No Sex in the City

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  I enter the Strand, trying to remember all the magazine articles I’ve read about the most flattering and slimming way to walk. Keep my thighs close together, one foot crossing over the other, try to walk sideways (reducing frontal view of body mass), stick boobs out (don’t have much to stick out), keep shoulders back and head up to avoid any double chin ... Those poor models. They really do deserve their million-dollar salaries.

  I spot Yasir leaning against the window of the café.

  The blisters are worth it.

  His profile pic doesn’t do him justice. He’s a trendy dresser (tick!) and has a real presence about him (tick!). Some guys exude confidence and he’s one of them (two ticks!). Our eyes meet as I approach. We smile at each other. Then he invites me to sit down at a table he’s reserved at the back of the café.

  ‘Have you hurt yourself?’ he asks once we’ve sat down.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Just now, you were walking like you’d had a fall or something. Are you okay?’

  I stare blankly at him. ‘Um ... yeah, twisted my ankle at the photocopier today.’

  ‘Apply some Deep Heat tonight. Works wonders.’

  ‘Ah, yes, sure.’ I’m mortified. ‘Good advice.’

  ‘Are you hungry?’ he asks as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. ‘It’s a scorcher today, isn’t it?’ He pours me a glass of water from the jug the waitress brought over to our table as soon as we sat down.

  ‘I know. I’ve been in the office all day, so I didn’t notice until I made my way here. Thank God for air conditioning.’

  ‘I’m with you on that,’ he says with a grin. ‘I was planning on wearing my suit jacket and tie. A friend told me I’d look more impressive. But when I left the house I just couldn’t do it. I mean, how much influence is a tie and jacket going to have? Not to mention that I would have arrived here hot and sweaty. Not exactly appealing, right?’

  I give him a cheeky smile. ‘Sorry to have to tell you – the tie and jacket would have made a world of difference.’

  ‘Really?’ He sighs. ‘Is there any way I can redeem myself?’ He has a real sparkle in his eye.

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  We order some food and spend the next hour talking and flirting easily. There are no rules for first dates, but I’ve been on enough to know there’s a standard repertoire of safe topics: travel, personal interests, friends, taste in music, film and books, and a bit of current affairs (we’re Muslim, so the whole ‘no religion or politics at the dinner table’ is just not going to happen). Then the conversation turns to work and I ask him what he does.

  ‘I’ve been a builder for about two years,’ he says. ‘Before that I was an accountant.’

  ‘Ahh,’ I murmur knowingly.

  He chuckles.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I ask, although I’m smiling too.

  ‘I think accountancy, up there with law or auditing, is one of those professions you can leave and people don’t even bother to pretend to be surprised. They just give you a sympathetic look.’

  I laugh. ‘You’re right. In fact, they don’t wait to hear why, they wait to hear why you didn’t do it sooner.’

  ‘See, you get it.’

  ‘Well, some people would argue building is like throwing money into a fire, so it would make sense to have a builder who actually understands that most people don’t have a blank chequebook when they’re building their house.’

  Yasir feigns a look of horror. ‘You don’t trust builders?’ I shake my head. ‘Who would have thought? We enjoy such popularity.’

  I let out an exaggerated laugh.

  ‘Burnt, huh?’ he says and I nod.

  ‘My parents renovated our kitchen and bathroom some years back.’ I shudder. ‘It’s still a painful topic in our family.’ He laughs. ‘Seriously. It was a disaster. The tiler laid the bathroom tiles on a slant. You go cross-eyed looking at them. And then he had the audacity to try to convince us that we needed to get our eyes checked.’

  ‘Ouch,’ he says, drawing in his breath. ‘Did you take it further?’

  ‘I wrote a bunch of letters and he came back and supposedly fixed it. But we’re still not very happy with it.’

  ‘You should have gone straight to the Department of Fair Trading.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I say with a shrug. ‘But – this is going to sound silly – I felt sorry for him. He’d just split up with his wife and it was obvious he was distracted and going through a crisis. In the end I thought it just wasn’t worth the fight. Not in the larger scheme of things. There are worse things in life than a less-than-perfect tiling job in your bathroom.’

  ‘I would have fought it all the way,’ he says. ‘I can’t stand being taken advantage of.’

  This is true for me too, partly. I’m not a pushover. I do stand up for myself. Just not all the time. And when I don’t it’s not as simple as a lack of courage. With the tiler I felt crippled by my pity for him. With Danny, I’m crippled by my sense of duty to my parents.

  ‘So tell me more about the career change,’ I say.

  ‘I was unhappy working in an office. I know that sounds really pretentious. I mean, there are many people who don’t like working in an office but never get the opportunity to try something else. I lasted six years. While I was working I helped a cousin build his house. I got a taste for building work and loved it. I figured that if I was ever going to make a change, it had to be when I was young. So I did. And now I buy rundown homes, renovate or detonate, and then sell.’

  ‘That’s really inspiring,’ I say, and then I laugh. ‘That sounded so dorky. But seriously, you walked away from a career you studied hard for, to do what you’re passionate about. Not many people have the courage to do that.’

  ‘My dad has a different view. He flipped out when I came home and announced I’d quit my job. Me being an accountant was something that gave him immense pride. He’s still struggling to accept my decision to turn my back on it.’

  ‘Why?’

  Yasir pauses before answering. ‘Many reasons,’ he says. ‘He had a lot to do with me getting in to accountancy. So it was a bit of a slap in the face, at least from his point of view.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When I was in high school, Year Ten, I mucked around a lot. Got really bad marks. My sister had just been accepted into pharmacy and my dad was constantly fighting with me to follow her example. One day, before the Year Ten certificate exam, he sat me down and, for the first time in his life, spoke to me man to man. He’s been driving a taxi for years. He told me that if I wanted to get my Year Ten certificate and then leave school to drive a taxi, he’ d support my decision. He said it was a good job, steady income, pick up a client from the airport, drop them off at their destination. He said I had two choices. I could either drive a taxi and pick up the businessman from the airport, or I could be that businessman and get picked up by a taxi driver. He didn’t care which path I decided on, so long as I made a decision and stuck with it. Then and there I decided I wanted to be that businessman. A professional. So I studied like mad, did really well in the HSC, and went on to do accountancy.’

  ‘I guess that explains your dad’s lack of enthusiasm for your career change.’

  ‘My dad complains that it’s like I was driving a Porsche and now I’ve downgraded to a bicycle. He can’t see that this is what makes me happy.’ Yasir smiles. ‘But he’ll get there,’ he says optimistically. ‘When I build him a house, and the business becomes more successful, he’ll realise life’s too short not to follow your passions.’

  It’s seven o’ clock when I call an end to the date, ascribing to my ‘leave them wanting more’ rule. It’s the only rule I’ve agreed with in the relationship books Senem read obsessively before meeting Farouk. Having flipped through one or two, I have to say the bestselling ‘love gurus’ lost me after advising that on the first date a woman shouldn’t overwhelm a man with her career triumphs but instead let him shine.

  When we s
ay goodbye Yasir says three of the most beautiful words in the English language: ‘I’ll call you.’

  When I check my phone on my way home I see that Lisa, Ruby and Nirvana have all sent me text messages.

  Was it fate at first sight? lol (Lisa)

  Well???? (Ruby)

  Hey babe, how did it go? (Nirvana)

  I send them all the same reply: I don’t want to get my hopes up but ARGHHHHHHHH!

  Nine

  Here are some vital stats.

  Days since I met Yasir: 4.

  Telephone conversations that have lasted over one hour: 7.

  Text messages: 1 million.

  Butterflies in the stomach: rapidly breeding.

  Number of times I have stared into the distance when I should have been conscientiously attending to work demands: countless.

  ‘Er, sorry, what did you say your work experience was?’ I repeat during a telephone conversation with a candidate applying for a pharmacist manager role.

  ‘I had two weeks at Target.’

  I wonder what Yasir is doing now. Focus.

  ‘Target? What do you mean? Does Target have a pharmacy?’

  ‘No. I was working in Layby.’

  I take a deep breath and unlock my phone, checking if there’s a message. Nope. I sent the last one. The ball’s in his court. Get your hands on that ball, Yasir! Oh God, I’m turning into one of those psychos who want to be stalked on their phone, Facebook wall and email 24/7.

  ‘But I got an awesome chance to build on my skills.’

  Ah, yes, I have a job. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  Good Lord. ‘And you don’t think that’s an issue?’

  ‘No.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Do you realise that you need a Bachelor of Pharmacy and a minimum of five years’ experience as a practising pharmacist to get this job?’

  ‘Okay ... but that’s what I want to do when I go to uni, so can’t you still consider me? Trust me, Layby can get pretty busy.’

  My phone beeps. A text from Yasir. Dinner tonight?

  ‘Of course!’ I cry.

  ‘Really? You’re the bomb! That’s awesome!’

  ‘No, sorry!’ I splutter. ‘I didn’t mean you. Call me in fifteen years and we’ll talk then.’

  I hang up.

  I’ve got it bad.

  My mother is hovering at my bedroom door, watching me get ready.

  ‘How is it going with Yasir?’ she asks hesitantly.

  ‘So far, so good,’ I say, putting on my earrings.

  She takes a step in. I know she doesn’t want to appear to be pressuring me, but as much as she wants to be subtle, she can’t help interfering. My mum’s bright, serious-minded and fiercely dogmatic about the things and people she believes in. Sometimes the force of her convictions is too strong and she can’t let go enough to give us the room to make our own mistakes and choices.

  ‘Is he serious?’ she asks me. ‘Sometimes parents think their children are ready to settle down but they’re not. Have you asked him?’

  I’ve had guys come for the formal-lounge-room date, only to find out that they’re there under pressure from their parents; one guy, Ali, already had a girlfriend he had every intention of marrying.

  ‘Mum, it’s been a week,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘Relax!’

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m just warning you.’

  ‘Remember that I’ve done this a zillion times. I don’t need the warnings any more.’

  She shrugs. ‘No need to get upset. I’m just trying to have a conversation.’

  ‘You’re trying to force a helmet on me when I’m already in protective gear.’

  She clucks her tongue at me. ‘I’ll leave you then, seeing as you know everything.’ She’s about to turn on her heel and walk out when I stop her.

  ‘Mum, sorry,’ I say, giving her a tight squeeze. ‘I’m just nervous.’ I’m also terrified that if I leave the house with my mum upset with me, I’ll be struck dead on the way home. But I don’t tell her that.

  ‘I just want you to be as happy as I’ve been with your father,’ she says, giving me a warm smile. A smile filled to the brim with self-sacrifice and love and tenderness and trust. Knowing all I do, it makes me ache.

  Dad pulls me aside on my way out and thrusts a hundred dollars into my hand. ‘I want you to buy yourself a present,’ he says softly. ‘I know it’s not much, but you deserve something, darling.’

  Just then Mum walks in. ‘Deserves what?’ she asks. Her eyes fall on the money in my hand. ‘Oh, that’s sweet, Mehmet,’ she gushes, giving him a warm smile. ‘Always so generous with your family.’

  Dad mutters something under his breath and quickly leaves us alone.

  I play heavy metal in my car all the way to the restaurant. But as loud as the music pounds in my ears, I can’t drown out the voice that warns me that my parents’ marriage will be buried forever if my mum ever finds out about my dad’s guilty secret.

  I meet Yasir at an Italian restaurant in Drummoyne. When I see him I get that funny feeling in my stomach. I walk over to him and his smile is so genuine, so warm, it makes me melt.

  We don’t hug or kiss (although I’m obviously thinking about what it would feel like), just shake hands and take our seats. Granted, I’m far from being the world’s most religious person, but if there’s one thing I won’t compromise on, it’s my ‘no touching before the ink dries on the marriage certificate’ rule (except for shaking hands – ooh, how positively scandalous!).

  We order our entrées and I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in Yasir’s mind. I wish I could just come out and ask him whether we’re on the same page: whether our getting to know each other is for the long-term. But I’m not suicidal. I’m not going to bring up the C word with a guy I’ve known for seven days.

  Yasir’s phone vibrates on the table, jolting me out of my nervous thoughts.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, checking his phone. ‘It’s work. Just give me a sec.’

  ‘Problems at work?’ I ask when he’s put his phone away.

  ‘A bit of a disaster, actually. I’m scared to tell you. Given your low opinion of builders.’

  ‘You’re changing that, so don’t worry.’

  ‘Am I now?’

  ‘Slowly. Very slowly.’ We grin at each other. ‘So what’s the problem?’

  ‘I arrived at the house we’re building today to find that the painters have painted the walls in the wrong colour. Electric blue. Throughout the entire house, mind you. Not just one feature wall. You would think they’d have realised something had gone amiss in the paint delivery. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever come across an electric-blue house before.’

  ‘What a nightmare.’

  ‘It’s our mistake, so we have to wear the cost.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  ‘It could be worse. I had a job once where a contractor I hired to do the plasterboard did such a dodgy job that I refused to pay him. He got me back by putting a carton of milk in the cavity of one of the walls and sealing it up.’

  I burst out laughing.

  ‘Of course, the milk went off pretty quickly and the stench was overpowering. We had no idea where the smell was coming from. It was only when we had the plasterboard removed by the new contractor that we found the carton of rotten milk!’

  ‘You’re supposed to be redeeming the construction industry’s image, remember, not validating my low opinion of it.’

  ‘Hey, short of mopping the floors with Chanel No. 5, I did everything I could to get rid of the smell. I went the extra mile. See what a nice builder I am?’

  ‘Very nice,’ I admit. And at least your job has its moments.’

  ‘And what moments do you savour in your work?’

  ‘Ah, now that’s a tough one.’ I tap my fingers on the table as I think. ‘Strangely enough, pharmacy recruitment does have its fair share of amusing anecdotes. A couple of weeks ago I reviewed an application for the position of
pharmacy assistant from a guy who put down as his reference a female escort who had apparently been a male pharmacist for ten years before an operation and career change.’

  We go on like this for the rest of the evening, laughing and swapping stories. If you can laugh with a guy for a couple of hours, I reckon it’s a safe bet that you’re onto a good thing.

  Ten

  It was Brooke Shields who once said, ‘Smoking kills. If you’re killed, you’ve lost a very important part of your life.’

  There are some statements you simply can’t take back. And that’s the way it is tonight.

  I’m standing beside Ruby and Lisa at Anil’s thirtieth. Nirvana’s brought us along as support, and because Anil wants to meet her friends (a big step in any relationship).

  It’s a barbecue lunch at Anil’s family’s mansion in West Pennant Hills. Nirvana has filled us in on the family background. Anil’s parents divorced when Anil and his sister were young. It was apparently quite a scandalous split, with Anil’s dad running off with a friend of the family. Anil’s mother struggled on her own until she struck gold, marrying a very wealthy man, and was effectively able to throw that in the face of everybody who’ d whispered and gossiped behind her back.

  For a family of four, the house is gigantic. I’m talking seven bedrooms, three studies, four rumpus rooms and a glass lift.

  ‘This kind of wealth is obscene,’ I say to Ruby and Lisa as we stand in our huddle, holding onto our drinks (fruit cocktail for me) in the enormous alfresco area surrounded by manicured hedges and lawns and overlooking a stunning lap pool. ‘I mean, who really needs this much space? And a lift? How excessive is that?’

  ‘The lift is for my grandmother,’ a voice behind me says. ‘She can’t walk.’

  I turn to face Anil. ‘Um, sorry ... that was so rude of me ... I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘—insult your friend’s boyfriend’s paralysed grandmother?’ Anil says, a severe expression on his face. ‘Don’t worry about it! It’s so cool.’