by Becky Wicks
23/03
Cat Woman going solo …
Poor Ewan. His constant moaning is justified. He’s now roughly four months behind in his salary and no one can ignore the fact that his company is well and truly buggered. Heathcliff came over with a measly pay-off when he demanded his monthly cheque the other day, almost three weeks after it was due. Three hundred dirhams in cash was all anyone in the company got, and apparently they only got that if they literally had no money to buy food with.
Because Ewan can’t afford rent for too much longer, he’s having to move out of the flat, which is why in the space of just a week I have signed the lease for my own studio apartment in the Marina. It’s all happened so quickly, but our lease is up soon anyway. I’m actually really excited, but of course I can’t say so to Ewan because he’s my friend and he’s being treated really badly. I’m trying to be sympathetic, but the prospect of having my own place in a matter of days is filling me with complete and utter joy. I’m carrying more joy around in my heart this week than I have in ages — and it’s got nothing to do with a couple of totally excellent dates I’ve had with Rocko … honest.
Ewan’s planning to stay in a friend’s spare room until he finally gets some money and then he’s leaving Dubai.
‘I’m going travelling,’ he announced in my doorway the other day, before asking if I’d borrowed his eye-mask with the aloe vera eye pads and could he please have it back. I can’t for one second imagine Ewan attempting to live out of a suitcase. He has more stuff than me and scored the en-suite with the biggest bathroom when we first moved in because he’s got an entire pharmacy’s worth of designer products to store. I, on the other hand, have a Dove deodorant stick and some two-year-old make-up from Priceline. But travelling he must go, apparently: ‘Anything to be away from this place!’
I always wanted a studio flat. Back when I lived in New York I went to my friend Martin’s studio on the Lower East Side and he had one of those beds that you pull down from the wall at night to save space in the day. I thought that was the greatest thing I’d ever seen and spent about ten minutes lifting it up and down, determined that one day I’d have one too. I probably won’t, though. I have to transport the furniture I’ve already got and sell whatever won’t fit, but it’s all an adventure, isn’t it? My own space! I can hardly believe I’ve graduated from living on an Iranian’s landing with Stacey, to getting my own studio flat in a swish new building that isn’t even on a construction site!
Rent’s come down so much in Dubai now that I managed to get my studio for just 55,000 dirhams a year. That’s almost 8,000 dirhams less per year than I’m paying to live in TECOM with Ewan, and it’s in the Marina, right opposite the Yacht Club. I will actually have the Yacht Club as my local, which definitely beats the dodgy English pub that can’t make a pie properly in the Media Rotana. As long as I remember the mosquito repellent I’ll be able to take advantage of their happy hour after work, when it’s two glasses of wine for the price of one. Imagine! I’ll be looking out at all the yachts I can’t afford and it won’t bother me, because I’ll have a flat that I can more than afford just over the road, and two glasses of wine in my hands. Yay!
In retrospect, I’ve paid a price higher than the cost of my new rent for a year. I’ve had to watch a lot of my friends leave, or listen to them talk about leaving. Ewan’s not the only one. Nearly two years after moving to Dubai as an impoverished, debt-ridden nobody, I can live the unimaginable dream in the Marina — but I can’t have all my friends round to enjoy it with me. I can now catch a cab in five minutes and know that I’ll be somewhere within the hour, but who will meet me at the other end? This kind of sucks if I think about it too much. But still, I’m looking on the bright side. It’ll be such a luxury to be able to walk everywhere — the Marina has pavements. And the Marina Mall round the corner has a Waitrose in it. This makes Mum happy because now she knows I might be buying food and cooking, instead of ordering it in. (I said ‘might'.)
The pool is great and there’s even a bubbling little Jacuzzi next to it, a bit like the one we had in Garhoud overlooking the Irish Village. This one’s not on the roof, though, but in a space at the front of the building that just screams ‘party'. Sash has already eyed it up for this purpose, and Rocko’s planning an entire weekend of drinking beers on inflatable Li-Los and getting KFC delivered to his deckchair. (He’s a true Kiwi, I’m discovering little by little.)
Even though it’s stupidly exciting, the idea of living alone always scared me a little bit. Of course, there are the good parts that everyone raves about, like being able to walk around butt naked. Like, playing my Wicked soundtrack on full volume, prancing about, pretending to be the witch in Oz while letting the teacups pile up in the corner like my own ceramic version of the Emerald City. (I used to do this with Ewan anyway, but never in the nude.)
I’ll do everything from my bed because I can, and because there isn’t anywhere else to do it from. I’ll have the full 42 inches at my disposal, whenever I please, in whichever direction I choose … every flat needs a big-screen TV. But I am slightly worried that once the luxury wears off I’ll be lonely. I might buy another cat to keep me company, one that’s not possessed. And then I might like it and buy another one. And then it will have kittens and I won’t have the heart to get rid of them. And the place will smell of litter trays and Whiskas and no one will come over anymore, and before I know it I’ll be Becky the Cat Woman, who used to be quite cool, but now is just a little bit weird and doesn’t have any friends.
There are also a lot of annoyances about moving in alone — like having to pay the full deposit, having to stump up the full whack for TV and Internet, having to clean the floors … or search for someone else to do it on the cheap (maids are cashing in on clean-ups lately). Rent’s come down but it might actually wind up costing more than sharing with Ewan. I’m trying not to think about it. I’m also trying not to think about how I’m going to fit everything I own into a studio flat. I might not have too many beauty products, but I haven’t got any better at ignoring the calls of new clothes. I’ll be storing shoes in the oven and T-shirts on hooks on every wall … well hey, it might look ‘arty'? Hmmm … maybe I need to sell some stuff. That would be good for a bit of spending money, too. I wonder if anyone would like my red rug from IKEA. It’s only got a couple of wine and pie stains on it and with a power vacuum it could easily be rid of all my hair.
Leaving TECOM and living without Ewan in the next room will be the end of an era, but I feel as though I’ve made a very sensible decision. I’m all about making sensible decisions lately and getting my life back on track, in case you hadn’t noticed. I messed it all up for a while, that’s for sure. But I always say when life hands you lemons, you’re far better off making some lemonade … unless you just buy some from Waitrose, obviously.
09/04
Flights of fancy …
I had to leave my lovely new apartment early today. I felt really bad because the maid was there again and there was absolutely no place to escape as she cleaned. Ewan says I’m a spoilt little brat, hiring a maid to clean my studio apartment. It’s only 10-feet square. But I’m really very busy, you know, getting a suntan now that it’s not a zillion degrees outside, and shopping, and … stuff. Oh, all right, I know it’s a bit silly, but really, her services are very reasonably priced.
This maid even does my ironing. It’s amazing. Rocko was here the other day and left a shirt behind by mistake. After I washed it, my maid ironed it. I watched her do it as I got ready for work. She even hung it on a hanger for me, ready to present to him when he comes back. I can’t help feel a bit bad, though, being there when she’s there. It makes me feel mean. She’s probably only a few years older than me and doesn’t speak any English. Although I try to make conversation with her, we only end up miming to each other like members of a Parisian circus troupe. She did manage to tell me she cleans several other apartments in the building, though. She’s probably got quite a lucrative little busi
ness going on in the grand scheme of things; one of the few people able to cash in on the current economic downfall. There’s a lot of mess to clean up around here.
Which actually leads to me to a friend’s little problem. I just heard about it. Well, it’s quite a big problem really. Remember Rochelle, the Australian girl who was hired by a random banking employee to do absolutely nothing but make him feel important? Well, just yesterday she tried to leave Dubai for a month-long holiday back home. But she was detained at the airport and hauled into an interrogation room for an entire day! Basically, she was told that her bank was suing her, so she couldn’t leave the country. Rochelle didn’t know what to think. She hadn’t been told by the bank that they were suing her at all — no phone call, nothing. Having dealt with the banks here in Dubai myself, well … HSBC still gives me the Rage. Also, keep in mind this girl is only twenty-two years old and the sweetest little thing you’ve ever seen.
Apparently, Rochelle’s car loan repayment cheque bounced. She’s got money in her account, but she recently lost her job and in order for her to leave the country the loan company has to have a new guarantor for the repayments. The poor girl was never told any of this, however. Rochelle missed her flight, was kept at the airport for five hours with no food, then put in a police car and taken to the police station for another two.
The police at the station spoke to her in Arabic, refused to get her a translator and tried to make her sign a form in Arabic that she obviously couldn’t read. She refused and eventually her boyfriend (who for legal reasons couldn’t actually admit he was her boyfriend, nor that they were living together), had to bail her out. It was all so humiliating for her. She even got followed to the bathroom! Luckily, Rochelle has an open one-way ticket, so she can eventually go back to Australia, where she’s now thinking about staying.
It seems the issues facing the entire world at the moment are increasingly more concerning in Dubai than in most other places, due no doubt to the outlandish regulations imposed on the recession’s unfortunate victims. I still have a job and a maid, and a brand-new lease on a studio flat, and I seem to have a new man in my life, too … but have I really done the right thing, choosing to stay here? I thought I had, but now I’m having doubts again. Christ!
The thing is, the employment situation back in the UK is terrible. I know more people who’ve been laid off than have actually got work back at home. Those people, some of them friends of mine who’ve recently lost their jobs in Dubai, have gone back and not been able to find any work. I also have debts. No one can escape Dubai with debts and I still have a few grand left to pay on my last loan. The more I think about it, I’m actually trapped here — albeit in a very nice studio apartment with a swimming pool and a Jacuzzi and a security guard and a Waitrose round the corner and a maid — but I’m trapped here nonetheless. If I wanted to go anywhere more permanent than a weekend jaunt on a cheap airline, I’d be hauled into a cell and chanted at in Arabic … and who would bail me out?
I’m literally living my life in a glitzy prison at the moment; a glorious 10-by-10 foot gilded cage. I’m waking up, watching the maid iron my sundress collection and my half-boyfriend’s shirts, thinking how lucky I am, how happy, finally … when in actual fact, I’m no more free than a hamster running on a treadmill, slowly going nowhere behind bars.
16/04
The Twilight hour …
M&M found me lounging in the shallow end of my swimming pool, reading Eclipse. My heart jumped into the back of my throat as he walked slowly around the edge towards me and I considered ducking my head under the water in the hope that he wouldn’t see me … only he already had. Somehow I knew what was coming.
He bent down way too close to my face and asked if I was seeing someone. Bit of a silly question really, as he wouldn’t have been there, standing by my pool, perspiring profusely and interrupting my session with Edward and Bella if he thought I wasn’t. Someone must have told him about Rocko.
I blocked M&M on Facebook ages ago, but he has a habit of texting Stacey in the UK, fishing for information about me. He probably thinks she doesn’t tell me when he does this, but obviously she gives me word-by-word breakdowns on an almost daily basis, in spite of the fact that she’s in London. Although, admittedly, Stacey has been getting a little sick of his constant probing and has started to ignore his questions. He must have taken her silence on the matter to mean we’re hiding something and assumed the worst.
I told him it was none of his business and swam to the other side of the pool, away from him. God, I’ve come to dread his outbursts. Fear of his somewhat manic reactions was what led me to hide things from him in the first place. It’s exactly what put the initial vicious circle in motion! I said nothing but he walked around towards me again and told me he couldn’t believe I’d started seeing someone else so soon, and did I know how much this was hurting him, and blah blah blah …
I still said nothing. I buried myself in my book, hoping it looked like I was actually still reading. I pictured myself as Bella, springing onto Edward’s back and being carried up into a tall tree, away from the scary monster.
It’s not like I intended to start ‘seeing’ Rocko. In fact, I’m not sure I would even class myself as being ‘in a relationship'. He’s just a fun guy to hang around with. In fact, the first time he called me, when we got back from the Musandam, we spent two whole hours on the phone discussing, among other things, the merits of sweet corn. When he came all the way from Abu Dhabi to get me, he drove me all the way back again on a whim and took me to a dark, grimy club full of prostitutes. He thought watching them grind with little Indian men on the dance floor would be fun … more fun than sitting down to another fancy five-star dinner. And he was absolutely right!
Rocko even let me buy some drinks when I offered. Now, obviously I came to expect men to buy the drinks in these parts ages ago, but there’s actually something really refreshing about getting them myself. I feel like an equal, instead of someone’s well-kept possession or trophy. It’s funny how something so small can make such a massive difference to your mindset. Sweet corn, prostitutes and buying my own drinks in a bar is all it really takes to make me happy these days. I don’t know why men aren’t lining up, quite frankly.
Of course, Rocko initially took my mind off The Irishman and Svana, who themselves took my mind off M&M, who I suppose was and still is the root of my emotional difficulties in Dubai. But there’s no denying that Rocko and I exist on the same level. We talk utter shit and make ridiculous plans to take over the planet. I think Rocko gets the real me, instead of a version of me I have to pre-prepare to impress someone, similar to the way it was with The Irishman when we first met. In some ways, actually, they’re pretty similar.
As M&M stood there waiting for me to speak, I read the same paragraph of my book about fifteen times. He asked me to try and think about things from his point of view, so I gave it some consideration. I guess there’s always one person who moves on before the other after a break up, isn’t there? And it must suck to know you’ve been replaced so quickly. But M&M didn’t have to find out about Rocko. Like I said, he probably went fishing for information and didn’t much like what he discovered.
Looking up at him, still sweating through his rugby shirt and pleading with his eyes for answers, I felt a sudden pang of pity. It surprised me. I was all set on being defensive and snooty, and then … it struck me. I was doing to M&M exactly what The Irishman had done to me. I absolutely hated it when The Irishman had pitied me.
When I was on the phone to The Irishman in the car park, it felt like a midget with a knife was stabbing my knees, willing me to fall down and crumble. But I’d stayed strong, like M&M was trying to do now. A new-found respect for the man washed over me; this man who was standing there, so blindly in love with me for reasons I still can’t even fathom. I offered him what I’m sure was a pretty lame smile and shrugged my shoulders, in the hope that it would be enough. Well, what else could I do? I didn’t want to hurt him wit
h a final confirmation that he’d lost me, but I didn’t want to experience another emotional tirade right there on the edge of my swimming pool either.
In that moment, M&M straightened himself up and said I’d made him think about a few things. He told me he was flying to meet his wife, in order to get a divorce. I felt my mouth fall open. A divorce? Now?
I watched him walk away. Once I’d given him sufficient time to think I was still reading, unaffected by his presence or statement and deep in the world of vampires and werewolves, I raced back upstairs and called Stacey. I fired the questions down the phone: Does he really think getting a divorce will make me love him, after all this time, after everything we’ve been through? Does he think I’ll go back to him when I’ve shouted the words ‘I hate you’ in his direction more than once? Would he have thought about a divorce if it wasn’t for the fact that I’m now with someone else? Would he have ever even told his wife he didn’t love her anymore all those months ago, if he hadn’t been caught in an affair … with ME?
That night Rocko called me and I let it go to voicemail. I just felt so guilty for being angry and upset at M&M … it didn’t feel right to talk to him. Stacey probably had something to do with my decision. Basically, she thinks that if M&M is still getting to me, I’m really not ready to be with anyone else. She thinks I should take a step back and re-think rushing into a relationship, just for the sake of having someone around.
