Tell the Truth, Shame the Devil(76)

She gets off the bed. “That Brackenham lot don’t part with their money too easy. If they’ve given it to you, they mean you to have it.” She brushes past him.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Rough day,” is all she says.

He follows her into the kitchenette, where she puts on the kettle.

“Do you know the guy who owns the Algerian restaurant on the corner?” she asks.

“No, but he’s watching me.”

“His name is Bilal Lelouche and he stopped me tonight because he’s one of the hundreds of people who know you’re staying with me.”

She doesn’t seem happy about that fact.

“He asked if you could drop in for supper. He knew Noor and Etienne, apparently.”

Jamal gives a shake of his head. It sounds like a setup.

“I’ve never heard anything bad said about him,” she says. “Great restaurant. People come from all over to eat there.”

“No clean clothes.”

“I’ll find you something.”

“No thanks.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound judgmental. He just doesn’t want to be wearing some other guy’s clothing.

“I’ve got some stuff of Ali’s that Jocelyn wants me to give to a Brackenham charity,” she says.

He has no excuse now. “Will you come with me?” he asks.



The restaurant is packed but there’s a table set for them down the back. Jamal and Layla exchange a look and follow the waiter. The moment they sit down the food comes, and doesn’t stop coming for the next hour.

“Love the French,” Jamal says, wolfing down the best kefta he’s ever eaten. “Hate their food.”

Layla laughs and it’s a good laugh to hear, and even better to see. “My favorite treat is a French restaurant,” she says.

“Hate the food with a passion,” he says.

With a meal this good, there’s no room for being polite. It’s the survival of the fastest and Layla likes her food as much as he does. There’s less room for talk too, which is fine, because he has to accept that they’re strangers now. She’s guarded and it makes him tense; he wants to be anything but. When he brings up her work she dodges the subject. Asks about his instead. He tells her about the gym, and working at one of the bars downtown.

“As a bouncer?” she asks, soaking up the last of the chakchouka with her pita bread.

“Not a bouncer.”

“You work behind the bar?” she says.

“Who said I was working behind the bar?”

He reaches over and finishes the eggplant dip on her plate. They eye each other. The old Jimmy and Layla always ate from each other’s plates. There was an intimacy to it.

“You’re not a bouncer and you’re not behind the bar,” she says, trying to work it out. “So you’re running the place?”

“Not running the place.”

By ten thirty Bilal Lelouche still hasn’t come over for a chat, and Jamal is surprised when a waiter puts the bill on the table. Not that he’s complaining, but Layla made it sound as if the meal was on the house. She reaches for the bill before he can and takes out her purse.

“Put it away,” he says gruffly.

“We’ll go halves,” she says, looking at the bill, and her expression changes at once. Her eyes meet his as she hands it over.

Breakfast tomorrow 9 a.m. Lette Le-Hyphen and a friend.



For most of the short walk home it’s like old times and Layla and Jamal argue about whose plan has worked best.

“Lette Le-Hyphen found out I was on Facebook.”

“Yes, but through my message to Gigi.”

Inside her building, Layla reaches for the stairwell light. The moment it’s illuminated, they hear a sound further up the stairs. Instinct has him taking her hand.

“Stay here,” he whispers.

“Who’s there?” Layla calls out.

A young blonde looks down at them from the stair rail. Layla leads him up to her flat, where the woman, dressed in a suit, stands holding a plastic Marks & Spencer bag. Layla lets go of his hand.

“Some of the things you left behind,” the woman says, holding out the bag. “Toiletries and stuff from the ladies’ room.”

When Layla takes the bag she seems surprised by the weight of it. The two exchange a look Jamal can’t read before the woman heads down the stairs.

“You shouldn’t have lasted this long typing,” Layla calls out after her. “You’re better than being the next Vera. That’s what I meant back then. So next time someone gives you advice, listen to them.”

There’s no response and Layla clutches the bag to her.

“What was all that about?” he asks, his heart sinking because he understands now. The reason she was in her room crying. The carton on her bed.

She doesn’t respond. Jamal takes the keys from her and wordlessly opens the door.

Inside he sits at the piano, tinkering. Layla disappears into her bedroom and when she returns she seems composed. She comes to sit on the bench beside him and tries to remember the beginning of “Für Elise.” He takes her hand and guides her through it. When they were younger he’d be rough, jabbing her fingers against the keys. Tonight he lets his linger over hers. He plays the opening strands of Clapton’s “Layla.” He used to play it to her back when life made sense. Back when Layla Bayat could have had him on his knees begging for the rest of his life.