No Sex in the City

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  ‘Metin,’ I say gently. ‘I know you’ve been betrayed, but you have to learn to trust me. We can’t segregate ourselves from the opposite sex; that’s not how the world works. Each of us is going to be thrown into situations where we’re tested. Ultimately, it’s about our character.’

  Another long silence settles between us. I stare at the table as I fiddle with the salt and pepper shaker. And then, quite suddenly, he leans over and I almost pass out.

  Because he takes my hand again and gently raises it to his mouth and then presses his lips once against my fingers. My insides go all funny. I’m practically paralysed, but obviously not totally because I’m so shocked by his move that my hand drops when he lets go.

  Idiot, I think.

  But then my conscience reminds me about my ‘thou shalt not touch before the ink on the wedding certificate dries’ rule and I accept it’s probably a good thing that my hand has fallen into his tortilla.

  ‘I’m so sorry!’ I cry, mortified, and quickly grab a napkin.

  He starts to laugh, a great hulking laugh that rises up from deep within him, until I’ve joined him and am laughing so hard that I nearly choke.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says when we’ve calmed down. ‘I know I must sound paranoid.’

  I cut him off. ‘You have to learn to trust again. I’m telling you now, I can be trusted.’

  But then the irony of my words hits me hard and my head begins to throb.

  Metin walks me to my car. I’m aware of how close he is to me. I can tell he wants to hold my hand again, even put his arm around me, but I’ve folded my arms over my chest, not trusting myself. I’ve never been this close to a guy before. Even Seyf never crossed the line with me. But with Metin I feel there’s so much sexual chemistry that it’s muddling my thoughts.

  When we say goodbye I hurry into my car, not daring to linger.

  Every instinct in my body tells me he wants to kiss me goodnight, but if I let him kiss me, I know I won’t want to stop. Isn’t that the whole point of abstinence? That sexual desire is such a powerful, intoxicating force that one small kiss can lead to much much more. If the end of that journey is forbidden to me, then so is the start, because there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that if Metin were to start that journey, I wouldn’t want him to stop.

  I roll down my window and his eyes scan mine.

  ‘I’m sorry, again,’ he says, thrusting his hands in the pockets of his jacket. ‘Let’s just forget I ever mentioned anything. I know I’m overreacting.’

  I give him a reassuring smile, even though I feel like I’m the one who needs reassurance.

  Because this is the thing: people are not black or white. They can’t be neatly defined: ‘crazy jealous type’, ‘tight-arse’, ‘fanatic’. If they could, it’d be so much easier to dismiss them outright. But we’re all a jumble of personality traits, some of which may surface only haphazardly, depending on our circumstances. In the end, I have to try to weigh up whether Metin’s jealous streak is going to overshadow his generosity, his playfulness, the chemistry between us. The thing is, I can’t tell yet.

  Thirty-Seven

  Nirvana, Lisa and I have planned to have lunch at Bondi and Nirvana has invited Anil to join us. Ruby’s got something on at church with her parents.

  We stroll through the Sunday markets on our way to an Italian restaurant. Lisa and Nirvana spot a jewellery stand and make a beeline for it. The last thing I need is temptation to spend money, given my tight finances. So I wait with Anil, enjoying the live music. Although the weather is cool and the sky a little melancholic, Bondi still draws a big weekend crowd and the place is bustling.

  It’s easy to chat with Anil. The more I talk to him, the more I realise my first impression of him as arrogant was wrong. Sure, he has expensive tastes and can afford to indulge them. Maybe there is a little bit of vanity in that, but I don’t think he’s aware of it, and it’s not that he’s shallow or shows off in a way that makes you feel like he’s putting you down. Even though he’s a bit too materialistic for my liking, at least it’s balanced with the warmth of his personality. I ask him how the engagement plans are going.

  ‘So far, so good,’ he says. ‘We’ve booked the hall and photographer, and our outfits are just about ready. Or so Nirvana and my mum tell me. I’m not really involved in the organisation.’ He smiles. ‘Even if I wanted to be, I don’t think I’d be allowed!’

  ‘At least you avoid the stress that way,’ I say.

  ‘Exactly! See, I’m not stressed at all. Nirvana is, though. She’s such a calm person, but when it comes to planning the engagement she’s become a bit edgy. As for my mum, she’s in a frenzy, ordering food and planning menus.

  ‘At the end of the day, she’s Indian and I’m her only son. That’s a recipe for an emotional meltdown. There’s nothing I can do about it except indulge her obsessive planning fits and look forward to the honeymoon.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘So the engagement is just something to be endured?’

  ‘You bet,’ he says. ‘And God knows what the wedding planning will be like if the engagement party is causing so much drama.’

  ‘Test of your relationship with Nirvana, hey?’

  ‘The problem is that it’s a test of a lot of relationships, not just mine and Nirvana’s. One thing is for sure: we were both crazy to think my mum was going to go for anything low-key. That’d be like telling a kid who dreams of Disneyland that you’ll take them to a local fair instead.’ He shrugs his shoulders and, in a cheery tone, says, ‘Some fights aren’t worth having!’

  The girls return and we head to the restaurant. While we’re ordering our lunch Lisa gets up to take a call and doesn’t return for a quarter of an hour. She sits down slowly.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.

  ‘One of my clients is in hospital,’ she says. ‘Her boyfriend beat her so badly they’re saying she might lose the sight in one eye.’

  We’re all shocked and we sit in silence until Anil asks Lisa if this is the first time the woman had been beaten by her boyfriend.

  ‘No, it’s been happening for a couple of years,’ she says distractedly, cradling her glass.

  ‘Why didn’t she go to the police?’

  ‘We counselled her to report him. And to leave him. But it’s not as easy as it sounds.’

  ‘Does she have kids?’ Nirvana asks.

  ‘Yep. A one-year-old and a toddler.’

  Anil frowns. ‘But if it’s been happening for a couple of years, why would she have a baby with him? It’s wrong to bring a child into that.’

  Lisa raises an eyebrow. ‘Of course she should have left him. The second he raised his hand to her she should have walked out. Even before that probably, because of the mental abuse. But that’s just armchair moralising. My job is to give her advice and listen to her, not to judge her. I just hope she has the strength and courage to do what we all know she needs to; in practice, though, it’s very difficult.’

  Anil crosses his arms. ‘I sympathise with that, but I still don’t get it. She’s brought kids into the abusive situation.’

  ‘She didn’t want to terminate the pregnancy.’

  ‘Of course not. That would be awful. Which is why women shouldn’t get themselves into that kind of situation in the first place,’ Anil says solemnly. ‘If you’re in an abusive relationship, you shouldn’t allow yourself to fall pregnant.’

  Lisa is momentarily speechless.

  ‘Anil, you can’t just make blanket statements like that,’ I say. ‘There are so many factors involved. And it’s not all about the woman preventing pregnancy – you need a man in order to fall pregnant, remember.’ I struggle not to groan. ‘Don’t forget what kind of relationships these women are in. There isn’t a lot of self-determination in the first place. It’s been beaten out of them.’

  Anil remains unconvinced. ‘Look, these guys should be strung up. But that’s not going to happen, is it? They’re going to keep getting away with it so long as their women l
et them.’

  ‘You’re blaming the victim,’ Lisa says, her eyes flashing. ‘I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation! There are layers and layers of complexities. And sometimes the presence of children actually makes it harder for the woman to leave.’

  ‘I’ve delivered babies to women who are in abusive relationships,’ Nirvana says. ‘Some women hope that a baby will change a man.’

  ‘I don’t like to judge,’ Anil says, ‘but I think it’s wrong that a woman would bring a new baby into an abusive relationship. If she does it knowingly, when she has plans to leave the relationship, then I think she’s selfish. She needs to think twice about leaving at that point. It’s just not fair to the child. Divorce is ugly and the child starts life on the back foot.’

  Lisa tenses. ‘So you think she should stay in the relationship for the child’s sake, do you? Let’s punish her and demand she be a martyr and cop the abuse for her kid’s sake?’

  ‘I’m not saying she should be punished. I just think there’s a moral distinction between women who stay in abusive relationships because they care about how divorce will impact on their children, and women who leave when they’ve knowingly brought children into that situation. I feel sorry for both women, of course, but I just think there’s a difference.’

  ‘If you just focus on the victim and her response, aren’t you taking attention away from the guy’s actions?’ I say.

  Lisa stands up. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says, grabbing her purse. ‘I’m going to visit Lucy in the hospital.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry if I offended you.’ Anil raises his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Maybe I’m out of touch. I mean, I get that you’re in the thick of it and would know more. I’m just saying what I feel, my gut reaction. I’ve never been exposed to domestic violence. I don’t know anybody who has. It just makes me so mad. No hard feelings, yeah?’

  Lisa bites down on her lip. ‘Yeah, we’re cool.’ She turns to Nirvana and me. ‘I’ll see you both soon.’

  ‘I’ll drive you,’ I say. ‘You don’t have a car. You came with me, remember?’

  ‘It’s okay, I’ll get the bus. You haven’t even finished eating.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot. I’ll take you.’

  ‘We come across that kind of self-righteous indignation all the time,’ she says as we drive. ‘It makes me want to tear my hair out. It’s sexist and arrogant and ignorant.’

  ‘Everybody wants a one-size-fits-all solution,’ I mutter.

  ‘Exactly. I know how hard it is to comprehend that even the smartest, most sensible women can find it difficult to leave. Sometimes the first instinct is to try to fix what’s broken, not throw it away. It can take a long time to realise that some things can never be fixed.’

  While Lisa goes in to see her client, I take a seat in the waiting room. When she eventually comes out she tells me she needs a good strong coffee and we head across the road to the nearest café. We order and I’m talking when Lisa abruptly interrupts me.

  ‘I know something. And it’s in strict confidence. I’m torn about whether I should talk, but this affects somebody we both know.’

  ‘Can you tell me, or is that a breach of professional confidence?’

  She hesitates. ‘I can tell you some parts, but you have to keep the conversation between us, okay?’

  I assure her of my silence and she takes a deep breath.

  ‘Neela confided in me. That day at the birthday party, when we were outside and she was smoking.’

  ‘Yes. I remember. I noticed you go outside with her.’

  ‘She’s having some serious problems with Sunil. I don’t think that’s any surprise to you. Nirvana’s already told us that much. I’ve given her some advice. But if Nirvana finds out it was me who advised her, I don’t know how that will affect her relationship with Anil. It shouldn’t, but it might.’

  ‘Did you give her this advice directly? Is she your client?’

  ‘No. I figured that would be a conflict of interest. I referred her to somebody else.’

  ‘Then there shouldn’t be a problem. If Neela needs help, Nirvana would probably think you would be the best person to talk to.’

  Lisa anxiously taps her fingers on the table. ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

  Thirty-Eight

  I have a couple of days’ reprieve from Danny. On Monday morning I’m almost skipping to the office, I’m so glad that he’s away. The first thing I do is approach Kylie and Veronica and ask them what happened on Saturday.

  ‘We didn’t have a clue what he was on about when he called,’ Kylie says. ‘Then this morning we saw the email from him about the meeting. He sent it at nine o’clock on Friday night. Who’s going to be around to see their emails at that time?’

  ‘But ...’ I stop. I don’t want to tell them he approached me directly on Friday afternoon.

  ‘He apologised. Said he thought we had remote access to our emails from home,’ Kylie scoffs. ‘He knows we don’t, though. Remember, he didn’t approve it for security reasons?’

  My face collapses and I quickly turn away. I never imagined Danny would be so conniving. If I had any doubts about his intentions, Kylie’s words crush them for good.

  Because there’s a bank statement waiting for me at home showing me how little I have to my name despite my income, and because there’s talk that the Reserve Bank is likely to raise interest rates this week, I go a teeny weeny bit mental when Senem and Farouk are over tonight and announce they’ve booked a ten-day holiday in Hawaii.

  ‘You did WHAT? Whatever happened to saving for a deposit? Isn’t that the whole reason you’re moving in? To save? What’s the point of moving in if you’re going to blow your money on holidays?’

  The horrified silence is evidence enough that I have crossed a line.

  When Senem was a sister and daughter, and not a married sister and a married daughter, I might have got away with this kind of reprimand. But by virtue of her marriage to Farouk, I am supposed to accord her a certain respect, otherwise it will look as though I am being disrespectful to Farouk too.

  I can tell Senem is trying very hard to remain composed. ‘Esma, can I talk to you alone please?’ she hisses.

  Meanwhile, my dad is so uncomfortable that he shuffles to the couch, closes his eyes and stares up at the ceiling. My mother, mortified, laughs nervously and asks Farouk if he can help her fix the remote control for the satellite television.

  Senem storms upstairs, expecting me to follow her, which I do.

  It takes every atom of self-control to resist the temptation to blurt the truth out to her. The truth equals redemption and understanding and sympathy. It means liberation. It means we all share the burden of digging Dad out of the quicksand.

  But I’m the dutiful daughter. So I trudge up the stairs into the spare bedroom where Senem is pacing angrily.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she snaps. ‘Since when do you have a say in our finances?’

  Since I’m helping pay for the house you’re going to move into.

  ‘I don’t have a say,’ I say defensively. ‘I’m just surprised that after complaining about how far behind you are in saving for a deposit, you’ d book an overseas holiday.’

  ‘But what business is it of yours, Esma? How do you think it looks in front of Farouk for you to say that? For his sister-in-law to lecture him about money.’

  ‘Okay, so I lost my temper. I just think it’s unfair to expect Mum and Dad to put you up you while you go and spend the money you’re supposed to be saving.’

  ‘I already told you that we’re going to insist on helping out with the bills. The holiday won’t be expensive. And Mum and Dad paid the house off years ago, so I can’t see what the big deal is!’

  I bite my lip. Dig my nails into my skin. Muster every ounce of control to stop myself from responding. But it’s no good.

  ‘I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANY MORE!’ I burst out of the room, run down the stairs, grab my keys and bag from the hall table, rush pa
st my dad who launches towards me in an effort to calm me down, hurl the door open, rush out, slam it in his face, get into my car and speed away.

  I drive to a nearby park. I sit in my car. And I cry.

  Text message from Senem that night:

  I don’t know what’s going on with you. I could never have imagined my own sister wouldn’t welcome us home. Whatever’s upsetting you, talk to me. Farouk is talking about us renting again. He doesn’t want to get into your space or hurt you, he says. You know we can’t afford that though. Not if we’re going to buy.

  And because we can never stay mad at each other for long, and because I have no choice but to try to fix things, I text her back.

  Tell Farouk I’m sorry and I’ll never speak to him again if he doesn’t move in because of me. Sorry for the tantrum. Bad day at work. I heard the shopping in Hawaii is amazing. I’ll give you my wish list when you go.

  ‘Esma, are you awake, darling? Can we talk?’

  My dad is at my door. I pretend to be asleep. He sighs heavily and walks away.

  Thirty-Nine

  Aydin is teasing me because I locked my keys in my car and therefore arrived an hour late to our dinner date. He called me out of the blue this morning to see if I was free to catch up for dinner after work.

  When we sit down in the café he’s still going on about it.

  ‘So let me get this straight: you locked your car, opened the boot to get something, threw the keys in the boot, rummaged around in the boot, forgot the keys were in there and closed the boot on them?’

  ‘Yep,’ I say casually, extending my hand and examining my nails.

  ‘See, I would have thought the logical thing to do is never put your keys in the boot.’ He grins. ‘Like, put them in your pocket.’

  ‘No pockets with this dress.’

  ‘In your bag?’

  ‘The keys were in my bag.’