Page 30 of The Mismatch

‘Do you go to galleries a lot then?’ she asked.

He smiled to himself and looked down, as if what she’d said was funny.

‘Sometimes.’ He paused before grinning at her and admitting, ‘Not really. I thought this was something you liked, that’s why I suggested it.’

She didn’t know what to say to that; all she knew was that this comment would be something she would decompress later, no doubt turning his sentence over in her mind repeatedly until it meant nothing, but also everything.

‘Is this something you like doing?’ he asked.

Soraya shrugged. ‘I don’t make a point of coming but I probably should do more of it.’

They stopped in front of a painting. The colours were dark, a moody mess of grey and black paint. They stood there for quite some time, quietly observing.

‘Do you believe in God?’ Magnus asked.

The sentence took her by surprise and she laughed, although she didn’t find it funny.

‘Random much? Yes,’ she said. ‘Do you?’

‘I’m not sure, probably not.’

He continued to look at the painting.

‘Why did you ask?’

‘I was just thinking about this painting. The artist said it’s meant to represent death, the nothingness of it.’

‘So you seriously don’t believe there’s a reason we’re here?’

‘It feels too convenient to believe in a God.’ He shrugged.

Soraya began walking, moving away from the painting and towards another exhibition, hopefully one that was less morbid. Of all the people to be seeing, she thought, she had to pick an atheist.

She felt his warm hand close around hers then, which made her stop.

‘Are you annoyed at me?’ He looked like he was repressing laughter. Even their hands touching was enough to make her hyper aware of her body in a way she had never been before. It was dizzying and embarrassing.

‘No,’ she said quickly.

He moved his hand to lift her chin, tilting her face upwards so he could see her more clearly. She imagined how they mustlook to outsiders. His muscles strained beneath his Fred Perry jacket, whereas she wore an oversized vintage wool coat and dark lipstick. They didn’t match; she was podgy in places he was taut. He was white, fully British, whereas she was Middle Eastern and English, and confused about what that meant most of the time. And yet with him this close, she wanted to kiss him, no matter what it looked like from the outside.

He leant in closer, his breath warm on her face.

‘Promise?’

All she had to do was move an inch and they could quite easily be kissing.

‘Promise.’

He looked like he was about to close his eyes, so sure they would of course kiss that she moved away.

‘I’m dying for a coffee, shall we go?’ she called over her shoulder, leading the way.

CHAPTER 13

Neda

Tehran, 1977