Randa Abdel-Fattah is an award-winning writer and bestselling author of Does My Head Look Big in This? The author of eight novels for young adults, Randa is also a litigation lawyer and human rights activist. No Sex in the City is her first adult novel. She lives in Sydney, Australia, with her husband and two children.
www.randaabdelfattah.com
@RandaAFattah
Also by Randa Abdel-Fattah
Does My Head Look Big in This?
Ten Things I Hate About Me
Where the Streets Had a Name
The Friendship Matchmaker
The Friendship Matchmaker Goes Undercover
Noah’s Law
Buzz Off
It’s only fitting that I dedicate this book to my loving husband, Ibrahim El-Kadomi, who thankfully swept me off my feet from the moment we met (in the family-lounge-room-first-date-arranged-set-up style), early enough to save me from too many matchmaking disasters.
One
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a student visa must be in want of an Australian wife.
This truth is so well fixed in the minds of single girls who hold Australian citizenship that any such young man, whatever his feelings, is instantly suspected of being more interested in obtaining permanent residence than genuinely falling in love with them.
Hassan from Turkey, who is at this moment sitting in my lounge room eating crème caramel, confirms this truth. Hassan has been in Australia for a little over five months. He has an IT degree under one arm, student visa under the other, and barely speaks a word of English. Well, apart from his recitation of the lyrics of Titanic’s theme song, ‘My Heart Will Go On’.
Poor Hassan. It’s so obvious to me that he’s interested in me because a) I’m single and the matchmaking busybody aunties in my local Turkish network know I’m ‘available’; and b) I’m an Australian citizen and so would be Hassan’s ticket to permanent residence.
Hassan has brought along his equally visaless roommate, Salih, for support. Salih’s in the family room, making small talk with my parents (no doubt trying to ascertain the marital status of any other female members of the family), while I sit in the formal lounge room with Hassan, trying to have a conversation with somebody who has an English vocabulary range of about forty words, and who expends most of them on asking me if I know ‘how to speak the Turkish’.
‘No,’ I lie.
‘You no speak the Turkish?’ he presses.
‘No, I no speak the Turkish,’ I repeat in a droll voice.
I’m a pretty reasonable person. But if there’s one rule I’m going to insist on it’s that The One has to speak English. Although I can understand Turkish, I don’t speak it fluently enough to express myself as well as I’ d like (in fact, my parents speak to me in Turkish and I reply in English). As far as I’m concerned, you can’t communicate effectively with somebody when you’re too busy concentrating on the grammatical composition of your sentences.
Hassan looks crushed. I smile weakly at him and take a sip of my tea. I look around the room. I must remind Mum that the chair in the corner needs to be reupholstered. If I’m going to put up with this lounge room on such a frequent basis, we may as well redecorate in my favourite colours.
When Salih telephoned my dad out of the blue, explaining he’d obtained our number from Aunty Sevil, who’d obtained our number from Aunty Arzu (both of whom were complete strangers to our family), he reassured my dad that Hassan knew English. My father took the usual biodata: age, education, family, visa status and English proficiency. I agreed to invite him to our home because I’m still optimistic enough to believe that your destiny can spring up when you least expect it.
I’m willing to compromise on visa status if sparks fly and it’s Mr Right walking through the door. There are plenty of Aussie-born dropkicks, so I don’t automatically discriminate and assume every overseas student or visitor is an undercover visa hunter.
But English proficiency is another matter altogether. The chances of sparks flying with a guy who knows forty English words (most of them exhausted on a Celine Dion song) are pretty low. Either Salih was embellishing, or he has a different understanding of what it means to know a language.
‘So what do you think about the current state of federal politics?’ I ask. ‘Do you think there’s a lack of policy conviction?’
Yes, okay, I’m cruel.
Hassan gives me a blank look, takes a gulp of his tea and then says, ‘I love cooking and the bitch.’
‘The beach?’
‘Yes, the bitch.’
He grins at me. So far he has about ten variations of smiling. The ‘I have no clue what you just said’ smile. The ‘maybe if I flash my teeth like so, she will forget we can’t communicate to save our life’ smile, and so on.
I smile. Queasily. I need to put the poor guy out of his misery. Only he doesn’t seem too miserable. For God’s sake, what if he thinks this is actually working? Well, his commitment to memory of a Celine Dion song is just not turning me on. So I sit up straight, fix my eyes on his and say, ‘Ah, Hassan, I’m sorry but I don’t see this going anywhere. You’re obviously a very sweet guy but I think it’s important that people in a relationship can actually have a conversation. I’m sure there are more suitable girls out there who paid attention during Turkish weekend school. I was too busy sticking chewing gum under the desks to learn much. Unfortunately we can’t get by in Turkish or English and I don’t know sign language. I also suck at Pictionary, so I can’t exactly draw you a representational diagram every time I want to communicate with you. So goodbye and good luck.’
Okay, so I don’t say that. While I can be cruel, I’m not that cruel. I endure another ten minutes of Hassan’s extensive repertoire of smiles, interspersed with him quizzing me again on how much of ‘the Turkish’ I know, whether I like Titanic and how often I swim in the bitch. Finally, when I consider it polite to end our formal-lounge-room first date, I stand up and invite him back into the family room.
Salih and Hassan leave a short while later, Hassan managing to actually look hopeful when we say our goodbyes.
When Mum closes the door I throw up my hands in frustration. ‘No way!’
‘So much for being fluent in English, hey?’ my dad says gruffly, shaking his head.
‘He had nice eyes and was very polite,’ Mum says.
‘You don’t have to be so kind, Mum,’ I groan. ‘He’s not your son.’
‘Didn’t I tell you time and time again to pay attention at Saturday school?’ she says.
‘Oh Mum, don’t even go there.’ I turn to my dad. ‘When he calls, tell him I didn’t feel the click. But go easy on the poor guy. He’s emotionally fragile ... a Celine Dion fan, for God’s sake.’
I stomp upstairs to my bedroom, ignoring my mum’s rant to my dad about my obsession with ‘clicking’, and throw myself face down on my bed.
I’ve had enough.
I’m twenty-eight.
I’m attractive (according to my friends and family who never, ever lie about these things).
I’ve got a master’s in human resource management, I volunteer every month at the Sydney Refugee Centre, I’m well travelled, I have excellent taste in music, I watch the ABC news, I have the Guardian saved as an application on my iPhone, I’m very good at getting maximum points out of two-letter words in Scrabble, I never jump queues, I pay my bills on time, I never order ‘just a salad’, I’m great with kids, I don’t freak out at the sight of a spider, I turn off the tap when I’m brushing my teeth – Goddammit! I DESERVE TO BE SWEPT OFF MY FEET!
Calm down.
Take deep breaths.
But how can I calm down when my checklist means that the pool from which I’ll pl
uck out Mr Right is pretty small? That is:
1. He has to be Muslim. (I don’t care what ethnicity. If he’s Turkish it’s just a bonus as it means the in-laws will have more in common.)
2. Even though I want to be with a Muslim, I’m not exactly observant. Spiritual? Yes. Rituals? Quite lazy. Sure, I don’t drink, I’ve never had a boyfriend (in fact, most primary-aged children would have more experience than me) and I’m inconsistent about keeping up with the five daily prayers. As for fasting in Ramadan, I try to get through most of the month, but there are days when I cave in to the temptation and end up going to McDonald’s. Notwithstanding, it would be nice to meet someone on the same religious level, or even a bit more observant than me. Not a totally clueless guy, or a fanatic either.
3. Mr Right has to be educated and employed and care about social justice.
4. He doesn’t have to be super good-looking by any objective Cleo or Cosmo measure. Just attractive to me.
5. Oh! And he has to exist outside my fantasies.
I’m well and truly fed up with meeting guys who barely make it past dot point one. I need to vent, but I can’t exactly talk about this to my colleagues, who think I make Mormons look wild given that I’m a twenty-eight-year-old non-drinking virgin who is open to the idea of a blind date organised by family. (I’m happy to meet a guy at a party or through friends too, but, really, who am I kidding? With my kind of checklist, what are the chances?)
Sample scene one:
‘So you’re twenty-eight. And you’ve never had sex? Never even kissed a guy?’
‘Nope.’
(Cue bodies thudding to the ground and ambulance sirens blaring.)
Sample scene two:
‘You don’t date?’
‘Nope.’
‘So how do you get to know a guy before you get married? You need to try before you buy.’
Honestly, you’d think I was going to meet my future husband on my wedding day – quick introduction in the car park and on with the nuptials. It’s a bit hard to explain that I’ve got to know guys without being their girlfriend. I’m like a character in an old Doris Day movie: all old-fashioned courtship and pent-up sexual tension. Well, maybe not. Those movies are nauseatingly sexist. Okay, so it’s probably better explained as two people getting to know each other with a mutual understanding that their ‘dating’ is limited to their search for a marriage partner. Now I sound like Wikipedia. Needless to say, none of the explanations tend to go down too well.
Eg: ‘But that’s so backward! How can you marry a guy you’ve never even kissed? Haven’t Samantha and Carrie taught you anything?’
‘Yeah, how to match my accessories with my outfit.’
I’m twenty-eight, armed with a personalised checklist, ready for a love life and most definitely not having sex in the city.
I sit up against my headboard, perching my MacBook on my lap. I log on to my email account and send an email to my best friends, Lisa, Ruby and Nirvana.
There are many things that unite us, not least that we’re active in the community, passionate about politics and human rights, single, living at home and time poor.
Lisa Roth works half the week as a caseworker at the Sydney Refugee Centre and the other half in a women’s refuge. One word sums her up: dedicated. Working in the community sector is never a nine-to-five job, and Lisa often works long hours or takes her work home. I know this because I volunteer after-hours at the refugee centre and Lisa’s always there past five o’ clock. She usually stays back so that we leave together.
Ruby Georgiou is a lawyer in one of Sydney’s top-tier firms. It goes without saying that she has insane working hours. Given that she’s one of the youngest lawyers on a fast-track path to partnership, it’s little wonder. Add to that her pro bono work at a legal centre in Redfern and you can understand why she’s rarely home. As for Nirvana Ajmera, she’s a midwife and does shift work, including regular graveyard shifts, which is when most babies choose to announce their arrival. Nirvana also teaches Sindhi to preschoolers at Saturday morning classes at her local temple.
The four of us met at a protest at Sydney University, which is where we all studied. I think it was about student union fees, or the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, or overpriced food on campus. I can’t remember exactly because we seemed to be protesting about something every month. There were some guys standing near us who weren’t taking it seriously, talking throughout the speeches. When one of them made a comment about the speaker’s breasts, we simultaneously blasted them. They didn’t know what had hit them, being ripped to shreds by four girls from different directions. The four of us had a laugh afterwards, introduced ourselves to each other, and quickly became the best of friends.
So it’s only natural they’re the ones I email. It’s been a while since we’ve all been free at the same time for a catchup.
Oi! Lisa, Ruby and Nirvana,
Okay, so we’re all on the ‘Where is The One hiding out?’ quest. (Don’t deny it, Lisa. I know you must be too.) Are they lost in Ikea, desperately trying to find the exit? Are they being questioned at Sydney Airport while being filmed for Border Security? Have they fallen into a manhole? Are they delayed on a Tiger Airways flight?
I’m out of answers!
Are you finding it increasingly hard not to self-combust after yet another failed matchmaking experience, either of the traditional kind (Nirvana and me), or the setting up by friends/eyes locking across a crowded room/etc kind (all of us)? And I bet my life that, like me, you’re all sick to death of hearing people call you ‘old-fashioned’, ‘prude’, ‘frigid’, ‘picky’, ‘fussy’ (the list goes on).
As you can tell, I need to vent. So I hereby declare the official and virtual inauguration of the No Sex in the City Club.
Our first meeting is on Friday, 8 p.m., Chocolate Spice in Newtown. Come along with your emotional baggage, horror stories, impossible checklists, twenty-something angst and an appetite for a high-calorie emotional-eating pig-out session. If you’re dieting (that means you, Nirvana – no points calculators or carb-to-protein ratios allowed), positive, optimistic or in love, don’t bother showing up. Only those who can truly indulge in a proper dose of self-pity (and comfort eating) are invited.
Love Esma
PS. I miss you guys. It’s been two weeks. What’s that about?
Two
I work at a recruitment agency finding potential employees for various clients, predominantly in the pharmaceutical industry. It’s Friday and I’m on my way to my last appointment for the day, at a pharmacy in Bondi. It’s two in the afternoon and the traffic is killing me. I turn up the music in my car (a bomb of a Honda Civic that is the bane of my mum’s existence as she can’t understand why I’m nearly thirty and still haven’t managed to save up for a ‘nice-looking’ car). Pearl Jam blares out of the speakers and I instantly feel calm. Until a truck veers onto my side of the road. I swerve out of the way and slam my hand down hard on the horn. The truckie sticks his head out of his window and yells, ‘Ah get ova ya PMS willya!’
‘Learn how to drive!’ I yell back.
The traffic light changes and the truckie blows me a kiss and continues in the opposite direction, leaving me fuming.
I just want to get the appointment over and done with so I can get back on the road before the real traffic jam begins. I live about an hour’s drive away from Bondi – when there’s no traffic. If I get trapped on the motorway in peak hour I’ll never make it home in time to get ready for tonight and drive to Newtown to meet the girls.
When I finally arrive at the pharmacy I take the liberty of parking in a staff car space. I quickly apply some lip gloss, get my file in order, smooth out my hair and hurry in through the front door to meet Mrs Goldman, who ushers me to the back room for our meeting.
‘Like I told you on the phone,’ she says as she pours me a glass of chilled water, ‘I want someone hard-working and honest.’
‘Of course,’ I respond, smiling broadly at her. ‘That’s the
least an employer can expect. I’ve short-listed four résumés for you to review. As you specified, they are all recent graduates with excellent qualifications.’
‘And Jewish,’ she adds.
I blink at her.
‘Jewish only,’ she repeats, holding out her hand for the résumés.
‘Er ... well ... that isn’t really appropriate,’ I say.
‘What do you mean?’ she snaps. ‘Is being Jewish inappropriate?’
‘No, I didn’t mean it that way! I mean it’s, well, it’s unlawful to discriminate on the grounds of—’
She waves her hands at me and cuts me off. ‘Don’t talk to me about the law,’ she says. ‘People do this all the time. You go to Cabramatta and everyone working there is Vietnamese. Are you telling me that’s pure coincidence? You go to Lakemba and they’re all Muslim. Work with the rules of life, Esma, not against them. Find me a Jewish graduate. Most of my customers are Jewish and I want somebody who understands their needs.’ She snatches the résumés from me and looks at the one on top.
‘Huh!’ she exclaims. ‘You think an old Jewish bachelor is going to ask Indira Singh for Viagra? He wants to ask Naomi Kreutner, who can then go spread the word and bang, he’s back in the dating scene again.’
The way I see it, asking Indira Singh would protect the old fellow’s anonymity. Wouldn’t he prefer that to having his local community knowing he was throwing back Viagra?
Oh well, who am I to argue? I’ve been a virgin for twenty-eight years. I’m not exactly an expert on Viagra.
Mrs Goldman flips through the résumés and hands them back to me. ‘Not one Jewish name,’ she says with a sigh. ‘Back to the drawing board, Esma.’
‘I can’t advertise in a way that discriminates against non-Jews,’ I say.
She flashes me a condescending smile. ‘My dear, nobody is asking you to break the law. I pay you to be creative in the screening process. Ask the right questions and you will work it out. And don’t feel bad. People do this all the time.’
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