by Alam, Donna
I laugh. It sounds more like a painful cough. ‘How? It’s such a clusterfuck.’
‘I dunno.’ Hands momentarily in the air, she adds, ‘A problem shared and all that.’
I laugh again. Humourlessly.
‘I could’ve saved you the price of a flight, at least.’ She shakes her head. ‘Y’daft fecker. Good job you got married, though. I’d’ve missed you if you couldn’t come back.’
This is a big admission from Niamh. The nearest I’ll ever get to I love you.
‘Aw, I’d have missed you, too.’
‘And who would I have had to borrow from before my next paycheck comes in?’
‘Cupboard love.’
‘No, babe. Money love. Share the love!’ She snorts, tipping the bottle above her glass, but the wine is long gone.
‘I didn’t want it, you know. The money. I signed the wedding contract without even knowing.’
‘And that,’ she says, covering her hand following a small burp, ‘tells me that love makes people daft.’
‘So you do think I’m mad for marrying him.’
‘No, I think you’re an eejit for not reading something before you signed on the dotted line.’ She inhales deeply, looking at her glass as she begins twirling the stem. ‘Love isn’t something you have any choice in, Kate. It’s not about thinking.’
‘You don’t understand—I signed the thing without even realising what it was.’
‘Whose fault was that? Did he tell you not to read it?’
‘Of course not.’ My words are tinged with anger as I jump from my seat. ‘He maybe counted on it. He deceived me.’
Niamh gives an unconcerned shrug, and I can’t believe she isn’t stamping her feminist heels. I also can’t believe I’m labouring over this point, but her reaction is so unreal. It’s unnatural. And as successful as goading a sloth.
‘Divorce his arse if you’re unhappy.’ Humour and challenge glitter in her gaze. ‘But can you have the wedding party first? I’ve got a killer dress to wear. Don’t want it to go to waste.’
I exhale an exaggerated huff.
‘What do you want me to say, Kate? That he did a bad thing? Sure he did. But did he do you wrong?’
‘But—’
‘Sit down, babe. Those diamond shoes must be killing your feet.’
‘Why don’t you get fucked?’
‘I will. Tomorrow. I’ve got a date with Rob. And, language, Katherine! I’m glad to see you haven’t gone all posh.’
‘Not much,’ I mumble, pulling a loose thread from the knee of my jeans. Designer jeans with the knee purposely frayed.
‘Come on, drink up.’ She gestures to my barely touched glass. ‘I want to visit this cellar of yours when you’re done.’
I take a sip. ‘I think I must be coming down with something.’ I screw up my nose. ‘It doesn’t taste right.’
‘Just your tastebuds have gone posh, then?’ she says, examining the empty bottle. ‘Cost me seventy dirhams, this.’
‘I’ll maybe have green tea.’
‘My arse!’
‘What? I think my stomach’s a bit off.’
‘You need whiskey, then.’
I shudder, because I so don’t.
‘Suit yer’ self.’ She looks around. ‘Where’s the kettle?’
‘In the other kitchen.’
‘Go and ask Arthur to put it on, then.’
‘I prefer my tea without chunks, thanks. Phlegm,’ I qualify.
‘Jeysus, she can’t be that bad!’
‘She hates my guts. Seriously, I’ve taking to hiding my toothbrush from her in case she decides to clean the toilet with it.’
‘Really, Kate,’ she says laughing. ‘You can’t let the woman employed to wash your jacks get the better of you.’
‘That’s not it. She’s been with Kai since he was a littlie—she’s almost part of the family.’
‘Chick, get a grip. You need taking in hand, my girl.’
Bleurgh. Just bleurgh.
If my stomach felt a bit iffy before, now it definitely does, my head filled once again with those bleach-worthy images: the begonia apron, the luridly pink handprints. I can physically sense the smile slipping from my face, replaced by a look, no doubt, that resembles spoiled milk. Why? Because right now, I could almost blow chunks.
‘What? What did I say? Do the family love her that much? All I meant was someone needs to show you the go with this domestic staff business. Anyone would think I’d asked to practise taxidermy on your cat!’
‘That’s not it. Oh god,’ I say, sagging heavily against the kitchen bench, holding one hand to my mouth. ‘You wouldn’t believe if I told you.’
‘Believe what?’
So I repeat Kai’s drunken assumptions. Why not? I’ve told her almost everything else. Besides, she can tell me just how mad it sounds. I give her the Cliffs Notes version. Five sentences max, while Niamh’s expression morphs from shock to a vicious kind of delight.
‘Oh-ho-ho!’ she chants, as I contemplate scrubbing the dirty words from my tongue with my sleeve. ‘I can totally see it, though!’
‘Don’t,’ I moan, covering my eyes. Because, yes, I can see it. Every time I close my bloody eyes.
‘Sounds nuttier than a squirrel’s shite, I’ll grant you.’ Peeking out from under my fingers, her eyes gleam back almost maniacally. ‘But you’ve got to admit, babes, it so makes sense.’
I lower my hands. ‘Don’t tell me you believe—he was drunk when he spouted his stupid theory!’
‘You hear about it, don’t you? Couples living the lifestyle?’
‘What’s that—not my parents! They couldn’t be more square if they were shaped that way!’
‘It’s the quiet ones that are always the worst,’ she replies in a supercilious, all knowing, and very annoying tone. ‘Wives, submit to your husbands—isn’t that what the good book says?’
‘Somewhere, but—’
‘And they fit the mould. Your da’s always been a bit autocratic, lording it over your ma. And then there’s all the churching and stuff.’
‘Like I said. Staid. Straight.’
‘You hear about couples who live the lifestyle. Serious Christians, too.’
‘What, because they go to church, they’re kinky?’ My tone borders on incredulous.
‘Man’s word is law,’ she continues, loving every minute of my discomfort. ‘And woe betide the woman’s arse if she strays from her lord and master’s line. You have to admit, it’s a possibility.’
‘No, he’s wrong,’ I answer with vehemence. ‘Not them.’
‘Then all I’ve got to say is it takes a deviant to recognise a deviant.’
‘And which one of us are we talking about here?’ Ha! That shut her trap.
‘Kai, obvs,’ she says, undaunted and with a chuckle.
And no, I’m not touching that.
‘Jaysus, I’m like lego this morning.’
I’m eating my breakfast the next day in the kitchen when Niamh wanders in. ‘You’re colourful plastic bricks?’
‘God, I’m in bits.’ She plants her butt on the stool next to mine, reaching for my cuppa. ‘I’m hangin’. Why’d you let me drink all that wine?’ She grimaces at the taste of my cold tea dregs.
‘You should ask Santa for a cellar for Christmas. You spent enough time in Kai’s.’
‘Like a fat kid in a cake shop. You’d think I’d know my own limits by now.’ Still looking pained, her eyes flick over me, before her phone, left in the kitchen overnight, begins to ring. ‘Ow-ow-owwww! Turn that the fuck off!’
‘It’s yours, not mine.’
By the time she reaches the offending item, it’s stopped ringing but pings immediately with an incoming text.
‘ “Sorry I missed you, hun,” ’ she recites, laying the phone flat.
‘Rob? That’s cute.’
‘Like feckin’ Attila.’
‘What?’
‘The Hun.’
‘Funnily enough, it suits you
this morning.’
Narrowing her eyes, Niamh gives me a faintly threatening look. ‘So why don’t you look like hard boiled shite, too?’
‘I didn’t drink much.’ I shrug. ‘I feel . . . apathetic about food and stuff at the minute.’
‘Ah, chick. You’re love sick.’ Hands clasped, she flutters her lashes, stopping when even that small motion seems to hurt her head.
‘Nah. It’s the remains of jet-lag, I think. It sucks big hairy balls.’
‘Wine might’ve helped you sleep and stuff.’
‘Doubt it. Anyway, I didn’t want to get loaded.’
‘Didn’t want to, either,’ she mumbles, laying her head against the cool marble bench. I slide over my plate of toast, making her recoil. ‘Get that the fuck away!’
‘Let the power of Vegemite compel you!’ It’s like smelling salts!
Niamh’s got a date with Rob tonight, but she stays until sunset, when she orders a cab. The weather has cooled quite a bit since I’d first arrived in Dubai, with early mornings and evenings starting to feel almost pleasant. It’s with this in mind that we decide to take a stroll to the compound’s gate, rather than have the cab pick her up at the door.
It only takes a few minutes and her taxi is already waiting when we get there. We’ve already made plans for a catch up soon, so with a quick hug and kiss—none of this European two cheek business—she hops into the back.
It’s peaceful as I walk back to the house, the last strains of the evening ahdan, or prayer, from the local mosque dissipating in the air. There’s not a soul to be seen, but as a bright yellow Camaro pulls alongside the curb, matching my pace, I begin to wish that there were others about. The windows are blacked out, so I can’t tell who’s inside, but whoever it is, they’re playing games, and I feel very unnerved.
Keeping my eyes front, I think its best that I get my half-jog on, especially as the house is in sight now. But when the window opens, and a waft of something semi-familiar drifts out, I find myself slowing in pace.
Is that weed?
‘Congratulations, habibti.’
Bugger, bollix, fuck.
The person I’ve been least looking forward to meeting. Ignoring him, I carry on, planting one foot after another as the house draws closer.
‘You don’t speak to your family now, cousin?’ Essam, the sneer evident in his voice. ‘That isn’t very polite.’
I can’t believe he has the audacity to speak to me. My stomach turns over again and again, my body beginning to shake with a mixture of discomfort and shock. But overriding these emotions is anger, because how fucking dare he. What did I ever do to him to deserve such hurt? Nothing, that’s what. I just happen to love the man he’s intensely jealous of. And happen to have been there when he was caught out.
My hands are balled into fists as I halt, turning to face him, my molars under enough pressure to crack. Essam slows the car to a complete stop, but the harsh words balanced on the end of my tongue immediately melt. Through the open window, I can see the back seat and I begin to laugh.
‘Real smooth,’ I say, still laughing. ‘You’re smoking weed with the baby seat in the car?’ Sans baby, thankfully, but still. ‘I bet you get all the bitches, especially with this . . .’ I make a gesture towards the bright yellow muscle car, aiming for somewhere between dismay and disgust. ‘This . . .’ Over compensation? ‘Dick extension.’
Self-editing was never one of my strong points.
‘Why don’t you get inside,’ he says, one hand on the wheel, the other making to grab his crotch. ‘I’ll show you I don’t need any help.’
‘You need psychiatric help, for sure.’ I turn and begin to walk again.
My heart is in my throat as the engine stills completely. I don’t look back as a car door slams, but suddenly my feet are hitting the pavement faster. At any other time, I’d be worried how daft this motion looks—probably looks like my arse is chewing toffee—but I want to get away from him, without giving him the satisfaction of my fear.
The house draws nearer, and all I can think is, I’m almost there. Almost home. Surely he wouldn’t—not here?
I physically start as Essam’s hand grasps my elbow, and I whirl around, ready to lash out.
‘What the fuck do you want?’
‘That’s simple. I want what Kai has,’ he says, his free hand ghosting my shoulder, causing my whole body to shudder.
‘You’ll never have it,’ I spit out in the face of his shock. ‘You could step into his life tomorrow—own his cars, his house. His money, too. But it wouldn’t make one bit of difference because you’d still be you. You’ll never have what he has. Honour. Integrity. Respect. My love.’ With that, I yank my arm free, finally able to breathe as I take the last few steps to the house gate, yanking open the door and throwing myself through.
This is so fucked up.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
‘Rashid! Rashid, are you down here? Where are you?’
I haven’t seen him since this morning when he’d appeared in the kitchen, asking if I required his services today. Now I’m in the depths of the basement which was the direction he’d headed when I said I didn’t have any plans.
As well as the parking garage, I think he must have an office or something down here.
‘Madam?’ Rashid appears out of nowhere. Well, out of a door I hadn’t seen, looming massively in the dim hallway: dark trousers, no tie. Rolled pale shirtsleeves.
Must be mufti day.
‘Fuck! I nearly—’ I inhale my words, swallowing them thickly. Telling him I nearly shat myself is maybe a little unbecoming. ‘Geeze, Rashid, I nearly had a heart attack!’
‘Asif. Sorry, Madam. You were calling?’
‘Yes. Yes, I was.’ I lower my hand from my chest, my heart rate beginning to slow. ‘I was wondering how I lock the front gate. Or the front door.’ Come to think of it, I didn’t see a key or any sort of locking mechanism on either.
‘Lock, Madam?’ he repeats, the space between his heavy brows narrowing.
‘Yes, it doesn’t lock,’ I reply, miming so. ‘Or maybe I don’t know how to do it. I know we live in a walled compound, with security, but I don’t feel—’ safe, especially with Essam prowling ‘—comfortable living and sleeping in a house with unlocked doors.’
‘Ah.’ Understanding lightens his countenance. ‘Madam, please.’ He makes a vaguely familiar gesture with his hand; palm down, his fingers curling. ‘Come. I will show you.’
I follow him into the room. Turns out, it’s security HQ. Far out, I feel like I’m on some bloody crime show, except in my shorts and thongs, I’m not quite glamourous, or swishy-haired enough for the CSI role.
One wall houses monitors, all depicting various views of the house. The front door and gate, inside and out, the pool, the gardens, a door to the outside I haven’t yet seen, and worrying, flashes of the interior.
Jesus Christ on a bike—Kai and I almost screwed in that hall!
I feel my lips curl into one and other, almost as though preventing the words from spilling out.
‘Madam?’
‘I—I—’ I’m on some hard drive somewhere, being driven very hard. I’ll be the Kim Kardashian of Dubai! Okay, with a little less arse.
‘Please, watch.’ With a furrowed brow, Rashid utters something guttural and a man in some sort of security uniform appears from the shadows of the room. He begins to flick through the monitors’ views. ‘Nothing, see? Nothing of a personal nature. Only views of the exits and service corridors.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Exactly. I see that Rashid knows exactly what I’m thinking, as though my words and worries were written by sharpie on my forehead. I expect he’s also seen some things he would rather not have during his time working for Kai.
‘Also, the doors lock automatically on shutting. The security here—’ he gestures to the uniformed man ‘—is responsible for disabling the automatic locks when either you, or Mr. Kai, require it.’
‘Oh.’
; ‘There is also fingerprint technology,’ he adds. ‘But it has not yet been enabled.’
‘Thank you.’ I turn, tilting my head to look at him. ‘Thanks, Rashid, for explaining.’ For putting my mind at ease so deftly.
He inclines his head. ‘Madam has no need to be alarmed.’
‘Shoo hada?’
We both turn at the security guard’s exclamation, peering at the screen to which he points.
‘Madam, look.’
There, on screen, Martha stands at the open front gate, signing a delivery note, a large box at her feet. On-screen-Martha closes the gate, picking up the box and holding it to her ear, where she gives it a firm shake. With a shriek I’m sure I can hear without the aid of the audio feed, she drops it like it’s hot—the box—not the dance. I really can’t see her aged bones doing the slut drop in a muumuu and rubber thongs.
From the distance of about half a leg length away, she prods the box with her still bandaged foot.
‘Do you think someone should go and check that?’ I ask hopefully as I turn to see Rashid’s amused face. I resist the urge to touch my nose as I yell shotty not!
‘You should,’ he says, breaking out into a reluctant smile. ‘This is a parcel for you.’
‘How do you know?’ How d’you know it’s not a parcel bomb or something, more like.
‘Because I was advised,’ he answers in a playful, yet mysterious tone, tapping his nose for good measure. Who is this guy? ‘By sir.’
‘Kai sent me a gift?’ Rashid nods. ‘Then I’d best go and rescue it from Martha’s boot.’
By the time I get to the front door, Martha has the box on the hall table. The hall table Kai bent me over the other day. Not sure I’ll ever be able to pass it without some kind of blush. Pushing the thought to the corners of my mind, I notice Martha peeling back the lid an inch as she peers inside.
‘Is that for me, Martha?’
She jumps like an electrocuted cat, hands clasped to her chest in an expression of guilt. It’s a fleeting look, before she begins airing her grievances, in a language she knows I don’t understand.
‘Add it to your dossier, darl. He’ll be back soon.’
