by Donna Alam
‘Yes, it’s being offered as part of your contract. You’ve certainly impressed someone.’ Muscles in my shoulders tighten, despite the lack of irony in her tone. ‘Or else you drove a very hard bargain during your interview. Good for you, taking the initiative but I’d advise you against mentioning the car to your colleagues. I’m sure you’re aware of how . . . unusual this is. You’ll appreciate it could cause difficulties. For both of us.’
I nod, despite not really listening. All I can think is really, Kai?
‘Teacher!’
I’m greeted by the cry from at least a dozen little girls as I open the classroom door. I really must try to get them to address me by my actual name. Any would do, Miss Saunders, Miss Kate; this screechy-teacher business sets my teeth on edge.
‘Good morning girls,’ I reply, though less manically.
Sadia claps her hands together and, amazingly, the class falls silent.
‘Good Morning, Miss-us Kate.’ Twenty little voices chant in a sing-song tone, it’s so unexpected, it leaves me smiling like a loon.
The morning passes without event, the afternoon bringing my class lessons in both Arabic and Islamic studies from another teacher. This leaves me at a loose end, and without a classroom, so I head to the staff room with my marking pile.
The room set aside for staff is large and airy, dotted with groups of low-slung armchairs and tabled workspaces. It’s pretty busy today. The school runs from kindergarten to the end of high school, all on the same campus. Despite the space available, that’s a lot of teachers to accommodate, so I lay my things on a table, staking my claim.
‘Hi, how are you?’ The young teacher from the staff meeting throws herself into the adjacent chair. Hala, I think she said her name was.
‘I’m good, thanks, and you?’ I move my detritus, making space for the bundle of similar she has in her arms.
‘Alhamdulillah. I’ll be even better when this week is over, this humidity is killing me,’ she complains in a London accent as thick as fog. Not that I’ve ever been there, but . . . I watch TV.
‘It is pretty hot.’
I’m not surprised she’s warm considering the full coverage of her clothing; long sleeves, an ankle-brushing skirt and a loose abaya on top. But her clothing doesn’t detract from how pretty she is. She has the most beautiful hazel eyes.
‘Mm,’ she nods, ‘just wait ‘til the end of the school year when the heat drives us all mad. Plus, the kids have that pre-holiday fever and most of the teachers are ready to quit.’ She laughs shortly, her shoulders rising and falling quickly. ‘Or maybe that’s just me.’
‘That does not sound fun. I’d best start working on my Zen now.’
‘You’re Buddhist?’ she asks eagerly, leaning forward in her chair.
‘No, just your garden variety Catholic.’ No need to ask her religion. In addition to her clothing, her hair is covered by a scarf or shayla, I think it’s called.
‘Cool.’ She nods, looking a little uncomfortable as she sits back in her chair.
‘Have you worked here long?’ Do you come here often? Is how it sounds in my head.
‘A few years, almost as long as I’ve lived in Dubai. I’m from the UK originally, definitely more used to the rain than the sun.’
‘Must’ve been a change.’
‘Yeah, who’d have thought I’d have anything to say beyond the weather? I’ve had to find other topics of conversation since moving here.’
‘At least it’s consistent, I suppose. The weather, I mean.’
‘Consistently beige. What I wouldn’t give for a bit of grey, miserable, dreary drizzle.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘The weather isn’t great material for conversation when it’s the same almost every day. Except for the sand storms and the two annual days of rain. But I love a good sand storm, me.’ Sarcasm rings loud as she scrolls through her phone. ‘How are you finding us?’
‘Sorry?’
‘The school. How are you getting along?’
‘So far, so good.’
‘That’s cool.’ She nods, eyes rising. ‘But if you need anything, I’m just along the corridor.’ We’re quiet for a moment before she asks, ‘Do you like Dubai?’
‘I do. I suppose I’m lucky as I have a friend here, so I’m not completely alone in my adventures.’ I find myself fiddling with the papers on my knee, resolutely avoiding her gaze. I can’t mention Kai despite the excitement bubbling in my throat. A hot boy likes me!
‘That’s good. It can be pretty isolating when you first arrive, especially if you’re on your tod. Alone, I mean. At least you know someone. I arrived here knowing no one. It was a pretty crappy time.’
‘Did you move out here for work?’
‘Nah, I got married.’ She smiles almost apologetically.
She doesn’t look old enough to be married, but she must be, right? ‘Well, at least you had each other,’ I bluster.
‘Sort of.’ She laughs. ‘It was an arranged marriage. I moved here, almost sight unseen.’
If there’s an answer to that, I don’t know what it is. Commiserations? Felicitations? WTF?
‘Hey, don’t worry.’ Laughing again, probably at my expression, she says, ‘It’s a bit like internet shopping these days, without the returns service, though.’
‘Sorry, I’ve never met anyone who, you know . . .’ I grimace, embarrassed. ‘Though I think my Mum would be all over it.’
Slowly, she folds her arms across her chest, a formidable look perfected by teachers everywhere. ‘It’s like that, is it?’ she mocks, with a mischievous gleam. ‘You must be a fan of the bad-boys, then.’
‘No, not at all. At least I don’t think so. She’s just a bit overprotective, doesn’t seem to realise I’m not twelve.’
‘That I can understand. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready to let go, speaking as a mum myself.’
‘You have children?’
‘One, but inshallah—if God wills it—there’ll be more. Aliyah, my little girl, has just started kindergarten here. I don’t mind admitting, I’m starting to feel broody.’
Broody? She only looks about nineteen. ‘That must be convenient, being able to bring her to work, I mean.’
‘Yeah, it is. I don’t like leaving her with the maid.’ She smiles, sort of wistful. ‘She’s my little treasure and a proper little madam. Anyway, here I am droning on like one of those mad, besotted mums when all I really wanted to say was, welcome. Its no fun being a newbie and Dubai can be a pretty daunting place. So, if you need anything, habibti, just Haaala!’ She raises her voice at the last word, pushing her palms into the air, very gangsta style. Hijabi gangsta style.
‘I’ll remember that, thanks.’ I giggle in reply, then ask, ‘Do you speak Arabic?’ Maybe she could clear up a few things for me.
‘Nam,’ she answers, ducking her head in the affirmative.
‘Did you learn since you moved here?’
‘Nah, Dad’s Egyptian, Mum’s British,’ she explains. ‘I’ve spoken it forever. I arrived thinking my Arabic was fine but apparently I had a terrible Masri accent.’
‘A what?’
‘An Egyptian accent. Eaman, my husband, said I sounded awful. Khaleeji’s.’ She shrugs. ‘What can you do?’
‘I have no idea. You’ve completely lost me.’
‘Gulf Arabs. They can be a bit of an elitist bunch, not all of them, and not that it bothers me. I’m well balanced—got chips on both shoulders, me. Are you thinking about lessons?’
‘Maybe at some point.’ I’m laughing again; her candour and wit remind me a lot of Niamh. She has the same amount of sass. ‘You could straighten something out for me if you don’t mind?’
‘Absolutely, what do you want to know?’
‘Habibti—’
‘Yes, my sweet?’ she interrupts, batting her eyelashes in my direction.
‘Okay,’ I say, laughing. ‘But what exactly does it mean?’ Kai has used it repeatedly, citing it as overused, but what does it actually mean?
‘It means my dear, my love. Or darling.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yeah, pretty generic, too. From your husband, to the girl packing your groceries, to the guy trying to pick you up at Starbucks. Habibti’, she intones, hand dramatically clutched to her heart, ‘please, you have stolen my heart. You are too much beautiful!’
‘That really happens? Guys try to pick you up?’
‘Guys are guys wherever you are, and apparently, no matter what you are wearing. I mean, I wear niqab outside—a full face veil. It still doesn’t stop them, it’s ridiculous. I could be a right dog under my nose-bag!’ As she giggles, her expression becomes suddenly wide-eyed. ‘Oh, and if you ever meet my husband, don’t mention Starbucks lotharios or I’ll never get out of the house on my own again.’ My own smile falters as hers deepens. Yikes! It gives housebound a whole other meaning. ‘Yeah, everyone calls each other habibti. Or rather, habibti for girls, habibi for boys.’
A generic term of endearment is a bit of a letdown. I wonder if it’s usually used in the bedroom, not that I’m going to ask. Not yet at any rate.
We chat for a while longer about the Arabic language, the school, and of course, the weather. She’s a hoot and has a fantastically dry sense of humour. And she’s not as young as she looks, though still pretty young to be married. And a mum.
‘Bugger, look at the time!’ Gathering the unmarked papers from the desk, I stand, realising I haven’t finished one thing I’d set out to.
‘Don’t panic, Sadia will be there, though I suppose I’d better be getting back myself. It’s almost time to get the little darlings ready for wudu.’ She grimaces as she stands, straightening her abaya with a deft shake of the wrist.
‘Ready for what?’
‘Wudu, the ablutions before salat? Before heads down, bums up?’ She half smiles, holding her hands palm to palm.
‘Oh, prayer time! You have to get your class ready for prayer.’
‘Yep, it’s that time of the day again,’ she says as we walk shoulder to shoulder through the exit.
‘Do you pray along with the class?’
Asma, the Arabic teacher, supervises my class’ prayer. I’m there, but I try not to watch. It feels intrusive somehow, even though they’re only small, giggling girls just at the gates of their religious instruction.
‘Nah, I pray later or else I’d never be able to concentrate. That’s the whole point of prayer, isn’t it? Emptying your mind of everything but your devotion. We don’t have to pray when the adhan is called. You know, the call to prayer? It’s recommended, but it just doesn’t work for me in a class full of four and five-year-olds. I make up the prayer later in the day. I like to be alone when I call on the Almighty. Besides, you can’t take your eyes off them for a minute, can you? Little monsters would probably draw on the walls.’
‘Probably,’ I agree, reaching my classroom door. ‘Thanks for the chat and good luck with the ablutions thingy.’
‘Thanks. You have a good one.’
‘I’ll try,’ I call over my shoulder. ‘You, too.’
What a cool girl!
Chapter Nineteen
I’m home in the evening, getting ready for an early night, when my phone rings, Kai’s name flashing on the screen.
‘Hello?’ Why I pretend I don’t know it’s him, I’m not sure. Another of those reduction-in-intelligence-equally-relating-to-how-hot-he-is kind of things?
‘Kate.’ That one little word delivered in his honeyed tones liquefies my insides. ‘How are you?’ It’s not exactly a stimulating inquiry, but I think he could be reciting the phone book and I’d still have jelly legs. But still, I remember the dinosaur-sized bone I have to pick with him.
‘Confused.’
‘You haven’t been drinking again, have you?’
Despite hearing his smile, I’m not going to allow him to distract me. To reiterate the point, I pick up a pen from the nightstand, printing in large letters on the accompanying pad, Stay strong!
‘Are you off your rocker, Kai?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Come on, who buys a virtual stranger a car?’
‘I think you and I are a little more than that.’ His tone is amused still.
I don’t reply for a moment, trying to weigh his words. ‘I can’t take it,’ I eventually manage, shaking my head.
‘Of course you can.’ Steel now joins amusement in his tone.
‘Okay, I won’t take it, then. You’ll need to sort it with Arwa, because I’ve got no idea what to say to her without making myself sound like a total—’
‘Then say nothing. Except thank you.’
‘I can’t,’ I reply, quiet but emphatic as I perch my bum on the edge of the bed. ‘You must see how this looks?’
‘To whom? Surely, the only persons concerned are on either end of this line. Besides, I haven’t personally bought you a car. It’s part of your employment contract, nothing more.’ I attempt to interject, not getting beyond an intake of breath. ‘It’s now official. To decline would be the same as refusing a promotion or a pay increase, which wouldn’t make sense. I thought you didn’t want to draw attention to our . . . friendship.’
Friendship. That one word. A bit like disappointed. Better than stranger, I suppose, but still not enough.
‘Consider it a perk of having a friend with influence, rather than assuming I’ll expect fringe benefits between your legs.’ His tone is even, despite the sting in his words.
‘That was a bit harsh.’
‘You think I’m being harsh? That’s rich.’
‘That’s not what I think. I’m saying that’s how it looks. It makes me feel uncomfortable, Kai.’
‘And you think by hanging onto this discomfort, this fear of what others might say, you’re being strong? Sometimes the greatest strength is in knowing when to let go.’ Why do I feel that he isn’t only talking about the car? ‘Can’t you let me do this one thing?’
‘What kind of car is it?’ My voice is tiny, but I can’t help ask, which makes him laugh. Which in turn, makes me cringe. ‘Don’t,’ I protest. ‘I’ve never had a new car before, that’s all.’ God, I feel so conflicted, as if I wasn’t loaded up enough before.
‘I don’t know, perhaps a small SUV. You’ll just have to wait and see. Are you at home?’
‘What? Yeah, I’m just about ready for bed.’ I perch my butt further on the item in question.
‘I just bet you are.’ This time, his laugh is absolutely indecent and the first indicator that our conversation is turning down Smutty Street.
‘Bad kitty,’ he scolds playfully. ‘Leading me neatly to the point where I just have to ask what you’re wearing.’
My stomach flips again, his words like fingertips playing down my spine. Unsure of how to respond, I laugh, aiming for flirtatious, though I’d settle for anything other than manic right about now. I glance down at my ensemble. Does he really want to know?
‘Cat got your tongue? You know, you instigated this,’ he says, drawing out the words.
‘I did?’ I glance down and answer with a deflated sigh. ‘I’m wearing my onesie.’
It’s his turn for a moment of introspection before he speaks. ‘I’m trying very hard to imagine but given that I don’t know what an actual onesie is, I may need a little help.’
‘It’s a sort of an all-in-one pajama thingy. Starting at my feet, which are covered in . . . little booties? And ends at my neck. With a zip.’ Shoot me. Please, somebody put me out of my misery. ‘A bit like what babies wear.’
‘You’re wearing a baby sleep suit?’ he asks in a slow tone of bewilderment.
‘Obviously not one an actual baby would wear, but yeah, a sleep suit sounds about right.’
‘Is this some kind of fetish of yours?’
‘What? No!’ He can’t be serious. ‘It’s just cold in the air con . . .’ I hate how this comes out in a whine. Why didn’t I tell him to bugger off and look at the Asos website?
He groans. Without passio
n. ‘Don’t you know how this conversation is supposed to go?’
‘Sorry.’ I giggle, rolling onto my side. He really is laying this on thick. ‘Would it help if I said it’s in a leopard print?’ That’s sort of sexy. I won’t tell him it has a hood with cute ears and a tail because that would be weird.
‘Strangely, no. A baby suit?’
‘What if I told you I was entirely naked under said suit?’ I can’t believe I just said that. Seriously. And in that tone, too.
‘Go on,’ he purrs. ‘Include the words wet and want along with that naked.’
His words curl around my ear, creep down my spine and explode just south of my navel. ‘I just got out of the shower.’ I’m not entirely sure where that came from, but I definitely feel a little wet and wanting myself, not to mention warm all of a sudden.
‘And?’
‘I’m all soft and smooth . . . shaven.’
I wouldn’t know seductive if I’d rolled in it.
‘Shaven where, specifically?’
‘The usual places—legs, underarms.’
‘Anywhere else?’
‘What?’ Where else? I don’t have hairy fingers. Ohhh. ‘No. Nowhere else. I don’t want to, er, invite ingrown hairs.’
Stop. Talking. Now. Or tell him I haven’t found a decent wax therapist?
‘Ingrown hairs.’ He makes those two words sound positively lewd.
‘I prefer waxing, despite a . . . recent hiatus.’ My shoulders are bunched around my ears. Who explains the intricacies of their toilette to a drop-dead gorgeous guy? I may have begun this conversation with the mention of bed, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
‘Would it be very wrong of me to say I’m quite aroused at this juncture?’ Arousal at the mention of ingrown hairs, or are we still on wet and wanting? ‘I’d say my mind is in the right region for arousal, but there are other regions worth . . . exploration, too.’
The smile in his tone distracts me from his allusion, though I’m pretty sure we aren’t talking geography. Or topiary.
‘You have such a beautiful body, Kate.’ His appreciation hums down the line. ‘I want to explore it all. Can you imagine?’
