”
“We do.”
* * *
We roamedMarrakesh’s old town, visiting the palaces and souks, taking photos of the mountains that paraded in the distance and selfies of us, next to the pool in the riad, haggling for silver teapots, lost amongst rugs. We posted the pictures as we went on social media – my followers had bred like rabbits in the last few days – and on his family’s group chat.
“You need to see what Seph’s said,” Callum looked at his phone as we sat by the pool in the riad, the space empty apart from Louis, one of the cameramen, who had fallen asleep in a chair. Unfortunately, another member of the crew had seen this and had taken the opportunity to draw a moustache on him. Childish, but fun.
“I expect to hear Seph speaking in slogans like Heraclitus sometimes.”
Callum choked on his mint tea. “By who?”
“Never mind. Child!”
He slowed his chokes and resorted to human. “More likely he’d sound like Yoda but make less sense.” He sat back. “He’s a good bloke. He takes a lot of shit but I don’t know a kinder person. He’s just the opposite to me.”
“How?”
“He likes people. Genuinely likes people. A bit like a puppy that comes bounding up to you.” He screwed up his face. “In fact, that’s a pretty good description because Seph can’t be away from people. He’s tried living on his own, but after two nights he’s like an animal.”
“He’s living at yours at the mo, though, isn’t he?”
Callum nodded. “He’ll be okay with that because my stuff’s there and he’ll be round at Max’s or Payton’s every other day for dinner or to watch the football or play poker. Plus, Jackson and Claire have realised he’d rather babysit than go out on a Friday, so his dance card’s booked up with baby spit and shitty bottoms.”
I choked back a laugh. “It sounds like he needs a girlfriend.”
“He does. I can’t even say he needs a good seeing to, because Seph is more of a manwhore than I ever was.”
“Was?” I raised my brows, teasing.
“Was.” He didn’t joke. This was serious. “I’m not that person anymore.”
