Coming Home (English Version)

50. Touched

Layla

I run to the bathroom in my office to dry the tears. Over the last month, tears have been catching me off guard at any given time during the day. It's hard to concentrate on work and more than once I have had to fight them and fake a smile during public events. My marriage is failing and the burden is too great for me to handle it on my own, but my husband, the one person I thought I could count on for this, thinks that everything is fine, that I'm overreacting and that all that needs to change is my attitude and try a little harder.

With a disposable tissue, I dab the corners of my eyes so my makeup doesn't get ruined. After throwing that tissue away, I take another one to blow my nose. When I take a couple of steps towards the trash can, I feel my skirt move around on my waist. I try to fix it, make it tighter, but nothing works, it's too big on me. How is that possible given the way I look now? I take a glance at the mirror but I can barely stand it. That's it, I'm only having a salad today.

When I step back into the office, I'm startled by Farouk standing in front of my desk, wearing a white kandura and holding a folder in his hand.

"Oh, hi!" I greet him.

"Um... I'm sorry, I'm a bit early. I hope that's okay," he apologizes as I walk towards him to exchange a kiss on the cheek.

"Don't be silly," I look at my watch. "It's only ten minutes. Why don't we go to the majli? I don't want Maktoum or any of his people seeing you here."

He agrees to my suggestion and we head towards our usual and more private meeting spot. We sit on the same couch, facing each other and I rub my palms together, anticipating the news.

"We got them," he announces.

I gasp. "Seriously? Who are they?"

He opens the folder and clears his throat. "Well, with the other two letters you got, it was pretty apparent that we were not dealing with professionals or the brightest minds around, you know? Which can be good and bad."

"Okay," I nod expectantly.

"The bank account they gave us was tracked down to a certain Harriet Taylor."

"Who?" I frown.

Farouk hands me a picture of a blonde woman with short hair, probably in her fifties, carrying grocery bags on the street.

"There you have her," he says.

"I have never heard of her before, who is she?"

"Well," he continues. "After following Mrs. Taylor for a couple of days..."

My sight moves from the picture on my hands to Farouk and I can't help but to smile.

"What?" He wonders when he notices.

"I think you're truly enjoying this whole thing, pretending to be a spy, some sort of 007," I explain

He sighs. "Now that you mention it, I think it's time for an Arab 007."

I chuckle at his idea and it feels so good, I cannot remember the last time I laughed honestly at anything, and he follows suit.

"I cannot believe we're laughing in the midst of all of this," I confess.

His voice goes deeper and he raises a single eyebrow. "Laughter is the most powerful of my weapons."

We chuckle some more and then he goes back to business.

"Anyway," he clears his throat again. "After following Mrs. Taylor for a couple of days, our friends in London realised she has some sort of relationship, probably romantic, to a Mr. Martin Flynn."