Black Sparrow

FRIDAY 6PM – UZMA RAFIQ-1

FRIDAY 6PM – UZMA RAFIQI've got two hours. Enough time to check-in and have something to eat before my flight, although the airport is really busy this afternoon and people are rushing around like crazy. The Tannoy announces flights departing to Berlin, Venice, Budapest. I wait in line, pulling my black nylon suitcase behind me. I'm already tired from struggling on the underground with my luggage. Trust me to travel in rush hour. I did plan my time carefully, though, making sure that I went to college this morning as usual. Having left my packed clothes under the bed, I returned for them at lunchtime when Mum was out at Aunt Shazia's. She's so fixed in her habits, it's easy to work out when the house will be empty.

I was really flustered at breakfast. Mum was asking me all sorts of questions about which classes I had today and where I would be having lunch, but my mind was just about as far away as it could have been. I could feel myself blushing guiltily as she talked. Mum has this habit of trying to brush my hair at breakfast; she doesn't understand that having it loose and a bit messy is fashionable. I think I was a bit sharp with her this morning. And now, here I am, ten hours later, preparing to fly to France.

The couple in front of me are arguing. It sounds petty. The woman is griping about who should take care of the passports and boarding cards. She's pretty, with straight black hair and is wearing a heavy sheepskin jacket. They look like newly-weds, too young to have been together long but both wearing sparkly gold wedding bands. The bickering is in hushed tones, but both are glaring at each other. In my opinion, it's simple – look after your own documents.

The queue moves forward and another desk opens but it's for Business Class passengers only. There's only one older man over there, standing bolt upright in his dark pin-striped suit, a typical city gent holding a black raincoat over one arm. I imagine that he smells of mothballs and whiskey like a lot of old English men. He must be quite rich if he's travelling business class on such a short flight, or maybe the company he works for has paid for it. I'd love to be able to travel to Paris in style, I bet he'll even drink champagne. I sigh and wait.

Today, I'm starting the life I've always dreamed of. I'm going to become an artist in Paris. If you'd told me six months ago that I'd be here today, escaping to live with my French boyfriend, I'd never have believed you, not in a million years. I'm scared, of course I am. But the six weeks that I spent learning from the street painters in Montmatre were the best of my life. And, of course, I had the best tutor in the world, Sylvain. We've only known each other for a few short months but it's as though he's switched on a light within my soul. I can finally feel passionate about my artwork and it also helps that he's drop-dead gorgeous. Sylvain has thick dark curls that brush against his collar as he works and a deep tan that suggests Mediterranean roots. I asked him about his family, but he just laughed, said his mother was a gipsy and his father worked in a travelling circus, so I didn't know whether to believe him.

When we met, it was purely a student and teacher relationship but, after a week of working closely together, everything changed. I stopped looking at his brushstrokes and focussed instead on the rippling muscles beneath his tight white shirts, inhaling his heady cologne as he stepped behind me to appraise my work. I was so scared that Sylvain wouldn't want me in the same way… afraid that he would think me a foolish, infatuated young girl. I needn't have worried, though. After eight days, he looked me straight in the eyes and I knew, from a smouldering look that made me melt. From then on, we were a couple. Sylvain is so talented. He's wonderful at charcoal sketching and watercolours and one time he persuaded me to let him sketch me on top of the bed wrapped in just a thin cotton sheet. The drawing was incredible. I treasure it and have brought it with me.

As my suitcase trundles down the conveyor belt, disappearing through a dark hole in the wall, I notice that my bright pink luggage tag has fallen off. It wasn't expensive but it makes my bag easier to identify, so I try to get the flight assistant's attention, but she's busy talking to an old lady with lots of bags. I leave it, can't be bothered, it should be okay.

I pass through Security quickly as I've put all my make-up and electrical items into my suitcase, so there is only my mobile phone to place in the plastic tray. It's unbelievable how many people are messing around, looking for clear bags to put lipstick in or a bin to get rid of bottles of water. Don't they read the signs? Passport Control is a longer wait. There are lots of families travelling together tonight; maybe they're having a weekend break in a warmer country. I smile to myself, thinking that nobody could imagine the adventure that I'm going on.

I have mixed feelings about dropping out of art college, I've been getting along so well with my coursework and it'll be two years of study down the drain, but there's nothing like hands-on experience and, if I'm honest with myself, it might have taken me another two years to hook up with a gallery in London, although Dad would probably have supported me until I found work. I keep telling myself that this sudden decision to leave isn't just because of Sylvain, but I know it is, mostly. Besides, he manages to sell his art to tourists and makes good money tutoring in the summer, so we'll be fine.

I doubt whether my father will be alright about it, though. He put such trust in me to finish college and get my degree, I bet he'll wish he'd never paid for me to go to Paris last July now. I love my dad, he's a strict but loving man, although I don't know whether he loves my mum any longer. They're a strange match. Thank goodness Dad hasn't got any ideas about fixing me up with my third cousin from Pakistan, or the son of a friend or an uncle of our family doctor. I'd die. I don't want to turn into Mum.

Finally, I sit down in a café. It's busy and I opt for a high stool, tucked under a counter at the window. The other occupants are either engrossed in books or staring at the Departure board. Nobody notices me sit down, nobody even looks up. For the first time today, I think through my actions. If I get on that plane to Paris, there's no turning back. I'm going to be in so much trouble when my dad finds out where I am. Hopefully, it will take him a while and by the time he starts ringing around, I'll be with Sylvain in his apartment. My head's wrecked. I've tried to cover my tracks, I haven't left any clues at home and only Maryam knows about my plan and I trust her not to tell. I really want to ring my mum, but she'll only start crying and beg me to go home. Maybe in a few weeks, when I'm settled.

She's also going to go crazy when she finds out that I've taken money from her bank account. I didn't have a choice, really and I hope she'll understand why I did it. Mum thinks her bank account is a big secret. I'm pretty sure Dad doesn't know about it, but she told Aunty Shazia, who's such a gossip. Maryam told me about the money and it wasn't difficult to work out where Mum would hide her bank card. It was in the bottom of the box where she keeps all her family letters from Pakistan and she even had the PIN number stuck on a Post-It note on the back. I wonder whether Mum will ever enter the twenty-first century. All my own savings are gone, I had to use them to buy my flight ticket and some new clothes. Imagine if I'd rocked up in Paris with just jeans and t-shirts! I needed some sophisticated outfits and so I bought them.

I finish my warm caramel latte, the froth momentarily sticking to my top lip and creating a sugary foam, then dispose of the remains of my chicken sandwich. I quickly look at my phone. I can't call Sylvain to tell him I'm coming as I don't have his number. We usually communicate by Skype, but my laptop is now on its way to the plane inside my luggage. It's been three days since we last spoke and he seemed a bit stressed about something last time I went to the Internet café to contact him. I'm not worried, though. I know he'll be excited to see me.

I close my eyes for a second or two, remembering the way that he would cover my face with soft, delicate kisses. I love him so much. Everything that I'm about to do is totally against my family and religion, but how can something that feels so right be wrong in the eyes of God? I've read enough magazine columns to know that sometimes you only get one shot at happiness and this is mine.

I don't care about the age gap. Ten years is nothing if you truly want to be together, and we're kindred spirits connected by our love of art. Still, I feel sick at the thought of leaving everyone, even pain-in-the-butt Khalid. I love my little brother but sometimes he can be such a nuisance, always borrowing stuff and sneaking around when I'm on the phone to Maryam. Maybe he secretly fancies her. I guess he's still a kid really, only seventeen, but I've heard it said that men mature later than women. Must be something to do with hormones, I guess.

As I walk away from the café, I think about all the questions that my best friend has put to me over the past few weeks. Maryam insisted that she wasn't trying to be negative about Sylvain but was just making sure that I'd thought things through carefully. At first, she was worried that he was some kind of con-man trying to extract money from me, but I assured her that my Frenchman took care of all the costs at our hotel and my only spending was for dinner sometimes.

I admit Sylvain does like to drink good quality wine with his steak and I did use a lot of my savings over the summer break, but I never would have expected him to pay for everything. I'm lucky that my father has a good profession and gives my brother and me a healthy allowance. Sometimes he asks what I'm spending my money on, but I tell him books and art supplies; never do I mention make-up and underwear. He'd have a fit!

I don't know why, but I find myself standing outside a door that says Prayer Room. Maybe I need to absolve myself. Perhaps I'm looking for answers, but I have no idea what the question is. All my life, I've followed tradition and never questioned my faith. There has been no need to. But today, I feel like I need something else, maybe a sign that I won't be condemned if I stray from the path.

I'm wearing a long black scarf under my denim jacket and I pull it over my head as I enter the inner room. The air is cool and I slip off my footwear. Not many people are in here and it's easy to find a mat on which to kneel. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and ask Allah for forgiveness. Words from the Holy Quran enter my mind: God has sovereignty over the heavens and the earth. God has power over all things.

I hope that God has the power to allow my parents to forgive me. I don't want them to be ashamed. It's not as if I'm trying to forsake my roots, I'm just choosing an alternative lifestyle and pursuing the career that I've always dreamed of. May Allah help them to see the light and forgive me if I have caused pain. Sometimes, in order to be happy we also need to be selfish, I tell myself.

Over in the newsagents, I pick up a glossy fashion magazine, something to keep my mind occupied on the flight, and go to the automatic pay machine. I feel as though I have a huge beacon on my head, flashing Runaway, or Bad Muslim, but nobody looks at me. I'm just another customer.

I check my flight number on the boarding pass and start walking down to the gate. I pass one of my favourite shops and stop to gaze at a pair of red boots in the window. They're amazing, but I need to keep back as much money as possible to buy paints and canvas for when I start work.