Dessi's Romance

by Goldie Alexander

  ‘No, not yet! They’ll force her to come home.’

  But what to do? If only Dessi was here! I have a sudden thought. ‘How about I phone Laura?’

  Kaz stares at me blankly.

  Flustered, I admit, ‘Laura, she’s… she’s my dad’s new wife.’

  Laura answers on the second ring. She listens and says, ‘I’ll leave right away.’

  ‘Where’s Sacha?’ asks Kaz.

  With all this, I haven’t given him a thought. ‘Still in bed, I guess. I’ll go see.’

  In our bedroom I find him slowly packing.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He ducks his head. ‘After last night…’ he clears his throat. ‘I thought maybe you wouldn’t want me here. You know…after what…’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid,’ I burst out. ‘Nothing’s changed. We’re still mates.’

  He looks so shamefaced I step over his backpack to give him a hug.

  ‘You sure, Em?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure. Now, listen. Jodie’s sick. Laura…’ at his questioning glance, ‘Dad’s wife, anyway she’s coming over. We have to find a doctor. Jodie might have blood poisoning, the silly bitch.’

  ‘What’s she done?’

  Just then the intercom sounds. ‘That’ll be her,’ I say hurriedly. ‘Catch you later, okay?’

  As I turn to leave, he catches my hand. ‘Thanks, Emma. You’re a real pal.’

  Because he looks ready to burst into tears, all I do is squeeze his hand and rush away. Back in the living room Kaz is supporting Jodie whose face is ghostly grey. ‘Let’s go,’ I say to Kaz.

  Laura is waiting in the foyer. I introduce the girls. Laura doesn’t waste any time after taking a look at Jodie’s midriff. We’re all piled into the Jeep. Thankfully, Laura’s face doesn’t show disapproval. In the front, I ask, ‘Where are we going?’

  Laura glances at her watch. ‘I’ll take her to our doctor.’

  ‘Do you think she has to go to hospital?’ Kaz puts in nervously.

  Laura hesitates. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see. Has she got her Medicare card?’

  ‘It’s in my purse,’ Jodie says in a small voice. ‘Back at the unit.’

  ‘Oh shit!’ says Kaz.

  ‘We’ll worry about that later,’ says Laura and pulls into a trendy shopping centre a couple of blocks from Dad’s house which Laura assures me is ‘…safely middle–class, no ethnics or abos here…’

  I’m so grateful for her help, I manage to ignore this.

  We troop into the waiting room and she speaks to the receptionist. ‘Won’t be long.’ She sits down. ‘Only two patients before us.’

  ‘Gonna be sick,’ Jodie groans.

  Laura grabs her by the arm and steers her past the reception desk out of sight. The receptionist leaves her desk and follows.

  ‘This is so embarrassing,’ Kaz whispers.

  Laura reappears without Jodie, and beckons us outside. ‘Has she taken anything we should know about?’

  ‘I wasn’t with her last night,’ I say. ‘Kaz, do you know if she did?’

  ‘How would I know?’ Kaz says too loudly. ‘Why do I always have to look after her? She’s old enough to look after herself.’

  ‘No one’s laying blame,’ Laura says quietly. ‘But the doctor will have to be told if she’s swallowed anything silly.’

  ‘That’s the trouble,’ Kaz sighs. ‘She drank a lot, we all did, but she did have something, there was stuff being offered around but I don’t know what. Maybe a tab.’

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be sorted out,’ Laura says quickly to sooth Kaz’s distress. ‘Jodie is with the doctor now.’

  I study some water-colours of Surfers hung around the waiting room and decide they’re Brett Whitely derivatives. Laura and Kaz browse through magazines. Twenty minutes later Jodie emerges with a tall suntanned man at her side. ‘Uh, Mrs Simpson?’ Laura stands up and they huddle together. He hands Laura a slip of paper, gives Jodie an appraising look and then calls for the next patient. I watch Laura hand a bankcard to the receptionist.

  Then we all troop outside. ‘I’ll just go and get this prescription filled,’ Laura says. ‘Won’t be a tick.’

  ‘Well, what did the quack say?’ Kaz snarls. ‘Are you going to live?’

  ‘It’s infected,’ Jodie mumbles.

  ‘We could see that for ourselves,’ Kaz snaps. ‘Are you finished throwing up for today?’

  Jodie begins to cry.

  ‘Hey, Kaz, leave it, eh?’ I can’t help feeling sorry for Jodie.

  No one says anything while we wait in the Jeep. Shortly, Laura comes out of the chemist shop with a package containing pills and antiseptic.

  ‘Like to come back to our place?’ she says. ‘All of you, I mean.’

  I have this desire to let my friends see the luxury I’m invited to share. ‘Thanks. That’d be great,’ I say without consulting the others.

  Within minutes, we pull into the driveway. When Laura takes them inside and out to the patio, I watch Kaz and Jodie’s eyes widen. It makes me feel good.

  We settle at a table by the pool and Laura asks ‘Coffee? Juice? I’d offer you a proper drink, but your friend isn’t allowed any alcohol while she’s on antibiotics. Right, Jodie?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ Jodie murmurs.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ Kaz drawls. ‘Maybe I can stop playing nursemaid for a while. How long can’t she drink?’

  ‘Not until the course is finished,’ Laura replies.

  ‘Is he going to take out the ring?’ Kaz’s tone is malicious.

  ‘Already has,’ closing the subject. ‘Now, what are you going to have to eat? A nice sandwich? Some fruit?’

  ‘Whatever you think, Laura,’ I murmur. Laura smiles, nods and goes into the house.

  ‘Hey, Em,’ Kaz says in a loud whisper, ‘she’s …awesome.’

  ‘Yeah. She is.’ I ignore a certain reticence on how ‘awesome’ Laura actually is. ‘For a stepmother she’s not too bad.’

  23. DESSI, Melbourne

  ‘Not bad, but good’ is how I’m planning on being introduced to Abdul’s family. Aware that any Muslim parent wouldn’t appreciate a show of bare flesh, I fling clothes around until I’m sure a long sleeved top and ankle length gypsy skirt are both modest and flattering. I spend hours on make-up and hair. When I find myself wishing for Emma’s thick gorgeous locks, I quickly put her out of my mind.

  Opening the door to Abdul, my hands won’t stop trembling. I’m both excited and proud. Abdul is taking me home. I know he wouldn’t be doing this if he didn’t take me seriously. While he helps me into his van, he talks about his ‘…Man Friday job because I never know what’ll happen next.’

  We’re careful not to mention Emma. Twenty-four hours and I still haven’t phoned her back. How long will it take her to smell a rat? Though I’m aware that cheating on a best friend is truly low life, I can’t help a thrill of pleasure. Hasn’t Emma always boasted about her successes? Isn’t it time I had one of my own?

  A hot northerly blowing through the van’s open windows swishes our hair and does its best to toss dust into our eyes. Abdul heads east, crosses the river and drives into the suburbs. In my eyes, he holds the key to something I have yet to experience. Even in the mundane act of driving, he’s instinctively graceful. He’s so different from anyone else I know, so much more sophisticated, every part of him alive and intelligent. To add to my excitement, there’s breaking the taboo about hijacking a best friend’s guy.

  Abdul stops in front of a vanilla brick bungalow. As he opens the car door he says uncertainly, ‘My folks… you’re the first Anglo woman I’ve ever brought home.’

  I know a slight shock. ‘You mean… they won’t approve of me?’

  ‘It’s more that they don’t socialise with Anglos…’ he breaks off.

  Recalling Hannah’s reserve about him, I hide a wry smile. But if I’m the very first Anglo woman he’s ever brought home, surely this must means something.

  He leads me around t
he side to the back of the house. Here every bit of ground has been cultivated with fruit trees. The rear consists of a large vegetable patch. It’s all so lush I figure the Maloufs never have to buy fruit or vegetables. Abdul murmurs, ‘All Jiddo’s, that’s my grandfather, all his hard work.’ The back door opens and an old man hobbles out. ‘Watch it. He’s coming to check you over.’

  Old Mr Malouf’s skin is like a weather-beaten suitcase. He darts little glances my way but waits for Abdul to introduce me. His smile reveals brownish broken teeth. Then he turns to Abdul and mumbles something in Lebanese.

  ‘Food’s on,’ Abdul translates. He leads me into the kitchen where Abdul’s mother is preparing a meal. My first impression is how pretty she is: lovely pale olive skin, full red lips, hair covered by a hijab the same colour as her blue long-sleeved shirt.

  ‘Mum, meet Dessi Cowan.’

  Mrs Malouf’s smile is polite rather than warm. ‘Please, sit down.’ She gestures towards a table set out with bowls of delicious looking salads.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ Abdul asks. ‘I’m starved.’

  Mr Malouf enters, mutters something to his son and ignores me. No eye contact. No welcome. I feel my cheeks flame. I tell myself that this is happening because he doesn’t speak much English. Anyway, isn’t his culture different? Perhaps Lebanese men always ignore females if they’re young and Anglo. No sign of any brother. But what leaps out at me a little later when I go into the living room is a photo of someone who resembles Abdul, beside him a pretty young woman wearing a hijab.

  Mrs Malouf offers me a slice of flat bread and we eat this with various salads. Abdul carefully describes each dish: ‘That’s baba ghanoush and this is fattoush.’ He offers me minced meat and spice patties, and a bean and tomato salad. Then his mother brings out a ceramic pot containing a lamb stew she serves with rice. It’s all very tasty. But while we eat the older Maloufs only speak Lebanese and Abdul’s father pointedly ignores me.

  What have I done to deserve this? After a long time, I decide to tackle them head on. ‘This is delicious,’ I tell Mrs Malouf. ‘How do you make it?’

  I’m given a grudging smile. ‘Chop up lamb, onions, garlic, cook long time with parsley, mint.’ She quickly turns back to offering the men more rice. But Mr Malouf keeps acting as if I’m invisible. Though I tell myself this because he doesn’t speak much English, deep down I know he hates me being here.

  Abdul joins into some of the conversation, but makes a point of speaking only English. That’s how I know they’re discussing their day. Abdul’s dad continues to ignore me. Though the meal is delicious everything sticks in my throat. I can hardly swallow.

  Didn’t Abdul know how they’d react? So why bring me here?

  Soon he’s scowling so hard, he forces his mother to give in. She gestures at my broken ankle. I open my mouth to reply. At first nothing comes out. ‘Car… Accident…’ I finally mutter.

  ‘Ah!’ Mrs Malouf nods. ‘Hurt much.’ She says something to Abdul. He snaps back in Lebanese. Mr Malouf raises his voice. Abdul glowers. Mrs Malouf quickly appeases both men.

  I pray for the floor to open under me. I think I know what that little scene was about. Though I do my best to catch Abdul’s eye, he’s fallen into a sulk. I make an effort to pull myself together. ‘What are they saying?’ I ask Abdul.

  At first he refuses to answer. Then suddenly, he smiles. That smile is like the sun reappearing from behind thick cloud. ‘Mum is at Dad to fix up the bathroom.’

  I turn to Mrs Malouf to say, ‘My father is renovating our house.’

  ‘So?’ Mr Malouf understands perfectly, because he frowns and says something quickly to Abdul who says, ‘Dad wants to know who’s doing it for him?’

  ‘He’s doing it himself.’

  Now everyone talks at once.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Abdul’s smile broadens. ‘Mum wants Dad to get a builder, and he says it’s too expensive and she has to wait till he gets time to do it himself.’

  My lips twitch. Seems both families have more in common than either might care to admit.

  Shortly after, Abdul asks if I’d like to see his room. Relieved at any excuse to escape, we go in there. He closes the door, and pushes me onto the bed. I try to talk to him about his parents’ open antagonism, but he stops any questions with kisses. My top is halfway off when the door opens. To my intense embarrassment, grandfather steps into the room. He ignores me and mumbles something to Abdul.

  Abdul answers him angrily. But he jumps up, saying, ‘Phone. Don’t go away…’ and ducks into the passage.

  What can be so important? While he’s away I adjust my clothes and inspect his bookshelf. No fiction. Only textbooks with titles like Quantum Physics and Advanced Calculus. Eager to know more, I check out his DVD’s. Mostly R & B and some old time jazz. Some Middle-Eastern titles.

  I’m starting to wonder where he’s got to, when he returns and says, ‘Let’s get out of here, huh?’

  He leads me back into the living room where I thank his family for the meal. Abdul’s mother gives me a grudging smile. His father’s eyes stay fixed on the TV. Their opposition to my being here hasn’t changed. Surely Abdul knew they would feel this way? He still won’t explain why he brought me, but his face is so angry I don’t dare question him.

  He helps me out the front door and into his van. I wait for him to close my door, climb into the driver’s seat and drive down the street and turn into the highway before breaking the silence. Now I’m determined to find out more. But his face is so grim I’m not brave enough to question him. Instead I say, ‘Isn’t it hard for your dad? You know, speaking so little English. How does he manage at work?’

  Abdul’s expression softens slightly. ‘Loads of Lebos work at that hospital. Apart from Lebanese he speaks Arabic and French. He claims that’s enough for him. I’m always at him to go to language classes but he claims he’s too busy.’

  ‘What did they do before they came here?’

  ‘Much the same. Dad was always a lab technician. Mum was a nurse.’

  He drives into a vacant lot and turns off the engine. Because I want him to open up more about his family, I say, ‘When my dad was at uni, he was a student activist. That was how he met Mum and then they got married. What’s your parents’ story? How did they get together?’

  His shoulders visibly tighten. ‘Their marriage was arranged.’

  ‘Wonder what that’d be like,’ I muse.

  ‘Okay for them. Anyway, it was fixed up long before they met.’ His set expression forbids me to say any more.

  ‘What about your brother?’

  He wipes a windscreen starting to fog up. ‘Oh, Jamila, she’s Ahmed’s wife; she’s all right.’

  ‘I’d like to meet them some time.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll arrange it.’ But there are other things on his mind. Mine too. He squeezes up beside me. Delicately, carefully, turning my head so we’re face to face, he places his mouth on mine. Skin, tongue, breasts, hands overly receptive, I taste his toothpaste and catch that subtle male smell that owes nothing to outside influences. My heart turns over.

  ‘Come on.’ He opens my door and helps me into the rear. An old mattress lines the floor, and I briefly wonder how many girls he’s brought here before. There are also boxes filled with crockery I assume come from garage buys and sales. He slides me onto the mattress and settles himself by my left side. ‘That comfortable?’ he says hoarsely.

  ‘I’m fine, just fine…’

  A few minutes later when we both come up for air, he pulls back and stares into my eyes. ‘This okay?’

  ‘Course.’ My answer is breathless.

  He slides my top over my head, pulls down my skirt and covers my mouth with his. As those clever hands run down my body, they’re as gentle as I always thought they’d be, tuning me like a violin or a cello. So as his tongue explores my mouth, I’m more than ready to continue. Sensing this, he pulls down my knickers easing them over my boot, slips off his jock
and presses against me.

  For a moment Emma’s face hangs between us. Did he do this with her? How come he’s forgotten her so quickly? What would she say if she could see me now?

  Suddenly I realise that this is just too soon.

  I’m just not ready…

  Absolutely not!

  ‘No.’ I push him off.

  He draws away. ’Uh sorry… thought you wanted to…’

  ‘I do…I do,’ I softly cry. ‘But…maybe not yet.’

  ‘This your first time? You haven’t before?’

  I nod and shake my head. I feel such a fool. What’s more, I really, really want him. I have no idea why I chickened out. ‘I will… I will.’ My voice is hoarse. ‘But I need more time.’ Such a feeble excuse, I search wildly for another. ‘My ankle. It kind of makes things hard.’

  ‘Sure. No probs.’

  I quickly pull my clothes back on, and we return to the front seat. But disappointment hangs between us like a third person. I feel terrible. What’ll he think of me now?

  24. EMMA, Surfers

  Neither Kaz nor Jodie worry at all about what anyone is thinking, they’re too busy eating. After all the dips, bread-rolls, cold meat and salad vanish, Laura drives us back to the unit. Before we climb out of the Jeep she calls, ‘Don’t forget tomorrow’s cruise. Bring bathers.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Jodie calls back, but I notice there’s no mention of repayment for the medical supplies.

  Inside the apartment, Kaz turns to me. ‘Where’s Sacha? What happened last night?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m going to the beach. Want a walk?’

  ‘Nah. Rather prop here.’

  I don’t bother hiding my irritation. We’re not doing anything apart from sitting around drinking. So I pull out my sketchbook and set about drawing another view. But I could be doing this in Melbourne from any high-rise balcony, only of course the sea here is different, so vast and aquamarine.

  I manage only a few lines before putting down my pad. Things aren’t turning out the way I’d hoped. I’m so missing Dessi. If only she was here, this holiday would be totally different. We would do so much together. Maybe hop on the bus and go down to Byron Bay or Brisbane. Or bus north to Noosa. How can I make a serious decision about moving north if I don’t get a feel for the place? The only consolation is that Dessi’s email didn’t sound too depressed. But still… stuck in that old house with a broken ankle, I can’t blame her for feeling low.