by Donna Alam
I freeze, the papers I’ve gathered almost static in hand. ‘Oh.’
‘He deserved it.’ Her eyes narrow in reflection. ‘If he comes back tonight, it had better be with an apology.’
‘Oh,’ I repeat, not sure what to say as she turns suddenly, fingers digging into my arm.
‘He told me he’s going on holiday with his mates, to Thailand. That’s not right, is it? Not when you’re married.’ Without waiting for my response, her words fall in a hurried jumble. ‘I told him, he’d better not expect me to be here when he gets back. Told him I’d go back home.’
‘That sucks.’ It’s all I can think to say.
‘I mean, I trust him, really I do. But not the shifty gits he’s going with. I’ve heard them chatting, they think I don’t understand. No, of course not, stupid gypo wife.’ Her expression twists, tone viciously mimicking someone else. ‘Temporary marriages and whores!’ she yells.
‘You what?’
‘His mates, they go on holiday without their wives and supposedly marry some tart for a couple of days, a few weeks. Well, I’m not having it. If he thinks I’ll wait for him while he’s off . . . off . . . doing someone else. Well, I just won’t!’
Fuck a duck! What’s the appropriate response? I settle for rubbing her arm and looking seriously intense while coaxing my eyebrows from my hairline.
‘Sorry,’ she says after a moment. ‘I shouldn’t be dragging you into this.’
‘No worries. It’s best to share, get it all out. But, temporary marriage, is that even a . . . a thing?’
‘Yeah,’ she says with a bitter laugh. ‘Nikah misyar. A fixed term nikah or marriage.’ She returns to studying her hands.
Fixed term nikah sounds like something a bank would offer, a sort of short term deposit. On second thoughts, that is not a good analogy.
‘It’s frowned on quite a bit. Out here, I mean. Not that it stops some. It’s a way to let men—only men—get, you know.’ Her glance speaks volumes, but she finishes, anyway. ‘Their leg over a new bird. Without burning in hell. But it’s not right,’ she adds vehemently. ‘And I’m not having it!’
A fixed or short term marriage: A bit of variety? A religiously sanctioned roll in the hay? Good for the gander alone. For the goose, it’s a no-go?
Far. Out. Brussel. Sprout.
I shake my head and close my mouth.
‘I should bloody well think not. Just don’t go near him with any sharp kitchen implements tonight, okay?’ If I were her, I think I’d be seriously tempted to lop off his dick. And that certainly would be a temporary marriage, halted by a massive loss of blood.
‘Promise.’ She pauses hesitantly, a wan smile accompanies her response. ‘Thanks for listening, but . . . please don’t tell anyone what I said. Or that I swore in front of you.’
‘Hey,’ I say, offering her my hand. ‘I won’t even tell them it was my turn.’
Taking my hand, she stands, throwing her free arm around me for a quick, embarrassed hug.
‘I’m so pleased you came to work here, you know.’
‘Hello beautiful.’
Tuesday afternoon Kai calls. I’m counting down the days until his return. It’s silly that I miss him so soon, especially when I think of how different this could have turned out. If he hadn’t sought me out at school, who knows what would’ve been. Would I have turned to him? Probably.
‘Hi!’ I’m sure he can hear my smile down the line. ‘How’s Nice? Is it nice?’
‘It’s very French, as usual. Do you wish you’d come now, missing me?’
‘Oh, you know. I haven’t pined away yet. Lots of weeping and wringing of hands but I think I’ll survive until you get back.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it. I’d hate to be wasting my time dreaming of all the outrageously dirty things I want to do to you, only to find you’d drowned in your own tears.’
This has me at a loss for words. I notice he says do to you rather than do with you. Should I be perturbed instead of thrilled?
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yeah,’ I squeak, then repeat it in a tone more my own.
‘I’m off to a lunch meeting in a moment. I just rang to ask you to do me a favour.’
‘Sure, if I can.’
‘I want you to keep next weekend free for me. After this one, is that okay?’
‘Why, Mr Khalfan, do you have plans?’
‘Sweetheart, I’ve always got plans where you’re concerned.’ His sentence overflows with filthy meaning, from the low pitch of his voice to his innuendo-filled words. I just love it. ‘I wanted to get in first before someone else fills your dance card.’
‘Okay,’ I say with a laugh. From smutty to charming, the man has all the moves. ‘I’ll be sure to block the weekend out, just for you.’
‘You know I’ll make it worth your while . . .’ And from charming, back again.
He ends the call without further goodbyes and, I can’t believe this still makes me smile. And I also wonder what he has planned specifically, because, let’s face it; I’ll probably be naked most of the time.
The early mornings don’t get easier, and this, combined with the heat, has me so buggered I’m in bed by nine most evenings, unless I get an afternoon nana-nap. Today I made sure I’ve had a quick post-work snooze as I’ve arranged to meet Niamh in the old part of the city. We’re going to explore, maybe shop, then eat dinner in one of the malls. One of the good things about Dubai is everything’s open until late, due to the harsh summer sun, I suppose. Climbing into bed when you suddenly remember you’ve no clean undies for the next day? No problem, pop along to your local mall, problem solved!
I’m ashamed to say having Rashid at my disposal is wonderful, despite my earlier objections. It’s so much easier, not to mention more pleasant, than travelling in cabs. Holding the door open at the rear of the Mercedes, he offers me a solemn nod. But the decadence of having a chauffeur, even if he’s only borrowed, still makes me feel a tiny bit weird. I feel like I should be sitting up front, chatting to him, rather than sitting in the back like the Queen.
‘Madame?’
The car hasn’t moved from the curb. ‘Oh, to the creek in Deira, please, Rashid.’
He frowns in the rear-view mirror as he pulls into the road. ‘May I enquire as to madam’s plans?’
‘Yeah, I’m meeting my friend. We’re going to catch an abra, you know, be touristy.’ I’d complained to Niamh that I’ve seen little of Dubai beyond its bars and hotels. She’d suggested a quick boat trip along the creek at dusk for now. It was either that or a visit to Karama markets, which is apparently essential, but I don’t yet feel the need to buy dodgy designer wear. Anyway, she’s also going to try to arrange a group get-together for a desert safari soon, or maybe a visit out to the Hatta Mountain Range.
‘Mr Khalfan has a yacht at the marina, I’m sure he’d prefer—’ Two full sentences from Rashid. Will wonders never cease! I interrupt him all the same.
‘Has he?’ Not surprised. ‘That’s cool, but I’m going on an abra this afternoon.’ I use my firm teacher’s voice, but it trails off into a sweeter tone as I ask, ‘Can you collect me later, please? Probably at the Mall of the Emirates?’
I meet Niamh at one of the abra, or water-taxi stations, and we hop on the first available vessel, I suppose you’d call it. It’s not like getting the Rivercat in Brisbane. In fact, I’m beginning to see the reason for Rashid’s pronounced frown when he’d dropped me off. The wooden boats are old looking, and pretty heavy, as people pile on without thought to safety or numbers, it would seem.
‘Where are you going?’ Niamh asks with a breath of a laugh.
‘I’m sitting up front near that life-ring thingy.’ The only one I can see.
‘Sit down, eejit. It’s fine. Look, hundreds of people travel this way every day.’
‘So long as hundreds don’t get on this bloody one. And if they do, that ring’s still mine.’
As the abra narrowly avoids another, manoeuvring into th
e waterway, I can’t help but think one touch and this thing will splinter like matchsticks. But Niamh’s right; there are plenty on board, so I suppose people must have faith, right?
Our fellow passengers seem to be mainly from the Indian subcontinent and seem highly amused that we’re joining them today. One lady in a bright yellow sari budges up next to her husband, beckoning us to sit. And we do, but I still eye the life-ring covetously.
This is another side to Dubai, away from the traffic and million-dollar buildings. Either side of the creek seems a bit shabbier than the bits of Dubai I’ve seen so far, but still busy. Boats and buildings are decked with the national flag, pictures of the country’s ruler plastered here and there. Men holding hands—as normal here as guys fist-bumping or hugging it out —stroll along the shore, women in bright coloured sari’s and running shoes power walking, too. All too soon, we’re moored at the wooden dock as people pile out.
‘What next?’
‘The souk?
‘The what?’
‘The market—carpets and Aladdin lamps? This one’s a bit less touristy, though. Remember, I told you about Karama. It’s full of dodgy handbags and watches; defo more cuchi than Gucci. We can have a fossick through the souk and an abra back, or if you’re not up for that, we could just grab a taxi and head back to the mall?’
Oh well, so much for luxury travel.
After nose to tail traffic and one asinine chick-flick later, as neither of us could face shopping, Niamh and I head for an Asian bistro—the one with the huge stone horse at the front—with the intention of consuming ridiculous amounts of carbs. The interior is dark and atmospheric, but not dark enough to hide the scowl on Niamh’s face.
‘What’s up?’ Her lips flex and purse but she doesn’t answer. ‘Is it your mocktail? Is the absence of vodka making you sad?’
‘It could definitely do with a splash, especially for the price you pay in here,’ she answers caustically.
‘What crawled up your butt?’
‘For sure it wasn’t Rob.’ Her face twists unattractively, wincing further as she takes another sip from her glass.
‘Still no luck?’
‘Not yet,’ she says with a protracted sigh. ‘Or I’d not be reduced to bad tempers and evenings of friggin’ myself blind.’ I almost choke on my straw as, at this point, the waitress appears, setting our dishes down on the table. ‘Ah, lovely!’ Niamh comments without missing a beat, as warm plates are placed in front.
The waitress retreats and we silently dole out sticky rice and lemon chicken.
‘Change of topic,’ Niamh says, pointing her chopsticks in my direction. ‘Tell me, how’s the view from loved-up land?’
‘Distant.’ I send a silent thanks heavenwards for the change in topic. The details of Niamh’s love life isn’t a conversation I want to continue in a public place. ‘Kai’s travelling for business at the minute.’
She eyes me quizzically. ‘Have you a touch of cystitis, then?’
‘What?’
‘You’re walking a little funny, chick. It’s either the peeing curse or overuse.’ Pausing, she jabs her chopsticks in my direction. ‘You need to take care. You don’t want a kidney infection.’ A thought flicks across her face before, unfortunately, she opens her mouth to voice it. ‘The curse of sexing a well-endowed man, so it is.’
My head does one of those cartoon shakes. I wished I could shake off her words, sort of like you do with an etch-a-sketch. Maybe shake off her mouth for a while.
‘Run that by me again, you think I’ve got what and why? And secondly, how do you know what his pants are packing?’
‘That’s three points, actually.’ Unperturbed, she continues with her meal, chewing contemplatively. Then, laying down her chopsticks, she delicately dabs her mouth with the linen napkin. ‘You’re walking like you’re missing your horse.’
‘Yeah, because that’s the most normal statement to be making over dinner.’
‘Which leads me to think,’ she says, beginning to tick her list off her fingers, ‘you’ve some kind of infection, and your fella has a big—’
‘Enough, enough!’ I hold out my hands. ‘I get it.’
‘And as to what he’s packing, doing the bold thing with a little fella is like ploughing a field with a pencil. You’d hardly be walking funny after that.’
‘Stop it, Sherlock. Your theories are crap in this instance. No, not that!’
She begins to prod chicken around her plate. ‘I’m glad to hear, for you, anyway. Still, better get some cranberry juice from the supermarket before we leave.’
‘No, bugger it!’ I lower my voice and look over both shoulders cautiously. ‘I got waxed. Earlier.’ Lowering my eyes deliberately, I add, ‘You know?’
‘You got rid of the seventies' bush?’
‘Niamh, shush!’
Six
Sitting at the edge of my bed, I happen to be wearing the smallest outfit I’ve ever owned, discounting babywear and childhood. What the hell have I gotten myself into?
‘It’s called a bikini, not burkini,’ Niamh had taunted at the mall, making to grab the modest one-piece I’d selected out of my hands. ‘You need to get a bit of sun on your pasty bits.’ Shoving a thing that resembled a couple of glittery Band-Aids into my hands, she’d insisted I’d look fab. My argument that it wasn’t really my colour and just a teeny bit small went ignored.
It’s the weekend of the pool party, and a Dubai pool party means I don’t get to wear board shorts over my one-piece bathers, apparently, and the only thongs allowed are the kind that sit in the crack of your bum.
Bring it, Niamh had commanded, and as I look down at my outfit; the wedge-heels that are probably a pool hazard, the bangles jingling on my wrists, and the boobage spilling from something that looks a size too small, I decide to tell her I brought it, all right. But that it was too ashamed to go public.
I’m gonna cover it up with my raggy old Balinese cotton sarong.
Pushing myself up from the bed with a sigh, I slide my pony-tail over one shoulder, contorting my head to seek an answer to the female Holy Grail. I don’t know about big, but my bum certainly looks bruised in this teeny bikini as teeth marks peek from the edge of the shiny material, standing prominent against the pale, plump flesh. My insides pulse reflexively as I recall the sensation of Kai’s mouth on my skin. Though shiveringly seductive the bruised reminder may be, it’s also way too graphic for public viewing. Come to think of it, I might have a matching pair on my inner thighs, hickeys I wasn’t at all conscious of receiving. Endorphins certainly have a lot to answer for.
‘Jaysus, the man must be a beast!’
I jump as though caught doing something I shouldn’t, head almost between my legs as Niamh walks in.
‘You’re supposed to knock,’ I reply pointedly, halting the examination.
‘Like I haven’t seen your hootenanny before.’
‘My what?’ If Kai thinks Australians are hard to decipher, he should try to make sense of a conversation with Niamh.
‘Think about it. Rhymes with . . . ’
‘Granny?’
‘You know full well I mean your vadge.’ Straight-faced, she holds a hand against her cocked hip. ‘And I’ve seen it before. Unless you’re hiding something else down there?’
‘Sandwiches.’ I turn away, averting my face. I don't want to get into a show and tell Marquis de Sade style. Bad enough that I have bruised thighs and butt, but I also have a burn mark from his tie, hiding under the jangling bangles. Who knew silk burned?
‘You’ve got the space for a feckin’ picnic down there, after all that deforestation. I see the man bites, but how’s his Aussie kiss?’
‘His what?’
‘You know, same as a French kiss only down under?’
‘That’s really bad.’ I shoot her a withering look, sensing she’s not yet done.
‘Should I ask how his lip service is instead?’
‘I’d prefer you not to ask at all.’
&n
bsp; ‘That’s not very charitable, is it? Spare a thought for those less fortunate in the sexy-times department. Is it my fault I’m reduced to living vicariously ‘cos I’m getting none?’
Usually, the only trouble Niamh has with men is blowing them . . . off. Not that she suffers from lock-jaw or anything, as far as I know. Gorgeous and redheaded, men are usually drawn to the lilting tones of her accent, without realising if she’s ever had any use for the Blarney Stone, it was likely to whack some unsuspecting bloke’s head into it. Surely she can’t be losing her touch?
‘Still no luck with Rob?’
‘Rob who?’ Mildly miffed, she plonks herself on the bed.
‘Buff bloke? Deep tan.’ I arch one brow. ‘Looks a bit like he’s been on the ‘roids.’
‘On the what?’
‘ ‘Roids. Steroids. Buff, like, real big.’ I make Popeye arms, even with my absence of guns. ‘Ring any bells?’ I ask, raising one, taunting brow.
‘Ah, him,’ she says, continuing with her veneer of indifference. ‘I wouldn’t ride that fecker into battle.’
‘You wouldn’t what?’
‘You know, ride him.’ Overtly rocking her hips, she gestures with her arms.
‘Oh, root him,’ I answer, using the Australian slang for sex. ‘You wouldn’t root him!’
‘That’s a God-awful euphemism,’ she says with a sniff. ‘Root is the thing that grows on the bottom of old veg, or maybe something you should do for your sports team.’
‘You barrack for your team in my neck of the woods. If you root for your team in Australia, you’d end up in a wheelchair.’
‘Sicko,’ she retorts sharply.
‘What’s got into you?’
‘Nothing.’ She sighs and folds her arms. ‘Nothing without batteries, anyway.’
Perching my bum on the edge of the bed, I ignore the unwanted insight. ‘I don’t understand. What do you think the problem is? He’s obviously into you, so why hasn’t he . . .’ Put out? Or put it in?
Her folded arms rise and fall with an accompanying sigh. ‘He told me over the phone he wants us to be “friends,” ’ she adds, doing that inverted-comma-air-finger-thing. ‘So I’ve decided he can kiss my fine Irish arse.’
