A week after she sent the email to the sheik, a woman named Suki Kishida called. “I work for the hotel,” she said. She asked Rachel to confirm some items on her resume and thanked her for applying. A few days after that, Rachel found the job offer in her Inbox. She read each word and not trusting her own interpretation printed the offer and took it to her friend Emily. “I have the job, right? I mean, I finally got a job?”
“Where. The hell. Did you find this job?” Emily asked, scribbling down the name of the website with a pen she had chewed until the plastic cracked. She was on her second week of no cigarettes. “I’m so fucking tired of serving beer to drunk college guys.”
When they’d started their journalism degrees they both expected a job with a local newspaper that would eventually lead to a column in the New York Times or a wire assignment that required a khaki blazer and a handsome translator. Now all she heard was, Journalism is dead. You need to start a blog. She and Emily scraped up the money for domain names, but neither of them got very far. Her life had become so dull and disappointing she was too embarrassed to write about it.
Emily was having the same problem. “I could describe the texture of the vomit delivered to my left sandal by a guy in a Georgia Tech football jersey, or how I’ve started stealing my parent’s dog’s antidepressants. I’m serious,” she said. “Wally has better health coverage than I do.”
She heard the doors again and more passengers flowed around her. One after another they were reunited with family or friends. A woman in a purple dress and white headscarf rushed past her to a man and little boy. A woman about her age, dark ponytail, Louis Vuitton luggage, hugged her parents. She felt a flutter of panic that wouldn’t go away. What if no one had come for her? What would she do?
Then she saw the sign, white, with her name written in black marker. Rachel Lewis. She rushed to the man who held it, middle-aged and wearing a grey suit. The gold wire-rimmed glasses made him look friendly. He seemed relieved to see her too.
“Eh, Miss-eh Lewis? Rachel Lewis?”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s me.” She gave him another big smile, one that remained on her face against her will. This was not the professional face she’d practiced. It was the face of a girl watching a friend of her father’s pretend to produce a quarter from behind his ear.
“I am Sayeed.” he said. “The car is outside.” He picked up her suitcase and headed for the exit.
Outside there was no sky, just the glare of the sun. It stung her tired eyes and she had to blink several times just to see where she was going. The heat felt thick as fur against her skin as they crossed a road and walked along a row of cars, finally stopping at a white Mercedes.
From the back seat she watched banks and high-rise buildings play across her window like a movie, a Rolls Royce passed them on the right, then a big truck hauling men like cargo. They were packed tight on benches bolted to the truck bed, the ones on the end braced with their feet to stay seated. Their faces sagged, their shoulders, their arms and hands. They looked as tired as she felt.
Chapter 2
Sayeed pulled into the shade of a portico. A bellman opened her door. “Welcome to Al Zari hotel,” he said presenting his hand to help her out. Another lifted her suitcase from the trunk. She followed Sayeed up carpeted steps, through heavy glass doors, past marble columns, across thick carpets to the mezzanine. The air was so suddenly cool it gave her goosebumps. It smelled faintly of roses though she couldn’t find any, just tall date palms fed by light from a glass ceiling so high she had to crane her neck to see it.
A beautiful Indian woman at the front desk handed a card to Sayeed. “The room is ready,” she told him, like this was a very exciting bit of news. Her eyes creased when she smiled at Rachel. “Welcome to the Al Zari,” she said softly. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”
Sayeed led her across a marble and black onyx floor so beautiful it felt wrong to walk on. When they had reached the elevator he said, “Your suite is on the 19th floor.”
Suite? She pressed her lips together to suppress another smile. They rode up, up past the tops of palm trees, past the roof of the atrium until she saw roads, cars, silvery buildings, and finally, the blue sea. She wondered what sea it was, the Arabian?
She liked the word Arabian. It had a taste almost, or a smell. The shape of the word made her think of a horse, with a delicate head and a bowed neck, the kind that pranced with its tail held high. Everything she associated with the word Arabian seemed magical. Walt Disney was to blame, but so was her father. One summer, she must’ve been around 10 years-old, she had trouble falling asleep while it was still light outside. Her dad stretched out on the floor next to her bed, head propped on a folded-in-half pillow, and read her stories from the Arabian Nights: Aladdin’s Wonderful Lamp, Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, Sinbad. The collection started with Scheherazade a young woman whose husband, the Sultan, had a habit of marrying a woman at night and having her killed the next morning. He’s going to kill her? Rachel had asked her father. Just listen, he told her, turning the page. Scheherazade had a plan to keep herself alive. Every night she would tell the Sultan a story and leave it hanging. 1001 stories later, he decided to keep her.
Images of smoke genies and magic carpets and embroidered, bejeweled shoes were still stuck in her head when Sayeed opened the door to her new suite. “Here we go,” he said, gesturing that she should walk in first. On the other side of the door was a short hall that ended in an Arabian archway, a fitting frame for her new bedroom. She gasped. The room had a king-sized bed with a soft creme and gold brocade spread. Across its yards of subtly shimmering fabric and closer to the sheer gold drapes, a chaise and two chairs made a sitting area. A metal lantern, which hung over the bed, sprinkled pieces of light like confetti on all the walls.
Sayeed must’ve noticed her looking at it. “Moroccan,” he said.
“Moroccan,” she repeated. “Of course.”
He put her card key on the console, making sure she saw where it was, and picked up a thin black remote. “This button calls room service. If you get hungry. Or headache.” He pushed another button to open the curtains and there it was again: the blue sea spread wide across her room. “For lights too,” he told her, he held it up with the control panel facing her, like it was the answer to all of her questions. “You will figure it out.”
He picked up another remote. “This is for the television,” he pressed a button and a framed tapestry moved to reveal a flat screen. From his pocket he produced a smartphone and handed it to her. “Your business phone,” he told her. He showed her the contacts list. “It has my number. Prince Al Zari’s assistant, Sahar, and Samantha Bryne, there. She’s the hotel manager. You will meet them all soon. When you are unpacked.”
A knock at the door interrupted them. It was the bellhop with her suitcase. Sayeed handed him some money and he set the suitcase on the stand. “Please,” he said to her, clasping his hands together, “Tonight at six, you will meet Prince Khalid Al Zari in the Nada restaurant for dinner. Okay?” His eyebrows raised above the gold rims of his spectacles.
“Absolutely,” she said. Only after he turned and closed the door did she think to ask him what she should wear to meet the...prince. And would little bluebirds help her with her hair?
She took off her shoes and curled her toes in the carpet. She noticed another arched doorway opposite the bed on the other side of the television. It led to a short hall with a wet bar, then a small room lined with shelves and places to hang clothes. In the center was a single leather ottoman. The clothes in her suitcase couldn’t fill one-tenth of it, but still. It was grand.
At the end of the hall another arch led to a marble bathroom, a soft white, that glowed like a seashell. The star of this bathroom, was a big jetted tub. Another thin black remote balanced on the edge of it. If this turns the faucet on... She pushed the top button and the curtains parted to reveal the sea, which sparkled in the sunlight. She pushed another button and a loud rush of air came thr
ough jets in the tub, startling her. A small dial dimmed the light from another Moroccan lantern which hung over the tub, turning her bathroom into a tasteful little discotheque. “Oh. My God,” she said out loud. Her voice echoed.
She ran hot water into the tub and from a selection of miniature bottles with gold caps, added some bubble bath. When it was full and scented like musk and rose, she climbed in, sank down, and closed her eyes. “Exquisite,” she mumbled, stretching out her legs in the warm water.
****
The soothing feeling of the bath was gone at 5:30 when sat on the edge of the bed and looked at herself in the mirror. She had forgotten to pack a cocktail dress, so she wore the first of her three suits, which, to her dismay made her look like an attorney. A very young attorney with a ridiculously earnest smile. She frowned. She raised one eyebrow to look skeptical. Yep, she should’ve brought a cocktail dress.
She wanted to believe she’d gotten the job without the sheik's help, that it wasn’t because his horse had won the race. Of course I remember you, he’d written in his reply, I tell everyone how a girl in a white hat was my good luck charm. He did know the owner of the hotel, quite well. I’ll see what I can do.
She walked to the window and began to pace. She needed to relax. She needed a drink. She found a bottle of Chardonnay chilling in the mini fridge at the bar and poured a generous amount into a wineglass. Her hand shook. She took a drink. She knew what could happen if she got too nervous. She took another drink. Her throat would get tight and no sound would come out when she spoke. It had happened before.
“You’ll be fine,” she told herself now pacing with the glass of wine. She looked in the mirror again and took the pins out of her hair. That was prettier, but was prettier what she wanted? No, she wanted confident, competent. She put on some red lipstick. Wow, that’s inappropriate. She wiped the lipstick off. She put on lip gloss. She whispered a string of curse words. She pinned her hair into a bun again. Was that better? She had no idea. She checked the time. It was now 5:40. She drank another gulp of wine and noticed it helped a little. Her hands weren’t shaking, as much.
Music would be good. There was a small radio on the console. She turned it on. Immediately the whirling sounds of middle eastern music spun through the room and she punched buttons until it stopped and a radio announcer said she was listening to the BBC. She hit the button until she found a pop station, but Shakira’s intense warbling made her more nervous. She turned the radio off. It was 5:45.
She walked to the window again. Cars moved along the road, boats moved across the water, a pink haze settled on the horizon. She imagined herself out on a sailboat, dipping her toe into the water. The salty breeze blowing her hair. Yes, relax. If they didn’t think you could do the job, they wouldn’t have hired you. The prince has to be nice; he works in hospitality.
Wait, do I call him your highness? Or was that something that only happened in the movies? She grabbed her new phone and found the answer. It was “your highness” for a prince and “your majesty” for a king. Like she was going to meet a king. She practiced saying it, your highness. “Good evening your highness,” she said out loud.
She tried to remind herself she was not the only girl in the world to exaggerate her work experience or get a job based on a chance meeting with a sheik. Yes, and she would also not be the first traveler to find herself in a urine- and blood-stained jail cell for a crime she couldn’t quite pronounce. Oh, stop being dramatic, she heard her mom say.
Her phone read 5:55. It was time to go.
****
She counted fifteen tables in the Nada restaurant on the second floor. Fabric hung down the walls and draped from the center of the ceiling to the corners, making the room like the inside of a tent. Lanterns, like the one in her room, cast little flecks of light on the couples - all seemingly oblivious of one another. It was that kind of restaurant. She saw no one eating alone. No one looked like the Al Zari she’d found on the internet: a man in his 50s with dark eyebrows, a mustache and a mole on his chin.
A waiter approached her. “Miss, eh- Lewis?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Follow me please.” He led her through the restaurant, between the tables, to a door in the back corner half-hidden by fabric. Inside was an even smaller room draped in grey and persimmon silk. A single small table had been set for two. Through the pounding of her heartbeat she heard the waiter say in a quiet voice. “Missus Eh-Lewis, Prince Al Zari is on his way. Have a seat. Would you like a drink?”
She was already feeling her first glass of wine. Another and she’d begin to say her thoughts out loud. “I’ll just have water,” she told him. Her throat tightened as she spoke and it scared her.
****
She waited six minutes, noting each of them on her phone. At 6:03 the waiter brought her water. She took a sip and then clamped her hands together in her lap to keep them steady. She was here. It was real. He was on his way. 6:05, according to her phone.
She had just put her napkin on her lap, then put it back on her plate, when the door opened and a man walked in. Even in the dim light she could tell he wasn’t the Al Zari from the internet and so she thought he was someone else, a messenger perhaps. This man was around 30 years old. He was tall and thin and moved like a shadow in his dark suit. She almost had to squint to see him.
“Miss Lewis,” he said softly.
She stood, knocking her napkin to the floor. “Yes.”
“I am Prince Khalid Al Zari,” he said nodding once. “Owner of the hotel. I am pleased to meet you.” Like Sayeed’s, his voice was soft and deep. He was all dark eyes and jawline and smooth black hair cut just below his collar, longer than she’d seen on any man since she’d landed. It shocked her how cinematic he looked.
“I’m pleased to meet you too,” she told him.
She presented her hand, to shake. He looked at it and simply nodded again. “You made it,” he said. Then he walked to the table and sat down.
She took her seat and picked up her napkin from the floor. The waiter raced over and took it. “I’ll bring another,” he said. Her heart thumped away in her chest, in the delicate skin of her temples. Her legs shook and she noticed her foot tapping away.
“Your suite is acceptable?” He asked.
“It’s lovely,” she said.
“Good. And your flight?”
“Long, but not too bad. Being in first class helped,” she said. “Thank you.”
The waiter approached the table and set a new napkin on her plate. “Your highness,” he said. “We have a lamb tagine with rice pilaf.” He took a deep breath. He seemed nervous too. “We also have a roasted chicken with vegetables.”
The prince looked at her, then back at the waiter. “I’ll have the lamb,” he said, quietly.
“I’ll try the lamb too,” she said, wondering what exactly a tagine was.
When the waiter disappeared through the door, the Prince rested his forearms on the edge of the table. He gave her a smile so slight she wasn’t sure it had happened at all. “Shall I tell you about the hotel?”
She tried to say yes, but nothing out.
“It was finished just last year, in November. It has only been open a few months. We are still training and hiring staff. It is smaller then many of the new hotels. While the Burj is spectacular,” he said, “I wanted this to be more intimate.” His gaze moved from her, to his hands, then back to her. Her lip began to twitch.
“It is lovely,” she said again.
“Room rates, in dollars, are between $1,000 and $8,000 a night,” he continued. “Your room, for instance, falls somewhere in the middle. It is upscale, yes, but not the most expensive in Dubai.”
She kept careful control of her expression, pretending the price of her room did not shock her. The last bed she'd slept in was the futon in her parent’s spare room, surrounded by metal filing cabinets and plastic bins containing Christmas decorations.
Suite Dubai (Arriving) Page 2
