One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  Niamh. She’s my shining example of how to live life as you want; not how others think you should. I’d gotten to know her a few years before when we’d worked at the same school in Brisbane, she on her teaching-tour-of-the-world, and me on my path to the ‘burbs, teaching at the school I’d worked at since leaving university. The very same one I’d attended as a kid my whole school life.

  She’s a pain, for sure, but the very best kind. So now I have a new job, which comes with an apartment, in a school where all my fellow teachers are female. Short of joining a convent, I can’t imagine a better place to start again.

  I’ll be teaching grade three at the Al Mishael School for Girls. An exclusive English curriculum school for families preferring a more culturally acceptable environment for their daughters. Which is just a long winded way of saying it’s an all-girls school. I’m familiar, having attended and taught in one myself. Catholic in my case. But it can’t be that different, surely? A school is a school, whether in Brisbane, Delhi or Dubai.

  Not that I can quite believe I’m here—in Dubai, I mean. It kind of blows my mind. Billion dollar buildings and roads where every other car seems to be a Lamborghini. Streets filled with exotic sights and sounds.

  Far out. I’m living in Dubai!

  With a slow smile, I place my glass down. All I need to do now is convince Niamh I need a new man like I need a genital piercing.

  Chapter Two

  The classroom door creaks in protest as it closes, but I’ve done it. I’ve officially survived my first week at a new school, in a new country, not to mention on a new continent. Pushing away from the wood, I resist the urge to dance around the room. Just as well as the door screeches open, Sadia, my classroom assistant, staggering into the room barely visible behind a tower of books.

  ‘Asif . . . sorry, the door,’ she apologises as I grab a few teetering copies.

  ‘We’ll get the caretaker to look at it. It must’ve swelled in the heat.’

  Placing the pile of books on a nearby desk, she slides an errant wisp of hair under her headscarf. ‘I go now to him?’

  ‘What? Nah, next week’s fine.’

  ‘Then I will take the wowel verk for marking?’

  ‘The what?’

  She frowns, casting her gaze around the room almost as though she might find the answer to my confusion daubed on the walls. ‘The wow-el,’ she says slowly, patiently. Like she’s talking to an idiot. While I stare back, probably looking like one. ‘Wowels; the a, the e, the i—’

  ‘Oh, vowels! You want to take the vowel worksheets home?’

  ‘Yes, verk-shit,’ she says, her frown deepening.

  ‘It is,’ I reply, struggling to keep my composure. ‘But it pays the bills. Sorry, of course that’s what you meant. And its fine, we’ll catch up next week. No reason you should work on your weekend. You can . . . leave now, if you want?’

  She flushes pink, discomfited, murmuring something about a taxi, her head moving as though independent of her neck. I find myself mirroring her actions before stopping. Rather than exotic, I probably look like a bit of an idiot.

  ‘Yeah, go. Whenever.’ Feeling ungracious, I add, ‘Thanks for your awesome help this week.’

  And awesome she has been. The week has passed by so quickly, I can’t imagine ever going back to oversized classes, the daily grind and being overworked. I love my job, but a class of just twenty and a full-time assistant is enough to seduce any teacher. Even if said assistant’s English is a little funky.

  Sadia’s cheeks flush once more, this time with pleasure. Ducking her head, she straightens the scarf covering her hair as she murmurs a quiet most welcome.

  She leaves the grating door open, the courtyard beyond almost quivering in the heat. The campus is pretty big, but I’m slowly finding my way around. There’s apparently a boys’ school nearby identical to this, and I wonder if it’s just the building or if the set-up’s the same. Are their staff all male? I smother the thought in a heartbeat. So not going there, in either sense. I hardly need a paperback shrink to tell me that.

  My heels echo in the quiet of the room. Classrooms can be pretty sad places at the start of a new school year, unadorned and absent of the children’s creations usually displayed with pride. Delaying my own taxi for a later pick-up, I’d planned to hang around for a while and fossick through the resource cupboard, curious to see what’s inside. It’s good to know what you have to work with, plus I’ve big plans for the room, beginning with designating a reading area that’ll be the envy of the grade. All I need to do now is hang my pink-sequined mosquito net from the ceiling, thus defining a space for the sanctuary of the written word.

  In other words, diversionary tactics: look, pretty pink sparkles—now sit quietly and read!

  Dragging in a ladder from the store cupboard, I leave the door open. It’s still blisteringly hot and humid outside despite the late afternoon hour, but a whole day in the frigid air conditioning has my bones aching for a little natural warmth. A sudden scent of frangipani on the scant, warm breeze reminds me of home, and as I stand in the doorway, memories I’ve tried hard to suppress play out in my mind, frame by reluctant frame.

  Shane stands in the doorway, murmuring endearments into his phone.

  Clearly it’s not me on the other end of the line.

  The thoughts, dark and bitter, cause my stomach to coil. I’ve been through the stages: sadness, anger, denial. And I’ve bought the bloody books, before finally reaching a place of acceptance. I accept that my ex-fiancé is a whore.

  ‘She’s a stripper for fuck’s sakes. It’s a bucks’ night thing!’

  An absolute whore.

  Shuddering at the memory, I wrap my arms around my elbows and force myself back to now. Music. That’s what I need, that and a bucket-sized glass of red, but first things first. Flipping open my laptop, I select a random playlist, and angry-girl music fills the room. I begin to sway realising that this song could actually be my personal anthem as, in the words currently being belted out, I’m determined to move in the right direction.

  My spirits lift as I dance like there’s no one watching because, well, there isn’t. Always a little self-conscious on the dance floor, I relish any opportunity to get my groove on alone. Sad but true. It’s one of my guilty pleasures; friendlier on the bum than chocolate cake and a lot less daggy than the air guitar. I let the lyrics of strength and defiance fill me as I lift a foot onto the first rung of the ladder, mozzie net and hammer tucked firmly under my arms, picture hooks dangling like broken teeth between my lips.

  Humming still, I climb as high as my nerves and heels allow, reaching toward the ceiling. Footwear notwithstanding, I manage to bash a hook into submission, achieving my goal as the bright pink fabric falls to the ground in luxurious folds.

  In retrospect, I probably should have ditched my heels at the foot of the ladder, but clearly too busy dancing like a loon, I find myself balanced almost at the very top. Still, a person of my stature needs all the help she can get, and as someone short and smart once said, the higher the heel, the closer to heaven I am. I snort at the thought . . . just as the toe of my shoe glides past the aimed for rung.

  Maybe wearing heels on a ladder will get me to the pearly gates quicker than I’d like.

  The ladder rocks, parodying a dance, my foot barely catching a lower tread. My heart leaps into my mouth, and in a panic to avoid broken limbs during my first week, I struggle and overcorrect . . . and the ladder dances perilously again.

  ‘Fuck meeee!’

  The expletive, yelled through gritted teeth, sounds detached and strangled. Not surprising, considering I’m about to meet the ground fast and on an involuntary basis, when unexpectedly, my flailing is halted, the ladder planting itself on the floor with a resounding thump. I’m no longer falling but lying against a chest, a very solid, male chest, as my heart continues to do a pretty good impersonation of a dryer full of wet running shoes.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong.’ The chest pressed aga
inst my back rumbles, the accompanying voice refined and deeply masculine. ‘But isn’t it customary to offer dinner first?’

  My heart moves into my throat and I swallow hard, my resulting reply somewhere between a ‘what’ and a grunt. Attempting to unhook my foot from the offending rung, his hands, long-fingered and elegant, I can’t help but notice, steady my arms.

  ‘And even then I don’t always put out.’ Is that an English accent?

  I twist my head over my shoulder, the retort sat at the end of my tongue dissolving immediately. Wow. His eyes, they’re startling. Almost amber in colour with long inky lashes by way of a frame. He has the kind of eyes you read about in books; eyes that weaken knees and knicker elastic all with the mere quirk of a brow. Was that pinging I just heard?

  As I try to fire my dazed synapses—with about the same effectiveness as a caveman with two wet sticks—I get the impression he’d like very much to laugh. Probably at me rather than with, as he attempts to master the smile building on his generous mouth.

  Generous, pouty and bite-able.

  Bite-able, really? I’ve got to stop reading those kinds of books.

  Stock-still and half turned, one hand grasping the metal frame of the ladder—probably a sensible precaution due to a high probability of an oncoming swoon—I become aware the stranger has spoken, his lips moving as my brain scrambles to catch up.

  ‘There’s nothing I like more than a pretty mouth full of dirty words, so really, thanks are unnecessary.’

  My mouth works soundlessly as I remember Niamh describing a guy she’d once dated as having “eyes put in with a sooty thumb”. The description suddenly makes sense. But did he just say . . .

  ‘You want me to thank you for telling me I’ve got a dirty mouth?’

  ‘I think you’ll find I said you had a pretty,’—his eyes flick almost imperceptibly to the orifice in question— ‘mouth.’

  Oh, well that’s a bit different. Jesus, you could hang your coat off those cheekbones.

  ‘Would you like me to call maintenance? The caretaker?’ An eyebrow rises in enquiry, his gaze sliding the length of my body and to the hammer on the floor.

  ‘How about you just let go of my arms and let me down.’

  Rich laughter fills the room as he does so, leaving one hand outstretched between us. ‘Ms Saunders, I presume?’

  With a terse nod, I place my hand in his, unable to stop studying him from his head down. Mediterranean skin, the kind that reminds me of warm caramel, and an incongruous dusting of freckles across an aquiline nose. His dark hair falls a little too long across his collar in a style that screams touch me, I’m artfully messy.

  I resist the invitation, but only just.

  ‘I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,’ I reply curtly and with an inward cringe. Please tell me I did not just come over all Regency Period in front of a seriously hot guy. Quick, someone pass me the smelling salts. Or possibly a gun. ‘And just how do you know my name?’

  ‘The door,’ he replies, amused.

  Ah, yep. There it is, painted within a picture of a sunflower the size of my head. As I don’t have an answer that doesn’t include some kind of serious blush, I opt instead to straighten my clothes. Viewed from under my lashes, I can tell he’s tall but it’s his face that takes my entire focus. It’s a face that could easily belong to another time; ancient Greece or Rome, but that feels too generic somehow. Less warrior and more lover, his dark, strong features are softened by his too full lips. Still, I can almost see him in a breastplate and a helmet. Or maybe just a helmet.

  Willing away the images, I bend down to pick up the hammer at the moment he does the same.

  ‘Ow! Watch what—’

  ‘Have you got rocks in your head?’

  His hand flies to his nose. My own, meanwhile, covers my thumping skull.

  ‘If you’d just minded your own business, this wouldn’t have happened.’ Placing the hammer on a rung of the ladder, I rub my head, the sharpness having developed into a dull thud.

  ‘What, I should’ve left you to fall?’ His tone is highly incredulous, even spoken through the hand covering his mouth as he pinches the bridge of his obviously sore nose.

  ‘Better than dazzling girls off ladders and trying to lay them out.’

  ‘Dazzling?’

  His sensual mouth quirks in the corner; it’s a valiant effort because I’d be laughing at me, too, if I wasn’t, well, me. I wouldn’t win any prizes for scintillating wit or grace right now. I pull away, desperately scanning my brain for something to say, something that doesn’t make me sound any more of a loon.

  ‘So, new girl, what do you do when you aren’t causing bodily harm to strangers?’ He stops my denials with a raised hand. ‘First you fall on me, then you attempt to break my nose.’

  ‘Third time’s a charm,’ I mutter in an undertone.

  He smiles again, this time sort of devilishly, like there’s more to be heard in my mumblings. ‘I’m Kai, by the way,’ he adds, holding out his hand.

  ‘Kate,’ I reply, giving his hand a solid business-like shake. ‘Sorry about your nose, and, um, thanks for your help, but I’m all good.’ I extract my heated fingers, aiming for calm and aloof.

  ‘That I can well imagine,’ he replies, adding depth to his smile and a squirmy feeling to my insides.

  At that point, the music changes, filling the room. Recognizing the song, my mouth returns to a gaping sort of panic as I anticipate the opening line—something about pants being around feet and not, I sense, to put on clean ones.

  Suggestive lyrics swirl around us as Kai tilts his head, fixing me with a considering sort of look. His eyes shine almost gold in the light, the eyes of a cat basking in the sun and enjoying itself just a little too much. Heat unexpectedly crawls its way from the pit of my gut, torching every inch of my skin. I force myself away from the effects of his gaze, turning as his hand catches mine.

  ‘The pleasure was all mine.’ With a last cryptic smile, he turns to leave, dark coloured slacks hugging his narrow hips and coating his fine behind.

  I release a quiet breath, low and long, feeling a bit wobbly. Not quite done with humiliating myself, I’m fanning my face with a hand—possibly a reaction to the heat from the now open door, or his GQ worthy butt—when he turns, catching me mid-flap in the act. Hand wrapped around the door handle, his smile turns to laughter.

  ‘I’ll close it, shall I? It is a little hot in here.’

  Seriously, I wouldn’t know subtle if it was stamped on my head.

  I’m done for the day, quite literally, as I pack away my laptop, my heart beating just a little too fast. I wonder if he’s a teacher from the boy’s campus; it’s plausible, though he must be a very well paid one judging by the cut of his clothes. Definitely more boardroom than the classroom, I love a man in French cuffed shirts. I suppose he could be their principal though he looks a bit on the young side, and surely the principal wouldn’t flirt with staff? Yeah, like that’s never happened. Maybe he’s a parent here for a teacher conference. Eww, I hope not. There’s nothing worse than a pervy dad.

  Strange, though it is after hours, so there are no cultural issues to address; a lone man wandering around the campus should be okay. Men arriving at Al Mishael during school hours are announced over the P.A. system before they’re allowed into the building, giving staff practicing the dress code of hijab the opportunity to cover. I’ve learnt a lot this week, things I’d never considered before. Like how some women out here cover, in varying degrees, their hair and their bodies when outside the home. At first it seemed odd, but not so much now.

  Still, the first time “men on campus” was announced over the air, I had to swallow the bubbling urge to shout woot! The announcement was so surreal, it seemed like a valid response. Somehow, I don’t think my colleagues would’ve seen the funny side.

  I’m learning fast, though this was the first real conversation I’ve had with a man since arriving in Dubai, if I discount the frequently odd convers
ations I’ve had during my daily taxi rides. This morning’s was a classic, culminating in me very firmly informing the driver—Ronald, let’s call him, in honour of his bright orange hair—that my very good self was indeed having a boyfriend and not interested in attending the parties and the discos on his arm.

  I’ve never been into gingers, especially not the badly hennaed ones.

  But maybe I’m reading way too much into my conversation with this gorgeous man. Had I imagined the stranger’s innuendo? I certainly enjoyed it, despite my best attempts. No, I think I read the nuances just fine. Maybe he’s like that with all the girls. But all the girls in a conservative school?

  Ridiculous. I’m behaving like a schoolgirl myself, having been dazzled by a man so hot he’d melt the undies right off any girl’s butt.

  Enough! I need to remember why I’ve taken this job, maybe even re-read a few chapters of that awful self-help book. Look for the chapter on getting your head and cooch to achieve some kind of simpatico?

  Grabbing my bag, I head for the exit while trying not to think of our exchange. There was definitely something about him, though, something I can’t quite put my finger on.

  Oh, but I think you’d like to, sings a small voice in my head.

  Chapter Three

  ‘I know a guy who lives in this building.’

  Niamh pushes oversized sunglasses onto her head as we step into the foyer, resplendent with gold accents. More importantly, it fabulously cool after the oppressive heat outside.

  ‘He lives with his roommate in a two bedder.’ Her toes are dangerously close to my unruly trolley-case as she holds the door open, moving adroitly to one side.

  ‘Is he a teacher?’ I ask, pocketing my own sunglasses.

  ‘Nah, building surveyor or something. Quite fit, mind, and I saw him first.’ As we enter the elevator, she brings out her phone, tapping the screen.