Burqalicious

by Becky Wicks

  It’s all about endings and beginnings lately. In a strange way, although it’s slightly nerve-racking, I’m kind of excited! And I’m looking forward even more to the Maldives with M&M now. No matter how wrong it might be, I bloody well need some time out.

  22/02

  Theatrical flashbacks …

  Last night was High School Musical night. I think I mentioned previously how excited I was about its brief upcoming fling with DUCTAC — the theatre in the Mall of the Emirates — so I was even more excited that Ewan took me along as his plus-one with some press tickets. We’re all so theatrically starved in this place, he could have chosen anyone from a list of deprived culture vultures, but I think he knew I’ve been needing a bit of cheering up since Stacey re-packed her rucksack and headed back to the big smoke, leaving me jobless and alone (violins again please).

  It happened so quickly — she just upped and went. No point hanging about, I suppose, but after a drunken, cocktail-laden affair at the Madinat, no sooner had my hangover subsided than her room was empty, and she was texting me from the airport. Everything’s changing.

  Naturally, we were the oldest people in the audience at High School Musical who didn’t have children with them, but I was suitably impressed from the word go. In spite of a few dubious notes in the key of amateur, the atmosphere was amazing. Go Dubai and your completely underestimated theatre scene, I thought, munching on another fizzy cola bottle for added sugar-fuelled enthusiasm.

  I almost wished I’d auditioned myself, but then the kids involved were all pampered expats whose parents had been expected to pay an arm and a leg in order for their precious offspring to take part. I wasn’t sure that calling Mum and Dad and asking for some pocket money would have gone down too well at the age of twenty-eight, but I’ve always thought that a life on the stage was my silent calling, you know. OK, so I dance like I’m having an electric shock and my vocal ability stops somewhere between Harry Ghatto’s and the shower, but there’s always been something magnetic about the theatre for me. I remember my parents saying that my teachers told them I was wasted at a normal school. Mum said they thought I should have gone to drama school.

  Looking back I think my teachers might have meant that the kid who carried a stuffed tiger round the playground, talking to it like her only friend, was probably special in another sort of way. But I never forgot that.

  Last night, the dud notes were practically drowned out, thanks to what sounded like the entire room singing along. Everybody knew the words. Even the mum in front of me was mouthing the lyrics as her daughter clapped her hands in the air and sang, ‘We’re aaaaaall in this togeeeeeether.’ Quite fitting for Dubai, I felt.

  We gate-crashed the after-party that was held at a restaurant near Ski Dubai. They had curtained off a section and filled it with ice-cream, popcorn, candy-floss, mini beef burgers and, surprisingly, beer. I think the little starlets were as high as me on e-numbers by the time we got there, but I watched them jumping up and down in their glad rags, still singing songs from the show to each other, and remembered feeling the same after we’d wrapped the opening night of The Dracula Spectacular back in my home town when I was twelve. I was a proud and just-as-hyperactive member of SADOS. It stood for Spalding Amateur Dramatics Society (still not sure what the O stood for), but as Ewan pointed out last night, some sixteen years too late, the rest of town probably called it ‘saddos'.

  I think we all have our own High School Musical moments, when we realise that the world doesn’t really look the same as it used to. It’s an up and down rollercoaster of a ride in Dubai, all of a sudden. But I guess we can choose how we deal with these things. At the end of the day, we can either let progression make us feel like a saddo, or be the bigger person and learn the new words.

  27/02

  Playing away by the rules …

  I know that M&M is bad for me, but every time he jets me off somewhere uber-romantic like this I get so completely overwhelmed that I momentarily forget how wrong we are for each other. The cracks don’t show — or at least they’re covered with a fuzzy blanket of lust and admiration for this man who has it all and is more than happy to share it. I’m starting to think I’m sounding as shallow as some of the other people already milking the madness of everything Dubai has to offer. I know, and my friends know, I should never really have gone back, should never have succumbed to those magnetic forces, but his promises, his declarations of love, his seemingly hopeless devotion … they’re all added extras in a very persuasive man who’s difficult to refuse. And you should have seen our room in the Maldives.

  We stayed at the most luxurious resort — a perfect circle of an island with an infinity pool looking out to the endless twinkling ocean. Our room even had an outdoor bath with his’n'hers back rests in it! There were two sinks with a bathrobe and his’n'hers slippers for each of us. It made me think of a place Stacey stayed in once, which was so posh that they actually embroidered her initials on her pillowcases, just so she could sleep in personalised peace.

  M&M and I toasted such idyllic charms with our champagne glasses, got a little naughty on the day bed by the plunge pool and feasted on seafood overlooking the crashing waves at the resort’s ultra-posh gourmet restaurant, which sat perched on a wooden jetty. The portions looked more like miniature art exhibitions than meals — it was almost scandalous to eat them. But suffice to say it was amazing. The room even had its own iPod, complete with sexy songs — ooh la la! A bit of Morcheeba’s ‘The Sea’ is enough to get anyone in the mood, in such a fitting location.

  Oh … and while lounging in a hammock, we had a bit of an argument over the fact that I’ve been spending so much time with The Irishman lately. M&M doesn’t like it. Of course, he’s always been a little wary of his presence in my life because I made the serious faux pas of telling him about our weekend of snogs in Spain. But seeing that M&M has been in and out of my world so sporadically since we met, I didn’t really think that my friendship with another guy — former fling or not — would be any cause for major concern. Perhaps I was being a tad naive.

  As it is, The Irishman and I have made a very good job of becoming firm friends in light of Dubai’s amusing melodramatics and, I suppose, the dramas involving M&M himself. The Irishman is good with advice, you see. I can’t help but tell him things. He’s one of those people, and we all know one, who’s always got time to listen. He’s a bit of a calming influence. Always offers a fair word — plus, he’s always up for a night on the town getting pissed when M&M is home with his wife.

  Whereas M&M and I appreciate the finer things in life (thanks to his no-expense-spared attitude), I’m learning that it’s people like The Irishman who help me find the humour in it all. He’s one of the few people here that I can always count on to take a step back with me, to acknowledge the fact that some of the things we get to do because we live in Dubai are actually so far removed from our normal lives that they’re rendering us spoilt, overindulged and spoon-fed.

  In fact, this reminds me … just the other day when we were sitting in his living room, he accidentally spilled his can of Coke over the side of the sofa. He tutted and stared at the fizzy wet patch creeping across the floor before looking at his flatmate and asking: ‘When’s the cleaner coming?’ I almost peed my pants laughing. He was joking, of course (I think), but I can’t remember the last time I cleaned anything for myself either. Thank God our cleaning fairy reappeared.

  As we sipped cocktails from coconut shells, M&M made it very clear that he doesn’t like me spending time with The Irishman. This still stings a bit, if I’m honest. But there’s something about him that scares me slightly — something that makes me shut up and close off in the face of adversity. I really can’t explain that. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t be with someone if they really scared me … and most of the time he’s fantastic. I’ve never been with anyone so attentive. It’s just that every now and then he gets this hardened look on his face and a distance in his eyes, like he’s imagining the ul
timate betrayal happening behind his back. This makes me shy away from telling him anything more, even if it’s something entirely innocent. This makes the wall grow bigger.

  I guess I don’t want to provoke his imaginings. I’m happy most of the time. I’m adapting to my sheltered bubble — or at least I was before it started to burst. Perhaps he imagines my betrayal because he knows that he’s doing exactly that. Perhaps because he’s cheating, it’s easy to envision how someone else might eventually do the same to him.

  Is that what happens to people who cheat, I wonder? Do they then become cynical and cautious, knowing what to look for, expecting similar signs from the people they dare to trust themselves? Does guilt make you see things that aren’t there in other people because you measure them against yourself? I’m not really sure, but to save an argument or making him upset in such a perfect place on such a perfect, aquamarine-coloured date, I found myself agreeing not to see The Irishman as much when we got back to Dubai.

  28/02

  The end of the affair …

  They say bad things happen in threes. First the job, then Stacey leaves, then M&M gets busted for being a play-away hubby. Seriously. His wife knows everything. I feel terrible.

  After an otherwise magical Maldivian weekend, imagine my surprise to receive a text from my jet-setting lover, informing me that he’s leaving the country again, with his wife. She found out about our affair. I’m still not sure how.

  I know for a fact he didn’t tell her straight out. He can’t have. He’s too nice to have been able to face hurting her up to this point. I feel so bad for her, whoever she is. And I feel pretty disgusted with myself for thinking that we could bask in the exquisite splendour of that island, tangle ourselves in Egyptian cotton and not expect karma to fly right in through those floor-to-ceiling windows. I’m positive he was going to tell her eventually, though. Or … hmmm. Is that what all mistresses think?

  I was out in the mall, still high from the mini-break, shopping for some outfits for my new temp magazine job and trying not to call The Irishman when I got the text. My blood ran cold. I read it a million times, praying for the horrid words to re-form themselves and spell out something happy. I had to sit quietly in Starbucks for a while and stare at the floor. Then I cabbed it back to the apartment and locked myself in my room. I’m still having visions of a mad Arab man, some cousin of a brother of an older relative or something, coming to get the filthy mistress who dared to seduce the perfect husband. A thousand scenes from non-existent movies are still hurtling through my mind: doors slamming, fists pounding, screaming in Arabic disturbing my entire apartment building in the dead of night. Perhaps there’ll even be a murder (gulp).

  As I hide from forces unknown, trembling pathetically beneath my duvet with my laptop, my phone and a very strong vodka and Coke at my side, the thought that a major event is unfolding, just as it did before, is playing on my mind. Around New Year’s Eve, as I was trying not to think that M&M’s attentiveness may have actually been verging on possessiveness, and just as I was wondering whether it was all too much to handle, he dumped me. And now this. After telling me I shouldn’t see The Irishman, our relationship has exploded into something I really wasn’t looking to be involved in. Jesus! Has fate stepped in again to reconfirm how absolutely fucking wrong this all is?

  I’m sleeping with the doors bolted, and Ewan’s promised to keep a knife on his bedside table. He won’t get arrested for possessing a weapon if there’s a raid — he’ll get arrested for living with a girl he’s not married to. This place is crazy.

  15/03

  A shock to the system …

  In a shock visit from something approaching good news, word came in today that Dubai’s new Metro is probably going to be finished ahead of schedule. Yup. Parts of the world’s largest automated Metro project are wrapping up early. My London-trained ears pricked up immediately and the cynicism set in. The word ‘Metro’ or indeed ‘train’ simply doesn’t co-exist harmoniously with the line ‘ahead of schedule', does it?

  For a moment, I was thrown. They’re calling the operation 999, because apparently the first line will start moving on September 9, 2009; exactly when they said it would, when first they laid these 15.5-billion dirham plans.

  Someone official, called Mohammed (naturally) said: ‘We are right on schedule and have achieved a number of milestones ahead of time … people in Dubai will see the trains running on the test track on Sheikh Zayed Road by the end of April.’

  Mohammed is definitely not making it up because, come to think of it, M&M said a few weeks back that the trains are already arriving — he’s seen them from his office window. They’re ugly, eighties-throwback carriages with blue-and-white squiggles all over them. I was actually a little disappointed to learn this. I was half expecting some sort of multi-levelled, futuristic, silver-bubble-style thing that would essentially hover above the track and drop only at each station to allow the people on and off. I was also expecting further news of a duty-free service on board, the opportunity to make a five-star hotel or restaurant reservation while in motion, or perhaps the option of travelling in a private chamber dripping in gold and sponsored by local jewellers. But so far it’s just looking like a regular train service. How boring.

  Anyway, I know Dubai has money and everything, but seriously, London needs to pay attention. [Begin rant:] If I may just say, the amount of times my days back home were ruined by impromptu work on random tube lines was unbelievable, as well as unacceptable, considering the cost of a travel card. Plus, even after all this ‘work', London’s travelling homeless shelters don’t even have air-con, or wireless Internet, or women-only carriages (a serious boon in light of some people’s obnoxious body odours). How shit is that?

  If Dubai can dig a tunnel under a creek and get 25,000 labourers working round the clock to cause as little disruption as possible, and still get it all done ahead of schedule, I think there’s something very wrong with how the Big Smoke has thus far sorted out its transport issues. [End rant].

  16/03

  The frog and the impossible flat hunt …

  The hunt for a new apartment is not going well. In the past week, Ewan and I have viewed all manner of two-bedroom places in the Marina and Barsha areas, and have so far walked away with nothing but fading hope.

  I’ve been slightly spoilt with accommodation in Dubai so far (aside from the Iransion, obviously). Back in East London, my idea of luxury living was having a front door that wasn’t kicked in every three months by hooligans wearing hooded jumpers. Once, Lucy got egged on the way home by a bunch of kids in the council-owned block next door, and a few weeks prior to that, a kid no older than twelve snatched her mobile phone right out of her hand as it was pressed to her ear. She’d been talking to a friend at the time and never did get to finish the conversation she’d been having … about the growing number of intimidating hooligans watching her on her way home.

  The other day, however, while inspecting an indoor pool in a newly opened apartment block in the Marina, Ewan asked the agent where exactly we were supposed to sunbathe. I thought he had a valid point. The fact that the elevator hadn’t been connected yet and was still operating manually, leaving us and our estate agent stranded on the fifteenth floor for half an hour, wasn’t half as important as the fact that we might have to move somewhere without a suitable space for catching rays.

  In my opinion, the best place we’ve seen so far was a pad behind the Mall of the Emirates in Barsha. It was like something out of a Tim Burton movie. The entrance to the building was bathed in neon green and purple lights, and the lobby was decorated with an enchanted forest scene. Pixies, fairies and giant trees with grinning faces greeted us as we walked in.

  The gym was host to a family of Egyptian sculptures. Tutankhamun beamed at us from the end of the corridor, and the rooftop pool with no view was guarded by a humongous concrete frog. I liked it. It would have been a bit like moving into a youth club — a colourful escape from our ‘young professional
’ labels in the real world and everything else that’s been going down. Ewan wasn’t impressed at all, however, and insisted we keep looking. Shame.

  We’re seeing a couple more tonight. It’s funny but these places all look the same after a while. They’re just tiny, empty, expensive spaces, mostly overlooking a construction site. But with rent going up by the week, it’s important to choose the right one, and find it quickly. I wish we could snap up a waterfront property like The Trader’s and wake up to the ocean or the Marina every morning. Our budget would have bought us that, five years ago. Now, however, it only gets us a sniff at those buildings in the shadows — the ones that lost the views to something bigger and better, and are now ultimately unsuitable for people like us.

  We’ve both started our new jobs at the media company, which are keeping us pretty busy, so everything’s happening at once. At the weekend I’m moving to the maid’s room in my friend Margot’s spacious villa in Satwa. Ewan is moving in with another friend until we find somewhere together, which I guess will save us a bit of time and money. Margot’s villa is actually in the same compound as The Irishman’s, which wouldn’t impress M&M at all, if he were here. It’s a great place, everyone’s friendly, and it doesn’t even matter that I’ll be showering every morning in a foot-wide tiled square with no curtain, right next to the washing machine. I’ll be sleeping in a room that’s still bigger than the one I rented on Hooligan Lane in London.

  18/03