Page 63 of The Mismatch

‘An agent got back to me today.’

Soraya stopped but Magnus continued walking, pulling her hand.

‘Hold up! I didn’t even know you’d sent your book out yet. This is huge!’ Soraya said. ‘Why are you not jumping up and down?’

He suppressed a grin. ‘I don’t want to jinx things.’

‘You’re not jinxinganything.’ She planted a kiss on his lips, swatted his arm. Soraya still didn’t feel comfortable kissing in public from an irrational fear that someone who knew her family would catch her. She played this off as not liking PDAs. ‘You deserve this,’ she insisted.

Despite feeling happy for him, she felt a tinge of jealousy too. They’d made a promise to each other, and whilst he wassoaring, she was here, being bossed around in heels for minimum wage.

She had added some illustrations to her Instagram account, and finished off the drawing of Nunhead Cemetery, but she wasn’t exactly pursuing her dream. She wasn’t sure that was her dream. Or even if shehada dream. How could she pursue a dream if she didn’t know what it was?

In many ways she felt ashamed to be this directionless, like she was the only person from her university to have no idea what she wanted to do now that she had graduated. In her dark moments, she wondered if there was something wrong with her.

‘Anyway, the agent asked to meet up next week to discuss representing me.’

‘This is amazing! I hope I feature in your acknowledgements.’

‘Of course.’ He nudged her playfully with his elbow. ‘It does clash with rugby practice but I didn’t want to seem difficult from the get-go …’

Soraya resisted the urge to say, ‘It’s onlyrugbypractice,’ because she knew that wouldn’t go down well. He took it seriously in a way she couldn’t understand. She’d assumed he’d stop playing once they graduated.

‘This is such good news,’ she said instead, beaming at him, feeling the strain of the smile pulling against her cheeks. ‘This calls for a toast.’

They made their way to a nearby pub, and Magnus ordered a bottle of red wine. She wished she’d told him sooner that she didn’t have a particular fondness for wine.But by this point, it had been too long and she wasn’t sure how to broach the subject.

‘To your book,’ Soraya said, raising her glass to clink his.

Magnus’s cheeks were flushed. She realised he didn’t like too much attention when it came to his writing; he became bashful and embarrassed. It was a side of him she rarely saw.

‘It’s not a sure thing,’ he said.

‘Even getting this far is very impressive. You do know that, don’t you?’ Soraya said. ‘And why would she want to meet about representing you, if she wasn’t serious about it? Have faith in yourself.’

He took a long sip of his drink. She attempted to mimic this but was struck by the earthy tanginess of the wine, and inwardly shuddered.

‘I just don’t want to get too excited. I don’t feel like I’m the type of person who could be an author. Even calling myself that makes me cringe. It feels way beyond my reach.’

She put her hands over his.

‘Don’t ever think that. You can be anything you want to be. You’re talented at writing, Magnus. I’m not just saying that because you’re my … whatever, I’m saying it because it’s true.’

He was about to counter her point when she added, ‘Anyway, there are lots of mediocre white male authors, so I wouldn’t worry. What’s one more?’

He pushed her arm, laughing.

‘You’re such a dick,’ he said.

‘A dick you like very much,’ she said quickly. They looked at each other and burst out laughing again. ‘Sorry, that was really bad.’

They spent the rest of the night talking about their plans for the future, what Magnus would say to the agent, what his next steps would be if he were signed. When the conversation turned to her future she felt paralysed. How could she still not know what she wanted to do? She clung to this idea of working in marketing, having an office job, because that was what everyone else was doing, that was what her perceived idea of success was. Work in an office for a big company and you will have made it. But was that even true?

Magnus was always encouraging, no matter what she said. Some days she would say she wanted to be a professional illustrator, on others work for a marketing company, sometimes even venturing to say she’d like to do a Masters in graphic design. Every time he would nod along, showing no judgement whatsoever about her chaotic, confused mind.

‘I wanted to ask you something,’ he said. She noticed the tops of his ears were pink and his face was flushed, from his alcohol consumption, she assumed.

‘Yeah?’