by Becky Wicks
I should probably tell you that as all of this has been evolving, M&M has been receiving some very strange text messages from an anonymous stranger, who seems to know his every move. Whoever is sending these messages seems to be able to detail every little motion he makes, and it’s creeping him out. They’re not threatening, just informative — but it’s seriously weird. The other day, after a particularly informative message, M&M called me in tears, demanding to know whether it was true that The Irishman and I had shared a kiss over Christmas. It appears whoever his secret texter is, they have inside information on me as well. Freaky or what?! I hung up and called The Irishman in his workplace, asking who he’d told about our festive frolics. He said no one. I’ve only told a few people myself, and they’re all people I trust implicitly.
M&M called back in even more of an emotional state. I was forced to admit right there, as I slouched on a comfy red beanbag that yes, I had made out with The Irishman over Christmas. I was very sorry, and yes, of course, I knew that The Irishman was the one person with the power to upset him the most etc., etc. And then I realised that I’d been single at the time of our kiss.
Now, I might be a little silly, a little secretive, a little psycho in other areas, but I never raise my voice to people usually, unless it’s in Harry Ghatto’s and I’m holding a mic singing ‘Cheesebread', which is our own special, drunken version of ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ (don’t ask). But on this occasion, as he ranted tearfully down the phone I stepped out of the room, calmly took the lift to the ground floor, strolled casually out into the scorching desert sun and screamed at him in the car park.
We yelled even more insults at each other from the front seats of his air-conditioned Porsche that night. He managed to convince me beforehand that he was calm and just wanted to talk things over, and I was dying to find out more about the mysterious text messenger. It’s still making me nervous, knowing that someone out there hates me, or M&M, so much that they’re trying to sabotage what’s already a pretty fucked-up relationship. But our talks ended very, very badly. With nothing whatsoever resolved, he sped off down the street, still hysterical. And I was so angry that I needed to go out for more booze, naturally. I called Svana, who was already out in a bar with The Irishman. They were planning their mountain trekking expedition no less. In that moment, I could think of nothing better than being with my two favourite friends, so I called a cab and was on my way.
My phone rang off the hook, flashing M&M’s face at me from the screen the entire journey. He always does this — rants and raves about me breaking his heart and then begs for another conversation. I’ll never understand it at all!
I rocked up to the bar, visibly pissed off, and ordered a huge cocktail. The Irishman and Svana, who were already eating chips and mayo in a corner, could obviously tell something major had gone down, so I proceeded to tell them the whole story as I chugged on my drink, feeling like a boring, broken record.
I don’t even know how many times The Irishman has heard about my dull-as-shit relationship issues with M&M now. But looking at their frowning faces, hearing my phone ring yet again with his desperate plea for attention, it suddenly occurred to me that I was ruining their night with my drama. There in that bar, I felt like more of a moron than ever before and seriously … I cringe about it now. How is it that I’m constantly putting myself in such a lame position, letting M&M and his controlling actions affect me in front of a guy I actually quite want to like me? When did my life get so complicated?
Svana finally ordered me to turn my phone off, so I obliged, prior to which the gadget, now low on battery, kindly informed me I had no less than sixty-two missed calls from M&M. ‘Is he insane?’ she asked, her eyes wide as dinner plates. To this day, I consider it a very good question. Maybe I drove him that way.
The Irishman says he has no idea who the texter could be, but reckons it’s someone from the company that just went bust wanting a slice of that million, no doubt, and trying to find an angle that intimidates. Svana suggested that there’s no mysterious texter at all — perhaps M&M just got wind of our snog somehow and is trying to trick me into admitting it. God knows how many times he’s checked my phone when my back’s been turned.
When I got back to the apartment a few hours and a few more cocktails later, M&M was there, snoring very loudly on the sofa. I was so angry I almost marched over to him, but I suddenly realised he was clearly waiting to yell at me in another burst of jealousy. He must have asked Ewan to let him in … or forced his way past him in a fit of fury.
I crept past him, but he heard my bedroom door shut. Just as I locked it behind me, he was wide awake, banging on it violently. He’d worked himself into such a state that he was sobbing, ramming his fists against the door and begging me to let him in. Of course, I refused. I actually screamed at him to go away, told him in a drunken slur at a very high volume that he was ruining my life, and oh yeah, I hated him. I would have said anything to make him leave me alone and stop harassing me; to stop him begging for me back when clearly we do nothing but piss each other off. But he wouldn’t leave.
Ewan stayed in his room throughout the whole sorry saga, though he tells me now that he woke up when the screaming started. He was just as freaked out as me. I’ve never experienced such an intense display of emotions from any man before. It was actually terrifying. I dialled Svana in the midst of it all, who at that point was on her way home from the bar. She called M&M herself on his mobile to tell him to leave me alone.
It was only after we both threatened to call the police that he actually straightened himself out and announced that he was going. I was mortified, sitting there on my bed in my going-out frock, mascara running down my face, looking like the victim of a very bad episode of The O.C., I’m sure. I can’t believe it’s come to this. I have seriously messed with M&M’s head, perhaps even more than his possessive streak has messed with mine. And now we have a friendly stalker, stirring things up for good measure. Honestly, could things go any more tits-up round here?
22/01
When two worlds collide …
I got to work this morning, only to be accosted by Nina in the brainstorm room. Apparently, a very cool campaign she concocted against drink-driving in her spare time was picked up by some advertising big-wigs a few weeks back, who wanted to feature it in an industry magazine. Awesome! Only … EGO The Great’s been up to his old tricks again. Apparently, he got the call about her creative genius and decided to conduct the interview with the magazine on her behalf. Nina only got to hear about it when he popped his bespectacled head out of his office and asked for a close-up photo of her face. They wanted to picture her next to the campaign shots.
She was outraged not to have been invited to speak to them herself about her idea. She was even more infuriated when the magazine was delivered this morning, and she discovered that they didn’t even use her photo. They used EGO’s instead. Her name might be in there, somewhere, in the fine print. But at first glance … well, it’s all him and his amazing work. If it wasn’t so utterly exasperating for poor Nina, it would be laughable, right? His soul must be bullet proof.
It’s been a weird day in general. I saw Stanley today. It was most unsettling. I was simply doing my thing in the food court of the building next door, tucking into a sneaky cinnamon bun with my coffee (sssshhhh), when I looked up and spotted those familiar flappy sleeves, that somewhat lopsided smile and the same thinning, mousy brown hair.
‘Hello, Rebecca,’ he said, looking down at me. He always did call me by my full name, even when I signed off my emails with ‘Becky'. I’m never really sure why people do this, when you give them full permission to call you by the name you prefer. It’s almost as irritating as when the people who hardly know you decide to shorten your name to something you’ve never, ever been called before in your life, because they feel some sort of unrequited familiarity.
Anyway, I was thrown for a second. A number of things went through my head: What is he doing here? Why is some
one who fired me for absolutely no valid reason approaching me with a smile and assuming I wish to acknowledge him? Why the hell is he still wearing that suit?
Fuck, I have a face full of cake.
At first I kept my face expressionless. Obviously I didn’t want him to assume I was actually pleased to see him … the last time I saw him I was marching past him with my nose in the air, having just been given the boot. I nodded to confirm I had registered his presence and waited for him to leave, but he hovered, looking at me struggling with my sinful snack.
‘What are you doing here, Rebecca?’
‘I was going to ask you the same thing, Stanley.’
‘I work here.’
‘So do I.’
We were like two soldiers from opposing sides, standing on the frontline, ready to battle each other to the death. His weapon — the fact that he’d fired me; mine — well, a cinnamon bun.
He smiled slightly and nodded his head, raising his eyebrows as if he was impressed that I’d actually got another job. It struck me that maybe he’d been fired from the publishing company himself. He was on the wrong side of town. I felt a minor pang of sympathy for him in that moment. Perhaps they hired another monkey and shoved Stanley out on the street. I imagined for a split second that he might apologise, sit down next to me and have a rant about how shittily they treated him too … maybe buy me another bun.
Instead, he made small talk from his standing position. I told him where I was working, at which point he actually folded his arms and said: ‘Oh, well I suppose you’re glad you left, then.’
I looked up at his pasty face. ‘I didn’t leave. You fired me, Stanley.’
He shuffled, nervously. ‘Hmmm, well it looks as though I did you a favour,’ he said.
The effing cheek of it. Clearly he was trying to say that my job at the agency was so impressive in his eyes that had I still been working for him, I wouldn’t have climbed as many rungs of the career ladder as I’ve done to date. But as usual, Stanley fucked it up. He actually implied that he had personally contributed to my success, even though he’d done nothing but make my life hell in that morgue. I felt like shoving my bun in his hair and wiping icing down the front of his shirt so the flies would stick to him as soon as he went outside. Instead, I just sipped my coffee and pretended he didn’t exist.
He could probably tell he’d screwed up. The silence was excruciating for both of us. Eventually, he told me he’d see me around and sloped off in his normal, sloth-like style towards his new, unfortunate place of employment. As he left, I found myself wondering what the future holds for people like Stanley in Dubai. Maybe he simply got another job, but what if he really was fired? There must be hundreds of people who came here years ago for a taste of the good life, who’ve now been tossed to the curb as their companies experience the backlash of spending far too much money way too quickly on some seriously ridiculous things.
At the end of the day, EGO The Great might be tough to endure, but at least he still needs me to help with his spelling.
12/02
Geese and guilt-free cookery …
To keep from engaging in a sorrowful textual exchange with M&M the other night (who’s still sending quite a few, I can assure you), I went to the launch of a vodka bar that’s been open since before Christmas. I couldn’t really see the logic in it either but who am I to turn down free cocktails these days? So off I trudged with Svana to Souk Al Bahar, where we found a host of girls in white dresses awaiting us at the entrance of a place called Left Bank.
To be honest, I wasn’t really in the mood. Lately, I often think that I’ve turned into a bit of a snob; that maybe I just don’t appreciate the glitz, glamour, fawning and faux niceties, business-card bashing and air-kissing quite as much as I once did. Maybe I really would just like a night on the sofa with Ewan, watching Nigella slicing and dicing something delicious. I always did enjoy the televised treat of what’s essentially the joyfully slow expansion of a woman’s bottom half before an entire nation. It makes me feel better about myself somehow, watching her spoon that ice-cream into her mouth at midnight in the secrecy of her dimly lit pantry. I know I should be out, getting over a bad relationship in the company of other people, but as long as she’s bigger than me and not afraid of growing, another night in with my feet up is acceptable.
But before we knew what was happening, it was too late to back out. Svana and I were surrounded by the aforementioned media luvvies all brandishing glorious free cocktails. It turned out I knew the Vodka Man too — the guy who sells it to bars. He’s a walking, talking cocktail of suave sophistication and limitless free booze. Sash and I had once had dinner in his luxurious apartment, which was full of art and trinkets, remember? He recognised me, we exchanged a few words, did the obligatory air-kissing as he glided over to hand us both a nice watermelon concoction and promised to meet again soon, before he sidled off into the ether, oozing charm and smiles.
I remember when I used to do that. I never used to stand in one place for long in a bar. Before things with M&M got serious, I thought absolutely nothing of gliding round a room in that hot red TopShop dress and high heels, talking to absolutely everyone. It wasn’t even that long ago that this room would have been mine — a goldmine of opportunity. I wonder how many other people have grown tired of it all, too, for one reason or another.
As we huddled by the bar, I tried probing Svana for some news on the ‘P.S.’ front. Since the whole drama with M&M, I’ve not really seen The Irishman much. My freelance work and the agency have been keeping me busy, and to be honest my own embarrassment has been keeping me away a bit. For this reason, I didn’t think it would be good news at all … though of course being an idiot I harboured a little hope in my heart.
When I brought it up, Svana glanced sideways, after throwing me a little apologetic look, which told me all I needed to know. I’ve fucked it up royally. The fact that the whole M&M affair ended with him still being married, refusing to believe we were over, banging down my door in the dark of the night and crying over texts from a stalker has put The Irishman off me once and for all. He probably thinks I attract drama. He’s probably right.
We still don’t even know who’s sending the text messages. M&M is still getting them. Each one comes from a different number that proves not to exist when he calls it back. The latest theory is that someone who used to work for M&M has contacts in the government. They’re tracking him with ultra-modern super radar devices that have yet to be released to the public. Anything’s possible in Dubai. Well, it used to be …
In spite of the show of glitz and glamour, things are really crumbling now. The agency is pitching ideas like crazy to anyone who’ll listen at the moment. The property and development companies and the banks that all used to bring in the big bucks have started to zip up their wallets. People are starting to leave the city. Everyone’s noticing a difference. The publishing company, which may or may not have fired Stanley, is rumoured to be discussing even more lay-offs. This means the girls I went with to Jaipur all those months ago might soon be packing their bags. And of course, Ewan’s company is seriously in the shitter.
Standing there with Svana, watching the ladies sipping cocktails and the men swanning round, laying on the charm to anyone who’d listen, I had a sudden jolt of not belonging — not in the bar, nor here in Dubai. Leaving has been playing on my mind a lot more lately, but in that moment I really felt it.
One good thing about Dubai getting quieter by the day is that even if we do waste three hours schmoozing, boozing and air-kissing people with no intention of ever seeing them again, we can still cab it home in time to catch Nigella disappearing into the pantry.
20/02
Holes, moles and guillotines …
I had drinks with my friend Sam last night. He’s making an extortionate amount of money in Dubai. Not that he’d ever admit it, but you can tell.
Most people don’t discuss their salary here. You can usually guess what they’re earning by how muc
h they flash it about in bars, restaurants and (occasionally) seedy hotel joints frequented by Russian women in leopard print. Sam’s not like that. He’s earning a mint, yes, but unlike lots of other people, he’s stashing it all away in order to buy a house back in his home country, and go on some very nice holidays to exotic places. Very sensible, I say.
Sam’s company in Dubai provided him with everything when they moved him here, on top of his ludicrous salary. They shipped over all his furniture, too. I’m told lots of companies used to do this, though the travel publishers never offered to ship mine over when I first got the job, way back when. It’s a shame. Lucy and I had a great, white leather sofa that we found on the street outside our flat and got the neighbour to drag upstairs for us. It would have looked fantastic in my place.
Anyway on top of paying him more per month than I’ll probably earn in my life, Sam’s company pay the rent for his fancy apartment in the marina, too.
You know, I reckon, if I’d moved to Dubai a few years before I did, a lot of things would have been different. I could have demanded all sorts of things, like Sam. I could have asked for a home cinema, or a pony, or a private jet to work every morning. Maybe. I’m not as important as Sam but still, I could have had a go. These days newbies don’t get anything special for the effort it takes to move and live here. Times have definitely changed.
I digress. Last night, over a couple or more of the most ridiculously expensive gin slings, Sam told me the most amazing stories about some of the stuff going on behind closed doors. I don’t know where he gets his information, but he’s a gossip queen’s goldmine.
