Jennifer climbs out of the Porsche Cayenne, teetering slightly in cheap bubblegum pink patent stilettos. She snaps her chewing gum loudly, pulls up her grey skinny jeans in order to avoid exposing an unsightly bum crack and flicks her long, blonde hair over her shoulder. Readjusting her gaudy silver boob tube, she looks back at the other two who are still fiddling around with their sheilas, a nauseous look on her face.
"Don't worry, everything's perfect," Moza assures her, following her out of the car, looking ridiculous even for Dubai standards in her huge Chanel sunglasses... at nine in the evening. Lady Luxe is next, her face completely covered in an opaque niqab, with only her eyes peeking through the slits in the cloth. Handing over the car to the valet outside the imposing yet rather comical hotel, she joins her cousin in walking up to the entrance, taking a second to look up at the huge salmon pink building, wondering what the architect was smoking when he conceived the idea. She hasn't been there since the grand opening party as quite frankly, she wasn't impressed by the weird, colourful structures and the shoddy finishing. It is the last place anyone she knows would expect her to grace, and therefore absolutely perfect for tonight's rendezvous.
"As fine as a chav can look, you mean?" Jennifer - also known as Rowdha - jokes, blowing a big bubble with her gum, trying to soothe her static nerves.
"Darling, you'd put any Sharon or Tracy to shame," Moza says in an over-exaggerated poncy accent, following her sister into the hotel. "Now, just remember, we'll be right there the whole time. We'll give you around 15 minutes with him before Exhibit A, we'll send over Exhibit B ten minutes after that, and then the final showdown will happen when you give us the go ahead."
"And remember that he doesn't know a single thing about Jennifer other than the fact that she's Emirati, she dances like Pussycat Doll and she drives a black Cayenne," Lady Luxe adds, excitement rippling through her veins. The afternoon's drama, combined with the knots of anxiety in her stomach and countless sleepless nights, has suddenly caused an unexpected reaction within. Adrenaline has replaced the tension, and she feels sharp, strong and in control - much like her previous scheming self. She is tired of feeling weak, tired of being intimidated and tired of feeling used. Okay, so she can't do much about Mola at present - but she can do something about that sneaky little bastard Humaid. He isn't the only one with contacts at Etisalat, nor is he the only one with wasta. In fact, she is far higher up in the food chain and tonight, he would learn the hard way that no one messes with Lady Luxe - especially not a horny, pubescent Emirati with far too much money and not enough class.
"Got it," Rowdha says. "So I can basically say or do whatever I want. Yalla, I'm ready for this. I'm going down... see you later." She suppresses the urge to leg it back to the car and walks away, her long, blonde wig swishing behind her and her heels clattering on the pink marble floors.
Moza and Lady Luxe sink down on a bench by the colourful statue of a sea amoeba and say nothing for a moment, absorbed in their thoughts.
"Do you think this is going to work?" Lady Luxe finally asks, breaking the peaceful silence. Although she is no longer riddled with fear of having her entire life exposed, she is still on edge. She is relying on Plan B to solve the Humaid issue once and for all, and if it does work, then she can go back to concentrating on bringing Leila down – something she has been dying to do ever since the annoying, gold digging cow hoisted herself onto a throne.
"Actually," Moza replies slowly, "I do. It's obvious what kind of guy Humaid is. He's two-faced and shallow like the rest of them. By the time we're through with him, he'll never show his face in Za'abeel again."
"Ameen to that," Lady Luxe hails, standing up and stumbling slightly, unable to see properly through the tiny gap in the cloth. How women cover their faces on a daily basis to hide their beauty is beyond her comprehension. Already she feels as though she is being smothered. Besides, hiding a face like hers from the public would be a great pity, she decides. She simply cannot imagine being so completely anonymous, or not having men constantly admire her. Nor can she imagine a world where she is a nobody.
"You should have just worn sunglasses like me," Moza says, looking far more graceful as she stands up. "They'll be easier to take off later as well."
"I'd rather be a clumsy munaqqaba than a refined fashion victim," her cousin retorts, making her way down the long hallway and concentrating on watching where she is going. She realises that in niqab, she cannot simply look down with her eyes – doing so results in her vision being obscured by cloth and she actually has to move her entire head to see her feet. They walk slowly for a couple of metres before Moza stops in her tracks, causing her cousin to bump into her.
"Watch it," Lady Luxe complains. "I can't see properly as it is."
"Look, there they are!" Moza whispers urgently, pulling Lady Luxe behind a glittery gold column. "In the lounge. Look!"
Lady Luxe peers around the column and sees Rowdha sitting on the far end of the glitzy room, facing the entrance. Humaid is sitting opposite her, dressed in the very same outfit as that afternoon. Bastard, Lady Luxe thinks again with hatred.
"So what shall we do?" she whispers, unable to tear her eyes away from the pair, desperately trying to read Rowdha's impassive facial expressions. "Hide here until it's time?"
"Well we can't exactly go in there like this," Moza replies, also trying to see what is happening between her sister and the two-faced twit. "…we'll stand out like prossies in a mosque. Let's just wait here."
"Okay, let me send some text messages," Lady Luxe murmurs, forcing her eyes to look away, her heart pounding in anticipation. "Almost time for Exhibit A."
* * *
Rowdha sits next to Humaid feeling more uncomfortable than she does at her quarterly smear tests. As much as she enjoys talent spotting and the occasional flirting, this is the first time in five years that she has left her home in something so revealing – not to mention tacky. With her post-baby figure, it isn't exactly flattering either. Even back in her slightly wilder days, her antics were always conducted in Western countries - never, ever in Dubai. She has never understood how her cousin could easily plonk a wig on her head and then mess around practically in her own back garden. That girl had far too much courage. If she had been more sensible in her choice of venue – and, of course, friends - they wouldn't have been in this precarious situation.
Her throat dry and her palms clammy, she fidgets in her seat, pulling up her top to reveal less of a plunging, mother-of-two cleavage and tries not to make her awkwardness so obvious.
This is also her first (and last, she swears) 'date' whilst being married - something she never dreamt she would do. Although her presence is not voluntary, and nor is it really a date, she can't help but feel as if she is doing something terribly wrong. She tries to tell herself that she isn't cheating, but sitting there at the Atlantis with another man who is trying to let his knee touch hers, she gets the feeling that her husband wouldn't agree.
"You look a little different today," Humaid notes, his eyes flickering over Rowdha's thicker eyebrows, her bigger mouth, her rounder face.
No kidding, Sherlock, she thinks to herself, suppressing a yawn and trying to follow the bimbo slut brief she has been given.
"Really? Well, you did see me in the dark," she giggles, chewing her gum loudly. "But then, most guys do see me in the dark. I hardly ever go out with guys during the day. I don't look very pretty in natural light." She says this with such nonchalance that Humaid actually believes the statement to be true. Weird, definitely, but true all the same.
"Is that so?" Humaid leans forwards, unashamedly trying to look down her top. "You look fine to me."
He is a little too close for comfort, close enough for Rowdha to smell his spicy oud and she moves back as much as she can, another wave of guilt rippling through her. Please God, forgive me for this, she pleads, taking a sip of her tea.
"So how come you've taken so long to get back to me?" he asks, his gaze still fixated on her chest. Rowdha shrinks further into herself, feeling completely naked. How women walk around wearing next to nothing is beyond her. She makes a mental note to ask her promiscuous cousin how she brings herself to wear such skimpy clothing – assuming she gets out of this mess relatively unscathed, that is.
"You know how it is. So many guys, so little time," she laughs, discreetly wiping her palms on her jeans. "I mean, all of last week, I had to like, you know, go out with this Saudi guy who pays for all my plastic surgery. And then the week before there was this American guy who took up all my time. This is like, literally the first free night I've had in a long time."
"Oh." For once, Humaid is speechless. Is she a prostitute, he wonders, partly intrigued, partly repulsed.
"Are you a -" he begins, his voice rising in indignant excitement.
"No!" Rowdha laughs, slapping her thighs. "Well, not literally. I don't charge for sex but I do accept gifts, if you know what I mean." She winks at him, and he feels his tea rise up his oesophagus. What happened to the classy girl from the club? After all that time he waited for her to finally yield to his pursuit, he was expecting a woman with a little more decorum. But then, what did he expect from a club-whore whose best friend liked to bestow 'favours' on innocent men in dark alleys?
As they continue to talk, Rowdha dropping more and more references to previous 'boyfriends', Humaid starts to wonder if this is all a big joke, if Jennifer is actually trying to put him off. Surely no woman – prostitute or otherwise – would behave with such indignity in public unless she had an ulterior motive.
"Leila told me you're Emirati," he states, narrowing his eyes and looking at her face for a change. The accusation comes like a drawn gauntlet and Rowdha wonders whether to admit she is, or to lie a little more.
"Oh Lord no!" Rowdha exclaims, choosing the latter and guffawing loudly.
"That's what she said," he protests in defiance, scowling.
"That's what she thinks," Rowdha replies conspiringly. "Actually, to be honest, my father is Emirati. My mother is Indian. She was his housemaid."
"Your mother was a housemaid?"
"Yes, but it was a very long time ago. We actually have a history of maids in the family. My grandmother and great-grandmother were both maids back in India."
"You're half Indian?"
"So?"
Humaid leans back in this seat, clearly exhausted by the conversation, finally beginning to realise that Jennifer isn't worth his time at all. However, after all those days he spent fantasising about her, along with the pent-up sexual energy following the meeting with his future wife, he wonders whether to just screw her and leave her anyway. She is practically a prostitute anyway and probably won't be too difficult to lure into his car. But there is no way he will actually pay for her services – with money or gifts. No, after wasting his thoughts and his time, she owes him this. And he always makes sure that his rights are fulfilled.
Rowdha is also shattered. The story-telling was a little fun after she got over her initial sense of guilt, but now, it is just plain tiring. She hasn't told so many stories since her children were small, demanding bedtime tales before going to sleep, and even that was a chore. She is hoping however, that the plan is working and Humaid is too disgusted with Jennifer to pursue her further.
"Jennifer! Darling! How are you?" Rowdha looks up to see a small, Filipino man with high cheekbones and short, spiky hair stride over to her. He is wearing a bright pink shirt and tight jeans, and as he comes closer, she notices that the tips of his hair are ice-blonde.
"Jose!" she squeals, jumping up from her seat and throwing her arms around him. "Oh my God, it's been SO long!" She beams at him and playfully ruffles his hair.
"Who's this?" Humaid asks sharply, a little put out by the interruption. He was just about to begin enticing Jennifer to accept a ride. Home, that is.
"Humaid, meet my old friend Jose," Rowdha gushes, still grinning. Despite meeting Jose for the very first time, she is thrilled to see him and thankful for the interruption. "Jose, this is Humaid. My boyfriend."
Humaid almost chokes on his drink.
"Nice to meet you," he splutters, too shocked at Rowdha's statement to be insulted by the presence of a khaneeth.
"Jose, you have to join us," Rowdha declares, pulling his slender arm and forcing him into the seat beside her.
"Oh, I don’t know," Jose says, smiling a bright, toothy smile and covering his baby face with his hands. "I don’t want to impose…."
"You're not imposing, you have to stay for a bit."
"Okay, if you absolutely insist," Jose huffs, sitting down and putting his arm around Rowdha's shoulders. "So tell me darling, how are you? As in, how are you really?"
"I'm fine," Rowdha says, imploring him with her eyes to be quiet.
"You're such a strong little thing," he continues with raw emotion, pulling a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbing the corner of his right eye delicately.
"It was just a cold," Rowdha says through clenched teeth, pretending to be annoyed. She kicks Jose under the table, accidentally-on-purpose kicking Humaid instead.
"Ouch!" Humaid exclaims, bending down to rub his sore ankle. "What the hell was that for?"
"Sorry, my foot must have slipped," Rowdha says quickly, throwing Jose a quick warning look, one that does not go amiss by the increasingly suspicious Humaid. "Anyway Jose, don’t you have somewhere you have to be?" she says, all the warmth in her voice gone as she stares daggers at him.
"Right. Yes. I better go. Hope your…..'cold' goes away soon."
Humaid stares at Jose's retreating back in confusion. Although he is not the sharpest knife in the kitchen, he is perceptive enough to realise that there is something going on – something he is not supposed to know. Jennifer is obviously sick, but is trying to hide it from him. He rubs his swollen ankle again, befuddlement written all over his otherwise attractive face.
"What's wrong with you?" he asks, out of curiosity more than genuine concern.
"Nothing!" Rowdha snaps, folding her arms and looking away.
They sit in stony silence for a while, Humaid trying to understand exactly what was going on while Rowdha suppresses the smile that is aching to form on her scowling lips. The tension is thick enough to slice, and Rowdha is enjoying his obvious discomfort.
She opens her mouth to begin talking, but before she can, there is a sudden movement in the lounge, and she looks up to see a vaguely attractive girl in a plain black abaya descend upon her table.
"Can I help you?" Rowdha asks politely.
"Galeelat al sharaf," the girl hisses in Arabic, hatred clouding her dark eyes.
Man, this girl is good, Rowdha thinks to herself, looking forward to seeing what would happen next. "What's your problem? Do I know you?"
"What's going on?" Humaid intervenes weakly, his head beginning to pound. All he wanted was to spend time with the sexy, fiery little thing from the club, but the girl who snatched his hat and danced with him was so different from the one who now sat opposite him. This girl wasn't fiery, she was rude. She wasn't sexy, she was annoying. And she definitely wasn't a little thing. In fact, she seemed to be a lot older than he expected. He sighs, wishing he hadn't wasted so much time on her, but reluctant to let her go completely without getting anything in return.
"You might not know me, but you certainly know my husband don't you?" The girl spits, bringing her face so close to Rowdha's that she can smell her cigarette breath. "Don’t try and deny it. I recognise you from the picture he has, you cheap whore."
"I don’t know what you're talking about," Rowdha says defiantly, glancing over at Humaid who is looking shocked all over again.
"Don't fucking lie to me!" The girl screams in English. The other guests in the lounge turn around to stare, but the girl either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. "Don’t fucking insult me anymore! You gave him herpes you dirty bitch! And now I have them too!"
There is a stunned silence while the other guests stare in open-mouthed horror. Rowdha says nothing, her face turning red. The girl is so convincing that she almost feels as if she actually does have the disease. Humaid's face turns greens.
"I hope you rot in hell," the local girl chokes out, her eyes wild with fury. She turns to leave, and then stops mid-movement. Hesitating slightly, she turns to spit on Rowdha's lap before striding away, leaving behind an atmosphere of disgust and embarrassment.
Rowdha doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. The girl was amazing but here she is, sitting with a stupid jerk, wearing dodgy clothes, saliva decorating her lap while the entire lounge ogles her as if she is one of those ugly monkeys with their bums hanging out in Al Ain Zoo.
"What the hell," Humaid mutters, his hands shaking. "You have herpes?"
"Yes," Rowdha says in a quiet voice, looking down. "I don’t know how I got it or where it came from. That's why I didn’t want to meet you. I didn’t want you to get it. It's so painful and so sore. I have blisters all over my –"
"Okay! I get it!" Humaid interrupts, bile rising to the back of this throat. To think he almost…
"I'm so upset!" Rowdha chokes, her voice beginning to wobble. "I don’t know what to do!" Before Humaid can respond, she gets up and plants herself on his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and sobbing into his chest.
"Get off me," Humaid mutters in disgust, trying to disentangle himself. The evening has been nothing like how he expected and he no longer knows what to do. Should he push her to the floor and leave? Wait for her to stop crying and then leave?
"What do we have here?"
The voice is familiar and Humaid is almost too scared to look up. He has had enough drama for one evening. His eyes focus on a pair of sparkly sandals, an abaya hem grazing them gently. With baited breath, he looks up, his eyes moving past the length of the abaya and up to the girl's face. When he sees who it is, all the blood leaves his face. The poor, innocent girl he was thinking about marrying looks at him with undisguised disappointment. Her cousin stands next to her, disapproval etched all over her face.
"You should be ashamed of yourself," Moza says, venom lacing her words. Her phone ready in her hand, she takes a picture of Humaid sitting there with a blonde bundle on his lap. "I'll be sure to show this to Mohamed's father."
"Wait! I didn’t do anything! She just – " Humaid struggles to push Rowdha off his lap, but she clings on even tighter, her body heaving with laughter masquerading as sobs.
"Goodbye," Lady Luxe says softly, before turning on her heels and walking away, Moza close behind her.
"Sharmuta!" Humaid yells, pushing Rowdha off his lap. "Look what you did!"
"What did I do?" she cries in pretend sorrow. "You're the one who's been hounding me for the last two weeks! I didn’t know that you're married."
"I'm not! I was…Oh forget it." Humaid gets up, throws a five-hundred dirham note on the table and walks away without looking back.
Rowdha waits a few minutes until she is sure that he has disappeared from sight, and begins to laugh. Half an hour later, she is joined by the rest of the motley crew - including Jose the Khaneeth and Wafa, the Palestinian 'local' girl. They all laugh together, replaying the evening's events in detail, so enraptured in their own little circle that they fail to notice a guest who, whilst walking past, stops to see where all the laugher is coming from. And when a familiar face registers in his mind, he stops and stares, unsure whether to be pleased at what he has learnt... or enraged.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Chapter Twenty-Three – Two for the price of one - Part 1
Lady Luxe was certain that if she did all she could to make Humaid like her – as in, really like her, he wouldn’t bother with pursuing her alter ego. She was certain that once subjected to her subtle yet intoxicating feminine wiles, the hussy with the blonde hair would become an obsession of the past. Of course, there was always a chance that he really was a complete a-hole, in which case, he would probably want the best of both worlds.
So, with the help of her trusty cousins, there was a Plan B. Just in case.
In an attempt to test the waters a little, hoping that perhaps he had given up on acquiring his conquest, Lady Luxe sent him a quick text message, asking him to meet Jennifer at six, knowing quite well that he would be too busy with the real her to comply.
His reply came almost immediately: I would love to habibti, but unfortunately, I have family commitments to oblige. Can you please do me the honour of postponing it to 9pm?
Bastard. All fancy lingo aside, he was essentially planning on meeting a prospective bride at six, and a prospective shag at nine. The things men did to get laid never failed to surprise Lady Luxe – although admittedly, it worked in her favour when she was the one looking for a little under(the)cover action.
"Don't be so hypocritical," Moza chastised her, brushing magic powders onto her cousin's dehydrated skin to make her look young and fresh. "It is exactly the kind of thing you would do."
"No it bloody isn't," Lady Luxe snapped, trying not to move her facial muscles too much. "If I decided I wanted to get married the Emirati way, I'd stop messing around the unIslamic way. I wouldn't have my cake, eat it and then try another."
"Right," Moza replied uninterestedly. "Anyway stop moving around. I'm trying to sort your face out here. When did your complexion become so terrible?"
"Since Leila and my bloody brother became Mola."
"Well that's no reason not to take care of yourself. Now open your eyes, let me see my work."
Lady Luxe slowly opened her eyes and let them roll into focus, on Moza's frowning forehead, and her own tiny reflection in Moza's critical brown eyes. "Well?"
"I really do have a magical touch, don't I? Go and check yourself out." Moza stepped back to allow Lady Luxe to climb off the bed, smiling proudly as her cousin floated past in a jade silk jellabiya, courtesy of their good friend, fashion designer Rima, creator of the haute couture brand Rimalya.
Lady Luxe peered into the mirror and tried not to let her jaw fall open in awe. Gone was the tired old hag from that morning, and in her place, was a beautiful, vibrant young woman with perfect creamy skin with a hint of gold, cat-like eyes amidst a hue of green and glistening pearlescent lips. Her fringe blowdried to perfection, she placed a purple chiffon sheila loosely over her head, matching the purple beads on her jellabiya, and slipped her feet into Gina sandals. Her favourite diamond bracelet rested on her dainty wrist and a generous application of Romano Ricci's Midnight Oud completed her look.
"He'll never be able to resist me like this," Lady Luxe grinned, running over to Moza and throwing her arms around her. "By the way, where's Rowdha?"
Rowdha, still seething after Lady Luxe's stunt that morning, eventually thawed enough to help her cousin in her time of need. The sudden appearance of the finer Qataris, who turned up just after Lady Luxe disappeared, also assisted in placating her irritated nerves.
"She's out getting some supplies for Plan B."
"Okay great. Although I'm getting the feeling that Plan A will work just fine."
The two cousins smiled at each other, slightly nervous, as they waited for the doorbell to ring. Downstairs in the ladies reception room, Lady Luxe's aunts, Aunt Maryam and Aunt Fatima, her father's older sisters, were waiting to greet the groom's party, taking the place of her mother and her deceased grandmother. Not that they would have stayed at home, had Lady Luxe's mother and grandmother been present.
Aunt Maryam and Aunt Fatima were like characters from a Roald Dahl book. The epitome of selfishness, Maryam the divorcee and Fatima the widow stopped at absolutely nothing to get what they wanted. Be it a home renovation, a new car, or a new sister-in-law – they were constantly on the phone to their younger brother, whining, moaning and emotionally blackmailing him with their nasal voices until they got what they wanted. They weren't in the slightest interested in finding a good match for their errant niece – but they were interested in maintaining the family reputation. They needed to be assured that Humaid was from a respectable family and that he was able to display good conduct in public and that he was relatively bearable, and thus, had miraculously appeared an hour earlier, dressed in their finest abayas, swooning over Lady Luxe as if they hadn't seen her in years.
"Sis, they're here," Ahmed declared in a loud stage whisper, knocking on Lady Luxe's door and then sticking his head around it before she even acknowledged the knock.
"What?! I never even heard the door bell," Lady Luxe whimpered, the words almost catching in her throat, nervousness beginning to run through her body. "What cars have they come in?"
"A white Merc G350, two digit plate. I saw four figures in black, and then him. He's sitting with Baba and Mohamed in the study and I think they'll let him come and check you out after you go and sit with the ladies for a bit. That's what Baba said to Mohamed when you were getting ready anyway."
"Oh man. I'm dreading this," Lady Luxe moaned, leaning against Ahmed for support, hoping that she would succeed in making Humaid forget about Jennifer and save herself from more drama.
"Don't worry hun, you'll be fine," Moza said reassuringly, giving her cousin's arm a squeeze. "They won't let you sit alone with him, so I'll be there the whole time. I won't make it obvious that I'm listening to your conversation, but if he gives you a hard time, I'll step in, okay?"
"Okay," Lady Luxe answers in a quiet voice, pushing thoughts of everything backfiring out of her mind. Humaid was not going to find out that his blushing virgin bride was the same woman he danced with at Chi. Mohamed was not going to find out that his sister was far from the innocent girl he thought she was. And Leila was not going to find out that her 'best friend' was her lover's sister. Everything was going to be fine.
"Miss X? The guests are here and your aunts are asking you and Miss Moza to come downstairs," Mary the maid said timidly, peeking her head around the open door. "Oh Miss X! You look beautiful!"
"Thanks Mary, we'll come down now," Lady Luxe replied, composing herself and holding her head up high. "Ready, Moze?"
"Yalla, let's go."
With Moza leading the way, the pair made their way down the staircase, their high heels clattering menacingly against the marble, announcing their arrival long before they actually reached the living room door, Ahmed trailing behind them.
"Have fun," he said wryly, leaving the women at the foot of the stairs and heading into the study.
Moza took a deep breath and pushed the heavy wooden door open, the clouds of musky bakhoor swirling around them as she did so.
"Salaam'alaykom," she greeted the unknown faces. "My name is Moza, I am Lady Luxe's cousin, her father is my uncle," she said somberly.
The ladies living room in Lady Luxe's home was very different from the miminalistic décor of the rest of the house – with the exception of her father's study of course. She had designed the room to look like an old Emirati house, with sandy coloured walls, thick Persian rugs and low, red and black Majlis style furniture. She had collected the ornaments scattered around the large room from her travels across the Muslim world – leather floor lamps and colourful glass chandeliers from Morocco, ornate ceramic bowls from Turkey, an antique iron birdcage from Tunisia, colourful wall hangings from Cairo, ornate mother-of-pearl encrusted coffee tables from Damascus. The eclectic combination, instead of seeming confused, felt like a free-flowing story – each piece holding a special beauty, each artifact telling a different tale, each colour accompanying its neighbour.
"Salaam'alaykom," Lady Luxe said with faux shyness, following Moza into the room and casting her gaze down, lifting her extremely long (and fake) eyelashes a little to glance surreptitiously at her surroundings. There was a low murmur as all of Humaid's female relatives appraised Lady Luxe's slim frame, her generous height, her hazel eyes and her straight posture, mumbling 'helou' to themselves as they continued to stare.
Lady Luxe's aunts sat together, dressed in their abayas in preparation of Humaid's arrival, and adjacent to them, along the wall opposite the door, sat four women, also in abayas.
"Alaykom Salaam habibti, how are you?" One of the women exclaimed, as Lady Luxe glided over to greet them all personally, shaking hands and kissing their cheeks.
"Oh!" Lady Luxe exclaimed, recognizing her to be her recent client. So this was why Mohamed warned me not to mess up his friend's mum's abaya.
"Yes, I didn’t want to intimidate you that time by telling you that I am Umm Humaid," she replied with a smile. "Plus I didn’t want you to feel obliged to give me a big discount. Sit down bnayti, you look very beautiful Mashalla."
Taking a seat daintily, Lady Luxe continued looking down, smiling small smiles occasionally and answering questions about what she did and what she studied so sweetly that she almost got a sugar rush. She felt a lot more comfortable knowing that Humaid's mother was her intelligent client and actually wished that her son wasn't such a loser. If Humaid had been like…..Mr. Deliciously Absent for example, she would have actually considered selling out to the farce that was also known as marriage.
"Did you say you studied in London?" Humaid's fat aunt asked in disapproval, her eyes narrowed and her thin lips pursed into a permanent scowl, spitting out the word 'London' like a foul-tasting cardamom pod. His grandmother remained silent, her piercing stare unfaltering as she clutched prayer beads in her wrinkly right hand and muttered prayers under her breath. Her face was covered by a bronze burga and her eyes were watery – as if they had seen much sorrow in their years.
"Yes, khalti. My mother lives there so I stayed with her," Lady Luxe lied in a quiet voice, omitting the fact that her mother only visited her South Kensington apartment once a month for her Harley Street trips, and preferred living in her cottage in Hampshire the remaining 28 days of the month. She peered over her long eyelashes and added woefully: "I do miss her terribly."
"Yes, poor child, she had to grow up far too quickly," her Aunt Maryam interrupted. "However, as a consequence, she is very responsible. You should see her with her younger brother. She is marvelous."
"Isn't her younger brother actually her half brother?" The Evil Fat Aunt asked.
"Oh, it depends on your definition. Lady Luxe loves him terribly, he really is like her own," Aunt Maryam answered without skipping a beat.
"But isn't he the product of her father's second marriage?" The Evil Fat Aunt persisted. "And didn't he divorce her soon after?"
"Well, you know how it is," Moza interrupted smoothly. "My uncle, like many men, is so very difficult to please as you all know. But if there is one thing he is happy with, it is his daughter."
Before they could continue in his manner, Mary rushed into the room and announced that Humaid would be entering in a few minutes. There was a flurry as half the women in the room readjusted their sheilas, Lady Luxe's older aunt, Maryam, holding the end of it over her mouth, covering herself further.
"Salaam'alaykom," he announced loudly, sauntering into the room and flashing a wide smile at the women who sat in wait of his arrival, feeling a little like Yusuf the day all those women chopped off their fingers. Dressed in a plain white candoura and messily wrapped white guttra, he looked simple yet oddly attractive, Lady Luxe noted with interest. His eyes were big and dark, and his mouth full and generous.
Grabbing a cushion, he placed it opposite Lady Luxe. "I hope you don't mind if I sit here while we talk?" he asked to no one in particular, plonking himself down on the cushion and folding his legs.
"Of course habibi, you must get to know your possible wife as much as you can in the next twenty minutes, because the choice you make now will either make or break your entire life," his mother replied, laughing. All the older ladies joined her in giggling, making a big show of not watching the couple, but clearly listening carefully instead.
"How embarrassing," Humaid said quietly, smiling at Lady Luxe while she poured him fragrant Arabic qahwa with steady hands. "I'm Humaid by the way."
"Nice to meet you Humaid," Lady Luxe answered with a small smile, catching his eyes for a moment and then looking away like she believed a chaste virgin would do.
They began to talk quietly, trying (and failing) to ignore the women around them who were desperate to hear what they were talking about. Had they managed to overhear anything, they would have been disappointed to note that the conversation barely got beyond their favourite movies, favourite music and favourite food. Lady Luxe was surprised to learn that Humaid loved watching documentaries, his favourite music was rock and the one dish he could eat over and over again was pad thai. With prawns.
"You're not how I expected you to be," Lady Luxe conceded towards the end of their fairly enlightening conversation.
"And how was that?"
"Shallow. Conceited. Unoriginal." she says bluntly.
"Well, you're not what I expected either," he retorted with a smile.
"And what was that?"
"Boring. Stupid. Unattractive."
They laughed together, causing all the women to turn and stare with huge smiles on their faces, while Lady Luxe covered her face in her hands in embarrassment, trying to be endearing. Her attempt at feigning innocence seemed to have work as the ladies all nudged each other, whispering about how attractive her naivety was.
"Aiwa," Humaid's older sister called out from across the room, winking conspicuously, causing Lady Luxe to blush further and getting into her role so much that it actually began to feel real.
"I think your aunts seem to approve of me. Does that mean I can take your number?" Humaid asked with a slow smile, taking in Lady Luxe's pink lips and ready smile with lust, aching to know what was hidden beneath the loose folds of her gown, whether the rest of her body was the same caramel colour of her face, whether the rest of her would turn pink beneath his touch like her face did.
"Sorry Humaid, but I've never given my number to a guy before," You already have it, you nerd.
"Oh okay. Well, can you make an exception?" If she gives her number to me after just a little persuasion, it's a definite indicator that she's ready to give it to anyone.
"No I can't, sorry. If you need to get hold of me, you can always call my brother Mohamed and pass a message on." You know Mohamed right? The same guy I danced with at Chi?
"Sure, I understand." This girl really takes her reputation seriously. Perfect wife material. But maybe not that much fun.
The conversation drew to a close, hurried up by Mohamed's mother who felt that they were beginning to overstay their welcome although most of the snacks Claudine had whipped up were left untouched. Lady Luxe bid farewell to all the smiling ladies, kissed them affectionately on their cheeks and then excused herself from her aunts' chattering as they analysed the evening's events, claiming she had a headache.
Pulling her sandals off her feet and running up the stairs with Moza close behind, she shut the door to her bedroom and grabbed her Vertu phone, willing it to beep with a cancellation message.
"Girl, you were wicked down there," Moza gushed. "Seriously, if I were a bloke looking for a missus, I would so propose to you based on that Oscar winning performance."
"Really?" Lady Luxe asked, playing with the phone and praying fervently.
"Really." Moza affirmed with confidence. "Look, he only just left and it's only 7:30. Give it another ten minutes, I'm sure he'll cancel. He was so besotted by you."
Putting her phone on 'loud', Lady Luxe went to the dressing room and changed into more comfortable tracksuit bottoms and an oversized hoody. Pulling her hair into a ponytail, she went back to her bedroom to find that Moza had taken off her abaya and was lying on the bed, flicking through the TV channels.
The minutes dragged by slowly, so slowly that Lady Luxe decided to join Moza in watching mindless TV. They settled on the Style Network, criticizing most of the costumes appearing on the catwalk and claiming they could design better. Until suddenly, there was a small beep from across the room.
Lady Luxe jumped out of bed, tripping on Moza's abaya and ending up falling to the tiled floor on her knees.
"Ouch!" she yelled, clutching her knees in agony and dragging herself to her desk where she left the phone. She opened the message straightaway, far too anxious to ponder about its contents any further.
I'm running a little late. See you at Atlantis at 9:15.
"Shit!" Lady Luxe cried out, half tempted to hurl the limited edition polished stainless steel phone studded with tiny white diamonds across the room like she did with her Blackberry.
"Shit indeed," Moza echoed, a worried look on her face. "Plan B it is then."
* * *
So, with the help of her trusty cousins, there was a Plan B. Just in case.
In an attempt to test the waters a little, hoping that perhaps he had given up on acquiring his conquest, Lady Luxe sent him a quick text message, asking him to meet Jennifer at six, knowing quite well that he would be too busy with the real her to comply.
His reply came almost immediately: I would love to habibti, but unfortunately, I have family commitments to oblige. Can you please do me the honour of postponing it to 9pm?
Bastard. All fancy lingo aside, he was essentially planning on meeting a prospective bride at six, and a prospective shag at nine. The things men did to get laid never failed to surprise Lady Luxe – although admittedly, it worked in her favour when she was the one looking for a little under(the)cover action.
"Don't be so hypocritical," Moza chastised her, brushing magic powders onto her cousin's dehydrated skin to make her look young and fresh. "It is exactly the kind of thing you would do."
"No it bloody isn't," Lady Luxe snapped, trying not to move her facial muscles too much. "If I decided I wanted to get married the Emirati way, I'd stop messing around the unIslamic way. I wouldn't have my cake, eat it and then try another."
"Right," Moza replied uninterestedly. "Anyway stop moving around. I'm trying to sort your face out here. When did your complexion become so terrible?"
"Since Leila and my bloody brother became Mola."
"Well that's no reason not to take care of yourself. Now open your eyes, let me see my work."
Lady Luxe slowly opened her eyes and let them roll into focus, on Moza's frowning forehead, and her own tiny reflection in Moza's critical brown eyes. "Well?"
"I really do have a magical touch, don't I? Go and check yourself out." Moza stepped back to allow Lady Luxe to climb off the bed, smiling proudly as her cousin floated past in a jade silk jellabiya, courtesy of their good friend, fashion designer Rima, creator of the haute couture brand Rimalya.
Lady Luxe peered into the mirror and tried not to let her jaw fall open in awe. Gone was the tired old hag from that morning, and in her place, was a beautiful, vibrant young woman with perfect creamy skin with a hint of gold, cat-like eyes amidst a hue of green and glistening pearlescent lips. Her fringe blowdried to perfection, she placed a purple chiffon sheila loosely over her head, matching the purple beads on her jellabiya, and slipped her feet into Gina sandals. Her favourite diamond bracelet rested on her dainty wrist and a generous application of Romano Ricci's Midnight Oud completed her look.
"He'll never be able to resist me like this," Lady Luxe grinned, running over to Moza and throwing her arms around her. "By the way, where's Rowdha?"
Rowdha, still seething after Lady Luxe's stunt that morning, eventually thawed enough to help her cousin in her time of need. The sudden appearance of the finer Qataris, who turned up just after Lady Luxe disappeared, also assisted in placating her irritated nerves.
"She's out getting some supplies for Plan B."
"Okay great. Although I'm getting the feeling that Plan A will work just fine."
The two cousins smiled at each other, slightly nervous, as they waited for the doorbell to ring. Downstairs in the ladies reception room, Lady Luxe's aunts, Aunt Maryam and Aunt Fatima, her father's older sisters, were waiting to greet the groom's party, taking the place of her mother and her deceased grandmother. Not that they would have stayed at home, had Lady Luxe's mother and grandmother been present.
Aunt Maryam and Aunt Fatima were like characters from a Roald Dahl book. The epitome of selfishness, Maryam the divorcee and Fatima the widow stopped at absolutely nothing to get what they wanted. Be it a home renovation, a new car, or a new sister-in-law – they were constantly on the phone to their younger brother, whining, moaning and emotionally blackmailing him with their nasal voices until they got what they wanted. They weren't in the slightest interested in finding a good match for their errant niece – but they were interested in maintaining the family reputation. They needed to be assured that Humaid was from a respectable family and that he was able to display good conduct in public and that he was relatively bearable, and thus, had miraculously appeared an hour earlier, dressed in their finest abayas, swooning over Lady Luxe as if they hadn't seen her in years.
"Sis, they're here," Ahmed declared in a loud stage whisper, knocking on Lady Luxe's door and then sticking his head around it before she even acknowledged the knock.
"What?! I never even heard the door bell," Lady Luxe whimpered, the words almost catching in her throat, nervousness beginning to run through her body. "What cars have they come in?"
"A white Merc G350, two digit plate. I saw four figures in black, and then him. He's sitting with Baba and Mohamed in the study and I think they'll let him come and check you out after you go and sit with the ladies for a bit. That's what Baba said to Mohamed when you were getting ready anyway."
"Oh man. I'm dreading this," Lady Luxe moaned, leaning against Ahmed for support, hoping that she would succeed in making Humaid forget about Jennifer and save herself from more drama.
"Don't worry hun, you'll be fine," Moza said reassuringly, giving her cousin's arm a squeeze. "They won't let you sit alone with him, so I'll be there the whole time. I won't make it obvious that I'm listening to your conversation, but if he gives you a hard time, I'll step in, okay?"
"Okay," Lady Luxe answers in a quiet voice, pushing thoughts of everything backfiring out of her mind. Humaid was not going to find out that his blushing virgin bride was the same woman he danced with at Chi. Mohamed was not going to find out that his sister was far from the innocent girl he thought she was. And Leila was not going to find out that her 'best friend' was her lover's sister. Everything was going to be fine.
"Miss X? The guests are here and your aunts are asking you and Miss Moza to come downstairs," Mary the maid said timidly, peeking her head around the open door. "Oh Miss X! You look beautiful!"
"Thanks Mary, we'll come down now," Lady Luxe replied, composing herself and holding her head up high. "Ready, Moze?"
"Yalla, let's go."
With Moza leading the way, the pair made their way down the staircase, their high heels clattering menacingly against the marble, announcing their arrival long before they actually reached the living room door, Ahmed trailing behind them.
"Have fun," he said wryly, leaving the women at the foot of the stairs and heading into the study.
Moza took a deep breath and pushed the heavy wooden door open, the clouds of musky bakhoor swirling around them as she did so.
"Salaam'alaykom," she greeted the unknown faces. "My name is Moza, I am Lady Luxe's cousin, her father is my uncle," she said somberly.
The ladies living room in Lady Luxe's home was very different from the miminalistic décor of the rest of the house – with the exception of her father's study of course. She had designed the room to look like an old Emirati house, with sandy coloured walls, thick Persian rugs and low, red and black Majlis style furniture. She had collected the ornaments scattered around the large room from her travels across the Muslim world – leather floor lamps and colourful glass chandeliers from Morocco, ornate ceramic bowls from Turkey, an antique iron birdcage from Tunisia, colourful wall hangings from Cairo, ornate mother-of-pearl encrusted coffee tables from Damascus. The eclectic combination, instead of seeming confused, felt like a free-flowing story – each piece holding a special beauty, each artifact telling a different tale, each colour accompanying its neighbour.
"Salaam'alaykom," Lady Luxe said with faux shyness, following Moza into the room and casting her gaze down, lifting her extremely long (and fake) eyelashes a little to glance surreptitiously at her surroundings. There was a low murmur as all of Humaid's female relatives appraised Lady Luxe's slim frame, her generous height, her hazel eyes and her straight posture, mumbling 'helou' to themselves as they continued to stare.
Lady Luxe's aunts sat together, dressed in their abayas in preparation of Humaid's arrival, and adjacent to them, along the wall opposite the door, sat four women, also in abayas.
"Alaykom Salaam habibti, how are you?" One of the women exclaimed, as Lady Luxe glided over to greet them all personally, shaking hands and kissing their cheeks.
"Oh!" Lady Luxe exclaimed, recognizing her to be her recent client. So this was why Mohamed warned me not to mess up his friend's mum's abaya.
"Yes, I didn’t want to intimidate you that time by telling you that I am Umm Humaid," she replied with a smile. "Plus I didn’t want you to feel obliged to give me a big discount. Sit down bnayti, you look very beautiful Mashalla."
Taking a seat daintily, Lady Luxe continued looking down, smiling small smiles occasionally and answering questions about what she did and what she studied so sweetly that she almost got a sugar rush. She felt a lot more comfortable knowing that Humaid's mother was her intelligent client and actually wished that her son wasn't such a loser. If Humaid had been like…..Mr. Deliciously Absent for example, she would have actually considered selling out to the farce that was also known as marriage.
"Did you say you studied in London?" Humaid's fat aunt asked in disapproval, her eyes narrowed and her thin lips pursed into a permanent scowl, spitting out the word 'London' like a foul-tasting cardamom pod. His grandmother remained silent, her piercing stare unfaltering as she clutched prayer beads in her wrinkly right hand and muttered prayers under her breath. Her face was covered by a bronze burga and her eyes were watery – as if they had seen much sorrow in their years.
"Yes, khalti. My mother lives there so I stayed with her," Lady Luxe lied in a quiet voice, omitting the fact that her mother only visited her South Kensington apartment once a month for her Harley Street trips, and preferred living in her cottage in Hampshire the remaining 28 days of the month. She peered over her long eyelashes and added woefully: "I do miss her terribly."
"Yes, poor child, she had to grow up far too quickly," her Aunt Maryam interrupted. "However, as a consequence, she is very responsible. You should see her with her younger brother. She is marvelous."
"Isn't her younger brother actually her half brother?" The Evil Fat Aunt asked.
"Oh, it depends on your definition. Lady Luxe loves him terribly, he really is like her own," Aunt Maryam answered without skipping a beat.
"But isn't he the product of her father's second marriage?" The Evil Fat Aunt persisted. "And didn't he divorce her soon after?"
"Well, you know how it is," Moza interrupted smoothly. "My uncle, like many men, is so very difficult to please as you all know. But if there is one thing he is happy with, it is his daughter."
Before they could continue in his manner, Mary rushed into the room and announced that Humaid would be entering in a few minutes. There was a flurry as half the women in the room readjusted their sheilas, Lady Luxe's older aunt, Maryam, holding the end of it over her mouth, covering herself further.
"Salaam'alaykom," he announced loudly, sauntering into the room and flashing a wide smile at the women who sat in wait of his arrival, feeling a little like Yusuf the day all those women chopped off their fingers. Dressed in a plain white candoura and messily wrapped white guttra, he looked simple yet oddly attractive, Lady Luxe noted with interest. His eyes were big and dark, and his mouth full and generous.
Grabbing a cushion, he placed it opposite Lady Luxe. "I hope you don't mind if I sit here while we talk?" he asked to no one in particular, plonking himself down on the cushion and folding his legs.
"Of course habibi, you must get to know your possible wife as much as you can in the next twenty minutes, because the choice you make now will either make or break your entire life," his mother replied, laughing. All the older ladies joined her in giggling, making a big show of not watching the couple, but clearly listening carefully instead.
"How embarrassing," Humaid said quietly, smiling at Lady Luxe while she poured him fragrant Arabic qahwa with steady hands. "I'm Humaid by the way."
"Nice to meet you Humaid," Lady Luxe answered with a small smile, catching his eyes for a moment and then looking away like she believed a chaste virgin would do.
They began to talk quietly, trying (and failing) to ignore the women around them who were desperate to hear what they were talking about. Had they managed to overhear anything, they would have been disappointed to note that the conversation barely got beyond their favourite movies, favourite music and favourite food. Lady Luxe was surprised to learn that Humaid loved watching documentaries, his favourite music was rock and the one dish he could eat over and over again was pad thai. With prawns.
"You're not how I expected you to be," Lady Luxe conceded towards the end of their fairly enlightening conversation.
"And how was that?"
"Shallow. Conceited. Unoriginal." she says bluntly.
"Well, you're not what I expected either," he retorted with a smile.
"And what was that?"
"Boring. Stupid. Unattractive."
They laughed together, causing all the women to turn and stare with huge smiles on their faces, while Lady Luxe covered her face in her hands in embarrassment, trying to be endearing. Her attempt at feigning innocence seemed to have work as the ladies all nudged each other, whispering about how attractive her naivety was.
"Aiwa," Humaid's older sister called out from across the room, winking conspicuously, causing Lady Luxe to blush further and getting into her role so much that it actually began to feel real.
"I think your aunts seem to approve of me. Does that mean I can take your number?" Humaid asked with a slow smile, taking in Lady Luxe's pink lips and ready smile with lust, aching to know what was hidden beneath the loose folds of her gown, whether the rest of her body was the same caramel colour of her face, whether the rest of her would turn pink beneath his touch like her face did.
"Sorry Humaid, but I've never given my number to a guy before," You already have it, you nerd.
"Oh okay. Well, can you make an exception?" If she gives her number to me after just a little persuasion, it's a definite indicator that she's ready to give it to anyone.
"No I can't, sorry. If you need to get hold of me, you can always call my brother Mohamed and pass a message on." You know Mohamed right? The same guy I danced with at Chi?
"Sure, I understand." This girl really takes her reputation seriously. Perfect wife material. But maybe not that much fun.
The conversation drew to a close, hurried up by Mohamed's mother who felt that they were beginning to overstay their welcome although most of the snacks Claudine had whipped up were left untouched. Lady Luxe bid farewell to all the smiling ladies, kissed them affectionately on their cheeks and then excused herself from her aunts' chattering as they analysed the evening's events, claiming she had a headache.
Pulling her sandals off her feet and running up the stairs with Moza close behind, she shut the door to her bedroom and grabbed her Vertu phone, willing it to beep with a cancellation message.
"Girl, you were wicked down there," Moza gushed. "Seriously, if I were a bloke looking for a missus, I would so propose to you based on that Oscar winning performance."
"Really?" Lady Luxe asked, playing with the phone and praying fervently.
"Really." Moza affirmed with confidence. "Look, he only just left and it's only 7:30. Give it another ten minutes, I'm sure he'll cancel. He was so besotted by you."
Putting her phone on 'loud', Lady Luxe went to the dressing room and changed into more comfortable tracksuit bottoms and an oversized hoody. Pulling her hair into a ponytail, she went back to her bedroom to find that Moza had taken off her abaya and was lying on the bed, flicking through the TV channels.
The minutes dragged by slowly, so slowly that Lady Luxe decided to join Moza in watching mindless TV. They settled on the Style Network, criticizing most of the costumes appearing on the catwalk and claiming they could design better. Until suddenly, there was a small beep from across the room.
Lady Luxe jumped out of bed, tripping on Moza's abaya and ending up falling to the tiled floor on her knees.
"Ouch!" she yelled, clutching her knees in agony and dragging herself to her desk where she left the phone. She opened the message straightaway, far too anxious to ponder about its contents any further.
I'm running a little late. See you at Atlantis at 9:15.
"Shit!" Lady Luxe cried out, half tempted to hurl the limited edition polished stainless steel phone studded with tiny white diamonds across the room like she did with her Blackberry.
"Shit indeed," Moza echoed, a worried look on her face. "Plan B it is then."
* * *
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Chapter Twenty-Two – When it rains, it pours.
Lady Luxe lies back in her bed and wills herself to get up, activating the 'snooze' option on her Vertu phone to give herself another ten minutes of uninterrupted bed rest – something she never thought she would crave at the tender age of twenty-one.
Is this what getting old feels like? She asks herself, rolling over onto her stomach and covering her head with her duck-feather pillow in an attempt to drown out all atmospheric noises as well as the bright morning sun.
It has been a week since her crazy cousins, sisters Moza and Rowdha, stormed the UAE like two Swarovski crystal encrusted tornadoes and since their arrival, Lady Luxe has had no more than four hours of restless sleep every night, the result of which prompted two pink, sore pimples to form on her otherwise flawless complexion. Dousing said spots with tea tree oil, last night, Lady Luxe stared at her reflection in the mirror – at her dehydrated skin, the faint shadows under her tired eyes and her limp hair – and scowled furiously, prodding the spots and lifting up sections of her hair. The nightly shenanigans were not the only things that were playing havoc on her health though. It had been two weeks since Leila started dating her brother and she had expected their perverse little affair to have run its course by now. But it hadn’t. In fact, it had not even peaked yet, with Leila withholding access to her rose garden with surprising resilience.
Pride has prevailed over curiosity, so after their argument at QDs, Lady Luxe has refused to ask Leila a single question about her blossoming relationship and in turn, Leila has kept her chips close to her, barely mentioning Mohamed's name during their few conversations, leaving Lady Luxe with nothing but her overactive imagination to piece together the puzzle. She has imagined all sorts of chilling scenarios: running into Mola (her new name for the gruesome twosome) absolutely anywhere in Dubai and Leila subsequently blackmailing her for the rest of her pitiful life, or perhaps bumping into her making a hasty walk of shame at 5am in their villa. This particular thought causes an ice-cold chill down Lady Luxe's spine, waking her up completely. When her phone rings again, instead of switching it off, she actually looks down and sees that it is Rowdha calling her and not her alarm.
"Hello?" she mumbles, her head still under the pillow and her limbs sprawled like a starfish.
"Wake up tart," Rowdha demands in her thick, British accent. "We've got loads of stuff to do today. Be in JBR by 3pm."
Lady Luxe mumbles an incomprehensible profanity and Rowdha hangs up the phone, knowing that she won't have to call her relatively reliable cousin again.
Moza and Rowdha, like their first cousin, were also educated in the UK, although unlike her, they didn’t just complete their degrees there. When Rowdha was thirteen and Moza eleven, their mother decided that they were far too dependent on their maids and that they needed to learn more about the side of their heritage that was often overlooked. Thus, they packed away a scowling Rowdha and teary Moza to Cheltenham Ladies' College to learn about the British culture, to refine their accents and to become a little more independent. Their father, Lady Luxe's uncle, was always more liberal than his younger brother. He too had married an English woman – one he remained happily married to without taking on further wives for thirty-five years. Moza and Rowdha however, were compelled to wed Khaleeji men despite their own father's preference and ended up marrying two Saudi brothers whom they met whilst holidaying in Evian Les Bains.
Contrary to the stereotypes of Arab women miserable at the mercy of vindictive Khaleeji men, both sisters were relatively content with their choices; Moza's husband happily helped his wife to open her own beauty salon in Jeddah while Rowdha's encouraged her to complete her MBA at Harvard.
Rowdha was never at want for anything, but did wish she saw her husband a little more. But his time was limited, especially as he had recently taken a new wife when she refused to bear any more children for fear of spoiling her figure – the one she worked extremely hard to get back after giving birth to a boy and a girl. She was far from upset by the marriage though, polygamy being a reality in many Khaleeji women's lives. In fact, she enjoyed the extra freedom it afforded her. Having mothered two children, her duty was fulfilled and she was more or less left to her own devices. She spent her summers in Chelsea with her children, her autumns on the Upper East Side, her winters in Riyadh and her springs in Montmarte. Her kids, currently home-schooled by a range of tutors and raised by a score of maids, were left relatively unaffected by their mother's tendency to take flight whenever it took her fancy.
Moza's husband was different from his older brother and felt that his hands were full with the one wife and one son. However, he too was happy to let his wife to travel without him whenever she needed to, completely oblivious to the extent of her beauty and even accusing her of paranoia the rare occasions she complained that the men in the streets were undressing her with their eyes. Even if he wasn’t watching her, other men certainly were, for Moza is the exact definition of beauty. Her complexion is as smooth as freshly whipped butter, her smile is radiant and her eyes are constantly alight with mischief. Slightly chubby with a voluptuous bosom to match her equally generous lips, she is never at want for male and female admirers alike.
Rowdha too has the same, cheeky glint in her eyes, her caramel complexion is clear and even, and her tiny frame almost gives her an elfish look. Together, they are unstoppable, as they speed down Jumeirah Road in their white Lexus and give sidelong glances through the half open windows to all the ogling Emirati men who pull up beside them in their Range Rover Sports and X6s.
For the past week, Lady Luxe has been joining them as they race various cars on their way home from shisha evenings in Fudos, their favourite hangout next to Mercato Mall. Fudos, in Lady Luxe's opinion, is a true, undiscovered treasure, completely misrepresented in the Time Out description. It is perhaps the only shisha joint that actually serves really good Thai, Japanese, Italian and Lebanese food as well as live music, karaoke nights and the occasional group of shaami men who'll burst into a spontaneous debka dance around the joint. The restaurant is also full of local men, who have a tendency to stare relentless at any attractive woman until she accidentally catches his eye.
After this unfortunate coincidence which he will view as a divine sign, he will continue staring in the hope that she will turn on her Bluetooth and communicate with him further. Or worse, he will hold up his number on an electronic screen, willing her to memorise it or at the very least, glance at it, thoroughly embarrassing himself in the process. However, Emirati men are incredibly thick-skinned when chasing their prey, and usually never take 'no' (or 'hell no', 'I'm not interested' or even 'fuck off') for an answer. Well-accustomed to the games their female peers like to play, they firmly believe that a woman who ignores their attention is simply feigning indifference. They understand a downward gaze to be a pretense of chastity, an open window an invitation to sinful acts and, God forbid, a caught eye a declaration of lust.
The last time they went to Fudos, Lady Luxe had a man grab her long, gothic-style abaya sleeve in the restroom, an intrusion that exceeded the usual kind. The basins in the restroom are the kind that is shared with the adjacent male restroom, the mirror acting as a wall between them, leaving ample space to play paper-rock-scissors under.
Lady Luxe, outraged by the audacity, yanked her sleeve back from her accoster, stuck her middle finger up under the mirror (hopefully right in his face) and yelled 'piss off you perv', before stalking out of the restroom and back into the thriving restaurant. Taking a seat on the low, black sofas in the corner of the room, reserved usually for regulars, she repeated the incident to her cousins who laughed raucously in response, neither of them displaying much decorum when it came to their giggles. Moza's laugh was infectious, and Rowdha's was hearty, inviting all around them to stare in curiosity. Lady Luxe laughed back with them, relieved to be around girls who actually understood her. It had been so long since she let down her sheila and relaxed – without having to worry that her acquaintance would work out who she was. If she happened to be spending her evening with a distant friend who did know her family, she knew that her antics would whizz through the grapevine before she even got home. It was a lose-lose situation.
"No one gets what it's like to be us," Rowdha said knowingly, taking a long drag of her grape and mint shisha and leaning against the sofa's soft back. "The Western expats are dying of curiosity, wondering what's underneath the sparkly black gowns, what goes behind our large villa gates, excited when we befriend them and boasting about us as if we're ornaments on a mantelpiece…"
"Hear, hear!" Lady Luxe toasted, raising her mint tea glass and eyeing up a cute local with big eyes. He caught her eye and she looked away, not wanting him to hold up his number. A firm believer of not defecating on her own doorstep, Lady Luxe refused to play with her own kind, no matter how attractive they happened to be.
"The Arab expats detest us – angry that although we're all essentially supposed to be from the same family, God has blessed us with wealth and they have been incapacitated by war, famine or poverty," Rowdha continued, clearly on a roll. "Some of them simply look down at us, proud of their ancient history, viewing us as ignorant Bedouins who have just escaped the desert and have come into wealth and prosperity due to no talent of our own. And then our own are a curious mix of hormonal teenagers, moralistic middle-aged women, boring old cows or traditional tarts. Not easy to find a good friend among those."
Moza and Lady Luxe nodded in agreement, taking subsequent drags from their shisha pipes.
"Even in our community there's a stark difference of values and beliefs," Lady Luxe added thoughtfully. "If we become friends with a girl from a lesser-known family, there's a chance that she's only looking to increase her own social network, and will bitch about us the moment our backs are turned. It’s so hard to find a true friend who isn't there just for the novelty, who isn't looking for a scandalous bit of juicy gossip to talk about over tea with her real friends, who has had the same Western educational influence, is from a successful family, is on the same wavelength."
"It's bloody impossible," Moza interrupted. "If I didn’t have a sister, I don’t know what I'd do."
She took Lady Luxe's hands and held them in hers. "Habibti, you have to be careful about who you hang out with over here. Your father has a lot of friends but he also has a lot of enemies. There are loads of people who'd kill for a bit of information about his only daughter. I know you're still young and you're still having fun. I know that it's been hard for you to come back to Dubai after three years of being free in London. But you really have to be careful."
Lady Luxe said nothing, just listened, a rock weighing down on her already heavy mind. She wondered if she could abandon her alter ego, Jennifer, without suffering from huge repercussions. Or if it was too late.
That night, she excused herself from their nightly drive up and down Beach Road, looking for fast cars to race, and climbed into her Cayenne alone with just her thoughts for company. She fell into another light sleep, the slightest noise - a car horn, a footstep, a sneeze - waking her up and reminding her of the precarious tight-rope she had been naively balancing on.
How long before she would fall?
* * *
"Good morning, freak. What happened to your head?" Ahmed greets Lady Luxe playfully as she enters the kitchen in her old pink pyjamas and crazy bed head, inhaling the glorious scent of homemade buttery pancakes. Her brown hair, usually straight with the slightest of waves, stuck up in all directions and her fringe sat nowhere near her forehead. She couldn’t be bothered to run a comb through the tangles and decided to relish in the temporary liberation of not caring about her appearance
"Sabah al khair, geek," she replies with a smile, ruffling his jet black hair as she passes him and taking a seat opposite him on the kitchen table. "What happened to your face?" She sticks her tongue out at her brother who replies by throwing a strawberry at her, hitting her squarely in the chest.
"Good morning Miss X," Claudine says stiffly with her ever-so-slight French accent, preparing Lady Luxe's plate of pancakes with chocolate sauce, whipped cream and strawberries and placing it gently down in front of her. "Would you like me to pour you some juice?"
"No Claud, I think I can manage that myself," she laughs, grabbing the jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and pouring it into a glass, giving Claudine a quick grin. Claudine has been in their family for over nine years, and is more like an aunt than a cook. Her father entrusts her with a monthly home budget and allows her to keep whatever remains at the end of the month as an additional bonus. She goes out when she needs to without seeking permission, enjoys a business class flight back to the South of France every year and never has to worry about her employer hitting on her, despite being a very attractive thirty-eight year old with pale blond hair and sea-green eyes. Not her main employer anyway. She has caught his eldest son appraising her small waist, high cheekbones and slim hips occasionally. She ensures to keep her bedroom door locked at all times and carries mace in her apron pocket – just in case.
Claudine has heard a few stories about help being abused, beaten, raped, locked up with no food, but considers herself a different calibre from the Sri Lankan and Filipina housemaids whom she occasionally comes across in in the neighbourhood. For starters, she is European, educated and on a real salary – not a pitiful allowance that would barely cover the cost of her phone bill. Having trained in numerous restaurants and hotels across Europe, she never expected that she would move to Dubai to work as a personal chef and instead had pictured herself as the proud owner of an intimate French eatery, resembling her own family restaurant in the quaint University town, Aix En Provence. But the salary and benefits of working for the X family are too good to resist, and although she is more a housekeeper than a chef, she really only has to delegate the housework between Mary the Maid, the two drivers and part-time gardener, and then take care of the pantry and kitchen herself.
Claudine had initially planned to stay with the X family for two years, but soon found herself making excuses to stay on for longer and longer, enjoying her comfortable life in the huge luxury villa, the low demands and the glorious sunshine. And plus, she has a soft spot for her employer. After looking after him and his family for nine years, she couldn't help but grow attached to him. As frightening as he was with his children, for some reason, with her, he was soft. A part of her that she refused to acknowledge, a part that she desperately tried to forget, wanted to make him happy in ways other than feeding him and organising his home.
"Claud, I'm not going to be home for dinner," Lady Luxe announces, licking the last of the chocolate sauce off her bottom lip in satisfaction.
"You're not?" Claudine turns around to look at Lady Luxe in surprise, her neat eyebrows raised quizzically. "But what about the guests, Miss X?"
"What guests?" Lady Luxe asks, grabbing Ahmed's last strawberry and stuffing it in her mouth before he can protest.
"The family your father has invited in the evening, just for coffee I think but still, you need to be home early. I think you need to call him and speak to him before you make evening plans. It sounded important. He wants me to make nine different kinds of snacks."
"Nine items?!" Ahmed and Lady Luxe exclaim in unison.
"Is he inviting Sheikh Mohamed or something?" Ahmed jokes, getting off the stool and stretching in his black 'One Ummah' t-shirt and baggy grey tracksuit bottoms. He walks over to the sink and begins rinsing his plate while Claudine hurries around the kitchen, checking the glistening white Italian cabinets to ensure she has all the correct ingredients for tonight's feast.
"Okay, I'll give him a call," Lady Luxe says blithely, slightly annoyed at having her evening plans with her cousins interrupted. She jogs up the stairs and into her room, throwing on a plain black abaya and a chiffon Fendi scarf, applying a tiny brush of blusher on her pale cheeks and sticking on big black Dior sunglasses to hide her tired eyes. She wants her spots to have a chance to heal so opts against wearing too much makeup, content with the instant glamour the sunglasses provide.
She drives quickly to the other side of Dubai, getting flashed at least once by one of the many speed cameras on Sheikh Zayed Road, waves her hand impatiently at the security guards who have no chance of stopping her Ferrari as she roars into the car park and parks Lady Penelope in one, swift maneuver. She notices a range of Qatari license plates next to hers – a red Ferrari, three different Mercedes AMGs (a small coupe, a sedan and a 4x4) and a monstrous black and silver Dodge Charger – and wonders who they belong to.
Exiting the lift on the eighteenth floor, she raps on the door and Rowdha flings it open, the scrumptious fragrance of baking wrapping itself around her.
"Finally! You're here!" Rowdha exclaims, grabbing her cousin's arm and pulling her into the apartment. The balcony doors of the apartment are wide open and sunlight floods into the large open plan space, decorated sparsely in contemporary furnishings.
"What's going on?" Lady Luxe asks as she spies Moza hard at work in the kitchen through the hatch in the dining area, looking very Nigella-like in a low-cut black dress and dangly earrings.
"We're on a mission," Moza declares, opening up the oven door, taking out a tray of chocolate brownies and placing them next to a large, homemade strawberry tart.
"Look cuz," Rowdha interrupts, firmly placing her hands on Lady Luxe's shoulders and turning her body to face her. "There are a group of fit Qatari guys who live on the twentieth floor. They drive hot cars, they're always decked out in Ray Bans and they're basically too fit to ignore."
"We tried to ignore them, we really did," Moza adds dramatically, sticking her face through the hatch.
"But our efforts were no match for our desires. We NEED to talk to them," Rowdha finishes off.
"So go and talk to them," Lady Luxe laughs, trying to grab a brownie and having her hand swatted away by Moza.
"We can't," Moza says dejectedly. "We're married. We can't go around chirpsing guys like this, so we decided that we'll let our gorgeous single cousin do the chirpsing and we'll just have to be satisfied by living vicariously through her."
"So what are you saying?" Lady Luxe asks slowly, knowing quite well that she probably doesn’t want to know the answer.
"Well," Rowdha begins in excitement, a huge grin on her face. "They'll be back from the mosque in about half an hour. Yes, we've noticed when they come in and out. We want you to take these goodies up to them and just be like, 'welcome to neighbourhood. I noticed you don’t have a woman to look after you so I thought I'd help you out a little.' "
Lady Luxe stares at her cousins in horror. "Please tell me you're not serious!" she begs, her eyes wide in disbelief. "I can't do that! I might as well hand myself on a platter to them, completely starkers with an 'eat me' sign written on my chest in chocolate body paint!"
"Oh come on, it's not that bad," Moza protests, washing her floury hands and coming out of the kitchen, her face flushed from the heat of the oven. "These poor boys are all alone with no mothers, no wives, no sisters. It's our duty to look after our brothers."
"Brothers!" Lady Luxe scoffs. "What is this, an incestuous Virginia Andrews scenario? The chances of you looking at them like they're your brothers are as likely as you walking out the house with no makeup."
"Oh come on, stop being such a wet blanket," Rowdha says in disapproval. "I thought you were more gutsy than that! You'll probably never see them again anyway, and we'll be right behind you."
"But what's the point? You're both happily married with children for God's sake. Nothing's gonna happen!"
"It's just for a laugh," Moza explains earnestly. "We're having a bit of innocent fun. Go on, say you'll do it! Don’t let me wonder how hot they are close up for the rest of my life! Don't let my moist brownies and Rowdha's delectable strawberry tart go to waste!"
"If anything's a tart, it's you," Lady Luxe mutters, stalking into Moza's bedroom. "I'm not going looking like this. Give me fifteen minutes to sort my face out."
Seventeen minutes later, Lady Luxe emerges from Moza's bedroom with her two pimples completely hidden, her complexion bright and shimmery and her eyelashes laden with Dior show mascara. Her cousins have also abayafied themselves, wrapping their sheila's loosely around their neck and are carrying a tray of baked goodies each.
"Don’t I get anything to carry?" Lady Luxe asks, looking around the kitchen. "Or am I just offering myself?"
"You're the spokesperson, you don't need to carry anything," Rowdha says quickly, pushing her out of the apartment. They wait for the lift in trepidation, Moza giggling uncontrollably.
"Shutup," hisses Rowdha as they get into the lift and make the very short journey up to the twentieth floor.
Lady Luxe is used to being roped into bizarre missions, and remembers her childhood summers in her cousins' Jumeirah villa, playing knock-down-ginger and making prank calls. She can't believe that ten years, three offspring, and a lot of further education later, they're still crazy, still uncontrollable and still as close as ever.
"Now what?" she whispers, staring at the large, wooden front door feeling anxious. It's been a long time since she did something ridiculous as herself, and without her Jeinnifer wig and lenses, she feels exposed and nervous.
"Knock on the door," Rowdha hisses, elbowing her sister sharply in the ribs in an attempt to make her giggles subside.
Her breath caught in her throat, Lady Luxe rings the doorbell of the apartment and waits in anticipation, her cousins standing slightly behind her, the three of them in their fitted abayas and perfectly applied makeup, looking like they have just come home from a Friday brunch, not like they've been slaving away in the kitchen all morning. She hopes these guys really are worth all the bother.
The front door opens slowly and a sleepy face greets them. The man looks like he is in his mid-twenties, and is wearing a faded blue t-shirt and checked shorts, his curly hair long and afro-like and his small eyes slightly bloodshot. His mouth is also small, appearing even more so with his large, Roman nose dominating most of his face and there are old acne scars decorating his dark cheeks, giving them the appearance of old, worn leather. Lady Luxe can feel her cousins' disappointment and embarrassment radiating through their thin abayas. Oh, I could kill you with my own bare hands, you stupid tarts, she thinks to herself, grimacing.
"Salam'Alaykom," she says, through clenched teeth. "I'm so sorry to have woken you."
"Ma fi moshkela," he croaks, his putrid morning breath hitting Lady Luxe in the face like a cannon. "Can I help you?"
"Well, we're your neighbours and we noticed that you don't have anyone to take care of you," Lady Luxe begins sweetly, her mouth relaxing and falling into a real smile as the cogs in her head start moving. She feels Rowdha's pointy elbow digging into her ribs, telling her to cool off, which she ignores.
Big Nose laughs, his eyes brightening. "It's hard, having no sisters…" he says slowly.
"Well don’t worry, my cousins here are happy to be your sisters. This is Moza, she's baked you some moist white chocolate brownies, and this is her lovely sister Rowdha, who made this delicious strawberry tart with her own, bare hands."
She pauses dramatically for effect, ignoring Moza's conspicuous coughing and Rowdha's foot coming down on hers. Big Nose notices none of these shenanigans, instead moves his eyes to Rowdha's small hands.
"Anyway, I will leave you to all to talk. I'd better go!" With that, Lady Luxe spins around and stalks away, disappearing through the service doors and leaving behind nothing but a whiff of 'Miss Charming' mixed with butter and pastry behind.
* * *
"Oh good, you're back," Claudine greets Lady Luxe as she enters the villa, still grinning from her revenge. She ignored her ringing phone the entire journey home but knows she will have to face Rowdha's fury eventually and is actually looking forward to the confrontation.
"I sure am!" she sings, throwing her arm around Claudine's shoulders. "So, what's up with this tea party thing? I tried calling Baba but he didn't answer, and then he BB'd me to tell me to be home by five and to look nice. What's going on? Who's coming round?"
"Ah, yes," Claudine begins awkwardly, clearing her throat. "Well, how do I put this? Well, you see, your father thinks that perhaps it's time you were introduced to some…suitors," she finally manages to say, the French tinge on her otherwise British accent like a dust of icing on a Victoria Sponge cake.
Lady Luxe's smile freezes on her face.
"What?!" she exclaims, her heart plummeting.
"Yeah, it's true," Ahmed chimes in, appearing on the top of the stairs, his voice echoing through the foyer. "I tried calling you but you didn't answer. Some guy is coming to see you with his family."
"Who is he?"
"A friend of Mohamed's," he replies, making a face. "Humaid I think? Sorry sis, I did try to warn you. Baba's coming home early especially, he should be here in an hour and then they're gonna get here around six I think, before dinner anyway."
"Shit," Lady Luxe mutters, cursing herself for telling her father she had been reading marriage books. He obviously remembered her little lie and decided now was the time to display unnecessary fatherly care. "But today? Why today?"
Ahmed shrugs and Claudine disappears into the kitchen where Mary is hurriedly chopping away, trying to prepare the nine different items, anxious to show her employer what she is made of.
"I'm going to call Baba," Lady Luxe announces at last, pulling her BB out of her pocket, seeing Ahmed's and Leila's missed calls for the first time. She drags herself up the stairs as if her legs are tied to weights and slams her bedroom door closed, even though there is no one around to listen to her anger. Her phone beeps again, Leila calling for the third time, and Lady Luxe grudgingly answers. She really cannot stomach Leila's childlike boasting about her brother today.
"Shu?" she says rudely, yanking off her abaya and tossing it to the floor.
"Where have you been? I've been calling you for ages," Leila moans on the other end.
"My cousins are here, remember? I was busy with them."
"Okay, well anyway, I was thinking… do you want to go out tonight? As in, out? It's been so long since we did something fun, since you insist on being Emirati these days."
"No thanks," Lady Luxe says curtly, flinging her shoes off and letting them fall on top of her discarded abaya. "I'm too busy. Family stuff."
"Well what about tomorrow night? That wig hasn't seen the moonlight in so long, it's probably getting eaten by moths. What do you say?"
"Sorry, I can't. You know my cousins are here, I'll be busy with them until they leave."
Leila, sensing Lady Luxe's reluctance to go out with her, has a vision of Moe looming down over her, all her new designer goods in his hands, and finds her palms beginning to sweat a little. "When are they leaving?" she asks in a small voice.
"I don’t know. Look Leila, to be honest, I have no intention of being 'Jennifer' again," Lady Luxe relents, the ice melting away at Leila's persistence. "I'm twenty-one years-old now, I have a lot of family shit going on. I can't mess about like this all the time. I have to grow up a bit. Besides, I'm getting bad vibes about it all."
Leila listens in horror, wondering how she is going to deliver the goods to Humaid if 'Jennifer' is AWOL. For good. She decides to come clean. Lady Luxe has always been up for a laugh and may even consent if she's honest.
"Okay look. Basically, you know Cowboy? That guy you were dancing with at Chi? The one you were all over and whose hat you stole?"
"Yes. I remember," Lady Luxe answers, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "I had to shower for an hour to get his strong perfume off me. He's been calling me and I've been ignoring him."
"Oh. Well. How about we go on a double date? Me and Mohamed, you and Humaid? Just for a laugh?" A desperate edge appears in Leila's voice and Lady Luxe notices it.
"NO!" she says firmly. "I'm not interested in hanging out with any Emiratis. You know how I feel about that. Hang on, what did you say Cowboy's name was?"
"Humaid. He's actually really sweet, why don't you give him a chance?" Leila says quickly, mistaking Lady Luxe's question as interest.
The blood drains from Lady Luxe and she feels more nauseous than ever. "Look Leila. I never want you to mention his name again okay? Jennifer is gone for good, the old me is gone for good, and that's that. Just let it go!"
"Fine!" Leila snaps, finally getting annoyed. "Do what you want. But just to let you know – he knows you're Emirati and he has your phone number. He said he'll phone his friend in Etisalat and find out who you are if you don't meet him."
"Whatever," Lady Luxe scoffs. As if I'm stupid enough to register my 'dodgy' line under my own name.
"And he also has your Cayenne's license plate number," Leila lies. Well, he will do if I give it to him, you stupid sharmuta.
Lady Luxe stops breathing. Her license plate number? Her cars were registered in her father's name.
"It's not that easy," she manages to say, trying to keep her voice level.
"It is for people with wasta," Leila retorts, struggling to keep the power with her. "He's serious. He was going on and on about you and –"
"How did he find out I'm Emirati?" Lady Luxe suddenly asks. "You told him didn’t you?"
"No I didn't-" Leila protests.
"Right." Lady Luxe cuts in. "I'm not meeting him, so you can tell your new best friend to fuck off."
She hangs up the phone and collapses onto the bed, feeling completely drained. Her phone beeps again and she looks down wearily to see she has a message from Mohamed. Wanker, she thinks to herself, opening it up.
My friend Humaid is coming round tonight with his family to meet you. Make sure you make an effort and look respectable. Baba's coming home early.
"Argh!" she screams out in frustration, throwing her phone across the room with all her strength. It smashes against the wall and falls to the hard, tiled floor. Humaid wants to meet her and Jennifer? If he really knew her license plate number, and wasn't bluffing, then she was screwed.
How was she going to get out of this one?
Is this what getting old feels like? She asks herself, rolling over onto her stomach and covering her head with her duck-feather pillow in an attempt to drown out all atmospheric noises as well as the bright morning sun.
It has been a week since her crazy cousins, sisters Moza and Rowdha, stormed the UAE like two Swarovski crystal encrusted tornadoes and since their arrival, Lady Luxe has had no more than four hours of restless sleep every night, the result of which prompted two pink, sore pimples to form on her otherwise flawless complexion. Dousing said spots with tea tree oil, last night, Lady Luxe stared at her reflection in the mirror – at her dehydrated skin, the faint shadows under her tired eyes and her limp hair – and scowled furiously, prodding the spots and lifting up sections of her hair. The nightly shenanigans were not the only things that were playing havoc on her health though. It had been two weeks since Leila started dating her brother and she had expected their perverse little affair to have run its course by now. But it hadn’t. In fact, it had not even peaked yet, with Leila withholding access to her rose garden with surprising resilience.
Pride has prevailed over curiosity, so after their argument at QDs, Lady Luxe has refused to ask Leila a single question about her blossoming relationship and in turn, Leila has kept her chips close to her, barely mentioning Mohamed's name during their few conversations, leaving Lady Luxe with nothing but her overactive imagination to piece together the puzzle. She has imagined all sorts of chilling scenarios: running into Mola (her new name for the gruesome twosome) absolutely anywhere in Dubai and Leila subsequently blackmailing her for the rest of her pitiful life, or perhaps bumping into her making a hasty walk of shame at 5am in their villa. This particular thought causes an ice-cold chill down Lady Luxe's spine, waking her up completely. When her phone rings again, instead of switching it off, she actually looks down and sees that it is Rowdha calling her and not her alarm.
"Hello?" she mumbles, her head still under the pillow and her limbs sprawled like a starfish.
"Wake up tart," Rowdha demands in her thick, British accent. "We've got loads of stuff to do today. Be in JBR by 3pm."
Lady Luxe mumbles an incomprehensible profanity and Rowdha hangs up the phone, knowing that she won't have to call her relatively reliable cousin again.
Moza and Rowdha, like their first cousin, were also educated in the UK, although unlike her, they didn’t just complete their degrees there. When Rowdha was thirteen and Moza eleven, their mother decided that they were far too dependent on their maids and that they needed to learn more about the side of their heritage that was often overlooked. Thus, they packed away a scowling Rowdha and teary Moza to Cheltenham Ladies' College to learn about the British culture, to refine their accents and to become a little more independent. Their father, Lady Luxe's uncle, was always more liberal than his younger brother. He too had married an English woman – one he remained happily married to without taking on further wives for thirty-five years. Moza and Rowdha however, were compelled to wed Khaleeji men despite their own father's preference and ended up marrying two Saudi brothers whom they met whilst holidaying in Evian Les Bains.
Contrary to the stereotypes of Arab women miserable at the mercy of vindictive Khaleeji men, both sisters were relatively content with their choices; Moza's husband happily helped his wife to open her own beauty salon in Jeddah while Rowdha's encouraged her to complete her MBA at Harvard.
Rowdha was never at want for anything, but did wish she saw her husband a little more. But his time was limited, especially as he had recently taken a new wife when she refused to bear any more children for fear of spoiling her figure – the one she worked extremely hard to get back after giving birth to a boy and a girl. She was far from upset by the marriage though, polygamy being a reality in many Khaleeji women's lives. In fact, she enjoyed the extra freedom it afforded her. Having mothered two children, her duty was fulfilled and she was more or less left to her own devices. She spent her summers in Chelsea with her children, her autumns on the Upper East Side, her winters in Riyadh and her springs in Montmarte. Her kids, currently home-schooled by a range of tutors and raised by a score of maids, were left relatively unaffected by their mother's tendency to take flight whenever it took her fancy.
Moza's husband was different from his older brother and felt that his hands were full with the one wife and one son. However, he too was happy to let his wife to travel without him whenever she needed to, completely oblivious to the extent of her beauty and even accusing her of paranoia the rare occasions she complained that the men in the streets were undressing her with their eyes. Even if he wasn’t watching her, other men certainly were, for Moza is the exact definition of beauty. Her complexion is as smooth as freshly whipped butter, her smile is radiant and her eyes are constantly alight with mischief. Slightly chubby with a voluptuous bosom to match her equally generous lips, she is never at want for male and female admirers alike.
Rowdha too has the same, cheeky glint in her eyes, her caramel complexion is clear and even, and her tiny frame almost gives her an elfish look. Together, they are unstoppable, as they speed down Jumeirah Road in their white Lexus and give sidelong glances through the half open windows to all the ogling Emirati men who pull up beside them in their Range Rover Sports and X6s.
For the past week, Lady Luxe has been joining them as they race various cars on their way home from shisha evenings in Fudos, their favourite hangout next to Mercato Mall. Fudos, in Lady Luxe's opinion, is a true, undiscovered treasure, completely misrepresented in the Time Out description. It is perhaps the only shisha joint that actually serves really good Thai, Japanese, Italian and Lebanese food as well as live music, karaoke nights and the occasional group of shaami men who'll burst into a spontaneous debka dance around the joint. The restaurant is also full of local men, who have a tendency to stare relentless at any attractive woman until she accidentally catches his eye.
After this unfortunate coincidence which he will view as a divine sign, he will continue staring in the hope that she will turn on her Bluetooth and communicate with him further. Or worse, he will hold up his number on an electronic screen, willing her to memorise it or at the very least, glance at it, thoroughly embarrassing himself in the process. However, Emirati men are incredibly thick-skinned when chasing their prey, and usually never take 'no' (or 'hell no', 'I'm not interested' or even 'fuck off') for an answer. Well-accustomed to the games their female peers like to play, they firmly believe that a woman who ignores their attention is simply feigning indifference. They understand a downward gaze to be a pretense of chastity, an open window an invitation to sinful acts and, God forbid, a caught eye a declaration of lust.
The last time they went to Fudos, Lady Luxe had a man grab her long, gothic-style abaya sleeve in the restroom, an intrusion that exceeded the usual kind. The basins in the restroom are the kind that is shared with the adjacent male restroom, the mirror acting as a wall between them, leaving ample space to play paper-rock-scissors under.
Lady Luxe, outraged by the audacity, yanked her sleeve back from her accoster, stuck her middle finger up under the mirror (hopefully right in his face) and yelled 'piss off you perv', before stalking out of the restroom and back into the thriving restaurant. Taking a seat on the low, black sofas in the corner of the room, reserved usually for regulars, she repeated the incident to her cousins who laughed raucously in response, neither of them displaying much decorum when it came to their giggles. Moza's laugh was infectious, and Rowdha's was hearty, inviting all around them to stare in curiosity. Lady Luxe laughed back with them, relieved to be around girls who actually understood her. It had been so long since she let down her sheila and relaxed – without having to worry that her acquaintance would work out who she was. If she happened to be spending her evening with a distant friend who did know her family, she knew that her antics would whizz through the grapevine before she even got home. It was a lose-lose situation.
"No one gets what it's like to be us," Rowdha said knowingly, taking a long drag of her grape and mint shisha and leaning against the sofa's soft back. "The Western expats are dying of curiosity, wondering what's underneath the sparkly black gowns, what goes behind our large villa gates, excited when we befriend them and boasting about us as if we're ornaments on a mantelpiece…"
"Hear, hear!" Lady Luxe toasted, raising her mint tea glass and eyeing up a cute local with big eyes. He caught her eye and she looked away, not wanting him to hold up his number. A firm believer of not defecating on her own doorstep, Lady Luxe refused to play with her own kind, no matter how attractive they happened to be.
"The Arab expats detest us – angry that although we're all essentially supposed to be from the same family, God has blessed us with wealth and they have been incapacitated by war, famine or poverty," Rowdha continued, clearly on a roll. "Some of them simply look down at us, proud of their ancient history, viewing us as ignorant Bedouins who have just escaped the desert and have come into wealth and prosperity due to no talent of our own. And then our own are a curious mix of hormonal teenagers, moralistic middle-aged women, boring old cows or traditional tarts. Not easy to find a good friend among those."
Moza and Lady Luxe nodded in agreement, taking subsequent drags from their shisha pipes.
"Even in our community there's a stark difference of values and beliefs," Lady Luxe added thoughtfully. "If we become friends with a girl from a lesser-known family, there's a chance that she's only looking to increase her own social network, and will bitch about us the moment our backs are turned. It’s so hard to find a true friend who isn't there just for the novelty, who isn't looking for a scandalous bit of juicy gossip to talk about over tea with her real friends, who has had the same Western educational influence, is from a successful family, is on the same wavelength."
"It's bloody impossible," Moza interrupted. "If I didn’t have a sister, I don’t know what I'd do."
She took Lady Luxe's hands and held them in hers. "Habibti, you have to be careful about who you hang out with over here. Your father has a lot of friends but he also has a lot of enemies. There are loads of people who'd kill for a bit of information about his only daughter. I know you're still young and you're still having fun. I know that it's been hard for you to come back to Dubai after three years of being free in London. But you really have to be careful."
Lady Luxe said nothing, just listened, a rock weighing down on her already heavy mind. She wondered if she could abandon her alter ego, Jennifer, without suffering from huge repercussions. Or if it was too late.
That night, she excused herself from their nightly drive up and down Beach Road, looking for fast cars to race, and climbed into her Cayenne alone with just her thoughts for company. She fell into another light sleep, the slightest noise - a car horn, a footstep, a sneeze - waking her up and reminding her of the precarious tight-rope she had been naively balancing on.
How long before she would fall?
* * *
"Good morning, freak. What happened to your head?" Ahmed greets Lady Luxe playfully as she enters the kitchen in her old pink pyjamas and crazy bed head, inhaling the glorious scent of homemade buttery pancakes. Her brown hair, usually straight with the slightest of waves, stuck up in all directions and her fringe sat nowhere near her forehead. She couldn’t be bothered to run a comb through the tangles and decided to relish in the temporary liberation of not caring about her appearance
"Sabah al khair, geek," she replies with a smile, ruffling his jet black hair as she passes him and taking a seat opposite him on the kitchen table. "What happened to your face?" She sticks her tongue out at her brother who replies by throwing a strawberry at her, hitting her squarely in the chest.
"Good morning Miss X," Claudine says stiffly with her ever-so-slight French accent, preparing Lady Luxe's plate of pancakes with chocolate sauce, whipped cream and strawberries and placing it gently down in front of her. "Would you like me to pour you some juice?"
"No Claud, I think I can manage that myself," she laughs, grabbing the jug of freshly squeezed orange juice and pouring it into a glass, giving Claudine a quick grin. Claudine has been in their family for over nine years, and is more like an aunt than a cook. Her father entrusts her with a monthly home budget and allows her to keep whatever remains at the end of the month as an additional bonus. She goes out when she needs to without seeking permission, enjoys a business class flight back to the South of France every year and never has to worry about her employer hitting on her, despite being a very attractive thirty-eight year old with pale blond hair and sea-green eyes. Not her main employer anyway. She has caught his eldest son appraising her small waist, high cheekbones and slim hips occasionally. She ensures to keep her bedroom door locked at all times and carries mace in her apron pocket – just in case.
Claudine has heard a few stories about help being abused, beaten, raped, locked up with no food, but considers herself a different calibre from the Sri Lankan and Filipina housemaids whom she occasionally comes across in in the neighbourhood. For starters, she is European, educated and on a real salary – not a pitiful allowance that would barely cover the cost of her phone bill. Having trained in numerous restaurants and hotels across Europe, she never expected that she would move to Dubai to work as a personal chef and instead had pictured herself as the proud owner of an intimate French eatery, resembling her own family restaurant in the quaint University town, Aix En Provence. But the salary and benefits of working for the X family are too good to resist, and although she is more a housekeeper than a chef, she really only has to delegate the housework between Mary the Maid, the two drivers and part-time gardener, and then take care of the pantry and kitchen herself.
Claudine had initially planned to stay with the X family for two years, but soon found herself making excuses to stay on for longer and longer, enjoying her comfortable life in the huge luxury villa, the low demands and the glorious sunshine. And plus, she has a soft spot for her employer. After looking after him and his family for nine years, she couldn't help but grow attached to him. As frightening as he was with his children, for some reason, with her, he was soft. A part of her that she refused to acknowledge, a part that she desperately tried to forget, wanted to make him happy in ways other than feeding him and organising his home.
"Claud, I'm not going to be home for dinner," Lady Luxe announces, licking the last of the chocolate sauce off her bottom lip in satisfaction.
"You're not?" Claudine turns around to look at Lady Luxe in surprise, her neat eyebrows raised quizzically. "But what about the guests, Miss X?"
"What guests?" Lady Luxe asks, grabbing Ahmed's last strawberry and stuffing it in her mouth before he can protest.
"The family your father has invited in the evening, just for coffee I think but still, you need to be home early. I think you need to call him and speak to him before you make evening plans. It sounded important. He wants me to make nine different kinds of snacks."
"Nine items?!" Ahmed and Lady Luxe exclaim in unison.
"Is he inviting Sheikh Mohamed or something?" Ahmed jokes, getting off the stool and stretching in his black 'One Ummah' t-shirt and baggy grey tracksuit bottoms. He walks over to the sink and begins rinsing his plate while Claudine hurries around the kitchen, checking the glistening white Italian cabinets to ensure she has all the correct ingredients for tonight's feast.
"Okay, I'll give him a call," Lady Luxe says blithely, slightly annoyed at having her evening plans with her cousins interrupted. She jogs up the stairs and into her room, throwing on a plain black abaya and a chiffon Fendi scarf, applying a tiny brush of blusher on her pale cheeks and sticking on big black Dior sunglasses to hide her tired eyes. She wants her spots to have a chance to heal so opts against wearing too much makeup, content with the instant glamour the sunglasses provide.
She drives quickly to the other side of Dubai, getting flashed at least once by one of the many speed cameras on Sheikh Zayed Road, waves her hand impatiently at the security guards who have no chance of stopping her Ferrari as she roars into the car park and parks Lady Penelope in one, swift maneuver. She notices a range of Qatari license plates next to hers – a red Ferrari, three different Mercedes AMGs (a small coupe, a sedan and a 4x4) and a monstrous black and silver Dodge Charger – and wonders who they belong to.
Exiting the lift on the eighteenth floor, she raps on the door and Rowdha flings it open, the scrumptious fragrance of baking wrapping itself around her.
"Finally! You're here!" Rowdha exclaims, grabbing her cousin's arm and pulling her into the apartment. The balcony doors of the apartment are wide open and sunlight floods into the large open plan space, decorated sparsely in contemporary furnishings.
"What's going on?" Lady Luxe asks as she spies Moza hard at work in the kitchen through the hatch in the dining area, looking very Nigella-like in a low-cut black dress and dangly earrings.
"We're on a mission," Moza declares, opening up the oven door, taking out a tray of chocolate brownies and placing them next to a large, homemade strawberry tart.
"Look cuz," Rowdha interrupts, firmly placing her hands on Lady Luxe's shoulders and turning her body to face her. "There are a group of fit Qatari guys who live on the twentieth floor. They drive hot cars, they're always decked out in Ray Bans and they're basically too fit to ignore."
"We tried to ignore them, we really did," Moza adds dramatically, sticking her face through the hatch.
"But our efforts were no match for our desires. We NEED to talk to them," Rowdha finishes off.
"So go and talk to them," Lady Luxe laughs, trying to grab a brownie and having her hand swatted away by Moza.
"We can't," Moza says dejectedly. "We're married. We can't go around chirpsing guys like this, so we decided that we'll let our gorgeous single cousin do the chirpsing and we'll just have to be satisfied by living vicariously through her."
"So what are you saying?" Lady Luxe asks slowly, knowing quite well that she probably doesn’t want to know the answer.
"Well," Rowdha begins in excitement, a huge grin on her face. "They'll be back from the mosque in about half an hour. Yes, we've noticed when they come in and out. We want you to take these goodies up to them and just be like, 'welcome to neighbourhood. I noticed you don’t have a woman to look after you so I thought I'd help you out a little.' "
Lady Luxe stares at her cousins in horror. "Please tell me you're not serious!" she begs, her eyes wide in disbelief. "I can't do that! I might as well hand myself on a platter to them, completely starkers with an 'eat me' sign written on my chest in chocolate body paint!"
"Oh come on, it's not that bad," Moza protests, washing her floury hands and coming out of the kitchen, her face flushed from the heat of the oven. "These poor boys are all alone with no mothers, no wives, no sisters. It's our duty to look after our brothers."
"Brothers!" Lady Luxe scoffs. "What is this, an incestuous Virginia Andrews scenario? The chances of you looking at them like they're your brothers are as likely as you walking out the house with no makeup."
"Oh come on, stop being such a wet blanket," Rowdha says in disapproval. "I thought you were more gutsy than that! You'll probably never see them again anyway, and we'll be right behind you."
"But what's the point? You're both happily married with children for God's sake. Nothing's gonna happen!"
"It's just for a laugh," Moza explains earnestly. "We're having a bit of innocent fun. Go on, say you'll do it! Don’t let me wonder how hot they are close up for the rest of my life! Don't let my moist brownies and Rowdha's delectable strawberry tart go to waste!"
"If anything's a tart, it's you," Lady Luxe mutters, stalking into Moza's bedroom. "I'm not going looking like this. Give me fifteen minutes to sort my face out."
Seventeen minutes later, Lady Luxe emerges from Moza's bedroom with her two pimples completely hidden, her complexion bright and shimmery and her eyelashes laden with Dior show mascara. Her cousins have also abayafied themselves, wrapping their sheila's loosely around their neck and are carrying a tray of baked goodies each.
"Don’t I get anything to carry?" Lady Luxe asks, looking around the kitchen. "Or am I just offering myself?"
"You're the spokesperson, you don't need to carry anything," Rowdha says quickly, pushing her out of the apartment. They wait for the lift in trepidation, Moza giggling uncontrollably.
"Shutup," hisses Rowdha as they get into the lift and make the very short journey up to the twentieth floor.
Lady Luxe is used to being roped into bizarre missions, and remembers her childhood summers in her cousins' Jumeirah villa, playing knock-down-ginger and making prank calls. She can't believe that ten years, three offspring, and a lot of further education later, they're still crazy, still uncontrollable and still as close as ever.
"Now what?" she whispers, staring at the large, wooden front door feeling anxious. It's been a long time since she did something ridiculous as herself, and without her Jeinnifer wig and lenses, she feels exposed and nervous.
"Knock on the door," Rowdha hisses, elbowing her sister sharply in the ribs in an attempt to make her giggles subside.
Her breath caught in her throat, Lady Luxe rings the doorbell of the apartment and waits in anticipation, her cousins standing slightly behind her, the three of them in their fitted abayas and perfectly applied makeup, looking like they have just come home from a Friday brunch, not like they've been slaving away in the kitchen all morning. She hopes these guys really are worth all the bother.
The front door opens slowly and a sleepy face greets them. The man looks like he is in his mid-twenties, and is wearing a faded blue t-shirt and checked shorts, his curly hair long and afro-like and his small eyes slightly bloodshot. His mouth is also small, appearing even more so with his large, Roman nose dominating most of his face and there are old acne scars decorating his dark cheeks, giving them the appearance of old, worn leather. Lady Luxe can feel her cousins' disappointment and embarrassment radiating through their thin abayas. Oh, I could kill you with my own bare hands, you stupid tarts, she thinks to herself, grimacing.
"Salam'Alaykom," she says, through clenched teeth. "I'm so sorry to have woken you."
"Ma fi moshkela," he croaks, his putrid morning breath hitting Lady Luxe in the face like a cannon. "Can I help you?"
"Well, we're your neighbours and we noticed that you don't have anyone to take care of you," Lady Luxe begins sweetly, her mouth relaxing and falling into a real smile as the cogs in her head start moving. She feels Rowdha's pointy elbow digging into her ribs, telling her to cool off, which she ignores.
Big Nose laughs, his eyes brightening. "It's hard, having no sisters…" he says slowly.
"Well don’t worry, my cousins here are happy to be your sisters. This is Moza, she's baked you some moist white chocolate brownies, and this is her lovely sister Rowdha, who made this delicious strawberry tart with her own, bare hands."
She pauses dramatically for effect, ignoring Moza's conspicuous coughing and Rowdha's foot coming down on hers. Big Nose notices none of these shenanigans, instead moves his eyes to Rowdha's small hands.
"Anyway, I will leave you to all to talk. I'd better go!" With that, Lady Luxe spins around and stalks away, disappearing through the service doors and leaving behind nothing but a whiff of 'Miss Charming' mixed with butter and pastry behind.
* * *
"Oh good, you're back," Claudine greets Lady Luxe as she enters the villa, still grinning from her revenge. She ignored her ringing phone the entire journey home but knows she will have to face Rowdha's fury eventually and is actually looking forward to the confrontation.
"I sure am!" she sings, throwing her arm around Claudine's shoulders. "So, what's up with this tea party thing? I tried calling Baba but he didn't answer, and then he BB'd me to tell me to be home by five and to look nice. What's going on? Who's coming round?"
"Ah, yes," Claudine begins awkwardly, clearing her throat. "Well, how do I put this? Well, you see, your father thinks that perhaps it's time you were introduced to some…suitors," she finally manages to say, the French tinge on her otherwise British accent like a dust of icing on a Victoria Sponge cake.
Lady Luxe's smile freezes on her face.
"What?!" she exclaims, her heart plummeting.
"Yeah, it's true," Ahmed chimes in, appearing on the top of the stairs, his voice echoing through the foyer. "I tried calling you but you didn't answer. Some guy is coming to see you with his family."
"Who is he?"
"A friend of Mohamed's," he replies, making a face. "Humaid I think? Sorry sis, I did try to warn you. Baba's coming home early especially, he should be here in an hour and then they're gonna get here around six I think, before dinner anyway."
"Shit," Lady Luxe mutters, cursing herself for telling her father she had been reading marriage books. He obviously remembered her little lie and decided now was the time to display unnecessary fatherly care. "But today? Why today?"
Ahmed shrugs and Claudine disappears into the kitchen where Mary is hurriedly chopping away, trying to prepare the nine different items, anxious to show her employer what she is made of.
"I'm going to call Baba," Lady Luxe announces at last, pulling her BB out of her pocket, seeing Ahmed's and Leila's missed calls for the first time. She drags herself up the stairs as if her legs are tied to weights and slams her bedroom door closed, even though there is no one around to listen to her anger. Her phone beeps again, Leila calling for the third time, and Lady Luxe grudgingly answers. She really cannot stomach Leila's childlike boasting about her brother today.
"Shu?" she says rudely, yanking off her abaya and tossing it to the floor.
"Where have you been? I've been calling you for ages," Leila moans on the other end.
"My cousins are here, remember? I was busy with them."
"Okay, well anyway, I was thinking… do you want to go out tonight? As in, out? It's been so long since we did something fun, since you insist on being Emirati these days."
"No thanks," Lady Luxe says curtly, flinging her shoes off and letting them fall on top of her discarded abaya. "I'm too busy. Family stuff."
"Well what about tomorrow night? That wig hasn't seen the moonlight in so long, it's probably getting eaten by moths. What do you say?"
"Sorry, I can't. You know my cousins are here, I'll be busy with them until they leave."
Leila, sensing Lady Luxe's reluctance to go out with her, has a vision of Moe looming down over her, all her new designer goods in his hands, and finds her palms beginning to sweat a little. "When are they leaving?" she asks in a small voice.
"I don’t know. Look Leila, to be honest, I have no intention of being 'Jennifer' again," Lady Luxe relents, the ice melting away at Leila's persistence. "I'm twenty-one years-old now, I have a lot of family shit going on. I can't mess about like this all the time. I have to grow up a bit. Besides, I'm getting bad vibes about it all."
Leila listens in horror, wondering how she is going to deliver the goods to Humaid if 'Jennifer' is AWOL. For good. She decides to come clean. Lady Luxe has always been up for a laugh and may even consent if she's honest.
"Okay look. Basically, you know Cowboy? That guy you were dancing with at Chi? The one you were all over and whose hat you stole?"
"Yes. I remember," Lady Luxe answers, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "I had to shower for an hour to get his strong perfume off me. He's been calling me and I've been ignoring him."
"Oh. Well. How about we go on a double date? Me and Mohamed, you and Humaid? Just for a laugh?" A desperate edge appears in Leila's voice and Lady Luxe notices it.
"NO!" she says firmly. "I'm not interested in hanging out with any Emiratis. You know how I feel about that. Hang on, what did you say Cowboy's name was?"
"Humaid. He's actually really sweet, why don't you give him a chance?" Leila says quickly, mistaking Lady Luxe's question as interest.
The blood drains from Lady Luxe and she feels more nauseous than ever. "Look Leila. I never want you to mention his name again okay? Jennifer is gone for good, the old me is gone for good, and that's that. Just let it go!"
"Fine!" Leila snaps, finally getting annoyed. "Do what you want. But just to let you know – he knows you're Emirati and he has your phone number. He said he'll phone his friend in Etisalat and find out who you are if you don't meet him."
"Whatever," Lady Luxe scoffs. As if I'm stupid enough to register my 'dodgy' line under my own name.
"And he also has your Cayenne's license plate number," Leila lies. Well, he will do if I give it to him, you stupid sharmuta.
Lady Luxe stops breathing. Her license plate number? Her cars were registered in her father's name.
"It's not that easy," she manages to say, trying to keep her voice level.
"It is for people with wasta," Leila retorts, struggling to keep the power with her. "He's serious. He was going on and on about you and –"
"How did he find out I'm Emirati?" Lady Luxe suddenly asks. "You told him didn’t you?"
"No I didn't-" Leila protests.
"Right." Lady Luxe cuts in. "I'm not meeting him, so you can tell your new best friend to fuck off."
She hangs up the phone and collapses onto the bed, feeling completely drained. Her phone beeps again and she looks down wearily to see she has a message from Mohamed. Wanker, she thinks to herself, opening it up.
My friend Humaid is coming round tonight with his family to meet you. Make sure you make an effort and look respectable. Baba's coming home early.
"Argh!" she screams out in frustration, throwing her phone across the room with all her strength. It smashes against the wall and falls to the hard, tiled floor. Humaid wants to meet her and Jennifer? If he really knew her license plate number, and wasn't bluffing, then she was screwed.
How was she going to get out of this one?
An idea comes to her mind. Thinking for a few minutes, she rolls the idea around in her head like a snowball, firmly moulding it into place. After she has calculated the details, she smiles slowly and then reaches for her phone. Genius.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Chapter Twenty-one – There's no such thing as a free lunch
Leila dashes out of her apartment, teetering in her pink, patent 5 inch Louboutins and slams her front door closed without locking it. She wiggles over to the lift and grins as she looks down at her fabulous new shoes with delight, like a fat kid who's just been handed a massive ice-cream. It has been two glorious weeks since the incident she refuses to speak of, and it has possibly been the best two weeks of her life.
In the last fourteen days, Leila has been to dinner with Moe six times and each time, the bill has come to more than a thousand dirhams. The very first time, it was close to three thousand, the same amount that Leila budgets for her monthly glam expenditure – for manicures, blow dries, occasional shopping and dining out. They have been clubbing twice, during which they lounged at a VIP table, sipping on Dom and making small talk without actually dancing. Just like Leila imagines celebrities to do. They have been to the cinema once (Gold Class of course, where they spent more time canoodling on the reclining leather seats than watching the movie), they have gone for shisha and coffee a couple of times (Leila enjoys making subtle innuendos with the shisha pipe and her lips) and shopping twice. During these shopping trips, whatever Leila 'oohed' over (just clothes and accessories thus far, it's too soon to peer through Damas' sparkly windows) miraculously appeared at her apartment the next day by an express courier. She was in heaven.
"Habibti, weinich enti?" Moe growls down the phone as she exits the building and fumbles around in her new white Chanel quilted bag for her keys – the same one that Lady Luxe has in three colours and that ordinary people have to wait in line for. His voice is smooth and deep, and she feels a little shiver tickle her spine, though she is unsure if it is his voice or the calfskin bag that is having that effect. She can't believe her good fortune. Not only is Moe attentive, sweet and generous, he is also chivalrous. He opens doors for her, refuses to let her spend a single fil when they are together and always makes sure that she reaches home safely. Of course, Leila is not completely delusional, and knows that a major part of his fascination with her stems from his desire to peel away her expensive clothes and go where she has implied that no man has been before. She knows that once he has had her, his fascination with his Lebanese 'virgin' will disappear like a sweet dream in the morning and she will be left feeling cold, empty and alone. As usual.
Thus, she is determined to make the most of her time with him while she can. She knows that their days are numbered, despite her silly denial to Lady Luxe, and she is angry that her bitchy 'friend' forced her into declaring that her relationship with the handsome Emirati was more than a temporary, mutually beneficial affair – glamorous evenings out and pretty gifts for her, an exciting build up to a deflowering ritual for him. She knows perfectly well that there is nothing more to it. That they have no future together. She knows that for him, she is just another conquest to be caught, another notch on the bedpost. But she wishes she wasn't.
"I've just left my apartment," Leila replies checking her reflection in the building's glass door approvingly. She is wearing a white chiffon dress with bronze embroidery from the boho boutique, Antik Batik, that she had borrowed a long time ago from Lady Luxe and accidentally-on-purpose forgot to return. At first glance, she appears to be modestly dressed; the kaftan has long sleeves, it is loose and it falls just above her knees. But on closer inspection (and no doubt Moe will be analyzing her every move), it transpires that her dress is the tiniest bit transparent, that the neckline occasionally slips, displaying a smooth, tanned shoulder and a pale pink bra strap . She has pinned her hair up, but has left loose tendrils framing her face, begging to be tucked behind her ears and her makeup is subtle, giving the illusion that she isn't wearing any at all. In actual fact, she is wearing most of MAC on her face: primer, concealer, tinted moisturizer, a brief brushing of studio fix, bronzer, a tiny dab of gold pigment on her eyelids, brown mascara, a little bit of brown eyeliner to define her eyes, eyebrow pencil to bring out her otherwise non-existent eyebrows and her favourite lip plumping gloss – Sexy MotherPucker. The result of her entire look seems completely natural and effortless, not the outcome of six outfit changes, an hour's worth of careful makeup application and another hour of hair styling. Perfect for an afternoon wandering around JBR, browsing through the designer boutiques and sipping coffee at an Italian café by the beach.
"Yalla, hurry. I miss you." Moe says, and Leila hangs up, putting on her new Prada sunglasses. She makes sure that she is always the first to hang up, that she never calls him first, only returns calls if she absolutely has to and she often lets him call twice before she actually answers. She also ensures that she never agrees to meet him until she has checked her schedule, after which she feigns unavailability and offers an alternative after some probing.
The games she is forced to play to maintain his interest in her are physically and mentally exhausting. As she drives out of Discovery Gardens and joins Sheikh Zayed Road, she feels an unexpected urge to just let down her hair and be herself. She wants to wear denim cut-offs and an old t-shirt. She wants to run a comb through her hair before pulling it into a haphazard ponytail. She wants to call her boyfriend whenever she gets the urge to hear his voice, to answer with a huge smile when he calls her, wants to send him cute messages telling him she's missing him. She wants to curl up in bed with him and fall asleep in his arms, to drop the façade, to stop constantly watching her words, her actions, her expressions and just be herself. Leila Saade. Not Leila the Lebanese Temptress.
But she can't. Because the last time she did, the time she actually thought what was happening went beyond the surface, she found out the hard way that it was not. That the Leila with no makeup, no barriers, no inhibitions, simply wasn't what he wanted. It was too real for him. And now, she is afraid that it is what no one wants.
Fahd was the first Emirati she had dated and everything Leila envisioned for herself when she moved to Dubai. He was the epitome of perfection; kind, generous, good natured and funny. He gave her time and affection, and in return, after a very short dating streak, she gave him all of her.
One night, after she caught him flirting with another girl when she surprised him at work, jealousy bloomed within her like a thorny rose and she threw the biggest tantrum of her life. She screamed until her throat became hoarse, until makeup ran down her face like a dirty, muddy stream, mixing with the water seeping out of her nose. She cried until she began to hiccup, accusing him of cheating on her, playing with her emotions, pretending to love her. She pushed him out of her apartment and told him never to call her again. Like most fights between lovers, she never meant a word of it. She expected him to come straight back. After all, only the day before, she had made him all his favourite Lebanese dishes – tabbouleh, sambousek, kibbeh, bamia, which they ate before making love on the dining room table whilst clearing up. For the first time.
"I love you," he had said the next morning, after they fell asleep on the living room rug, completely naked, limbs entangled, their skin a contrast of white and gold. He traced his finger tips over her bare stomach, as light as a cloud resting on a mountain, and watched the goose bumps form on her smooth skin. "I love you, Leila. Every part of you. Even that fart you did last night."
"Shutup, hmar," she replied, turning pink with embarrassment, her heart bursting with love.
"I said I loved it!" he laughed, trying to pin her down on the floor and she pretended to struggle as she stared into his baby face, his huge, dark eyes, his beautiful smile. Her entire being full of love, happiness and hope, she suddenly softened, wrapping her legs around him and pulling him closer to her, letting go of all her barriers once again.
That very same evening, they had their first major fight but after she had forced him to leave and when she had finally calmed down, she waited for him to call. To apologise. To send flowers. To beg her to take him back.
But he didn’t.
An hour turned into a day, a day turned into a week, and eventually, Leila swallowed her diminishing pride and called him. With complete indifference, Fahd told her that he was engaged, to his 17 year-old virginal cousin. She dropped the phone as if it had scalded her and stumbled into the bathroom, where she retched into the sink. Nothing but acid came up and she clutched on to the sides for support. Her purple toothbrush sat in the holder next to his green one. Shaving foam sat beside her deodorant. She eventually let go of the basin and fell to the floor, silent tears pouring down her face as all her dreams, all her plans for the future, disappeared into the night sky. Along with her naivety. The 23 year-old Leila had finally grown up.
Leila pulls into JBR (or Jumeirah Beach Residence to newbies) and parks awkwardly in the large car park by the ocean between two imposing 4x4s, feeling unnerved by her memories of Fahd. She shakes him out of her mind, and focuses on her surroundings instead.
JBR is buzzing as always. The car park is packed full of Hummers and Corvettes, the occasional Lamborghini and Ferrari providing tourists with glamorous holiday photos. The walkway is full of people; mothers pushing strollers, lovers holding hands, teenage girls in tiny summer dresses, showing off their lean, golden limbs. Students are sat at tables with their laptops, families are browsing through the market stalls. It is just as the developers envisioned it to be – a vibrant, family-friendly promenade, parallel to the ocean, where people can relax, dine and shop whilst absorbing the fresh sea air and basking in the sun. Leila can't believe that just three years ago, the entire Marina area was a ghost town, nothing but a construction site within sparse expanses of empty desert, and now, it is one of the most happening locations in Dubai. The forty odd sand coloured premier apartment blocks in JBR blend into the scenery like mountains, and if Leila could, she would rent a one bedroom apartment in one of them. The rental price however, is at least twice as much as what she is paying in Discovery Gardens, and regardless of how much she would enjoy having an ocean view from her bedroom window, she enjoys saving money even more.
She spots Moe sitting at an outdoor table at Paul's, and to her dismay, sees that he is with a friend. So much for a romantic evening. Pasting a smile on her face, she saunters up to the table and greets them both breezily, allowing them to stand up to return her 'marhaba'. Moe pulls a chair out for her and she sits down, smiling sweetly at him, irritation clawing at her insides. He could have at least told her that he would be bringing someone.
Moe is wearing a white candoura and white gutra. With his Ray Ban aviators, he looks young, trendy and sexy, and his good looks melt away the iciness Leila felt upon seeing his friend. For once, she is actually happy to be seen with her date. She usually has to persuade herself that it is wallet size, not looks, that matters. She has dated fat men, old men, balding men, ugly men, smelly men, obnoxious men and even short men, all in the pursuit of monetary satisfaction.
"After all, they're all the same when the lights are down," Naila, her Russian friend had once said. And Leila half-heartedly agreed, secretly hoping that she would find a man who owned both a Ferrari and a small nose.
"You look beautiful as always, my angel," Moe declares gallantly, taking her hand in his. "Leila, I'd like to introduce to my good friend, Humaid. Humaid, this is my… Leila."
"Nice to meet you," Leila says, acknowledging Moe's inability to refer to her as his girlfriend and looking Humaid up and down. He too is in a candoura, a dark brown one, with a beige guttra messily wrapped around his head. His complexion is a lot darker than Moe's, and bits of curly hair poke out from beneath the head wrap. He isn't ugly and could be considered to be attractive had he been sitting next to someone lesser. There is something familiar about the glint in his eyes and she feels as if she has seen him somewhere. Nervousness buzzes in her stomach. Please don’t let him be someone I've hit on before.
"Actually, we've already met," Humaid answers with a knowing smile. Leila's own smile falters as she struggles to remember where. "At the club, remember? We danced together before you decided to go for Moe instead".
Recognition finally dawns on Leila, but Humaid continues talking good-naturedly. "…And you don’t know how much I regret letting you go that night!" He winks at her and both he and Moe start laughing, their guffaws causing her to turn red with anger, shame and regret.
"Now, now, don't insult my girl," Moe chastises vaguely, getting up to answer a call on his Blackberry and leaving Leila to fend for herself.
"Humaid, as lovely as you are, you are clearly not in the same category as my dear Hammoudi, so there's no way you would have gotten anything that night." Leila hisses scathingly, giving him a look so evil that it would have made a weaker man shrivel up in fear. Humaid, however, simply laughs. She gives Moe's back the same look and contemplates creating voodoo dolls for them both. She cannot believe that Mohamed has completely ruined their so-called 'romantic' Friday afternoon by inviting his buffoon of a friend.
"If you say so, habibti," he replies sarcastically. "As it happens, I'm actually more interested in your friend than the favours you bestow on mine. The sexy Syrian girl with the long blonde hair and breathtaking dance moves that was with you that night. She hasn’t returned a single one of my calls and I'm getting impatient."
Although Leila is thankful that the spotlight is finally off her and the 'favour' he is referring to, she cannot believe that once again, a man has sought her company only to enquire after Lady Luxe.
"Perhaps you should take the hint then," she says, raising a perfectly drawn on eyebrow, willing Moe to come back to her and rescue her from his evil friend.
"If she didn’t want me to call, she wouldn’t have given me her number. She's just playing hard to get. Why is it that you Arab girls make things so difficult for us?"
"Difficult how?" Leila asks, biding time. He has a point. Why did Lady Luxe give her number to him if she didn’t want to speak to him? No doubt it had something to do with another one of those complicated games she liked to play. If their relationship was as it used to be, Leila would have excused herself and then called her friend, warning her of the situation that was brewing. But after the way she scoffed at her relationship with Moe, Leila is convinced that Lady Luxe regrets handing over him to her and wants a slice of Expensive Emirati Pie for herself. This is treachery beyond Leila's limited tolerance threshold, and she decides that an ad-hoc response to Humaid's questions is ample payback.
"It's the games you play!" Humaid exclaims earnestly. You want us to chase you based on the subtlest of signals. Why can't you just be clear and tell us yes or no? Why do your 'no's actually mean 'yes but I can't tell you for fear of looking too easy?'' "
"Well maybe it's because you actually like playing games. If a girl reciprocated your interest, how long would you remain interested?" Leila answers uncharacteristically articulately, folding her arms across her chest in defiance. The nerve of the man, accusing all Arab girls (including her, no doubt) of playing games when clearly he reveled in the excitement of the chase.
"Well your Syrian friend was definitely interested," Humaid says confidently. "Have you forgotten the way she practically snatched me away from you? And not only did she give me her number, but she took my hat! Right off my head! How many more signs do I need? I love Syrian girls! They're so original and...classy. They're not easy like you Lebanese."
Leila holds back a snort, unsure whether to be further aggravated by his comparing her to her more traditional neighbor, or thrilled that she has the upper-hand over him.
"Sorry to burst your bubble habibi, but your Sophisticated Syrian is actually an Enigmatic Emirati," she says snidely, putting both Humaid and Lady Luxe in their places in one, swift move. Check.
"What?" Humaid is shocked, and the strange look on his face makes Leila regret the words that maliciously poured out of her. She shifts around in her seat, unsure of what to say next.
"My apologies for that long phone call, it was actually my father." Moe reappears at the table and sits down, squeezing Leila's hand as he does. She almost weeps in relief, hoping that Humaid won't continue the conversation in his presence. She squeezes his hand back.
"Ahlan," she says goofily, the nerves in her stomach beginning to relax in his presence, his delectable looks adding to her sense of peace. In Leila's eyes, Moe is practically perfect. His eyes are rimmed with thick eyelashes, his nose is nothing like the typical Emirati nose (it is straight for one thing) and his jaw is strong, hidden by a very slight beard that adds to his masculinity.
"I'm not being a very good host tonight am I, habibti?" he continues, smiling warmly at her. "I'll make it up to you, don't worry. What have you been talking about?"
"Oh noth-" Leila begins, leaning forward and staring into Moe's deep eyes, trying to focus on him and forget about his annoying friend.
"Apparently Leila's Syrian friend isn't Syrian but Emirati!" Humaid interrupts. "The nerve of the girl! Pretending to be Syrian like that! She even spoke in the Syrian dialect. Don’t tell me the blonde hair isn't real?"
"Of course it is. She dyes it that's all," Leila answers quickly, panicking and sitting up straight. She lets go of Moe's hand, glancing at him to gage his reaction.
He tuts, shaking his head in disapproval.
"Emirati girls these days are a disgrace," he declares righteously. "She is obviously of very poor breeding. No girl from a good family would behave like that."
Leila looks down in humiliation, aware of the unintentional implication. "Well anyway, she's not interested," she says, trying to repair the damage she has caused. "She's really not that bad. She doesn’t date guys. She just likes to have fun." There is a short pause whilst the two khaleeji men comprehend what Leila has said, and she relishes the silence, hoping that the conclusion will be to drop the subject like a hot falafel.
"Make her interested," Humaid says quietly, a steely note in his voice. Check. There went the queen.
"How am I supposed to do that?!" Leila squeaks, the colour disappearing from her face.
"Tell her that I know she's Emirati and I know her phone number. It won't take that long for me to find out who her father is. Tell her to spare me the hassle. And tell her that I don’t like girls who play games."
Leila looks over at Mohamed for help, but he is uninterested, pressing buttons on his BB instead of paying attention to her.
"Humaid, she really isn’t that pretty in the light," she says nervously, desperately clutching at straws. "Just forget about her and move on. A good looking guy like you can get any girl, so what's the point of chasing after one who won't give you the time of day?"
Humaid doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks over at the uncomfortable Leila who is fidgeting in her seat quizzically. He wonders if she has feelings for him, and is jealous of his interest in her friend. He smiles to himself, his chest swelling with pride.
"Khalas, we'll talk about it later," he says reassuringly, grinning at her. Leila lets out a conspicuous sigh, glad that the chess match is over but oblivious to the reason why Humaid has temporarily stopped hounding her. Her heart resumes pumping blood around her body. She is certain that he will forget about Lady Luxe as soon as another reasonably attractive female pays him an iota of attention.
"Anyway, it was lovely seeing you again Leila. You are just as beautiful in the sunlight as you were under strobe lights. I'll be in touch! Yalla Hammoudi, nshofak bokra. Bye!"
Leila watches Humaid's back as he strolls away and finally stops tapping her feet, which she had unconsciously been doing the entire time he was there. She glances over at Moe who is still playing on his Blackberry and frowns. He looks up and notices the annoyance on her otherwise pretty face, which she doesn’t bother to disguise. Feeling sticky, irritated and stressed, Leila has had enough for one afternoon and now wants nothing more than to go just go back home and work off her aggravation in the gym. Her romantic date – the one that she spent more than two hours preparing from has been more like a police investigation and she is tired of feeling like a criminal.
"Sorry, I'll just be a minute. I'm arranging a few important matters with my father," he says apologetically.
"You know what? You carry on doing that. I'm sorry for getting in the way of your important business. I'll see you later," Leila gathers up her belongings but Mohamed places a hand on her arm to stop her as his phone rings.
"Yes Baba," he says to his Blackberry, pleading at Leila with his eyes to have patience. "No, I didn’t have a chance to talk to him about it again today but we'll schedule something for next week, earlier perhaps. I'll let you know. Salaam."
He hangs up and takes Leila's tiny hands in his, almost swallowing them up completely. Still annoyed, she looks away and takes a deep breath. If she was planning on marrying him, she would have shown more patience but as she knew that their relationship would die out in a few more weeks, she didn’t see the point of acting like an angel. Sure, she didn’t mind pretending to be innocent or uninterested, but that was it. He had to know that her time was valuable and no man, no matter how rich, had the right to waste it unless he was planning on putting a ring on her finger.
"Habibti don’t be angry," Mohamed implores, stroking her face. She stiffens, hoping that he is not ruining her makeup and he assumes her reaction is because she is still annoyed that he is not paying her enough attention.
"I'm not angry."
"Yes you are, and I deserve it. It's just a little family thing I have to contend with."
At the mention of the word 'family', Leila's ears prick up. Moe, like most Emiratis dating illicitly, has been extremely secretive about his family. She still doesn’t know his last name, where he lives or what his father does and is gagging to know more about her mystery man other than his first name (which he shares with at least 70% of the entire male Emirati population).
"Like what? What is more important than me?" she demands to know, exaggerating slightly, excited at the prospect of knowing more about his personal life.
"Well, my father wants me to find a suitor for my sister," he says, gesturing for the waiter and ordering another coffee. Leila leads forward in anticipation, like an eager student and almost wishes she could take notes.
"And?" she says impatiently as soon as the waiter leaves.
"And I'm thinking of introducing Humaid to her. Purely in a professional setting of course."
"What a fantastic idea!" Leila exclaims with a broad grin on her face. If Humaid is introduced to Mohamed's sister, perhaps then he'd stop pining after Lady Luxe and she wouldn’t have to worry about incurring her wrath after blurting out some of her secrets.
"Really? Do you think so? What did you think of Humaid?" Mohamed asks.
"I thought he was very intelligent and charismatic," Leila lies smoothly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair out of her face and then tingling at Moe's touch as he stops her hand and does it for her.
"Hmm… I don’t know how serious he is though. He certainly likes his women, but then, we all do don’t we? I don’t expect any man who marries my sister to be content with just her. Marriages need mistresses to keep them fresh."
"Oh yes, I agree," Leila nods dishonestly. After all, I won't be the wife who has to worry about your affairs. In fact, I will probably be the mistress.
"You do? That's refreshing." Moe looks at Leila with newfound respect, a smile playing on his lips.
"Well, marriage is a very boring institution don't you think? No man can ever be satisfied with one woman and accepting this fact is healthier for all parties involved." Leila is astounded at how quickly the lies pour out of her mouth, anxious to continue persuading Mohamed to allow Humaid to meet his sister. And hopefully forget about her friend and then save her back in the process.
"I agree wholeheartedly," Mohamed says with genuine enthusiasm. "Though I doubt my sister agrees."
"Why? What is she like?"
"Very… fiery," he answers, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "She's very intelligent, slightly arrogant and extremely rude. She needs someone who is able to control her and keep her in line. I think Humaid would be able to do that adequately. And he is, of course, from a good family so they may be a good match. My father seems to think so anyway. He thinks she's becoming far too independent so we're planning a meeting between them soon."
"Will your sister agree?" Leila asks curiously.
"Oh yes, if my father tells her to, she will have to. She will have no choice."
Leila grins happily, leans forward and gives Mohamed an unexpected quick kiss on his cheek. She is thrilled that she has managed to salvage the situation between Humaid and Lady Luxe and learn more about his family in the process. She really is more sly than Lady Luxe gives her credit for.
"But anyway, in case things don’t work out… After all, he may not even like her…He needs something to keep his mind busy," Moe continues, his eyebrows knitted together. "Ensure that your friend is willing to cater to his needs."
"What?" Leila's grin freezes on her face.
"Yes. This Emirati friend of yours needs to be taught a lesson. She can't just dance with a man in such a provocative way, give him her number and steal his hat without expecting to give anything in return. I can't stand teases. She needs to know that there is a price for everything."
"There is?" Leila squeaks, her voice almost inaudible.
"Yes. There is. Nothing in life comes for free, my dear Leila. Yes, the matter is solved. Humaid will meet my sister soon, in the next couple of days anyway, and he will meet your friend soon after. He really is a good friend of mine and if he is to be in my family, I want him to be happy. I trust you understand how important it is that you arrange that?"
Mohamed looks over at Leila, and her breath gets caught in her throat as their eyes connect. She notices something beneath the apparent warmth that she never paid much attention to before. Ice.
"By the way habibti, I forgot to mention how marvelous your handbag is. Simply divine! It wasn't easy to get hold of it without waiting on that ridiculous list though."
Leila looks down at her pristine white handbag and her toes curl in fear inside her new Louboutins.
"Thanks," she manages to whisper, a wobbly smile on her face.
Check mate.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Chapter Twenty - Sugar Honey Iced Tea
I had another nightmare last night. I keep having them every week or so, and they come like a reminder I've put in my phone – alerting me of what I left behind and what I am trying to achieve, startling me out of my otherwise peaceful slumber.
Last night's choppy, static dream was so intense that I can still feel the tightness in my lungs as I tried to scream, but nothing came out. I can still feel my head spinning as the walls closed in around me and I collapsed into a heap of weak limbs on the bedroom floor, the sound of sirens clawing at my ears. That was when I woke up, my breath heavy, beads of sweat clinging to my hairline. I dragged myself out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom where I made wudhu with cold water, my eyes still laced with sleep, my movements slow with fatigue. After I finished the last step, washing my feet up to my ankles, I stared at my reflection, at the dark circles under my eyes, my lifeless skin, the water dripping down my face and my neck, leaving wet patches on my Snoopy nightshirt. I looked exactly as I felt – cold, lonely and miserable.
Heading back into my bedroom, I wrapped a scarf around my head, pulled on my dressing gown and stood on the prayer mat. It wasn’t even time for Fajr, and the sky was still as black as it can be, considering all the lights in the city, so I prayed the optional night prayers instead. I prayed for Allah to ease my parents', pain, their heartache, their incomprehensible disappointment. I prayed for Allah to forgive my brother for his anger and frustration, to instill peace in his heart, patience in his mind. Then I prayed for Jayden, wherever he is; for Allah to accept his soul into the garden of eternal peace and happiness. I remained prostrated on the prayer mat until my legs began to feel stiff, until I couldn’t feel my feet anymore, until my head and face felt heavy with all the blood that had settled there. My face soaked with tears, carpet marks imprinted on it, I eventually felt as if a tiny part of the weight I had been carrying had been lifted.
The phone wakes me up, hours later. Feeling groggy, my body aching, I slowly wrench my eyes open to find myself lying on the prayer mat, my scarf around my neck and my dressing gown over my body like a blanket.
"Hello?" I manage to croak, my throat dry, acutely aware that I sound disgusting first thing in the morning. When I was at college and at the pinnacle of my beanie hunting days, my then best friend, Farah, had been kind enough to advise me never to talk to any guys when I have just woken up.
"Trust me, Sugar," she told me, snorting down the phone at 7am. "You sound SO butters. Never talk to a guy like this. Not unless you want him to run a mile."
Farah had always been excruciatingly blunt. I feel a sharp pang as I remember all my wonderful (albeit a little crazy) friends that I've had to leave behind. I can't even remember the last time we spoke.
"Sabah al khair," Goldenboy replies, his voice smiling. I smile back, wondering if he too can feel my expressions through the phone.
"Sabah al nour," I reply geekily, trying my best to pronounce the guttural sounds properly. Arabic is definitely a beautiful language, but so damn hard to learn and even more difficult to enunciate accurately.
"Why are you smiling?" he asks, and I grin even more.
"Because you called," I say without thinking. The second I say it, I regret it. I'm supposed to be the cool, suave rude gyal from North London. Not a sickeningly adoring teenager from the suburbs.
"Because you woke me up, I meant," I hastily add, trying to redeem myself. "I forgot to set my alarm. So I'm happy I didn’t oversleep."
"Well get ready. I'm coming to collect you," he says. "I'll be there in an hour."
"Where are we going?" I ask, panicking. I just woke up on the prayer mat for God's sake. Surely my religiosity had to extend beyond the morning after?
"It's a surprise. Just dress comfortably, okay? See you soon!" With that, he hangs up and I sit still for a moment. Last night, during my prayers, I finally felt a tiny glimmer of hope – hope for redemption from Allah, hope for peace in the afterlife. I can't destroy it all now, just for a bit of fun.
But you won’t do anything bad, a voice whispers within. It's okay if you behave yourself, if you keep your barriers strong. Just be strong, be good, and it's okay.
And it’s not just a bit of fun either. There's something about Goldenboy that's so compelling. I feel drawn to him, like two opposite magnets that can only give in to the inevitable and cling to each other.
Persuading myself that my relationship with him is legit and nothing like what happened with Jayden, I hop into the shower and begin getting ready. I throw on a pair of loose, frayed jeans, trainers and a yellow long sleeved cotton jersey top with a hood that just about covers my bum. As I tie a brown and mustard pashmina around my face, I tell myself that it's okay that my top is a tad too short because my jeans are baggy. I feel a bit guilty though. I hate it when hijabis don't dress like proper hijabis. You see them all the time in the UK and in Dubai, wearing skinny jeans that show off their thighs and bums, tight tops that leave no room for guessing bra sizes, and then flinging scarves on their heads, as if hijab is just about covering your hair, not about modesty, dignity or about hiding your physical beauty, saving it for one man only.
When I first moved to Dubai, I found Emirati girls' version of hijab really weird. In London, only ultra-religious girls wear the abaya, and it’s usually a step they take once they've worn hijab for a while and want to cover themselves more. Over here though, you get a lot of women in abayas, but with transparent, floaty scarves perched precariously on huge beehives, perfectly blow-dried, highlighted fringes sticking out. Their eyes are usually exaggerated by thick, heavy kohl, they often have fuchsia pink or cherry red lips and mega high heels. Their Swarovski encrusted abayas sometimes float behind them, showing off tight skinny jeans, bling belts and occasionally, a glimpse of a tanned, toned sliver of stomach. They clutch obscenely expensive designer handbags in their manicured hands and you can continue smelling their strong perfume long after they've walked past you.
Some women don't even bother with a faux hijab over their carefully styled hair and just have it around their neck instead.
Although these women look rich and graceful from the back as they glide through the malls, from the front, most of them look like clowns with all that makeup caked on. It's as if their dad told them that they can only wear makeup once in their entire life, so they put as much of it as they could onto their faces. It took me a while to get used to it, as I felt as if they were taking the piss out of the concept of hijab, out of our religion. It also felt as if they were making a mockery out of Allah's commandments, which, being a newbie hijabi, I was still getting to grips with.
Now though, I get that the way they dress isn’t a testimony of their faith. It's just a cultural obligation, nothing more. Of course, there are women who do adhere to it properly, and I guess those women are the ones who wear it for their Creator, who wear it because the Qur'an says: “And say to the believing women that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty; that they should not display their beauty and ornaments except what must ordinarily appear thereof; that they should draw their veils over their bosoms and not display their beauty…." Not because their fathers are worried that they will shame the community if they don’t.
But I'm not exactly a good example of the modest Muslimah myself, so I can't judge. Look at me, getting ready to meet a guy (haraam), wearing clothes only just about fulfilling the hijab criteria if I stand up straight an don't bend down (haraam), spraying myself with half a bottle of Burberry Brit (haraam) and grabbing my iPod so we can sing to my tunes on the way to wherever it is that we're going to (haraam).
Excitement flutters in my stomach as I get into Goldenboy's black BMW M3, shaking hands with him and buckling up. The sun is bright, but the air is surprisingly fresh, cool enough to open the windows and drive along the motorway. I connect my iPod to the sound system and introduce him to Coldplay. I can't help but sing along to 'Yellow,' and I see him watching me from the corner of his eye, smiling as he leans back against the seat and controls the wheel with his left hand, his right elbow leaning comfortably on the arm rest. I don’t know what it is about cute guys driving cute cars that does it for me. I guess it's the whole 'being in total control' thing.
Anyway, he's wearing aviators, white linen trousers and a dark blue Armani t-shirt, and I get the urge to touch his leg, to see if I can feel his skin through the thin linen (MAJOR HARAAM SUGAR. DON'T DO IT). Obviously I don't though. Instead, I take pictures of my reflection in the car's side mirror with his camera, trying to keep myself busy.
"You're so different from all the girls I know," he suddenly says, turning the volume down.
"Really? Why?" I ask nonchalantly, secretly pleased at the acknowledgement of my uniqueness.
"I don’t know. You just are," he says quietly. "You seem so comfortable with yourself and you're so open. What you see is what you get. There are no secrets."
My face turns pink at his completely misjudged analysis of me, and I turn my face towards the window, so that he can't see how uncomfortable he has made me. I wish I was simple. I wish I had no secrets.
We continue driving down the motorway, leaving the glitz and glamour of Dubai behind us and join a much smaller dual carriageway. The desert is on either side of us and occasionally, there are a few dirty, dusty shops on the side of the road. This is the first time I'm venturing out of Dubai, and already I feel like I'm in another world. One that is actually real, not a mirage of all things new and shiny. As we get further away from the city, as the road gets emptier and the signs get stranger (with the occasional road sign on declaring 'Subhanallah' or 'Alhamdulillah' which I find really amusing), we see brown mountains in the distance.
"Welcome to Al Ain," Goldenboy declares. "These mountains are called Jebel Hafeet. I thought we could have lunch in the oasis. Do you like the surprise?"
"I love my surprise!" I exclaim, my eyes shining and a huge grin on my face.
As much as my relationship with Jayden was thrilling and exciting, it wasn't particularly romantic. He never actually took me anywhere different, not unless he wanted a quiet spot to make out with me, in which case he'd seek out various lonely parks and cemeteries (I know, how morbid). Neither of us had cars, we relied purely on our Oyster cards to get about and we didn’t have much money either, so we couldn’t go anywhere remotely exotic. Not unless you consider graveyards to be exotic. There was one hidden in Stoke Newington, just off the high street, that was actually quite peaceful. The grass was unkempt and there were loads of trees and overgrown foliage covering the headstones, providing lots of privacy. We went there a lot and sat around on the walls, talking, our heads resting on each other. I should have realised that any relationship that blossomed in a place rife with dead bodies was ill-fated.
The oasis is nestled amongst the towering, sandy coloured mountains, a luscious splash of green in otherwise arid landscape, and we choose a spot next to a little stream. Goldenboy has actually not only packed a fabulous picnic of Arabic bread, grilled chicken, roast potatoes, homous, baba ghanouj, fattoush and loads of fruit and drinks, but he has remembered to bring a blanket, cutlery and even a thermos of mint tea and a shisha. There are other families around us, barbecuing fragrant cubes of lamb, preparing salads and others sitting around drinking tea. Goldenboy strikes up a conversation with one family in Arabic, and the next thing I know, they've sent a whole loads of grilled goodies in our direction. I love the Arab hospitality, how they are so generous with their time, attention and material possessions. I can't imagine being invited to join in someone else's family picnic in Finsbury Park. In fact, they'd probably nick our stuff while we weren't looking.
When the sun sets, we hear the adhaan in the distance and Goldenboy asks me if I want to pray behind him. I readily agree, and he stands in front of me and begins leading the prayer. His voice is sweet and melodic, and I feel a rush of emotion reach right to my soul as he recites various verses from the Qur'an. We finish praying, get the shisha ready and relax under the stars, smoking the fragrant double apple shisha and sipping on mint tea. I wish I could stay like this forever.
"I haven't seen this many stars for so long," I tell him, looking up at the surprisingly clear black sky. I lie down on my back and try to count them, encouraging Goldenboy to do the same. He seems to be taking the task quite seriously. Whereas I'm just trying to force my body to remain glued in the little (okay, big) patch of grass I've flattened. All I want to do is roll over and place my head on his chest and listen to his heart beat, to casually place my arm over his taut torso, to intertwine my legs in his. And then confide in him and tell him my secrets, my hopes, my fears. My story. I wonder how he would feel if he knew everything about me, if he would still want to be friends with me. Or if he would reject me, cast me from his life as some of my other friends did, if he would hold me in contempt and lose all respect for me.
I have had to learn the hard way that people you think love you unconditionally, actually only love the idea of you, and when you fall from grace in their eyes, they no longer want to know you. The idea they had has been shattered, and the real, you - the naked, vulnerable you - just simply isn’t good enough. I came out here hoping for a fresh start with people who don't know my sordid past. I wonder how long I can keep it like that.
Goldenboy turns his body to face me, his expression thoughtful. My heart starts to pound and the metre between us suddenly feels like nothing. After all, he is close enough to touch. The possibilities between us are endless.
Despite the lack of a physical connection between us, I feel emotionally connected to him. The more we talk, the more I realise that it's not just about hormones. Of course, they're there, charging the atmosphere, but it's not as it was at the beginning of the day, when all I wanted to do was touch him. Now, all I want is to spend more and more time with him.
During our picnic, we talked about our families. He told me little anecdotes about his parents and the day trips they took when they were kids. I didn't tell him about the time our family was supposed to go to Whipsnade Wild Animal Park, and how the night before, my older sister and I excitedly packed a huge picnic lunch, how we sang songs all the way down the M1, only to get there and have my mum change her mind and decide she didn’t want to suffer through the intense heat. And how we looked for an alternative, but the park we stumbled across was full of skinheads who snarled at us as we walked past, and how we ended up having our beautiful picnic in the car. In the Sainsbury's car park. No, I decided to leave out my weird family stories and listened to his instead. His upbringing in rural Syria was so different from my inner city London one, so unassuming and innocent compared to mine, that I found myself hanging onto his every word. I wished that I too had that kind of Enid Blyton childhood, full of adventure, wildlife and the kind of independence kids brought up in a safe environment are privy to.
I turn to face him, wondering what he's about to say, trying to plaster a reassuring look on my face so that he feels that he can open up and say anything.
"How many stars have you counted?" he asks. My heart plummets, and I force a smile on my face. I'm beginning to doubt that he has any feelings towards me at all. Maybe I'm like those saddos from that movie, 'He's Just Not That Into You,' who over-analyse every smile, touch, word until she believes that he is about to pop the question at any moment. When the reality is, he sees her as nothing more than a way to pass a few hours when there's nothing better to do.
What am I supposed to say? Sorry, I haven’t actually been counting the stars. I've been wondering what our children would look like instead?
"Twenty three?" I answer instead.
"Is that all? I got thirty nine," he replies. I don’t care, I think to myself. Feeling annoyed, I sit up abruptly.
"Yalla let's go," I say, already adopting dodgy Arabic phrases.
"Already?"
"Yes, it's getting late. By the time we get back to Dubai it'll be nearly eleven." I say prudishly, remembering the many times I snuck out of my house at 2am, drove my brother's car down to St John's Street and met Jayden in Tinseltown, a 24 hour halal version of an American style diner. No wonder I got caught.
He reluctantly gets up and looks at me, slightly confused, and begins to pack everything away. I want him to refuse, to tell me that he wants to stay out here a little longer, but he doesn’t. Instead, he begins folding up the blanket and collecting our rubbish. I help him half-heartedly, feeling deflated. I should be happy that he respects me enough not to make a move, that whatever his reasons are, at least it's keeping me out of trouble. But I don’t. I feel horribly unwanted instead. Loneliness really is a killer.
The drive back home starts off a little cold as I refuse to smile at Goldenboy and he is unsure as to what has provoked the off behavior from me. It doesn’t take long for me to loosen up, and soon, I'm playing him all the Arabic music I have on my iPod. He is stunned that I know all the words to Nancy's 'Ah w Nos' and I sing my heart out, deciding that if all we're going to be is friends, I might as well have fun while I'm at it.
"Do you even understand what you're singing?" he asks, laughing.
"Nope! Don’t have a clue," I reply with a shrug.
"You're crazy," he says affectionately and I warm up again. He joins me and we sing Abdel Kader, the infamous Algerian song by Cheb Khalid together, dancing around like kids. He seems a little bit embarrassed to begin with, but my lack of inhibitions wear down his barriers and soon we're messing around like old friends.
When we drive into Dubai, I am disappointed that our amazing day has already come to an end. I feel like I'm flying and I don’t want to come back to Earth. I preferred being stuck on Cloud Nine. Why can't he ask me to stay out longer? Why can't he suggest going for coffee somewhere? The closer we get to JBR, the more resigned I feel. And suddenly, a vicious thought strikes me.
I look at Goldenboy's perfectly coordinated outfit, the immaculate hair, his neatly trimmed nails and think back to the amount of thought he put into this day out. He's clearly not interested in me. Could it be that it's not me that's the problem, but my gender?
"Are you gay?" I blurt out before I can control myself as we pull into my carpark.
"What?" His head snaps towards me, and there is a look of shock on his face. He pulls over and stops the car, his expression strange.
"S-sorry," I stammer nervously. Maybe he's not gay. Maybe he's actually a really dangerous guy who takes offense to questions about his sexuality. And who would be happy to put a big-mouthed girl in her place.
"What the hell. How can you ask that? I'm an ARAB guy. Do you know what it means to have someone ask you that?"
"I'm sorry. I didn’t mean it in a bad way," I say weakly, not looking him in the eye.
"What did you mean then?" he answers sarcastically.
"It's actually a compliment," I backtrack stupidly. "It's because your clothes and your hair and everything is just so perfect. It's a bit gay."
"So you still think I'm gay?!" His voice is incredulous, but now, instead of feeling scared, I actually find it all quite funny.
"Yeah maybe," I say cheekily. "Is that why you don’t have a girlfriend?"
"Sugar! Stop it! I'm not gay!"
"You sure?"
"Khalas!"
"One hundred percent sure?"
"You want me to prove it or what?"
"How can you prove it when it may be true?" By now, I'm laughing hysterically, finding his discomfort hilarious, the excitement and then disappointment of the day finally getting to my head. He really does need to lighten up a bit.
Suddenly, he leans forward, and before I can protest, he places his hand on my cheek and presses his warm lips against mine. For a second, I do absolutely nothing. I am in complete shock. My heart feels as if it has stopped. It is as if I am suspended in mid-air. And then, I soften, and melt against him. My lips part and I begin to kiss him back. I wrap my arms around his neck, my mind disappearing into the kiss. I stop thinking, I stop worrying. All I do is feel his heartbeat against my chest and I pull him even closer. His lips are sweet and he tastes like Pepsi and double apple shisha mixed together. I nibble on his lower lip and then his mouth begins to move more urgently. I'm gasping for air but I don’t want him to stop, all I want is for time to stop, and to be suspended in this moment forever. But then, he slides his hand under my top and rests it on my bare back. The contact of his skin against mine, of his warm hand against my cool back, startles me and I pull away. I stare into his eyes, his eyelids sleepy with desire, and he stares back into mine. He is breathing heavily and so am I. It is all so right, but so wrong.
"I'm sorry. I can't." I whisper. I open the door and jump out of the car.
"Sugar, wait –" he calls out after me. But I don't stop. I run into the lift and when the doors close, I let out air from my lungs. My palms are sticky and my breath is still irregular.
This is exactly what I wanted and what I was supposed to be avoiding. This is the reason why my life is in complete shambles. But now it's started, can it stop?
Shit.
I enter my bedroom and collapse onto my bed. My phone already begins to buzz and I stare down at Goldenboy's name on the screen. I turn it off, while he is still calling, and curl up into a ball.
I dream of mountains and butterflies.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Chapter Nineteen – Two’s company…
Huda is at work, pretending to write a report on the fluctuating oil prices in the Gulf. She has the right software open on her screen, her eyes are focused in the right direction and she is sitting with her back straight, her fingers carefully poised on the keyboard. For anyone observing her, she seems to be an intense, hard working woman who is deep in thought.
Intense and deep in thought she is, but hard working she is not, for her mind has been on every subject other than oil for the past four hours, and beneath the flitting thoughts, is an uneasy sense of guilt. Not because she is on the brink of leaving her husband, or because she is experiencing failure for the first time, but because last week, when she picked up the phone to call her mother, her fingers began dialing a different number altogether – one that has always been familiar to her.
“Hello?” he answered, his deep voice lilting slightly upwards at the second syllable. The familiarity of his voice together with the warmth in that single word brought instant tears to Huda’s eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead of words, sobs began to pour out. With her face soaked in tears, water dripping into her mouth, rolling down her jaw, she struggled to answer.
“Huda? Is that you? What’s wrong?”
After months of battling through her problems alone, those simple words uttered by someone she knew genuinely cared for her, instilled a sense of peace into Huda’s heart. She wiped her tears away on the sleeve of her worn long-sleeved jersey shirt and forced her breath to regulate.
“I don’t know what to do,” she finally whispered. Leaning back against the soft sofa with her knees drawn to her chest, she clutched on to the phone as if it were his hand, and closed her eyes, remembering his scent - pine trees mixed with cinnamon. It was an odd combination but one that reminded her of her youth in Qatar; playing knock-down-ginger in their compound in Doha, dancing to Michael Jackson mix tapes and her very first kiss. It had been over a year since they last spoke, her union with David encouraging her to steer clear of her first love - just to be on the safe side. But now, the barrier she had hastily built between them to protect herself, her husband and her marriage, had a self-inflicted crack in it.
Huda was just ten years-old when her father, a treasured computer engineer in the days when IBM was still the king of the industry, got a job in Doha and persuaded his wife to join him on an Arabian Adventure. Huda's mother weighed her choices – raising her three daughters in a two bedroom flat in London Bridge or an eight bedroom villa in Qatar. Like any woman who had always dreamt of a beautiful family and a comfortable life, she agreed and quickly found herself living the proverbial over-indulged expatriate life.
They assimilated into compound life easily; discos on Wednesday nights, potlucks on Thursdays, picnics on Fridays, pool parties, sailing trips, glitzy malls. Their life was so very different from the one they left behind in London. The cloudy skies were replaced with painfully bright ones, the long queues at the Post Office, waiting to cash child benefit vouchers were a thing of the past, and there was no more struggling on the Underground or lugging prams onto buses. There were drivers and maids to contend with all that. It was easy to fall in love with life in the Gulf.
And it was easy to fall in love with Yusuf as well.
The only other Moroccan family in the compound, Yusuf and his younger brother Tahir spent hours with Huda and Roba, riding their shiny bicycles the days the weather was mild and playing cards whilst lying on the cold, tiled floors in their homes when it was too hot to venture outside. Everyone always joked that Yusuf would end up with Huda, that Tahir would end up with Roba, that they were perfect for each other.
But perfection only lasted during their unsuspecting teenage years, when their biggest difference was their taste in movies. When Huda's parents separated and her mother moved back to the UK with the girls, Huda lost not only her father, but the first boy who stirred her stomach, who caused a flush in her pale cheeks. The first boy who made her cry in secret when he danced with another girl on a Wednesday night.
The evening before she was forced to close a beautiful chapter in her life, Yusuf pressed his soft, inexperienced lips against hers and swore that he would come for her as soon as he could.
In his defense, his promise lasted as long as his fidelity. They sustained their pubescent love through composing long, badly written love letters, creating mix tapes for each other, listening to Richard Marx's 'Right Here Waiting' over and over again.
Then Yusuf's family moved back to the US. The more immersed he became with his new life, the more he lost what attracted Huda to him in the first place – the sweetness, the innocence, the faithfulness. He stopped praying, started drinking, began catching up for all the time he had lost whilst living in a religious state. He had less and less time for the girl waiting for him on the other side of the Atlantic. Like two pieces of driftwood in the ocean, they floated further and further away from each other. Their breakup was an unspoken, mutual understanding that neither needed to articulate. They just knew.
They remained friends though. As friendly as two people with nothing but a shared history in common, who live on different parts of the globe, can be. Every so often, Yusuf would break down and beg Huda to wait for him, every so often, Huda would relent and accept his clumsy, confused love back into her life. She met other guys during her time at University but somehow always found herself back with Yusuf in the end. Until she met David, during her Masters, who showed her what love was supposed to be like - two people on a journey to the same end, a relationship thriving on respect and understanding.
Huda and David got engaged. Yusuf, who heard the news from his brother before he heard it from Huda, was devastated.
"You were supposed to wait for me!" he said when she answered his call at two in the morning, his voice cracking, his throat hoarse.
"Wait for what? For you to sow your wild oats? To stop having fun at Uni? To stop the parties, the clubs, the drinking?"
That was the last time they spoke, almost two years ago. But when Huda called him last week, all their differences seemed irrelevant, and deep beneath his cynicism and her pain, they were still Huda and Yusuf, the picture-perfect, young lovers.
They spoke for almost five hours. At first, about Huda's problems, then about Yusuf's own issues – his white American girlfriend who didn’t understand him, his inability to balance both his cultures, his sense of displacement. They joked about setting his girlfriend up with David. They analysed the steps they had taken that lead them to their respective disillusioned positions, what they could have done to avoid all the heartache. The conversation was like a glass of ice cold water –clear and fresh, and Huda drank it all, like a traveler stumbling across a desert oasis. Until, during a moment of comfortable silence, Yusuf mused;
"Why didn’t we end up together, Huda? You know we were always meant to be with each other. You know I'll always love you."
The glass of water ended up on Huda's face, snapping her out of her dreamlike state. She was married. Yes, to a cheating bastard, but that didn’t give her the right to stoop to his level. That didn’t mean she wanted another man professing his love for her. Bidding Yusuf a hasty farewell, she hung up, her hands shaking.
As if her life wasn't confusing enough, without adding Yusuf, his feelings and their joint baggage to the equation.
Pressing that little red button may have ended their conversation, but it didn’t stop her from constantly wondering about Yusuf, if she had made a mistake in letting him go, if he would still want her after her relationship with David came to an inevitable end. If he had grown into the man she always hoped he would be. His messages to her have only succeeded in confusing her further.
Maybe all this happened so we could end up together the way we were supposed to, he wrote to her that morning. This time I'll wait for you, like I wanted you to wait for me.
She had wanted to wait for him, and she had waited, all those years. But with every year that passed, another part of him changed, until he became virtually unrecognizable. Almost everything she ever loved about him faded away, and although a piece of her heart would always be with the first man who took it, she had doubted that they had a future together.
Was she wrong?
Now, she is sitting at her neat desk at work, trying her best not to make eye-contact with anyone. She doesn’t want to have to partake in small talk or fake smiles with any of her colleagues today. She doesn’t want anyone asking her how she is (shit), what did over the weekend (lament) or what she’s doing that evening (meeting Sugar to bitch about David and perhaps confess about Yusuf).
When six ‘o’ clock finally arrives, Huda drags her body out of her seat, hoists her handbag onto her shoulder and begins the short walk home. She used to be fit, nimble and athletic but recent events have taken a toll on her body and her energy. Now, the short walk home from Internet City is a burden. Her bag feels too heavy and cumbersome. Her legs feel lethargic and stiff.
David is already home when Huda walks up the three flights of stairs to their apartment and lets herself in. He is watching TV and completely ignores her as she quietly enters the apartment. She used to feel a burst of warmth whenever she’d come home to her husband, but now, their brief encounters give her the chills. She doesn’t say anything to him, just walks through the living room to her bedroom (it has ceased being ‘their’ room) and closes the door softly behind her. She leans against it, takes a deep breath, and then begins getting ready to meet Sugar.
She’s not in the mood to dress up, to make an effort to appear normal, but the TV sounds coming from the other side of the door are annoying her. She hates the way David just sits there acting as if he has done nothing wrong. She hates the way he ignores her as if she isn’t there. But most of all, she hates that he doesn’t seem to care that their relationship has crumbled away, that he is unperturbed by the fact that he has not exchanged a single pleasantry with his wife for a week.
Suddenly, her desire to leave the house in tattered jeans and a frayed sweatshirt is replaced with an urge to make him know exactly what he’s missing out on. She steps under the shower and uses as many scented products as she can, knowing that he has a weakness for beautiful fragrances. When she emerges ten minutes later, she smoothes lavender moisturizer over her entire body then slips into a dark purple silk maxi dress. She evens her face out with foundation and then blends purple and black eyeshadow onto her lids, giving them a sexy, smoky look. Highlighting her cheeks with MAC’s ‘Flirt and Tease’ and then applying lipgloss to her pout, she sprays herself with ‘Very Sexy’ and then leaves the room, pretending to look for something in her handbag which lay on the living room floor.
“Are you going out like that? Without hijab?” David asks incredulously as she rummages around in her handbag, taking out various bits and pieces as she feigns looking for her ipod. She smiles to herself, half tempted to do it just to piss him off.
“Have you seen my ipod?” she asks innocently, knowing that it is in the bedroom.
“No I haven’t. Are you going to go out like that?” he asks again. This time Huda stops and looks at his face for the first time all week. He actually looks tired. There are grey circles around his slightly bloodshot eyes and stubble is beginning to show on his chin. So now he cares about her whereabouts. She feels a sense of accomplishment as she throws him a pitiful glance.
“What? Don’t be silly, of course not,” she answers airily, brushing past him to check the bookshelves by the dining table, leaving the ‘Very Sexy’ scent behind. She hears him inhale, and feels contempt. She couldn’t make him want her when she was in bed naked, but now, a bit of perfume and cleavage was driving him wild. He just didn’t have a clue what he wanted or needed. She gives up pretending to look for her ipod and stalks past him again. As she puts on her shrug to cover her bare arms, and covers her hair and cleavage with a bronze scarf, she feels as if she finally may have the upper hand in this battle. She spotted at least ten empty packets of instant noodles in the kitchen bin. David’s salary is too small for him to eat out regularly, but since Huda is not cooking for him, he has been preparing nothing but cheap, easy meals. His little internet lover must have returned to the US so he isn’t getting any action in the bedroom either. Right about now, he must be realizing how good he actually had it with Huda.
Good, she thinks to herself, slipping her feet into bronze heels. She leaves the room and grabs her bag from where she left it in the living room.
“So where are you going?” David asks, just before she exits the apartment.
“Out,” she retorts, slamming the door behind her and feeling a little thrill of excitement. At last, he knows what it feels like to be unwanted.
Sugar collects Huda from outside the apartment building in her rented Toyota and the two of them make their way down to the Marina, where they have dinner at the Lebanese restaurant and ignore the stares they are getting from all the Arab guys in the surrounding tables. She decides against telling Sugar about Yusuf, but instead, explains the anger, frustration and worthlessness David is making her feel.
“You need to leave him,” Sugar states simply. "Leaving him isn't giving up. It's realising your self-worth".
Deep down, Huda knows that she probably does. But she can’t bear to acknowledge that the David she married has metamorphosed into the Cheating David. She doesn’t want to join the long list of divorcees in her family, to openly declare that her marriage has failed. She keeps hoping that he will suddenly revert back to the David she fell in love with, that she will wake up from this nightmare and realize that none of it actually happened.
Huda doesn’t know how to articulate everything she feels simultaneously, so she doesn’t say anything at all.
* * *
She quietly enters her apartment at 1am, feeling exhausted and regretting the amount of makeup she piled on. It will take her ages to wipe it all off. She feels embarrassed to admit that she actually enjoyed the lingering gazes of the men that caught sight of her. It had been so long since she felt desired or sexy that she relished the attention poured on her.
"Hypocrite."
The word comes as a shock to Huda, who is fumbling around for the light switch in the dark. She jumps, letting go of her bag.
"What the hell, David! What's your problem?" she gasps, finally finding the switch and turning the light on. David is sitting on the sofa, staring at her with an expression she has never seen before. She feels conscious under his gaze, and fiddles with her scarf nervously, wondering why her heart has suddenly started to pound.
"My wife, whilst perching on a ridiculously high horse, has been secretly having an affair with some guy called Yusuf. That's my problem."
Huda stares at David, aghast at the accusation. She then spots her phone in his fist, and realizes that during her big 'where's my ipod' parade, she had emptied the contents of her bag and left her phone for him to go through.
"You should be so lucky," she spits out, disgusted. "You wish I’m having an affair, so you can justify your actions to yourself. Sorry to disappoint you David, but I most certainly am not. Now give me my phone back."
She stalks over to him and attempts to snatch her phone. He moves his hand away and grabs her wrist, pulling her towards him.
"Don't lie. It's all here!" he says, anger in his eyes. "I read all your messages. Yusuf, huh? I never would have taken you for a cheat."
"And I never would have taken you for a promiscuous bastard either but hey, we learn something new everyday. Now let go of my wrist."
"Tell me who Yusuf is."
"I don’t owe you anything. Let go."
"Tell me!"
"LET GO."
Huda is unwilling to explain herself to the man who has stalked her friends, indulged in pornography and embarked on a sordid affair with his ex-lover. And then lied about it all. She cannot believe his audacity in questioning her over innocent messages after all he has done. She struggles in his grasp, wondering why the idea of her with another man – which, incidentally, was something he suggested before – is bothering him so much,
"Tell me!" He pulls her arm and she falls onto his lap. She sits there for a moment, the physical contact paralyzing her. Butterflies start buzzing in her stomach and she doesn’t know whether to feel disgusted for allowing herself to be effected by him after all that he has done, or feel repelled by their proximity to one another. She feels neither. Instead, she feels a glimmer of hope light up inside her heart. Before she has a chance to hoist herself off his lap though, he leans forward and presses his cold lips onto hers.
"Don't leave me," he murmurs, pulling away for a second and then kissing her again, this time longer. His words electrocute Huda, who has been waiting for a sign of remorse from David for so long, waiting for a reason to keep trying with him. She melts against his body. He stands up with her still in his arms, and carries her to the bedroom, where he gently places her on the bed and begins unwrapping her hijab.
It is almost like their wedding night, all over again.
But this time, Huda feels fear and nausea. She cannot believe that she is allowing herself to be caressed by a man who has caused her so much agony but she is fearful that this could potentially be the last time they have each other. She doesn’t stop him though. She sinks back onto the sheets and tells herself to relax, to let tonight be okay and worry about the repercussions tomorrow.
However, as he plants gentle kisses on her neck, she can't help but wonder what it would feel like if Yusuf were in his place.
Intense and deep in thought she is, but hard working she is not, for her mind has been on every subject other than oil for the past four hours, and beneath the flitting thoughts, is an uneasy sense of guilt. Not because she is on the brink of leaving her husband, or because she is experiencing failure for the first time, but because last week, when she picked up the phone to call her mother, her fingers began dialing a different number altogether – one that has always been familiar to her.
“Hello?” he answered, his deep voice lilting slightly upwards at the second syllable. The familiarity of his voice together with the warmth in that single word brought instant tears to Huda’s eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead of words, sobs began to pour out. With her face soaked in tears, water dripping into her mouth, rolling down her jaw, she struggled to answer.
“Huda? Is that you? What’s wrong?”
After months of battling through her problems alone, those simple words uttered by someone she knew genuinely cared for her, instilled a sense of peace into Huda’s heart. She wiped her tears away on the sleeve of her worn long-sleeved jersey shirt and forced her breath to regulate.
“I don’t know what to do,” she finally whispered. Leaning back against the soft sofa with her knees drawn to her chest, she clutched on to the phone as if it were his hand, and closed her eyes, remembering his scent - pine trees mixed with cinnamon. It was an odd combination but one that reminded her of her youth in Qatar; playing knock-down-ginger in their compound in Doha, dancing to Michael Jackson mix tapes and her very first kiss. It had been over a year since they last spoke, her union with David encouraging her to steer clear of her first love - just to be on the safe side. But now, the barrier she had hastily built between them to protect herself, her husband and her marriage, had a self-inflicted crack in it.
Huda was just ten years-old when her father, a treasured computer engineer in the days when IBM was still the king of the industry, got a job in Doha and persuaded his wife to join him on an Arabian Adventure. Huda's mother weighed her choices – raising her three daughters in a two bedroom flat in London Bridge or an eight bedroom villa in Qatar. Like any woman who had always dreamt of a beautiful family and a comfortable life, she agreed and quickly found herself living the proverbial over-indulged expatriate life.
They assimilated into compound life easily; discos on Wednesday nights, potlucks on Thursdays, picnics on Fridays, pool parties, sailing trips, glitzy malls. Their life was so very different from the one they left behind in London. The cloudy skies were replaced with painfully bright ones, the long queues at the Post Office, waiting to cash child benefit vouchers were a thing of the past, and there was no more struggling on the Underground or lugging prams onto buses. There were drivers and maids to contend with all that. It was easy to fall in love with life in the Gulf.
And it was easy to fall in love with Yusuf as well.
The only other Moroccan family in the compound, Yusuf and his younger brother Tahir spent hours with Huda and Roba, riding their shiny bicycles the days the weather was mild and playing cards whilst lying on the cold, tiled floors in their homes when it was too hot to venture outside. Everyone always joked that Yusuf would end up with Huda, that Tahir would end up with Roba, that they were perfect for each other.
But perfection only lasted during their unsuspecting teenage years, when their biggest difference was their taste in movies. When Huda's parents separated and her mother moved back to the UK with the girls, Huda lost not only her father, but the first boy who stirred her stomach, who caused a flush in her pale cheeks. The first boy who made her cry in secret when he danced with another girl on a Wednesday night.
The evening before she was forced to close a beautiful chapter in her life, Yusuf pressed his soft, inexperienced lips against hers and swore that he would come for her as soon as he could.
In his defense, his promise lasted as long as his fidelity. They sustained their pubescent love through composing long, badly written love letters, creating mix tapes for each other, listening to Richard Marx's 'Right Here Waiting' over and over again.
Then Yusuf's family moved back to the US. The more immersed he became with his new life, the more he lost what attracted Huda to him in the first place – the sweetness, the innocence, the faithfulness. He stopped praying, started drinking, began catching up for all the time he had lost whilst living in a religious state. He had less and less time for the girl waiting for him on the other side of the Atlantic. Like two pieces of driftwood in the ocean, they floated further and further away from each other. Their breakup was an unspoken, mutual understanding that neither needed to articulate. They just knew.
They remained friends though. As friendly as two people with nothing but a shared history in common, who live on different parts of the globe, can be. Every so often, Yusuf would break down and beg Huda to wait for him, every so often, Huda would relent and accept his clumsy, confused love back into her life. She met other guys during her time at University but somehow always found herself back with Yusuf in the end. Until she met David, during her Masters, who showed her what love was supposed to be like - two people on a journey to the same end, a relationship thriving on respect and understanding.
Huda and David got engaged. Yusuf, who heard the news from his brother before he heard it from Huda, was devastated.
"You were supposed to wait for me!" he said when she answered his call at two in the morning, his voice cracking, his throat hoarse.
"Wait for what? For you to sow your wild oats? To stop having fun at Uni? To stop the parties, the clubs, the drinking?"
That was the last time they spoke, almost two years ago. But when Huda called him last week, all their differences seemed irrelevant, and deep beneath his cynicism and her pain, they were still Huda and Yusuf, the picture-perfect, young lovers.
They spoke for almost five hours. At first, about Huda's problems, then about Yusuf's own issues – his white American girlfriend who didn’t understand him, his inability to balance both his cultures, his sense of displacement. They joked about setting his girlfriend up with David. They analysed the steps they had taken that lead them to their respective disillusioned positions, what they could have done to avoid all the heartache. The conversation was like a glass of ice cold water –clear and fresh, and Huda drank it all, like a traveler stumbling across a desert oasis. Until, during a moment of comfortable silence, Yusuf mused;
"Why didn’t we end up together, Huda? You know we were always meant to be with each other. You know I'll always love you."
The glass of water ended up on Huda's face, snapping her out of her dreamlike state. She was married. Yes, to a cheating bastard, but that didn’t give her the right to stoop to his level. That didn’t mean she wanted another man professing his love for her. Bidding Yusuf a hasty farewell, she hung up, her hands shaking.
As if her life wasn't confusing enough, without adding Yusuf, his feelings and their joint baggage to the equation.
Pressing that little red button may have ended their conversation, but it didn’t stop her from constantly wondering about Yusuf, if she had made a mistake in letting him go, if he would still want her after her relationship with David came to an inevitable end. If he had grown into the man she always hoped he would be. His messages to her have only succeeded in confusing her further.
Maybe all this happened so we could end up together the way we were supposed to, he wrote to her that morning. This time I'll wait for you, like I wanted you to wait for me.
She had wanted to wait for him, and she had waited, all those years. But with every year that passed, another part of him changed, until he became virtually unrecognizable. Almost everything she ever loved about him faded away, and although a piece of her heart would always be with the first man who took it, she had doubted that they had a future together.
Was she wrong?
Now, she is sitting at her neat desk at work, trying her best not to make eye-contact with anyone. She doesn’t want to have to partake in small talk or fake smiles with any of her colleagues today. She doesn’t want anyone asking her how she is (shit), what did over the weekend (lament) or what she’s doing that evening (meeting Sugar to bitch about David and perhaps confess about Yusuf).
When six ‘o’ clock finally arrives, Huda drags her body out of her seat, hoists her handbag onto her shoulder and begins the short walk home. She used to be fit, nimble and athletic but recent events have taken a toll on her body and her energy. Now, the short walk home from Internet City is a burden. Her bag feels too heavy and cumbersome. Her legs feel lethargic and stiff.
David is already home when Huda walks up the three flights of stairs to their apartment and lets herself in. He is watching TV and completely ignores her as she quietly enters the apartment. She used to feel a burst of warmth whenever she’d come home to her husband, but now, their brief encounters give her the chills. She doesn’t say anything to him, just walks through the living room to her bedroom (it has ceased being ‘their’ room) and closes the door softly behind her. She leans against it, takes a deep breath, and then begins getting ready to meet Sugar.
She’s not in the mood to dress up, to make an effort to appear normal, but the TV sounds coming from the other side of the door are annoying her. She hates the way David just sits there acting as if he has done nothing wrong. She hates the way he ignores her as if she isn’t there. But most of all, she hates that he doesn’t seem to care that their relationship has crumbled away, that he is unperturbed by the fact that he has not exchanged a single pleasantry with his wife for a week.
Suddenly, her desire to leave the house in tattered jeans and a frayed sweatshirt is replaced with an urge to make him know exactly what he’s missing out on. She steps under the shower and uses as many scented products as she can, knowing that he has a weakness for beautiful fragrances. When she emerges ten minutes later, she smoothes lavender moisturizer over her entire body then slips into a dark purple silk maxi dress. She evens her face out with foundation and then blends purple and black eyeshadow onto her lids, giving them a sexy, smoky look. Highlighting her cheeks with MAC’s ‘Flirt and Tease’ and then applying lipgloss to her pout, she sprays herself with ‘Very Sexy’ and then leaves the room, pretending to look for something in her handbag which lay on the living room floor.
“Are you going out like that? Without hijab?” David asks incredulously as she rummages around in her handbag, taking out various bits and pieces as she feigns looking for her ipod. She smiles to herself, half tempted to do it just to piss him off.
“Have you seen my ipod?” she asks innocently, knowing that it is in the bedroom.
“No I haven’t. Are you going to go out like that?” he asks again. This time Huda stops and looks at his face for the first time all week. He actually looks tired. There are grey circles around his slightly bloodshot eyes and stubble is beginning to show on his chin. So now he cares about her whereabouts. She feels a sense of accomplishment as she throws him a pitiful glance.
“What? Don’t be silly, of course not,” she answers airily, brushing past him to check the bookshelves by the dining table, leaving the ‘Very Sexy’ scent behind. She hears him inhale, and feels contempt. She couldn’t make him want her when she was in bed naked, but now, a bit of perfume and cleavage was driving him wild. He just didn’t have a clue what he wanted or needed. She gives up pretending to look for her ipod and stalks past him again. As she puts on her shrug to cover her bare arms, and covers her hair and cleavage with a bronze scarf, she feels as if she finally may have the upper hand in this battle. She spotted at least ten empty packets of instant noodles in the kitchen bin. David’s salary is too small for him to eat out regularly, but since Huda is not cooking for him, he has been preparing nothing but cheap, easy meals. His little internet lover must have returned to the US so he isn’t getting any action in the bedroom either. Right about now, he must be realizing how good he actually had it with Huda.
Good, she thinks to herself, slipping her feet into bronze heels. She leaves the room and grabs her bag from where she left it in the living room.
“So where are you going?” David asks, just before she exits the apartment.
“Out,” she retorts, slamming the door behind her and feeling a little thrill of excitement. At last, he knows what it feels like to be unwanted.
Sugar collects Huda from outside the apartment building in her rented Toyota and the two of them make their way down to the Marina, where they have dinner at the Lebanese restaurant and ignore the stares they are getting from all the Arab guys in the surrounding tables. She decides against telling Sugar about Yusuf, but instead, explains the anger, frustration and worthlessness David is making her feel.
“You need to leave him,” Sugar states simply. "Leaving him isn't giving up. It's realising your self-worth".
Deep down, Huda knows that she probably does. But she can’t bear to acknowledge that the David she married has metamorphosed into the Cheating David. She doesn’t want to join the long list of divorcees in her family, to openly declare that her marriage has failed. She keeps hoping that he will suddenly revert back to the David she fell in love with, that she will wake up from this nightmare and realize that none of it actually happened.
Huda doesn’t know how to articulate everything she feels simultaneously, so she doesn’t say anything at all.
* * *
She quietly enters her apartment at 1am, feeling exhausted and regretting the amount of makeup she piled on. It will take her ages to wipe it all off. She feels embarrassed to admit that she actually enjoyed the lingering gazes of the men that caught sight of her. It had been so long since she felt desired or sexy that she relished the attention poured on her.
"Hypocrite."
The word comes as a shock to Huda, who is fumbling around for the light switch in the dark. She jumps, letting go of her bag.
"What the hell, David! What's your problem?" she gasps, finally finding the switch and turning the light on. David is sitting on the sofa, staring at her with an expression she has never seen before. She feels conscious under his gaze, and fiddles with her scarf nervously, wondering why her heart has suddenly started to pound.
"My wife, whilst perching on a ridiculously high horse, has been secretly having an affair with some guy called Yusuf. That's my problem."
Huda stares at David, aghast at the accusation. She then spots her phone in his fist, and realizes that during her big 'where's my ipod' parade, she had emptied the contents of her bag and left her phone for him to go through.
"You should be so lucky," she spits out, disgusted. "You wish I’m having an affair, so you can justify your actions to yourself. Sorry to disappoint you David, but I most certainly am not. Now give me my phone back."
She stalks over to him and attempts to snatch her phone. He moves his hand away and grabs her wrist, pulling her towards him.
"Don't lie. It's all here!" he says, anger in his eyes. "I read all your messages. Yusuf, huh? I never would have taken you for a cheat."
"And I never would have taken you for a promiscuous bastard either but hey, we learn something new everyday. Now let go of my wrist."
"Tell me who Yusuf is."
"I don’t owe you anything. Let go."
"Tell me!"
"LET GO."
Huda is unwilling to explain herself to the man who has stalked her friends, indulged in pornography and embarked on a sordid affair with his ex-lover. And then lied about it all. She cannot believe his audacity in questioning her over innocent messages after all he has done. She struggles in his grasp, wondering why the idea of her with another man – which, incidentally, was something he suggested before – is bothering him so much,
"Tell me!" He pulls her arm and she falls onto his lap. She sits there for a moment, the physical contact paralyzing her. Butterflies start buzzing in her stomach and she doesn’t know whether to feel disgusted for allowing herself to be effected by him after all that he has done, or feel repelled by their proximity to one another. She feels neither. Instead, she feels a glimmer of hope light up inside her heart. Before she has a chance to hoist herself off his lap though, he leans forward and presses his cold lips onto hers.
"Don't leave me," he murmurs, pulling away for a second and then kissing her again, this time longer. His words electrocute Huda, who has been waiting for a sign of remorse from David for so long, waiting for a reason to keep trying with him. She melts against his body. He stands up with her still in his arms, and carries her to the bedroom, where he gently places her on the bed and begins unwrapping her hijab.
It is almost like their wedding night, all over again.
But this time, Huda feels fear and nausea. She cannot believe that she is allowing herself to be caressed by a man who has caused her so much agony but she is fearful that this could potentially be the last time they have each other. She doesn’t stop him though. She sinks back onto the sheets and tells herself to relax, to let tonight be okay and worry about the repercussions tomorrow.
However, as he plants gentle kisses on her neck, she can't help but wonder what it would feel like if Yusuf were in his place.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Chapter Eighteen – Who said blood is thicker than water?
Lady Luxe slumps back in her chair with a grimace on her face, ignoring the quizzical look the young woman at the next table gives her. For the past week, she has had to endure Leila gushing about “Moe” taking her to swanky restaurants and bars, long descriptions of his orange Mercedes and painfully intimate details about his full lips that always know exactly how to probe, nibble and tingle.
Little does Leila know, it was actually her so-called friend who helped her sort-of lover choose his car, that his full lips have been inherited from their father, and that the expensive restaurants and bars will not even cause a tiny dent in his bank account.
“So now, I’ve decided to just go with the flow you know? I want to live a little, to stop worrying about finding The One, and have a little fun with The One I’m Settling For instead,” Leila explains to Lady Luxe with a cheesy grin on her face. She is looking happier than she has in weeks – her complexion is glowing, her eyes are twinkling and even the small creases on her forehead seem to have smoothed out.
“Right,” Lady Luxe answers noncommittally, taking a sip from her Moroccan mint tea, and when that doesn't soothe her nerves, a long drag from her double apple shisha. Part of her silky black Hanayen sheila slips off her head and she rearranges it, making sure that her über slick, chestnut brown fringe remains intact and the studded Hanayen logo remains visible.
Since Leila embarked on a love affair with her older brother, Lady Luxe has decided to abandon her Jennifer persona until further notice. She simply cannot risk bumping (or grinding) into Mohammed again, and with Leila constantly trying to run into him, she is afraid that she may not have a choice. As realistic as her golden wig may be (or as stupid as her brother is), he is certainly astute enough to recognise his own sister should he come face to face with her in broad daylight – no matter what her disguise. And that is a predicament Lady Luxe plans to avoid like swine flu. Thus, she has been putting off meeting Leila with lame excuses such as work (as if that ever got in the way of play) and pretend family affairs.
Tonight, after relentless hounding from Leila, Lady Luxe has finally agreed to meet her as her original, abaya-clad self at QDs, the outdoor Lebanese restaurant at the Park Hyatt Hotel. Although relatively atmospheric, with its cosy, majlis-like tents strategically placed around the restaurant, the corny 80s classics that are squeaking through the quiet speakers are grating on Lady Luxe's nerves almost as much as Leila's incessant chattering. She has the sudden urge to jump aboard one of the yachts moored nearby and disappear into the horizon.
"But I haven’t done it with him yet, you know," Leila confides with a gleam in her eyes. "I'm going to hold out as long as possible, but it is so hard to resist when all I want to do when I see him is- "
"I'm surprised he hasn't forced you seeing as you threw yourself at him the first time you met him. He really is one of the good ones." Lady Luxe interrupts snidely, a sense of nausea rippling through her. This is exactly the kind of conversation she refuses to tolerate, and is one of the reasons why she has been trying to avoid meeting Leila. The second is that although bumping into Mohamed as herself is far better than meeting him as Jennifer, it is only the lesser of two evils. She is still hoping that luck will be on her side (she has given up begging God for favours after failing to deliver on her promise to become 'good' the last time He helped her out) and that her brother will become bored of his Lebanese Lover before she has a chance to join the dots and use Lady Luxe's secrets as a lifelong leverage.
Lady Luxe often wishes that she was an orphan. And not just any orphan either, but a siblingless orphan with no extended family, no little note tucked into her Moses basket explaining her origins and no identity other than the one she has created for herself.
The desire to run away to another country, change her name and adopt a whole new persona occasionally fades away though. She enjoys having a sweet, fun younger brother to play Wii Sports with. It also dies down on the rare instances her parents acknowledge her existence in a loving way – rather than just trying to control her or attempting to impart their (very different) beliefs on her. There are even times when she appreciates her last name as well. Whenever she has a little run in with the police, for example, she always drives home feeling relieved that she does not have to endure their law enforcing efforts in the same vain as ordinary people do.
Then there are moments when she can barely stomach her life, her family, her existence; when a newspaper implies that her success lies purely in her name, not her talent nor her hard work, or when her other brother decides to show his authority. With every slap, pinch or shove, her hatred towards him grows stronger, so much so that she has recently started to fantasise about adding cyanide to his tea. She finds it ironic how she loves the brother who is not even fully related to her and yet despises the one who is. That she is closer to the brother who attends the Jumeirah Islamic Learning Centre in his spare time than the one who shares the same pastimes as her.
And then there are the times when she returns to Dubai feeling cold, confused and lonely after another “bonding” session with her mother in London. Lady Luxe’s mother, whom she calls Isabel, doesn’t try to hide her distaste for all things Middle Eastern. After making the dreadful mistake of falling in love with an Emirati man in the '70s and sacrificing her home, her culture and her family in order to be his esteemed wife, she realised that she was expected to sacrifice her freedom as well. Her husband, when he was her boyfriend, was fun, easygoing and modern. He drank like a fish, traveled like a gypsy and swore like a sailor. Having boarded at Sandhurst in his youth, like most of his family, he went on to read PPE at Oxford. She was the cute, preppy Literature student notorious for her endless legs and her quick wit and he was the proverbial tall, dark and handsome foreigner with wads of cash and an open-topped Aston Martin.
She found his accent endearing, his quirky habits cute, and his jealousy sexy. He found her sarcasm funny, her temper cute, her tiny shorts sexy. They shortly became inseparable, spending hours together, smoking weed and listening to Bob Marley. They would talk about how much they despised social norms, their rigid, traditional families, the ugly glares on peoples’ faces when they realised that this pretty English rose was frolicking with a dark skinned Bedouin. All the while, their fingers and limbs entwined – a beautiful contrast of milk and honey, East meeting West.
Isabel thought it would be exciting to move to the UAE, to embark on a marriage rather than a career, to don an abaya over the shorts and become a ‘Muslim’. Her husband’s religiousness did not extend beyond Ramadan and she assumed he would not expect any more from her.
However, upon returning to his homeland with his not-so-blushing, definitely un-virgin bride, Isabel’s new in-laws erupted into pandemonium. They cried, screamed, threatened to die and spun lies, all in an attempt to break up the relationship. Their efforts only made the stubborn English girl try even harder to assimilate, to win over their hearts, to cling onto her husband.
They eventually conceded that he could remain married to his harlot so long as she respected her new religion and culture. She would not work, would no go out unaccompanied, would never leave the home without her face fully covered, would never do anything that could tarnish the family reputation. Oh, she would also have to be willing to share his body and heart with another wife – an Emirati wife – from a wealthy and prestigious family – if he still wanted his inheritance.
After some time, Isabel's sarcasm was no longer funny, it was rude. Her temper ceased being cute – it became disrespectful. And her tiny shorts were more shameless than sexy. Her husband's jealousy became unbearable, his quirky habits uncivilised and his accent irritating.
When his wife disappeared on a sticky, summer’s night with their newborn daughter, leaving behind not just her husband, but their first child as well, Lady Luxe’s father’s heart and pride were shattered. He tracked her down, took their daughter from her and then proceeded to marry the first woman his family suggested in order to soothe his nerves and placate his parents. They had one child together and he divorced her soon after, preferring the company of mistresses whom he didn’t have to endure on a regular basis.
Thus, the X family consists of an English woman who dislikes the Middle East, an Arab man who is detests the West, an innocent Emirati woman caught in the middle of a vicious feud and their children; a curious mix of two cultures and two women, desperately trying to juggle each aspect of their personality and their family, unable to fit in perfectly in either world.
“…and then I said, ‘no habibi, I want it to be special and your tree of desire will bear many fruits if you water it with some patience.’ And then he said, ‘my tree of desire is so big that I am afraid it will explode!’”
Snapping out of her dream like state, Lady Luxe tunes back into Leila’s droning with disgust.
“How cute,” she mutters, scowling. “Anyway! Did I tell you that my cousins are coming to town?”
“You’re interrupting my man story to talk about your cousins?” Leila asks, annoyed. “Either your sheila is heating your brain so much that you don’t know what you’re doing, or you’re insanely jealous and can't bear talking about my perfect man.”
“Jealous? Ha! Why would I be jealous?" Lady Luxe scoffs, raising an eyebrow.
“Quite simply, I have a man. And you don’t. And you feel threatened.” Leila leans back in her seat with her arms folded across her chest, her mouth in a pout and fire flashing in her eyes.
Lady Luxe looks back at her friend in distaste. No woman wearing tight white jeans and a tighter pink t-shirt should have that sort of contemptuous attitude. Leila has been dating her brother for five minures and she has already developed airs and graces. Imagine if she actually – God forbid – married him? She would be positively unbearable.
“Carry on deluding yourself, my dear. We both know exactly how this little union is going to end up, so please, spare me the details until you reach the inevitable conclusion.”
There is a pause while Leila processes what Lady Luxe has said, and when recognition comes, it doesn’t dawn on her slowly, but slaps her hard in the face. She gasps and holds a manicured hand to her mouth in shock.
“You really are a spiteful little bitch aren’t you!” she says, standing up abruptly. “If you don’t mind, I have to go and meet my boyfriend now. The one you’re jealous of. I bet you’re wishing you didn’t hand him over to me in the club now, aren’t you? Well it’s too late. Try and steal him from me and see what I do!”
With that, Leila stalks off, her three-inch shiny hot pink strappy sandals clattering away until she has disappeared from sight. When she can no longer hear her shoes or smell her strong perfume, Lady Luxe lets out a sigh, knowing that she has just made the situation worse. There is nothing like the threat of competition to make a woman cling onto her man even more. If Leila was only interested in having fun with Moe before, now she was determined to prove Lady Luxe wrong. She would no doubt pull out all the stops to ensnare him in her web.
*#&$^@&*!, Lady Luxe curses, feeling completely drained. She takes another long puff of her shisha and releases the smoke slowly out of her mouth, her mind tired from scheming. She wishes she could just go home, curl up in her pjs and completely be herself. She doesn’t want to have to constantly worry about someone who is supposed to be her friend, finding out her real identity. She is tired of having to worry about someone who is supposed to be her loving older brother, finding out her alter ego. She just wants to be her. No labels, no expectations, no demands.
But she can’t.
Instead, she has to go home, swap Lady Penelope for her
“Where the hell have you been?” A voice demands as she runs into the villa to change her shoes, her feet tired from being squeezed into a pair of black vampy Blahnik’s that she had bought a size too small due to them being the last pair left in Barney’s. She stops in her tracks and whips around to see Mohamed standing in the foyer, having just exited the kitchen.
“I was at QDs with my friend,” she answers quickly, flashing him a smile. Reluctant to start a fight just before she has to go out again, she decides it is better to remain polite and informative.
“Which friend?” Mohamed asks, leaning against the white wall, almost camouflaging into it with his pristine white candoura. She stares at him, wondering what Leila finds so attractive (aside the obvious monetary fascination).
“Leila.” she replies simply, watching his expression carefully for any hint of recognition. His face remains impassive.
"Where is she from?" he continues, his gaze unrelenting. She unconsciously fiddles with her scarf, wondering where the questions are leading.
"She's Lebanese. Is there a problem?" Although Lady Luxe's voice is steady, inside, she is beginning to feel queasy.
"Lebanese? You're befriending Lebanese women now are you? What a great way to portray our family name."
Lady Luxe is agog at his hypocrisy, and she forcibly bites her tongue.
"Is there anything else you would like to interrogate me about? I'm running late."
“Don't be impertinent or you won't go wherever it is that you're going at all. Didn’t Baba tell you to ask my permission before you go out in his absence?”
Lady Luxe feels her blood begin to boil and she breathes in slowly, trying to soothe her anger.
“Actually no,” she manages to say, her voice shaking and her mouth contorted into a grimace. “He told me to inform you of my whereabouts, which I did, this morning. I told you I was meeting a friend for dinner and I also told you that I have to go and collect Moza and Rowdha from the airport – which I would be happy to let you do yourself if my impertinence prevents you from allowing me to leave the house. I sincerely hope your important admin career doesn’t require you to pay much attention to detail.”
She spins around on her heels and begins walking up the stairs, her pulse thudding in her ears, wondering if her tenacity will go unacknowledged. Before she can even reach the fourth step, she feels Mohamed grab her hair from back, where it is wrapped around a flower clip, and yank it hard. Her head snaps backwards and water fills her eyes as the hair pulls at her scalp.
“Let go of me!” she gasps, trying to wriggle out of his grasp.
“Not until you apologise for being such a mouthy bitch,” he snarls, his grasp tightening, causing her to yelp in pain.
“Let go!” Lady Luxe can feel the skin on her neck stretching so much so that her throat constricts, and she wonders how far he is willing to go to get an apology out of her. She is too proud to let her knees buckle and knows she will never give in, not like this.
“Say sorry.” He says quietly, his eyes narrow and cold.
"No!"
“Hammoudi! What are you doing!” Lady Luxe looks up to see Ahmed at the top of the stairs, staring down at his older sister struggling to breathe in horror.
"Teaching your sister some manners," Mohamed hisses. With one final yank, he lets go of her and shoves her away from him. She collapses on the stairs, her breath coming out in gasps, strands of her hair stuck to her sweaty face, her body heaving.
Without a word, she picks herself up, and knees trembling, walks up the stairs.
“Ukhti, are you okay?” Ahmed asks tentatively, reaching out to her. She brushes his hand away and walks into her room, slamming the door behind her. Leaning against it, she hears the muffled sounds of two brothers fighting – one for respect he has not earned and the other in defense of someone weaker.
Lady Luxe washes her face, dabs on a little moisturiser, sprays a little Miss Charming and then plasters a smile on her face. She checks her reflection. Her eyes are slightly bloodshot and her plain face looks young and vulnerable. Grabbing her handbag, she slips her feet into comfortable trainers, gathers her nerves for a moment and then walks out of her room.
The stairway is empty and she looks down at the hard, cold Italian marble, wondering what it would look like with splatters of red, of how it will feel if her head smashed against it. Because if Mohamed finds out about her other existence, about the amount of men she has slept with, about the fire she has played with, no doubt it will come to this.
Water fills her eyes again, but this time in fear, not pain. She can't let him find out. She can't.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Chapter Seventeen – The Art of Seduction
If there is one thing Leila is good at, it is making a man want her with every inch of his nether regions. Admittedly, she has yet to perfect the art of making him continue 'loving' her once she has opened the gates to the promised land. And she also has yet to learn how to make him love her enough to propose to her after giving in to his desires. But if there is one thing she can do, it is make him want her - yearn for her - chase after her - with a longing comparable to a pregnant woman's incomprehensible cravings.
Leila knows exactly what to say (and how to say it) to ensure that Mr Maybe calls her the next day. She also knows how to behave in order to guarantee a follow up date. In fact, she has the first six weeks down to a T - for Temptation. She tempts, seduces, solicits, flirts, snubs, implies and entices to within an inch of her life. And finally, numerous flowers, chocolates and occasionally jewellery or shopping expeditions later, she gives in and shyly accepts an invitation back to his home. In white lacy underwear, she trembles and shivers and moans with an innocence so convincing that even the head sister at her old convent school would believe that she had held onto her chastity as tightly as she held onto her purse strings.
After swearing off Emirati men with their double-standards, multiple wives and strange sexual habits, Leila had no intention of wasting her time or skills with Moe from the club. They hadn't danced long before he suggested that they go somewhere quiet to 'talk' and although he wasn't clad in a candoura, Leila was certain that he was an Emirati of Iranian descent, and therefore, Mr No Way. For the first time in a very long time, she decided to indulge in a night of wanton sex with an attractive man with an even more attractive Breitling that hung loosely from his right wrist.
To her surprise, after struggling through the crowd of sweaty dancers and bursting into the sticky night outside, Moe slid his arm into hers and took her for walk through the backstreets of Oud Metha. Slightly nervous, she wondered if he would attempt to make a pass at her in a dark alleyway and concluded that if he did, she deserved it after agreeing to leave with a stranger in the first place. But he didn't. Instead, he took her to a juice bar and they ordered fresh watermelon juices which she laced with vodka. They sat on the wall outside gulping down the cold, refreshing drinks as if they had been denied water for days. They talked about their aspirations and their families, their careers and their friends. The conversation was the longest, most sensual foreplay the ever-so-slightly tipsy Leila had indulged in. Every word he uttered made her insides melt into a mushy pool of hormones, every smile made the tiny hairs on her body prickle in anticipation and every accidental touch sent a shiver down her bare back.
She had never felt so alive before.
So, in the middle of a sentence, fuelled by alcohol and desire, Leila grabbed Moe's big, warm hand, pulled him into an alleyway and did exactly what she was fearful that he would do. And she didn't even feel ashamed. She didn't care that the Rules dictated that she should withhold as long as possible, that any previous thoughts of marrying her were now shattered. There was no way that he would allow the mother of his children to be the sort who performed all sorts of oral tricks in Dubai's dark streets that would put Russian prostitutes to shame. But anyway, she told herself. It's not as if an Arab guy would ever go looking for a wife in a club - so she had already struck out... and if she had nothing to lose, then why not live a little? He didn't know her name, so he couldn't stalk her on Facebook and send messages to all her friends telling them that she was a ten-dirham ho. He didn't know where she lived, so he couldn't turn up on her doorstep at 3am, pissed out of his face, demanding for some more of her expertise. He didn't know where she worked either, so he couldn't take pictures of her breasts with his camera phone and then send them to all her colleagues. All in all, she was safe.
"When can I see you again?" he gasped after zipping up his jeans and wiping his clammy hands on his thighs.
"Let's not make any promises," Leila purred, with a smile. She flicked her hair over her shoulders and began to stride away, her heart beating with the thrill of conducting indecent, lewd behavior in public, for not having to worry about the morning after, for not having to plan a snaring strategy.
"Wait," Moe called out after her, jogging to catch up. "Give me your number at least!"
"Come on Mohamed," Leila grinned cheekily. "We all know that decent Arab girls don’t give out their numbers to strangers."
"I think we've long passed those awkward formalities, ya helou," he grinned back. "Now give me your number, yalla."
She gave the number, smiled one last dazzling smile and then sauntered away with her head held high and her derriere wiggling professionally and flagged down a taxi. As she stumbled in, she made sure not to look back. It had barely even pulled away before her phone beeped with a message from her new FWB (friend with benefits.)
Can't wait to see you again, ya omri.
Giggling at his blatant bullshit, she hit delete and then sent a message to Lady Luxe instead. Oh how good it felt to feel desirable once again, albeit in a kinky kind of way. She smiled all the way back to Discovery Gardens, all the way up the lift and down the corridor, right up until she reached her apartment and was confronted with a little plastic bag hanging off the handle. Pulling off the red ribbon, she found three Patchi chocolates inside, and a little 'Thanks for a lovely brunch," note from Mr Deliciously Rude And Obnoxious.
Popping a creamy chocolate into her mouth and tossing the note aside with a 'hmph,' she entered her apartment feeling more beautiful and sexy than she had in a long time. She teetered over to her bed and collapsed into it, sighing at how wonderful her life was. Without even cleaning her face or changing her clothes, she fell into a deep sleep.
***
The next morning, Leila wakes to her phone ringing. Yawning loudly, she forces her eyes open, her head pounding, and sees Lady Luxe's name on the caller ID. Looking down at her crumpled, bedraggled self, still in last night's clothes, she rubs an eye tentatively and then looks at her finger. It is black with mascara and eyeliner. Confused, she answers and then holds the phone away from her ear as her friend's shrieks echo around her bare apartment.
"What are you screaming about?" she eventually manages to get in, after the yells subside and she can bring the phone back to her ear.
"I can't believe you just went off with a random guy like that! A random guy from a dodgy club who could have done all sorts of humiliating and degrading things to you just because you are a woman. And because you are WEAK. And because he was obviously local and you KNOW what LOCAL guys are LIKE!"
"Excuse me?" Leila snaps, her head spinning. What the hell is Lady Luxe on about? "Darling, habibti," she begins snootily. "Please correct me if I am wrong, but surely you are aware that it is you, not I, who disappears with nameless men from clubs only to be treated like a glorified prostitute."
"It used to be," Lady Luxe replies, her voice rising again. "But now you seem to want IN on my game! Meaningless sex is my thing, not yours. That's why I was so shocked and I was worried about you!"
"Hold on a second," Leila interrupts, her head still throbbing. Is Lady Luxe actually accusing her of going off with a man from the club? She racks her brains but cannot for the life of her remember what happened after they had entered Chi. Ordinarily, she would had scoffed at the accusation, but she is currently lying in bed in jeans and a leopard print boob tube with full makeup on and is in no state to be self-righteous. "What are you saying exactly? Be clear."
"How much clearer do you want me to be? One second you're all up against that local guy, the next second you told me you wanted to leave with him, and then a few hours later you texted me declaring your undying love for him."
"Shit," Leila mutters, as realization dawns upon her. She vaguely recalls a man's sweaty palms in her hands. She remembers walking through Oud Metha's slightly dirty and unkempt streets, she remembers adding vodka to their watermelon juices, she remembers her sore feet, blistered from the long walk. Then she remembers pulling the tall, rugged Emirati into an empty, smelly alleyway and fumbling with the buttons on his Levi's. She remembers pulling down his CK boxers… and then…
"OH MY FUCKING GOD!" she screams in horror. "Oh no! Please no! Please say I didn’t!"
"Didn’t what? DIDN'T WHAT?" Lady Luxe screams back. "Leila – don’t tell me – "
"I did! I did!" Leila cries down the phone, the weight of her actions looming down on her. What if the police had caught them? She would have been locked away and then deported, but not before her name was splashed in every single newspaper in the UAE. Another horny foreigner caught making a mockery of Dubai's rigid rules. Her life would have been over.
"You got married?" Lady Luxe wails. "Where did you find a Sheikh to do it? Since when did Dubai become Vegas? La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah!"
"Married? No! I wish!"
"Wha? You didn't? If you didn’t marry him, then exactly did you do that you regret so much?"
"I gave him a…" Leila swallows nervously. "A you-know-what. In an alley."
"That's it?" Lady Luxe almost weeps in relief. Her breath steadies itself and she smiles a shaky smile. Leila has shown her brother the true extent of her trashiness. He will never take her seriously now, and this little problem will be over before she can say Alf Mabrouk.
"What do you mean that's it? I am not YOU. I don’t do these degrading, classless things!"
"Well my dear, clearly you do." With that, Lady Luxe hangs up and Leila sinks back on her pillow, bile creeping up in the back of her throat.
She manages to drag herself out of bed and looks at her ragamuffin reflection. She almost falls back into bed when she is confronted by her massive hair, sticking up in all directions, her panda eyes and cracked foundation. Her boob tube is exposing one, expensive boob and her strapless bra is hanging around her waist somewhere. For a moment, she is thankful that she had the sense to commit lewd acts in public and then go home, rather than sleep over with the man and let him see her like this. Sighing, she pulls off last night's outfit that she knows she can never look upon favourably again and then steps under the shower.
Her phone rings just as she has finished piling on countless beauty products that promise to soften skin (Body Shop Body Butter), fade away stretch marks (RoC Maternity oil), brighten the complexion (Clinique Even Better Skin Tone) and reduce puffiness and eradicate fine lines around the eyes, (La Mer Eye Concentrate). Wrapped in a towel, she walks over to it and squints at the caller ID, wondering who on Earth Moe is.
"Hello?" she answers.
"Hello habibti," a deep voice drawls. "I can't stop thinking about you."
"And why is that?" she asks, stalling for time. Moe? Surely he isn’t the guy from last night?
"Because those lips of yours are incredible and I can't wait to find out what they can do to the rest of me." Shit, she realises in horror. He is the guy from last night and clearly he likes her sudden slip into promiscuity. Or he wants more of it.
"What? Ew! No way! Don’t call me again!" she gasps, and then hangs up, her hands shaking. She can't believe she gave him her number. What was she thinking? Clearly she wasn't thinking. It was all Mr Delicious' fault for making her feel so unwanted. She would get him back for this.
A minute later, the phone rings again and this time, she rejects it without even answering.
In the next hour, her phone rings thirteen times and Leila gives up rejecting the calls. Instead, she just doesn’t acknowledge them, hoping that Moe will get the hint eventually. She just isn’t interested in embarking on a meaningless relationship that will end with a disaster and make her feel like an old hooker who has passed her prime. She doesn’t want to invest time and effort on a man who will not marry her. Especially when her sister is about to get married and she is hoping to go her wedding with a fiancée dangling off her left arm, and a real Chanel bag off her right.
He doesn’t.
Habibti answer the phone. Is the first message.
Habibti don’t be shy. It's okay. Don’t be ashamed. You didn’t do anything wrong.
Ya 2lbi, don’t burn my heart like this. I can't stop thinking about you. You have stolen my heart. Come here and give it back to me.
7araam! You are killing me like this! I am nothing without you. Your beauty makes the moon look ugly. Your smile makes the sun look dark. Your skin makes pearls seem dull. Yalla. Call me back!
If you don’t answer the phone now I will call my friend in Etisalat and find out who you are. And then I will come to your home and wait outside the door until you open it.
At this last message, Leila panics and answers the phone. Moe seems unperturbed by the fact he has had to threaten her in order to make her yield to his advances. She wearily accepts his dinner invitation, unsure as to how to deter him. Arab men, especially Emirati men, do not take kindly to rejection, so she will have to think of a better strategy to make him give up. She knows this won’t be easy though. These are the same men who think an open car window is an invitation to start heckling. So what does a blow job in an alley mean? Leila doesn’t even allow her imagination to wander down that avenue.
She gets ready for dinner as if she is going to a funeral. She slips on a pair of formal grey trousers, a black blouse and ties a black and white silk scarf around her neck, trying to cover as much of her skin as possible. If she was Muslim, she would have wrapped it around her head in an attempt to deter him further. She dusts the tiniest amount of powder on her nose, blusher on her cheeks and a little bit of mascara. No lipstick or gloss, or anything to actually look as if she has made an effort. Of course, she could have gone bareface, but for Leila, a naked face is sacreligious. She forgoes the usual dangly earrings for plain tiny diamond studs and pulls her hair back into a neat bun. I look like a school teacher, she thinks with a grimace. A classy, sophisticated school teacher.She grabs her 'Chanel' handbag and gets into Baby Bee. They have arranged to meet at Madinat Jumeirah (there is no way she will allow him to find out where she lives) and so she slowly makes her way down there, dread festering in the pit of her stomach.
She pulls up at Madinat Jumeirah the same time as Moe, and is surprised to see that he is driving an orange Mercedes AMG and has a two-digit license plate. She remembers his Breitling watch from the night before and his expensive Italian shoes. So they were real, she notes approvingly. At least she is being hassled by a rich Emirati, not the poor 'just moved out of the desert and have been given a villa in Jumeirah by the Government' type.
They park next to each other and he takes her to the Caviar House & Prunier, the finest seafood and caviar restaurant in Dubai. As they take their seats outside, directly opposite the illuminated Burj Al Arab, letting the deliciously creamy, perfectly salted Caspian caviar melt in their mouths, Leila has an epiphany. Moe is being attentive, complimentary and sweet – the perfect gentleman. He drives an expensive car, wears expensive clothes and clearly has more money than he knows what to do with. She knows that she has had bad experiences with Emiratis before, but that was when she was naïve, looking for Sheikh Charming to whisk her away on an Arabian Stallion. Now she knows better than to expect monogamy, loyalty or even honesty.
Moe may be already married… but even if he is…. Would it be so bad to become someone's second wife? After all, her clock is ticking and she is old enough to know that fairytales do not exist. What exactly is so bad about marrying a man who will provide her with her own luxury villa, a limitless credit card and a Maserati, who she doesn’t even have to see very often? She can be married and yet free to do as she pleases simultaneously. Is that really such a bad offer?
"You look beautiful by the way," Moe says to her in his slightly British, slightly American and slightly Arabic accent and suddenly, she softens up. The icy demeanor she has adopted all evening melts away as she realizes what she has to do. Maybe his motives are a little shady. Maybe he just wants her for good sex, for a bit of fun on the side. Or maybe he's looking for a dishy number two now that he's fulfilled his familial obligation of marrying some ugly buck-nosed, hairy, local girl his family chose for him. Either way, she has nothing to lose - there aren't exactly a whole line of men waiting to ask her to marry them.
She smiles shyly at him.
"Thank you," she says sweetly, looking down. Her sell-by date is fast approaching and she knows exactly who should pluck her off the shelf.
Let the game begin.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Chapter Sixteen – It’s all coming back to me now
I am officially in lust but I am too afraid to vocalise it – because if I do, it will become tangible. It will cease being a game I play in my head, a few tugs on my heart strings, an occasional dry mouth, a pink cheek, a shy smile. If I tell the object of my lustfulness what exactly runs across my mind when he sends me an innocent message, I may just find out that the feelings are mutual. And if they are, then surely our friendship will take a sweeter but more dangerous turn?
When I declined Goldenboy’s dinner invitation last week, I wondered how he would react to it – whether he would be turned on or off by the ‘good girl’ façade. Incidentally, he seems to be turned on by it, sending me messages almost every day and inviting me out every other day. I can’t help wondering if he’s just enjoying the thrill of the chase though. I’ve heard the rumours about Arab guys – you know, about the way they fall in love at the drop of the hat and fall out of it just as quickly. How they will profess their love for you with such intense eloquence that you are left feeling as if you’ve had the wind knocked out of you. And how they will drop you like a hot potato the moment you become another notch on the bed post. I hope that Goldenboy isn’t the same as the stereotypical Arab guy. But then at the same time, I hope he is. Because his presence in my life is making me too excited, too nervous… and too scared.
I’m not so naïve as to claim that this is the first time I’ve felt this way, that this is the first time a cute, kind and funny bloke has had this profound effect on me. I have. And it took me to the highest cloud and then dragged me down to hell and back.
I’ve tried hard to forget Jayden. To forget his hearty laugh, his deep brown eyes, his ability to make the worst situation seem okay. I’ve tried to forget the way we first met, when he smiled at me from across the university library. Not pervily mind you, but because I had just tripped over the shoelaces on my silver adidas trainers. I had clutched onto the nearest bookcase in support and knocked over a potted plant that was resting there. Who keeps potted plants on library shelves anyway? The plant flew through the air and smashed headfirst onto the carpet, bits of soil flying in all directions. I stared at it, horrified, and then tentatively looked up to see if anyone had noticed the goings on in the west corner. No one had – except this boy – who flashed a bright smile at me, revealing a single, lonely dimple on his right cheek as he did. Turning tomato, I crouched down and unsuccessfully tried to shove the soil back into the brown plastic pot, bits of it getting stuck in my chewed-on nails.
Only I would display my lack of coordination to the fittest guy in the entire library, and render myself a complete and utter klutz in his eyes.
I’m used to making a spectacle of myself though. The library incident was almost as bad as the time I went on Tidal Wave at Thorpe Park. In a white top and white linen trousers. Tidal Wave, in case you didn’t know, is a ride at my favourite theme park that basically drenches you from head to foot. Completely forgetting that I was wearing white, I happily queued up for an hour and it was only when I got off, water dripping from me, and when all the guys laughed their heads off, I realised what I had done. Struggling in my (already tight) linen trousers that had shrunk a size because of the water, I waddled over to the bathroom, my arms folded across my chest in an attempt to hide the pink bra that was showing through the wet cloth. I then spent half an hour under the hand dryer, desperately trying to make my clothes opaque again. And who should walk into the very same restroom at that moment? My old mosque teacher. Horrified, she stared at her ex-student in a wet, transparent white outfit clinging to her curves and no hijab in sight. I muttered a quick ‘salaam’ and looked away in shame, cursing my bad luck.
That afternoon in the library, I ignored the fit guy’s piercing stare and continued stuffing the soil back into the pot. I also attempted straightening out the bent leaves, feeling sorry for the poor plant I had almost destroyed.
“Need some help?” A pair of white Nikes stopped in front of me, and I looked up, past the loose jeans, the grey hoody with the zip undone, past the smooth mocha coloured neck and finally to that beautiful dimple. My stomach did a somersault.
“Um, n-no thanks, I think I’ve got it covered,” I stammered, picking up the pot and shoving it back onto the shelf.
“Alright,” he shrugged, about to turn away. “But do up your laces before you buckle again. Oh, and nice trainers.”
I watched him swagger away, enthralled by the way his jeans hung perfectly on his hips, amazed by his confidence and furious with myself for not replying with something remotely witty or interesting. And what was up with that stammer? I’d never stammered in my life. But of course the one time I did, it had to be in front of a gorgeous black guy with trendy clothes and a swagger that would put Jay-Z to shame.
I became an ardent library goer. Every day, between lectures, I’d visit the bright, airy room with its shelves laden with heavy text books (and plants of course), its desks occupied by enthusiastic students, and sit in the same place as the Plant Debaucle, pretending to study. I actually ended up learning quite a lot during this time, with nothing but my books and my fantasies to occupy me. Every evening though, I’d shuffle home feeling disappointed. But when morning came, I’d wake up hopeful, and without any coaxing from my mother (who usually had to stomp up to my room and yank off the duvet to force me out of my slumber), I’d leap out of bed and get ready with nervous excitement.
When I was just about to give up on the library altogether and go back to my usual dossing ways, he reappeared.
“Knock over any plants lately?” he said, as I sat slumped in my chair, reading ‘Anna Karenina’ for my literature class and drawing hearts on the pages.
“No,” I replied, slamming the book shut. My heart thudding, I waited a moment to compose myself (and appear nonplussed in the process) before I looked up at him and raised an eyebrow as nonchalantly as I could. “Offered to help any damsels in distress lately?”
“Course,” he replied, grinning and showing off his dimple once again. “Some girl dropped her food in the cafeteria yesterday and I offered to eat it off the floor.”
“That’s disgusting!” I exclaimed, horrified. He started laughing, his laugh so infectious that I couldn’t help but join him. It wasn’t particularly funny, but the proximity to his smooth voice, his long limbs and the fresh fragrance of Davidoff’s Cool Water, made me dizzy with hormones, and I just couldn’t stop laughing.
“If you two can’t stop your hysterics than I suggest you leave the library,” the librarian hissed at us from the counter, not bothered to walk up to us to spare us the embarrassment. Still giggling, I gathered up my books and followed him out to the lawn outside, ignoring the dirty looks the more serious students were giving us. Placing his things under a tree, he gestured for me to sit beside him, so I did, and we ‘studied’ together for the rest of the afternoon. By this I mean I pretended to read Anna whilst imagining different scenarios of him ravishing me on the grass in my mind. And him? He took out an Economics book and actually did some work.
Thus was the beginning of a friendship infused with passion, laughter and the underlying sense of something brewing deep within.
* * *
As I lie in bed on Saturday morning, I try to tell myself that my relationship with Goldenboy is nothing like my relationship with Jayden. That I’m not the same Sugar I was back in London. That if we happen to fall in love, I will never make the same mistakes I made the first time – but I won’t even get that far. Because I won’t fall in love.
What are we doing today?
The message alert startles me, and I look down at my phone and smile at his using ‘we’ even though we’re not an ‘us’. I have already seen Goldenboy twice this week. A few days after the cinema day, we went for shisha in Momo’s which restored my ill-feelings towards it after I went there with Huda. We were talking about work and other mindless things whilst sharing a double apple shisha and I wondered how much his salary was. Don’t get me wrong – I wasn’t trying to suss out his eligibility as a husband. I’m just really curious about pay discrepancies in Dubai. I can’t believe that people get paid according to their nationality – not because they have more experience or have earned that salary. Unless you count a maroon passport as really hard work, that is. This 'hard work' will often get you a hefty tax-free salary, accommodation allowance, school fees allowance, medical insurance, business class flights home and all other necessities that your salary won't have to pay for. A man with less experience (i.e. a different passport) will probably get paid a quarter of an EU member/American. He may also be given oars to row himself home with on a banana boat every year. If he’s lucky.
I didn’t realise that I had actually voiced my thoughts out loud until he looked at me strangely.
“What?” I asked, puzzled by the surprised look on his face.
“Well, salaries are quite personal things,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Are you trying to find out if I’m a good catch?”
“No!” I exclaimed, taking a long puff of shisha in a lame attempt to give him something other than my eyes to look at. Whenever I look into his eyes, I feel a jolt of electricity and every time I feel it sizzle through my body, I am reminded of how un-platonic my feelings towards him are.
He told me though and I kicked myself for asking him when I learnt that he earned less than me. Despite being older with more experience. He then asked me how much I earned and I was torn between telling him the truth (a few thousand D’s more than him) and lying (to make him feel better). We already had an awkward conversation when he found out I didn’t have to re-take my driving test in order to get a UAE license, rather I just had to submit the relevant UK documents and wait in a few queues. Not like him. He had to invest hundreds of D's in lessons and tests, despite driving for many more years than me back in Syria and being experienced in driving on the right-hand side of the road.
“You Brits get away with everything over here,” he had said, half jokingly. I was a bit unnerved by the twinge of annoyance in his voice, unsure of what to say. Should I apologise for being British? Should I feel guilty about having certain things made easier for me?
“It’s not because I’m British, it’s because it’s really difficult to get a driver’s license in the UK so they know we’ve already been thoroughly trained.” I argued defensively.
“Not like me, you mean?” he answered quietly.
“No, I didn’t mean that,” I began, but he looked away and I wondered if the differences between our passports in the UAE would be a constant source of bitterness on his part and guilt on mine.
After that, I tried to avoid sour subjects, so when we went for shisha the second time, I kept the conversation light.
We went to Elements, an arty restaurant at Wafi City, which is a mall beautifully modeled on Ancient Egypt. I’d never been to Wafi before, and I was amazed by the colorful glass pyramids and the intricacy of the Khan Murjaan souk, with its huge stained glass ceiling engraved with Arabic calligraphy and the scent of bakhoor tickling my nose. The gorgeous open air restaurant hidden within the souk was exactly like the old houses in the ancient backstreets of Damascus. As the Khan Murjan restaurant was a little too noisy, with the live band playing old Fairouz and Um Kulthoum songs, we opted for Elements instead. We sat down on the low, mattress-like seats in the corner of the room and I resisted the urge to sit next to him and snuggle up.
He was sitting close enough to me for me to inhale his fresh, clean scent though. He smelt like soap, detergent and a bit of musk all rolled in one, and the combination was intoxicating. As we waited for our mint and grape shisha to arrive, we looked at the brightly coloured oil paintings adorning the walls.
“See that red one? Technically it’s incorrect as the shadows should be on the other side,” he explained, citing his Professor at the Fine Arts college, University of Damascus. “Look, let me show you. Do you have a pen or paper?”
I pulled out my diary and handed it to him, along with a pen, and he opened a blank page and began drawing on it. While he was sketching, he explained the way light and dark colours should appear on a canvas, the rules about placing objects on different parts and other complicated rules that I wasn’t particularly interested in. I was more interested in the way his strong fingers were gripping the pen, the way his hand moved over the page so fluidly, the way his eyebrows came together in concentration.
Oh man, I thought to myself, as the true depth of my lust became apparent to me. I couldn’t even watch him draw a box without feeling like my knees would buckle. How could I possibly stay friends with him? How could I continue justifying our friendship with the plea of loneliness?
That evening, I drove home feeling depressed, the absence of his presence making my loneliness in Dubai all the more apparent.
When Jayden and I became friends, I didn’t feel so confused. I was different then; more carefree, more adventurous, more open to new experiences. My parents aren’t strict Muslims (my mum doesn’t even observe hijab) but they’re strict Indians. At times, they think they’re still in Gujarat not Stamford Hill, with the way they go on about the community, their honour. When I’d come home late (by late, I mean 11pm), my mum would be waiting by the door of our five-bedroom terraced house, hissing, “What would people think if they saw you coming home in the middle of the night? Jaldi, go to your room before your father realises you’re not home!”
Despite my parents’ steadfast, un-budging traditions, I somehow managed to find ways to do what I wanted. I’d pretend to be staying over at a friend’s house, revising, when really I’d go out clubbing. I’d leave our house in baggy trackies and hoodies and then remove the hoody when I turned the corner to reveal tight t-shirts or sleeveless tops underneath. I’d even pretend to fast in Ramadan – waking up before the crack of dawn and feasting on a heavy sehri and then would indulge in a sarnie on my way to college or uni. I clubbed, I partied, I had boyfriends, I ate haraam food and I wore revealing clothes – just like everyone else I knew.
I knew that if my dad ever caught sight of me with a boy, I’d get beats. Not serious enough to inflict deep injuries, but enough to teach me a lesson or ten. I didn’t resent him for it – he rarely hit me – but when he did, I’d accept it unquestioningly. It was a normal part of my, and all my Asian friends’, upbringing. If my dad ever found out that I was in love with someone though, I didn’t know how he would react. Maybe he would send me on the next Air India flight back home like my Uncle Yusuf did to my cousin Sumaiya, or maybe he would throw me out the house like my Uncle Khalid did with my cousin Atia. Either way, the result wouldn’t be pretty. But for some reason, I just wasn’t scared. I thought I was invincible.
My dad’s wrath didn’t stop me from befriending boys though, all it did was make me more careful. All my cousins (I have a million) are around the same age so we’d hang out together, and we were all friends with guys. There were no secrets between us because there was no reason to hide anything. There was one unspoken rule though, that none of us would dare to even consider breaking. We could be friends with Asian guys as much as we liked – Punjabis, Bengalis, Pakistanis – but we never, ever became mates with white boys. Or even worse, black ones. There was no future with either race – no prospect of marriage (without being outcasted), and therefore, all liaisons with them would appear slutty or promiscuous.
And no girl in my family was a slut.
That’s why, when Jayden and I starting hanging out in the library together, I never told any of my cousins. I couldn’t. Anyway, we were only studying together, I reassured myself. There was nothing wrong with that. Plus none of my cousins went to my university, so the chances of them seeing us together were slim. But of course, the world is small and North London is even smaller. It was naïve of me to think anything else.
My memory suddenly takes me from the beginning to the ending. And when I think of the ending, a shudder runs through my body. I remember the look on my cousin’s face when I confided my secret to her. I remember my brother clutching a fistful of my hair and pushing me against the wall. I remember him storming out of the house, calling all the ‘boys’ in the process. I remember my dad turning his face away in grief, my mother's tears. And I remember the police sirens in the distance. The clink of the handcuffs in darkness of the night.
My palms begin to sweat. I can’t do it again.
The phone rings and I jump, forced out of my thoughts. It is Goldenboy, and I don’t know whether to answer or reject the call. I’m too lost in the past, too absorbed in my memories to force a smile and act as if everything is okay.
When I declined Goldenboy’s dinner invitation last week, I wondered how he would react to it – whether he would be turned on or off by the ‘good girl’ façade. Incidentally, he seems to be turned on by it, sending me messages almost every day and inviting me out every other day. I can’t help wondering if he’s just enjoying the thrill of the chase though. I’ve heard the rumours about Arab guys – you know, about the way they fall in love at the drop of the hat and fall out of it just as quickly. How they will profess their love for you with such intense eloquence that you are left feeling as if you’ve had the wind knocked out of you. And how they will drop you like a hot potato the moment you become another notch on the bed post. I hope that Goldenboy isn’t the same as the stereotypical Arab guy. But then at the same time, I hope he is. Because his presence in my life is making me too excited, too nervous… and too scared.
I’m not so naïve as to claim that this is the first time I’ve felt this way, that this is the first time a cute, kind and funny bloke has had this profound effect on me. I have. And it took me to the highest cloud and then dragged me down to hell and back.
I’ve tried hard to forget Jayden. To forget his hearty laugh, his deep brown eyes, his ability to make the worst situation seem okay. I’ve tried to forget the way we first met, when he smiled at me from across the university library. Not pervily mind you, but because I had just tripped over the shoelaces on my silver adidas trainers. I had clutched onto the nearest bookcase in support and knocked over a potted plant that was resting there. Who keeps potted plants on library shelves anyway? The plant flew through the air and smashed headfirst onto the carpet, bits of soil flying in all directions. I stared at it, horrified, and then tentatively looked up to see if anyone had noticed the goings on in the west corner. No one had – except this boy – who flashed a bright smile at me, revealing a single, lonely dimple on his right cheek as he did. Turning tomato, I crouched down and unsuccessfully tried to shove the soil back into the brown plastic pot, bits of it getting stuck in my chewed-on nails.
Only I would display my lack of coordination to the fittest guy in the entire library, and render myself a complete and utter klutz in his eyes.
I’m used to making a spectacle of myself though. The library incident was almost as bad as the time I went on Tidal Wave at Thorpe Park. In a white top and white linen trousers. Tidal Wave, in case you didn’t know, is a ride at my favourite theme park that basically drenches you from head to foot. Completely forgetting that I was wearing white, I happily queued up for an hour and it was only when I got off, water dripping from me, and when all the guys laughed their heads off, I realised what I had done. Struggling in my (already tight) linen trousers that had shrunk a size because of the water, I waddled over to the bathroom, my arms folded across my chest in an attempt to hide the pink bra that was showing through the wet cloth. I then spent half an hour under the hand dryer, desperately trying to make my clothes opaque again. And who should walk into the very same restroom at that moment? My old mosque teacher. Horrified, she stared at her ex-student in a wet, transparent white outfit clinging to her curves and no hijab in sight. I muttered a quick ‘salaam’ and looked away in shame, cursing my bad luck.
That afternoon in the library, I ignored the fit guy’s piercing stare and continued stuffing the soil back into the pot. I also attempted straightening out the bent leaves, feeling sorry for the poor plant I had almost destroyed.
“Need some help?” A pair of white Nikes stopped in front of me, and I looked up, past the loose jeans, the grey hoody with the zip undone, past the smooth mocha coloured neck and finally to that beautiful dimple. My stomach did a somersault.
“Um, n-no thanks, I think I’ve got it covered,” I stammered, picking up the pot and shoving it back onto the shelf.
“Alright,” he shrugged, about to turn away. “But do up your laces before you buckle again. Oh, and nice trainers.”
I watched him swagger away, enthralled by the way his jeans hung perfectly on his hips, amazed by his confidence and furious with myself for not replying with something remotely witty or interesting. And what was up with that stammer? I’d never stammered in my life. But of course the one time I did, it had to be in front of a gorgeous black guy with trendy clothes and a swagger that would put Jay-Z to shame.
I became an ardent library goer. Every day, between lectures, I’d visit the bright, airy room with its shelves laden with heavy text books (and plants of course), its desks occupied by enthusiastic students, and sit in the same place as the Plant Debaucle, pretending to study. I actually ended up learning quite a lot during this time, with nothing but my books and my fantasies to occupy me. Every evening though, I’d shuffle home feeling disappointed. But when morning came, I’d wake up hopeful, and without any coaxing from my mother (who usually had to stomp up to my room and yank off the duvet to force me out of my slumber), I’d leap out of bed and get ready with nervous excitement.
When I was just about to give up on the library altogether and go back to my usual dossing ways, he reappeared.
“Knock over any plants lately?” he said, as I sat slumped in my chair, reading ‘Anna Karenina’ for my literature class and drawing hearts on the pages.
“No,” I replied, slamming the book shut. My heart thudding, I waited a moment to compose myself (and appear nonplussed in the process) before I looked up at him and raised an eyebrow as nonchalantly as I could. “Offered to help any damsels in distress lately?”
“Course,” he replied, grinning and showing off his dimple once again. “Some girl dropped her food in the cafeteria yesterday and I offered to eat it off the floor.”
“That’s disgusting!” I exclaimed, horrified. He started laughing, his laugh so infectious that I couldn’t help but join him. It wasn’t particularly funny, but the proximity to his smooth voice, his long limbs and the fresh fragrance of Davidoff’s Cool Water, made me dizzy with hormones, and I just couldn’t stop laughing.
“If you two can’t stop your hysterics than I suggest you leave the library,” the librarian hissed at us from the counter, not bothered to walk up to us to spare us the embarrassment. Still giggling, I gathered up my books and followed him out to the lawn outside, ignoring the dirty looks the more serious students were giving us. Placing his things under a tree, he gestured for me to sit beside him, so I did, and we ‘studied’ together for the rest of the afternoon. By this I mean I pretended to read Anna whilst imagining different scenarios of him ravishing me on the grass in my mind. And him? He took out an Economics book and actually did some work.
Thus was the beginning of a friendship infused with passion, laughter and the underlying sense of something brewing deep within.
* * *
As I lie in bed on Saturday morning, I try to tell myself that my relationship with Goldenboy is nothing like my relationship with Jayden. That I’m not the same Sugar I was back in London. That if we happen to fall in love, I will never make the same mistakes I made the first time – but I won’t even get that far. Because I won’t fall in love.
What are we doing today?
The message alert startles me, and I look down at my phone and smile at his using ‘we’ even though we’re not an ‘us’. I have already seen Goldenboy twice this week. A few days after the cinema day, we went for shisha in Momo’s which restored my ill-feelings towards it after I went there with Huda. We were talking about work and other mindless things whilst sharing a double apple shisha and I wondered how much his salary was. Don’t get me wrong – I wasn’t trying to suss out his eligibility as a husband. I’m just really curious about pay discrepancies in Dubai. I can’t believe that people get paid according to their nationality – not because they have more experience or have earned that salary. Unless you count a maroon passport as really hard work, that is. This 'hard work' will often get you a hefty tax-free salary, accommodation allowance, school fees allowance, medical insurance, business class flights home and all other necessities that your salary won't have to pay for. A man with less experience (i.e. a different passport) will probably get paid a quarter of an EU member/American. He may also be given oars to row himself home with on a banana boat every year. If he’s lucky.
I didn’t realise that I had actually voiced my thoughts out loud until he looked at me strangely.
“What?” I asked, puzzled by the surprised look on his face.
“Well, salaries are quite personal things,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “Are you trying to find out if I’m a good catch?”
“No!” I exclaimed, taking a long puff of shisha in a lame attempt to give him something other than my eyes to look at. Whenever I look into his eyes, I feel a jolt of electricity and every time I feel it sizzle through my body, I am reminded of how un-platonic my feelings towards him are.
He told me though and I kicked myself for asking him when I learnt that he earned less than me. Despite being older with more experience. He then asked me how much I earned and I was torn between telling him the truth (a few thousand D’s more than him) and lying (to make him feel better). We already had an awkward conversation when he found out I didn’t have to re-take my driving test in order to get a UAE license, rather I just had to submit the relevant UK documents and wait in a few queues. Not like him. He had to invest hundreds of D's in lessons and tests, despite driving for many more years than me back in Syria and being experienced in driving on the right-hand side of the road.
“You Brits get away with everything over here,” he had said, half jokingly. I was a bit unnerved by the twinge of annoyance in his voice, unsure of what to say. Should I apologise for being British? Should I feel guilty about having certain things made easier for me?
“It’s not because I’m British, it’s because it’s really difficult to get a driver’s license in the UK so they know we’ve already been thoroughly trained.” I argued defensively.
“Not like me, you mean?” he answered quietly.
“No, I didn’t mean that,” I began, but he looked away and I wondered if the differences between our passports in the UAE would be a constant source of bitterness on his part and guilt on mine.
After that, I tried to avoid sour subjects, so when we went for shisha the second time, I kept the conversation light.
We went to Elements, an arty restaurant at Wafi City, which is a mall beautifully modeled on Ancient Egypt. I’d never been to Wafi before, and I was amazed by the colorful glass pyramids and the intricacy of the Khan Murjaan souk, with its huge stained glass ceiling engraved with Arabic calligraphy and the scent of bakhoor tickling my nose. The gorgeous open air restaurant hidden within the souk was exactly like the old houses in the ancient backstreets of Damascus. As the Khan Murjan restaurant was a little too noisy, with the live band playing old Fairouz and Um Kulthoum songs, we opted for Elements instead. We sat down on the low, mattress-like seats in the corner of the room and I resisted the urge to sit next to him and snuggle up.
He was sitting close enough to me for me to inhale his fresh, clean scent though. He smelt like soap, detergent and a bit of musk all rolled in one, and the combination was intoxicating. As we waited for our mint and grape shisha to arrive, we looked at the brightly coloured oil paintings adorning the walls.
“See that red one? Technically it’s incorrect as the shadows should be on the other side,” he explained, citing his Professor at the Fine Arts college, University of Damascus. “Look, let me show you. Do you have a pen or paper?”
I pulled out my diary and handed it to him, along with a pen, and he opened a blank page and began drawing on it. While he was sketching, he explained the way light and dark colours should appear on a canvas, the rules about placing objects on different parts and other complicated rules that I wasn’t particularly interested in. I was more interested in the way his strong fingers were gripping the pen, the way his hand moved over the page so fluidly, the way his eyebrows came together in concentration.
Oh man, I thought to myself, as the true depth of my lust became apparent to me. I couldn’t even watch him draw a box without feeling like my knees would buckle. How could I possibly stay friends with him? How could I continue justifying our friendship with the plea of loneliness?
That evening, I drove home feeling depressed, the absence of his presence making my loneliness in Dubai all the more apparent.
When Jayden and I became friends, I didn’t feel so confused. I was different then; more carefree, more adventurous, more open to new experiences. My parents aren’t strict Muslims (my mum doesn’t even observe hijab) but they’re strict Indians. At times, they think they’re still in Gujarat not Stamford Hill, with the way they go on about the community, their honour. When I’d come home late (by late, I mean 11pm), my mum would be waiting by the door of our five-bedroom terraced house, hissing, “What would people think if they saw you coming home in the middle of the night? Jaldi, go to your room before your father realises you’re not home!”
Despite my parents’ steadfast, un-budging traditions, I somehow managed to find ways to do what I wanted. I’d pretend to be staying over at a friend’s house, revising, when really I’d go out clubbing. I’d leave our house in baggy trackies and hoodies and then remove the hoody when I turned the corner to reveal tight t-shirts or sleeveless tops underneath. I’d even pretend to fast in Ramadan – waking up before the crack of dawn and feasting on a heavy sehri and then would indulge in a sarnie on my way to college or uni. I clubbed, I partied, I had boyfriends, I ate haraam food and I wore revealing clothes – just like everyone else I knew.
I knew that if my dad ever caught sight of me with a boy, I’d get beats. Not serious enough to inflict deep injuries, but enough to teach me a lesson or ten. I didn’t resent him for it – he rarely hit me – but when he did, I’d accept it unquestioningly. It was a normal part of my, and all my Asian friends’, upbringing. If my dad ever found out that I was in love with someone though, I didn’t know how he would react. Maybe he would send me on the next Air India flight back home like my Uncle Yusuf did to my cousin Sumaiya, or maybe he would throw me out the house like my Uncle Khalid did with my cousin Atia. Either way, the result wouldn’t be pretty. But for some reason, I just wasn’t scared. I thought I was invincible.
My dad’s wrath didn’t stop me from befriending boys though, all it did was make me more careful. All my cousins (I have a million) are around the same age so we’d hang out together, and we were all friends with guys. There were no secrets between us because there was no reason to hide anything. There was one unspoken rule though, that none of us would dare to even consider breaking. We could be friends with Asian guys as much as we liked – Punjabis, Bengalis, Pakistanis – but we never, ever became mates with white boys. Or even worse, black ones. There was no future with either race – no prospect of marriage (without being outcasted), and therefore, all liaisons with them would appear slutty or promiscuous.
And no girl in my family was a slut.
That’s why, when Jayden and I starting hanging out in the library together, I never told any of my cousins. I couldn’t. Anyway, we were only studying together, I reassured myself. There was nothing wrong with that. Plus none of my cousins went to my university, so the chances of them seeing us together were slim. But of course, the world is small and North London is even smaller. It was naïve of me to think anything else.
My memory suddenly takes me from the beginning to the ending. And when I think of the ending, a shudder runs through my body. I remember the look on my cousin’s face when I confided my secret to her. I remember my brother clutching a fistful of my hair and pushing me against the wall. I remember him storming out of the house, calling all the ‘boys’ in the process. I remember my dad turning his face away in grief, my mother's tears. And I remember the police sirens in the distance. The clink of the handcuffs in darkness of the night.
My palms begin to sweat. I can’t do it again.
The phone rings and I jump, forced out of my thoughts. It is Goldenboy, and I don’t know whether to answer or reject the call. I’m too lost in the past, too absorbed in my memories to force a smile and act as if everything is okay.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Chapter Fifteen – To leave or not to leave?
Huda has had many strange propositions in her (almost) thirty years. At just six years-old, when she was living in Austria, her curious classmate asked her to lift up her skirt. She obliged, and then ensured he pulled down his pants. She was always a firm believer of equality. When she was eleven, now living in London, she was invited to a school friend’s birthday party as the only guest. She happily accepted the invitation and spent the afternoon awkwardly playing games designed for groups. When she was fifteen and living in Qatar, her best friend got down on one knobbly, bruised knee and earnestly asked her to marry him. Blushing furiously, she politely declined and asked him to revert back to her in seven years – a decision she still regrets to this day.
Now, as she sits curled up on her L-shaped sofa with a thin, woollen blanket wrapped around her and the customary cup of green tea warming up her cold hands, she smiles a wry smile. None of her childhood propositions are quite as odd or unexpected as the one is she currently mulling over in her mind.
Well accustomed to watching relationships fail, Huda has never been under any illusions that marriage is easy. Lust, she assumed, fizzled out after some time, the absence of which, although much missed, was overcompensated by deep love and respect.
She remembers her first few months of marriage, when David's ego was still intact despite relying on financial stability from his wife, and hers was flourishing under the weight of constant compliments from her husband. She remembers the raunchy text messages they would exchange whilst she was at work, the tingling feeling in her toes whenever she would turn the corner into her street, excited about seeing him again and the lazy Sunday mornings they would spend in bed, just snuggling up to each other and talking about their lives, their hopes, their dreams.
Huda can’t pinpoint the exact moment when their Sunday morning chats started taking a bitter turn, when David stopped asking her about her job, stopped sharing with her his plans, stopped talking about the future. At the beginning, he relished having so much time to read, to study Islam, to explore London and would recount a lecture he had attended, or show her a book on Sufism he had found. After a while though, he stopped going out, stopped reading and spent all day and night on the internet looking for employment. Their chats now consisted of him complaining about London – the weather, the pace and even the pigeons. When he ran out of problems he had with the UK, he would move onto her family or even her: her tiredness after a long day at work, the housework that piled up and had to be tackled on the weekends, her lack of interest in the kitchen.
During one fight, when he brought up the stack of laundry that had yet to be put away and the amount of pizza they consumed on a weekly basis, Huda, her voice shaking, retorted: “I’m the one who is at work every day with an hour long commute each way. Since you’re the one sitting around at home, why don’t YOU do it?”
He fell silent. The anger that was sizzling in the air died as if a bucket of water had been thrown over it. He turned on his heels and walked out of the flat, into the cold, winter streets without his coat.
Huda collapsed onto the kitchen chair, and with her head in her hands, regretted the words that carelessly (but accurately) fell out of her. A little part of her remained angry though. As sensitive as the subject was, the fact did remain that he was the one at home so he should have been the one tidying up and cooking, she shouldn’t have to do it both. She was being made to feel guilty for not fulfilling ‘wifely’ obligations, but the sad reality was, neither was he. In Islam, it was his duty to provide her with a roof over her head, to put the bread on the table, not hers.
After the fight, David stopped complaining about everything. In fact, he stopped talking altogether. He spent more time alone and no matter how hard Huda tried to give him a shoulder to lean on, he refused to acknowledge it. Terrified that her marriage was failing because of its uneven dynamics, Huda stopped talking about work and spent more time in the kitchen, attempting to restore some balance into their relationship.
The silence became louder and louder until one Sunday morning, he told her that he had been offered a job - in Dubai. A job he had already accepted, without even asking her, that he would take regardless of her opinion.
What Huda hadn’t realized about her husband at that time, was that he rarely spoke about the inner battles he fought daily. He was skilled at translating lust into love and then conveying it, but that was it. All other turmoil, conflict, confusion, was buried under an indifferent façade. So, although he had finally broken down and admitted his resentment, he didn’t reveal the extent of his emotions – his bitterness at marrying someone more educated, more intelligent, better looking than him – his inexplicable need to feel wanted, powerful and desirable.
Huda, like any other wife who wanted to save her marriage, quickly agreed to move to Dubai, despite recently landing a swanky new job in a swanky new City office. She blamed herself for not acknowledging David’s restlessness and bitterness until it had developed beyond repair, for not doing more to make him feel strong and worthy. Weighed down with burden of truly believing that she had not fulfilled her duties as his life partner, she pushed thoughts of her career, her family, her life and her home to the back of the mind and went about arranging the move with robotic precision.
“Are you sure you want to move out there? How could he not have even asked you before he accepted the job?” Roba was furious at the thought of her older sister moving across the globe with a husband who didn’t seem to hold their relationship in much regard. Although Huda didn’t complain about the decision, it was clear that she was scared. Her family and friends assumed it was fear of the unknown that was worrying her, but the truth was, she was scared that her marriage was falling to pieces and that it was All Her Fault.
David packed up and left, leaving her to sort out the rest of their belongings and admin issues while she worked out her notice period.
Their first few weeks in Dubai were difficult. Now that he had a job, instead of acting happily empowered, David seemed to gloat over Huda, laughing at the way she was at a loss of what to do with the vast, empty expanses of time she was confronted with. They already had an apartment, courtesy of the University, and after she had shopped for all their furniture and had decorated it with Ottoman inspired ornaments, rugs and cushions, she had absolutely nothing to do but eat, shop and sleep. As David had lived in Dubai for six weeks before she came out and joined him, he had already made friends and Huda was disappointed to find that they were nothing like his friends in England. Gone were the cute, God fearing guys she was happy to feed routinely. In their place were a couple of obnoxious, misogynistic ‘Muslims’ with drinking problems that she refused to tolerate. She was even more upset when she realized that he clearly preferred their company over hers.
Despite the steady degeneration of their relationship and the clear indicators of his impending – if not existing – infidelity, Huda still clung on to a single shred of hope. Even when she was confronted with the extent of his Facebook fetish, the awful evening when he found her weeping and bleeding in the shower, a tiny part of her believed that it wasn’t over. She would remember their dizzy courting days, the lovely, lazy Sunday mornings and his eloquent love letters and tell herself that all that love couldn’t have just worn away. It was this fragment of faith that kept her heart beating and forced her blood to pump around her body.
She had eventually climbed out of the shower with aching joints and shriveled, prune-like skin. She wrapped a thick towel around herself and pushed opened the bathroom door. Her wet hair clung to her head and her neck as the water dripped down her back before being absorbed by the towel. Her eyes were still bloodshot and the cuts she had inflicted on herself – the long scratches on her arms and legs - were now sore and tender.
David was sitting on the sofa in stony silence. He didn’t look up when she entered the living room, nor did he utter a single word of consolation. His sullenness shocked Huda, who expected a contrite apology at the very least. Even a denial would have been better than the refusal to dignify her pain with a response. She sat next to him on the sofa, her gaze cast down, her pulse throbbing in her head. Clearing her throat, she tried to speak, but nothing came out. Terrified that this was the end of her rocky fairytale, that she was about to be just another statistic, she tentatively took his hand into hers.
She didn’t know why she took his hand. She just knew that she was scared, that she wasn’t quite ready to let him go, and that she needed to find out exactly what was going on in his mind. Why did he feel the need to run after scores of women? She was tired of wondering, hoping, loving, to no avail.
“David,” she began, her voice hoarse. “What’s going on?”
There was another long silence.
“Nothing,” he eventually replied, his voice trembling. He let go of her hand and turned his head away, but she took it again and squeezed it.
“David,” she started again. “I love you. I loved you when I married you and even after everything, I still love you. But I can’t continue like this. When we got married, you made me feel like the most amazing woman in the world. You made me feel like I could tackle anything with you by my side, that I would never be alone. You made me feel smart, beautiful, happy. Now, I don’t know who I am anymore. I feel ugly, I feel weak, I feel lonely. Every day I walk around in a daze, my head splitting with pain, my lungs contracting as I try to breathe and try to understand. I left everything for you. I came out here for you. But I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
Huda explained that she needed to feel loved and appreciated – by the man who mattered most to her. As she articulated her frustration and confusion, pain squeezed her heart and she wondered how she ended up in this position. She knew that Happily Ever After was just a gimmick created by Disney to make money, but she never imagined that she would be sitting with her husband a year after their wedding, trying to coax him into revealing the reason why he couldn’t be loyal to her. Why her love simply wasn’t enough for him.
With a lot of coaxing, David reluctantly began to speak and their conversation was surprisingly honest. He confessed his desire for attention, his inferiority complex, the way he needed to feel loved, wanted. His history of depression. He admitted that he used to be on Prozac, that when he met her, he thought his self-deprecating days were over. And for a while, they were. Until his unemployed state began eating away at his self-esteem, his sense of self-worth, his masculinity. And now, even though he has a good job, he still feels weak. He hates that she used to earn more than he does now, that she has a better degree than him, that men are always looking at them wherever they go. He believes that they are wondering why she settled for him. Everyone thinks she is too good for him, and now, he feels that he is not good enough. He needs to feel worthy.
The more they spoke however, the darker the confessions became. He admitted to fantasizing over her friends, indulging in porn, hoarding a secret stash of pictures he had copied off Facebook - of very ordinary girls whom he felt attracted to. Huda, sick to her stomach, was too scared to let her true feelings be known in case he stopped talking and reverted back into his shell. She listened to him admit that he had invited her buxom air stewardess friend out on a desert trip, and how Sophia had come assuming that Huda was going to be there. She felt as if she had been stabbed. Running after random women was one thing, but to pursue her friend was the ultimate betrayal. Her words stuck in her throat, she said nothing, just stared at him in horror as she realised his issues ran deeper than just craving attention – he actually needed obscurity within his sex life.
A part of her wanted to get up, run out of the flat and never look back, but another part of her reminded her that she swore to be by his side, for better or worse. At almost thirty, she knew it would be tricky to find a Muslim husband and as a divorcee, it would be almost impossible. Should she – could she – overlook her husband’s indiscretions for the sake of not being alone? No marriage is perfect and at least he isn’t physically abusive – right?
“I do love you,” David explained, his voice strained. “But I need more. I can’t help it. This isn’t the first time this has happened. It has happened in all my relationships. I don’t want you to leave me but I need more than just us. I’m sorry.”
He stared at Huda, at her bristle, uncombed hair, at her pale face and big, dark eyes. He stared at her small, frail frame wrapped up in a towel, the weakest of barriers, and for the first time in their relationship, realised how powerful he actually was.
“So what are you saying?” she finally asked. “You want to be with me but you want me to share you with any girl who takes your fancy? How would you feel if you were sharing me with a bunch of other guys?”
“Actually,” he began nervously. “To be honest, I wouldn’t mind. Why don’t we try having an open marriage? We both love each other, we both like being together, so why don’t we stay married but just enjoy other people’s company once in a while? It’ll solve everything.”
Huda’s jaw fell open. In all her wildest dreams, her darkest nightmares, she never imagined that one day, her husband would offer to share her with other men in order to fulfill his own sexual fantasies. She was astounded that David felt like his masculinity had been impaired by unemployment, and yet would remain intact if she - his wife and his honour - slept with other men. She shook her head in disbelief, got up and walked into the bedroom, locking the door firmly behind her. She had heard enough for one night.
Today, she sits on the sofa, still curled up, still unsure as to what she should do. Although she is not the slightest bit interested in embarking on affairs with other men, she is wondering if she should turn a blind eye to David’s infidelity, if she can be happy knowing that she isn’t the only woman in his life. It has been done before, and no doubt it will be done again, but whether she too should live this kind of existence, she doesn’t know. She does know that she doesn't want to be divorced, doesn't want her family in Morocco gossiping about her inability to hold onto her husband. She doesn't even want her grandmother to throw her arms around her and applaud her for doing the right thing.
Picking up the phone, she nervously begins to dial her mother’s number. She can no longer face this alone.
Now, as she sits curled up on her L-shaped sofa with a thin, woollen blanket wrapped around her and the customary cup of green tea warming up her cold hands, she smiles a wry smile. None of her childhood propositions are quite as odd or unexpected as the one is she currently mulling over in her mind.
Well accustomed to watching relationships fail, Huda has never been under any illusions that marriage is easy. Lust, she assumed, fizzled out after some time, the absence of which, although much missed, was overcompensated by deep love and respect.
She remembers her first few months of marriage, when David's ego was still intact despite relying on financial stability from his wife, and hers was flourishing under the weight of constant compliments from her husband. She remembers the raunchy text messages they would exchange whilst she was at work, the tingling feeling in her toes whenever she would turn the corner into her street, excited about seeing him again and the lazy Sunday mornings they would spend in bed, just snuggling up to each other and talking about their lives, their hopes, their dreams.
Huda can’t pinpoint the exact moment when their Sunday morning chats started taking a bitter turn, when David stopped asking her about her job, stopped sharing with her his plans, stopped talking about the future. At the beginning, he relished having so much time to read, to study Islam, to explore London and would recount a lecture he had attended, or show her a book on Sufism he had found. After a while though, he stopped going out, stopped reading and spent all day and night on the internet looking for employment. Their chats now consisted of him complaining about London – the weather, the pace and even the pigeons. When he ran out of problems he had with the UK, he would move onto her family or even her: her tiredness after a long day at work, the housework that piled up and had to be tackled on the weekends, her lack of interest in the kitchen.
During one fight, when he brought up the stack of laundry that had yet to be put away and the amount of pizza they consumed on a weekly basis, Huda, her voice shaking, retorted: “I’m the one who is at work every day with an hour long commute each way. Since you’re the one sitting around at home, why don’t YOU do it?”
He fell silent. The anger that was sizzling in the air died as if a bucket of water had been thrown over it. He turned on his heels and walked out of the flat, into the cold, winter streets without his coat.
Huda collapsed onto the kitchen chair, and with her head in her hands, regretted the words that carelessly (but accurately) fell out of her. A little part of her remained angry though. As sensitive as the subject was, the fact did remain that he was the one at home so he should have been the one tidying up and cooking, she shouldn’t have to do it both. She was being made to feel guilty for not fulfilling ‘wifely’ obligations, but the sad reality was, neither was he. In Islam, it was his duty to provide her with a roof over her head, to put the bread on the table, not hers.
After the fight, David stopped complaining about everything. In fact, he stopped talking altogether. He spent more time alone and no matter how hard Huda tried to give him a shoulder to lean on, he refused to acknowledge it. Terrified that her marriage was failing because of its uneven dynamics, Huda stopped talking about work and spent more time in the kitchen, attempting to restore some balance into their relationship.
The silence became louder and louder until one Sunday morning, he told her that he had been offered a job - in Dubai. A job he had already accepted, without even asking her, that he would take regardless of her opinion.
What Huda hadn’t realized about her husband at that time, was that he rarely spoke about the inner battles he fought daily. He was skilled at translating lust into love and then conveying it, but that was it. All other turmoil, conflict, confusion, was buried under an indifferent façade. So, although he had finally broken down and admitted his resentment, he didn’t reveal the extent of his emotions – his bitterness at marrying someone more educated, more intelligent, better looking than him – his inexplicable need to feel wanted, powerful and desirable.
Huda, like any other wife who wanted to save her marriage, quickly agreed to move to Dubai, despite recently landing a swanky new job in a swanky new City office. She blamed herself for not acknowledging David’s restlessness and bitterness until it had developed beyond repair, for not doing more to make him feel strong and worthy. Weighed down with burden of truly believing that she had not fulfilled her duties as his life partner, she pushed thoughts of her career, her family, her life and her home to the back of the mind and went about arranging the move with robotic precision.
“Are you sure you want to move out there? How could he not have even asked you before he accepted the job?” Roba was furious at the thought of her older sister moving across the globe with a husband who didn’t seem to hold their relationship in much regard. Although Huda didn’t complain about the decision, it was clear that she was scared. Her family and friends assumed it was fear of the unknown that was worrying her, but the truth was, she was scared that her marriage was falling to pieces and that it was All Her Fault.
David packed up and left, leaving her to sort out the rest of their belongings and admin issues while she worked out her notice period.
Their first few weeks in Dubai were difficult. Now that he had a job, instead of acting happily empowered, David seemed to gloat over Huda, laughing at the way she was at a loss of what to do with the vast, empty expanses of time she was confronted with. They already had an apartment, courtesy of the University, and after she had shopped for all their furniture and had decorated it with Ottoman inspired ornaments, rugs and cushions, she had absolutely nothing to do but eat, shop and sleep. As David had lived in Dubai for six weeks before she came out and joined him, he had already made friends and Huda was disappointed to find that they were nothing like his friends in England. Gone were the cute, God fearing guys she was happy to feed routinely. In their place were a couple of obnoxious, misogynistic ‘Muslims’ with drinking problems that she refused to tolerate. She was even more upset when she realized that he clearly preferred their company over hers.
Despite the steady degeneration of their relationship and the clear indicators of his impending – if not existing – infidelity, Huda still clung on to a single shred of hope. Even when she was confronted with the extent of his Facebook fetish, the awful evening when he found her weeping and bleeding in the shower, a tiny part of her believed that it wasn’t over. She would remember their dizzy courting days, the lovely, lazy Sunday mornings and his eloquent love letters and tell herself that all that love couldn’t have just worn away. It was this fragment of faith that kept her heart beating and forced her blood to pump around her body.
She had eventually climbed out of the shower with aching joints and shriveled, prune-like skin. She wrapped a thick towel around herself and pushed opened the bathroom door. Her wet hair clung to her head and her neck as the water dripped down her back before being absorbed by the towel. Her eyes were still bloodshot and the cuts she had inflicted on herself – the long scratches on her arms and legs - were now sore and tender.
David was sitting on the sofa in stony silence. He didn’t look up when she entered the living room, nor did he utter a single word of consolation. His sullenness shocked Huda, who expected a contrite apology at the very least. Even a denial would have been better than the refusal to dignify her pain with a response. She sat next to him on the sofa, her gaze cast down, her pulse throbbing in her head. Clearing her throat, she tried to speak, but nothing came out. Terrified that this was the end of her rocky fairytale, that she was about to be just another statistic, she tentatively took his hand into hers.
She didn’t know why she took his hand. She just knew that she was scared, that she wasn’t quite ready to let him go, and that she needed to find out exactly what was going on in his mind. Why did he feel the need to run after scores of women? She was tired of wondering, hoping, loving, to no avail.
“David,” she began, her voice hoarse. “What’s going on?”
There was another long silence.
“Nothing,” he eventually replied, his voice trembling. He let go of her hand and turned his head away, but she took it again and squeezed it.
“David,” she started again. “I love you. I loved you when I married you and even after everything, I still love you. But I can’t continue like this. When we got married, you made me feel like the most amazing woman in the world. You made me feel like I could tackle anything with you by my side, that I would never be alone. You made me feel smart, beautiful, happy. Now, I don’t know who I am anymore. I feel ugly, I feel weak, I feel lonely. Every day I walk around in a daze, my head splitting with pain, my lungs contracting as I try to breathe and try to understand. I left everything for you. I came out here for you. But I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
Huda explained that she needed to feel loved and appreciated – by the man who mattered most to her. As she articulated her frustration and confusion, pain squeezed her heart and she wondered how she ended up in this position. She knew that Happily Ever After was just a gimmick created by Disney to make money, but she never imagined that she would be sitting with her husband a year after their wedding, trying to coax him into revealing the reason why he couldn’t be loyal to her. Why her love simply wasn’t enough for him.
With a lot of coaxing, David reluctantly began to speak and their conversation was surprisingly honest. He confessed his desire for attention, his inferiority complex, the way he needed to feel loved, wanted. His history of depression. He admitted that he used to be on Prozac, that when he met her, he thought his self-deprecating days were over. And for a while, they were. Until his unemployed state began eating away at his self-esteem, his sense of self-worth, his masculinity. And now, even though he has a good job, he still feels weak. He hates that she used to earn more than he does now, that she has a better degree than him, that men are always looking at them wherever they go. He believes that they are wondering why she settled for him. Everyone thinks she is too good for him, and now, he feels that he is not good enough. He needs to feel worthy.
The more they spoke however, the darker the confessions became. He admitted to fantasizing over her friends, indulging in porn, hoarding a secret stash of pictures he had copied off Facebook - of very ordinary girls whom he felt attracted to. Huda, sick to her stomach, was too scared to let her true feelings be known in case he stopped talking and reverted back into his shell. She listened to him admit that he had invited her buxom air stewardess friend out on a desert trip, and how Sophia had come assuming that Huda was going to be there. She felt as if she had been stabbed. Running after random women was one thing, but to pursue her friend was the ultimate betrayal. Her words stuck in her throat, she said nothing, just stared at him in horror as she realised his issues ran deeper than just craving attention – he actually needed obscurity within his sex life.
A part of her wanted to get up, run out of the flat and never look back, but another part of her reminded her that she swore to be by his side, for better or worse. At almost thirty, she knew it would be tricky to find a Muslim husband and as a divorcee, it would be almost impossible. Should she – could she – overlook her husband’s indiscretions for the sake of not being alone? No marriage is perfect and at least he isn’t physically abusive – right?
“I do love you,” David explained, his voice strained. “But I need more. I can’t help it. This isn’t the first time this has happened. It has happened in all my relationships. I don’t want you to leave me but I need more than just us. I’m sorry.”
He stared at Huda, at her bristle, uncombed hair, at her pale face and big, dark eyes. He stared at her small, frail frame wrapped up in a towel, the weakest of barriers, and for the first time in their relationship, realised how powerful he actually was.
“So what are you saying?” she finally asked. “You want to be with me but you want me to share you with any girl who takes your fancy? How would you feel if you were sharing me with a bunch of other guys?”
“Actually,” he began nervously. “To be honest, I wouldn’t mind. Why don’t we try having an open marriage? We both love each other, we both like being together, so why don’t we stay married but just enjoy other people’s company once in a while? It’ll solve everything.”
Huda’s jaw fell open. In all her wildest dreams, her darkest nightmares, she never imagined that one day, her husband would offer to share her with other men in order to fulfill his own sexual fantasies. She was astounded that David felt like his masculinity had been impaired by unemployment, and yet would remain intact if she - his wife and his honour - slept with other men. She shook her head in disbelief, got up and walked into the bedroom, locking the door firmly behind her. She had heard enough for one night.
Today, she sits on the sofa, still curled up, still unsure as to what she should do. Although she is not the slightest bit interested in embarking on affairs with other men, she is wondering if she should turn a blind eye to David’s infidelity, if she can be happy knowing that she isn’t the only woman in his life. It has been done before, and no doubt it will be done again, but whether she too should live this kind of existence, she doesn’t know. She does know that she doesn't want to be divorced, doesn't want her family in Morocco gossiping about her inability to hold onto her husband. She doesn't even want her grandmother to throw her arms around her and applaud her for doing the right thing.
Picking up the phone, she nervously begins to dial her mother’s number. She can no longer face this alone.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Chapter Fourteen – Let’s get the party started
Lady Luxe doesn’t stalk; not in real life, not on Facebook and not even on Twitter. In fact, she always turns her dainty nose up at undignified girls who gawk shamelessly at their crushes pictures online and constantly track their Twitter updates on their Blackberries. Desperation, Lady Luxe believes, is an unsightly disease that strips women of their sexiest asset – mystery.
Or so she righteously claimed until she became a victim of the ailment herself, with the only antidote being ever happily after with the very cause of her sickness. When Mr Delicious swept into her life with his wide, shiny smile, tousled brown hair and long, thick eyelashes, Lady Luxe, for the first time in her twenty-one years, felt the sweet pangs of smittenness and although she would rather don a pair of purple Crocs than admit it, she has been doing everything she can to stalk him since. She has found his Facebook profile and spends a few minutes every day looking at the only picture of him she can, her mouse pointer hovering over the ‘add friend’ button. She refuses to send him a friend request though. Everyone knows that adding a guy on Facebook is the cyber version of asking him out. She has also refrained from doing anything with his number, other than staring at it, willing him to miraculously find a way to track her down – despite the fact that he doesn’t even know her real eye colour, let alone her name. However, he is connected to her in one way – through Leila – and this bitter truth is what makes Lady Luxe seethe her way to slumber every night.
Although Lady Luxe has not confronted Leila about her backstabbing ways, she has thrown in just enough hints to encourage her to back off. Her warning signals however, do not consist of anything more than a knowing look here, an innuendo there, and have therefore seemed to have gone amiss. Leila was reportedly at the Movenpick Hotel earlier today and although Lady Luxe cannot be sure that she was frolicking with Mr Delicious as she is only tracking her Beemer, not her, what she can be sure about is that nothing except the fragrance of freshly printed dirhams can lure Leila to the wrong side of Dubai that early on a Friday. Other than getting her deported (ah, the beauty of wasta), for once, Lady Luxe is at a loss at how to control the situation. Although Leila only very, very vaguely has any inkling as to who she really is, she knows enough to find out more (should she ever desire to dig deeper) and this is a risk that no guy – no matter how delicious he is or how long his eyelashes are – is worth.
Chi @ the Lodge tonight? The message appears while Lady Luxe is sprawled over her Queen-sized bed, flicking through Ahlan and sighing in relief when seeing that ‘Jennifer’ has still managed to evade the society pages. She is surprised by Leila’s choice. Although she enjoys the occasional night out at Chi, her friend tends to prefer upscale venues where she can meet wealthy men over good music you can actually dance to. She wonders if the invitation is Leila’s attempt at extending an olive branch and gracefully decides to accept the token. After all, it’s been a while since she’s been to a club and actually danced her heart out instead of just posing prettily. Plus, after canceling Thursday night when her father postponed his next business trip, she feels as if her weekend is missing its very soul. Currently on a plane to China, her father is definitely far away enough for her to have a long night of brazen fun. Chi is notorious for its shamelessly thirsty men, and tonight, that is exactly what Lady Luxe needs – full on flirting without the usual, pretentious mask of sophistication.
Sure… Meet you there at 11:00pm, she writes swiftly, jumping out of bed and heading over to her dressing room to see what she can wear that is comfortable enough to dance properly in yet sexy enough to make sure the spotlight is on her, not Leila.
Any chance you can come and collect me? Leila usually takes taxis so the request comes as a surprise. Going home in a taxi is far too conspicuous for Lady Luxe who prefers to drink carefully and arrive home safely in her Cayenne instead. Even when she ends up leaving a club with a nameless man, she always follows him in her car. She never wants to be in a situation where she is stuck in dodgy Deira, unable to find a taxi to take her home, and then, (God forbid) bumping into her father or brother whilst stumbling out of it crumpled, abaya-less and smelling of fags and booze.
Okay, I’ll come by around 10:30, she texts back, more focused on what she should wear than Leila’s strange request for a ride. Looking around the dressing room, she notices that there isn’t much space left for new purchases and wonders whether or not she should clear out the clothes she hasn’t worn for a while to make space for new ones. The dressing room, designed by Lady Luxe herself, is a haven for fashionistas and shopaholics alike, with its spectacular floor-to-ceiling display of her two-hundred strong shoe collection, luscious thick, cream coloured carpet, hot pink walls and white furniture. The clothes rails are weighed down by everything from glitzy party dresses to elegant ball gowns to heavily adorned jellabiyas, abayas and even the odd Manish Malhotra saree.
After much deliberation, she chooses a sleeveless black sequined top by Anna Sui that she picked up in New York but still has the label on. She pairs it with black twill shorts by Marc Jacobs and her favourite Gina sandals - silver leather, studded with diamantes, big silver hoop earrings and matching bangles. Laying out all the clothes on her bed, she jumps in and out of the shower and after moisturising her entire body with La Mer face cream (she hates the clinical scent of the body cream,) she carefully smoothes body shimmer over it. Skin now soft, supple and glowing, she applies MAC primer, foundation and pressed powder onto her already good complexion and blends silver and black Sephora eyeshadow on her eyelids until she looks like she’s stepped out of a fashion magazine. Squeezing into her outfit, she adds one final layer of a metallic pink Sephora lipgloss created with crushed pearls, sprays herself with Romano Ricci’s Lady Vengeance and then slips an abaya over her head. Wrapping a sheila around her face to hide the golden wig, she grins at her reflection and grabs her tiny purple leather Zufi Alexander clutch (Zufi and Lady Luxe go way back, both being hot young Dubains in the fashion industry) to complete her look. As an afterthought, she sends an sms to both her father and Mohamed as she clatters down the marble stairs, ready for some action. Neither bothers to reply.
* * *
“Going like that?” Leila giggles when Lady Luxe pulls up in front of her building, still in her Emirati gear. “I’d love to see what the bouncers make of you!”
“Well hello to you too!” Lady Luxe answers, flinging open the door. She jumps out of the car and whips off her abaya like Clark Kent transforming into Superman, revealing her daring outfit underneath.
“That’s better,” Leila squeaks, absorbing her sequined top, tiny black shorts, silver strappy sandals and smoky eyes with envy. Fully aware that a designer ensemble compared to an ordinary outfit is like the difference between sashimi at Nobu and a fillet burger at McDonald’s, she unconsciously tugs at her TopShop leopard print boob tube dress and runs her fingers through her big blonde hair. Smug, Lady Luxe smiles and says nothing as she slips back into the car and turns up the stereo. You ain’t got nothing on me, bitch, she thinks to herself as she flies down SZR, completely ignoring the speed cameras and getting flashed at least twice. Wasta goes a long way in Dubai, and her father knows enough people to ensure that his children never get speeding fines, parking tickets or even the pink slip in a car accident when they are clearly at fault. Leila grips onto the edge of the beige leather seats as Lady Luxe increases her speed to 180 km per hour, weaving her way through the various lanes and narrowly avoiding the other cars.
“Um, could you slow down a little?” Leila gasps, her stomach beginning to churn.
“Why?” Lady Luxe laughs, edging up to 185. “I thought you liked living dangerously?”
“Please! I’m serious!” Leila’s stomach contracts and she clutches on to the dashboard, the blood disappearing from her face. She hates driving fast. She hates Sheikh Zayed Road. She hates Lady Luxe and her stupid fast cars.
“Fine, fine, I was just kidding.” Slowing down to 150, Lady Luxe pats Leila’s leg reassuringly. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you were serious,” she says, not wanting to spoil the night already. Leila smiles a wobbly smile back at her, still feeling queasy.
Cow, she thinks to herself, still smiling. I’ll get you back for this.
Leaning back in her seat and trying to bite her tongue, Leila remembers the first time she met Lady Luxe and wonders if she will one day look back and regret the effort she made to secure their friendship. It was one of those rare afternoons when she decided to treat herself to some quality pampering after selling a huge villa on the Palm and receiving a hefty bonus. Instead of grabbing a quick, cheap and temporarily satisfying massage at her local beauty salon, hesitating slightly, she pushed money-saving thoughts to the back of her mind and went to the Burj Al Arab instead. Although the thought of blowing a thousand dirhams on a massage at the Assawan spa was painful for Leila with her frugal ways, it transpired to be one of the best investments she had ever made.
Assawan is not the prettiest of spas. With its garish red and gold colour scheme, it is the complete opposite of what most (sane) people would find soothing. She made this comment to an attractive, thin woman who was lounging by the infinity pool that overlooks the Arabian Gulf. The girl laughed and, connecting instantly, they began talking. Upon discovering that the Emirati was one of the exclusive few to have a yearly membership at the 30,000 dhs a year health club (not to mention having paid a hefty 30,000 dhs joining free), Leila knew that there was a reason why fate had brought her to Assawan, and not Talise at Al Qasr or Cleopatras at Wafi. So, she laughed and joked with her while they swam and ended up getting a coffee at Sahn El Dar afterwards. Sitting amongst the opulent luxury whilst sipping freshly brewed Earl Grey and nibbling on buttery scones, Leila realised that the attractive local girl with the diamond encrusted Cartier watch and patent Prada peep-toes could quite possibly be her passport into the world of rich, handsome and powerful men that she was desperate to infiltrate.
Leila was right. In the past two years, she has been to exclusive gala dinners, has sat front row at fashion shows, has attended restaurant and store openings, movie premiers, all the while being chauffeured around in a pink Ferrari. She has also become close enough to her passport to be introduced to ‘Jennifer’, thus expanding their activities to clubbing, drinking and the occasional bunning, as well as posing of course.
They can feel the pounding bass before they can even see Chi, and Lady Luxe slips into an unexpected free parking space and screeches to a halt. They both slide out the car, aware that the men who are currently being denied entry are staring at them in appreciation, and as they do, Leila takes a quick, surreptitious look at the license plate and notes it in her unfailing memory. In case she gets too drunk to remember it in the morning, she pulls out her trusty phone, writes it in and then grabs Lady Luxe’s arm and pulls her into the heaving club.
Surprisingly, the atmosphere at Chi isn't as Lady Luxe remembers it to be. It used to be full of pervy, sex-starved men who wouldn’t bother feigning sophistication or aloofness. Instead, they would ogle freely at every single creature resembling a woman, and were often courageous enough to sneak up behind them, squashing their protruding nether-regions onto unsuspecting girls’ derrieres whilst they are dancing. The music however, is far from the techno, computerised Swedish rubbish that Lady Luxe cannot stomach, so although she detests uncouth men with a tendency to invade personal space, she likes to indulge her inner black gyal occasionally and goes there solely to wind and grind to her heart’s content.
Tonight however, there seem to be more white people than usual and the DJ is spinning a mix of R&B, hip hop, funky house and good ole Brit pub songs. Lady Luxe smiles, pretending that she is actually in London as she and Leila squeeze their way through hoards of sweaty people. They find a place right in the centre of one of the dance floors, next to a group of single men vaguely moving to the music and begin shaking their thangs to Sean Paul. A blur of gold, the fake blondes look spectacular together and soon, two brave men from the group edge their way over to them. In the darkness, Lady Luxe doesn’t get to see much of what they look like so she grabs the taller one’s hands, assuming he is the better catch, and pulls him towards her. She spins around so that he is behind her and leaning forward, does her legendary, crowd pleasing Beyonce butt-shake.
“Aiwa,” he calls out, pleased, and she freezes mid-shake. She knows that voice. Too afraid to turn back around, she continues dancing with him behind her but this time with breathing space between them. Gutt squirming, head spinning, palms sweating, she sneaks a look at the guy Leila is dancing with. Unable to make out his features clearly, all she can discern is that he is a little shorter than the one trying to squash up behind her, and is wearing a huge cowboy hat. She doubts that Leila will mind parting with him, so when the DJ mixes a bit of Lady Gaga, she spins around again, drops to a squat and as she flexes back up, grabs Cowboy’s hands and presses herself against him. The tall guy, now left facing Leila, laughs and begins to dance with her amicably. Out of his line of vision, Lady Luxe sneaks a look in his direction and feels her face turn green and her insides crumble when her suspicions are confirmed.
Dressed in dark blue jeans and a plain black shirt, Mohamed, her brother, is holding Leila’s hands and dancing with a big, cat-that-stole-the-cream grin on his face. Feeling utterly disgusted with herself, she cannot believe that she had just shown her brother her infamous butt-shake from a proximity that could be deemed as incestuous, had either of them known who the other was.
Resisting the urge to throw up, Lady Luxe looks over at him again just to make sure her eyes are not deceiving her. A second glance only confirms what she already knows and she racks her brain for ways to exit as discreetly as possible. However, if she vanishes, there is a small chance that Leila may realise something is wrong and she cannot let her conniving, backstabbing, boyfriend-stealing friend know who her dance-partner really is. She can just image the look of evil pleasure on Leila’s carefully made-up face if she realises that it is the eldest son of X who is currently being captivated by her fluid moves. She curses herself for coming to such a slimy place, one her brother would naturally thrive in, and then curses Mr Delicious for putting her in a compromising position with Leila to begin with. Pre-Mr D days, she could have just grabbed Leila and ran, but now, since war has been declared, she has to tread carefully around the volatile Lebanese who has too much of a hold over her.
“Can I wear your hat?” she asks Cowboy with a broad smile, dancing vaguely and trying her utmost to keep her back to Mohamed. Thankfully, Leila’s plentiful curves are enough to occupy his vision and she catches a quick glimpse of him with his arms on either side of her while she gyrates her behind against his crotch.
Ugh, she thinks, swallowing another desire to puke. No doubt Leila has spotted his Breitling watch and from an outsider’s perspective, Lady Luxe reluctantly concedes that Mohamed can be perceived as handsome. Unlike Ahmed who is thin and awkward, he takes after their father with broad shoulders and rugged charm. His black, wavy hair is longish and curls at the nape of his neck and his pseudo-beard is well-kept and groomed perfectly. With his fair skin, he looks more Iranian than Emirati, something that his candoura usually rectifies but in the club, Leila mostly likely assumes that he is not.
“Sure!” Cowboy bares his braces at her and whips off his hat. When his curly black hair is exposed, she recognizes him as Mohamed’s colleague, having once caught a glimpse of him in their home when he ‘accidentally’ stumbled into the ladies quarters. She feels dirty for dancing so close to him but knows that the proximity is the only way she can hide as much of herself as possible. She pulls the hat over her head in an attempt to disguise herself further and continues dancing with him, sneaking in peeks of Mohamed and Leila whenever she can and praying fervently that her brother continues to be satisfied by her friend and doesn’t bother trying to analyse her too much.
“Jennifer!” Leila calls out to her, untangling herself from Mohamed’s embrace and skipping over to her.
Shitfuckshit. Panicking, Lady Luxe turns her back on her and facing a short, fat man who cannot believe his luck, bops around in a very un-Lady Luxe like manner. She can't let Mohamed see her face. So long as he just has a view of her golden mane, he will never suspect that she is his sister.
“Leila, wassup,” she growls without looking around and deepening her voice by an octave. Huffing, Leila stomps around until she is facing her and squints at her a little strangely. But she is accustomed to her friend’s sudden bursts of weirdness and shrugs it off as another game she is playing.
“I’m going to go home with Mo,” she breathes excitedly, her eyes bright with lust. “Thank you for swapping with me! He is so cute!”
“But Leila-” Lady Luxe squeaks, losing the deep voice. “You never go home with guys from clubs! How can you marry him afterwards if you sleep with him first? You know what these Arab men are like!”
“I’m sick of playing games. I haven’t had a good lay in so long and I’m just going to go with the flow. See you later!” With that, she walks back over to Mohamed, and only looks back to shout “and get rid of that disgusting hat!” before she disappears.
Lady Luxe doesn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified. Although she is thankful that she can finally breathe now that her brother has left the scene, she cannot comprehend the fact that he has left with Leila. Leila whom she has tried so hard to keep away from her family, has been careful not to divulge any personal information to and who is on the war path with her. Sick to her stomach, Lady Luxe’s desire to party unashamedly has been well and truly murdered.
Shoving the sweaty fat man away from her, she smiles apologetically at Cowboy.
“Cowboy, I have to go,” she shouts over the music. Poor Cowboy, who watched her exchange with Leila but thankfully didn’t catch much of it, looks crushed.
“Don’t go,” he implores, following her through the club as she pushes past the throngs of people to escape. Bursting out into the fresh air, she takes big gulps of it, feeling lightheaded and dizzy. She just wants to get home as quickly as possible and when Cowboy pleads, “Stay a little longer,” she sighs in frustration.
Realising that he is likely to stand there begging for a long time (she is well accustomed to the type that refuses to allow ‘no’ into their dictionary) Lady Luxe decides that the only way to get rid of the over-enthusiastic Emirati with a bad taste in hats (but good taste in women of course) will be to show him some light at the end of the tunnel.
“Take my number and call me,” she says briskly. Grabbing his phone, she dials her ‘fun’ mobile line and lets him save the number. She gives him a quick peck on the cheek, smiles and gets into her Cayenne. Cowboy watches her long legs and small behind in awe.
“I love you!” he yells to her as she reverses out of the space. She blows him a kiss and then drives away. As soon as she can no longer see him, she lets her grin fall into a grimace, pulls his hat off her head and throws it to the back of the car, along with the wig that is making her head hot and sweaty. She can’t believe that right now, Leila is probably performing all sorts of Godless acts with her very own flesh and blood and she pounds the steering wheel in frustration. She makes her usual pit-stop to change and leaves the wig in the car, along with the hat and the shoes that are now pinching her toes. Spraying a generous dose of Midnight Oud all over herself to mask the smell of smoke, she continues her journey home, feeling sick the entire time.
Peace washes over her as the electronic gates to the villa open. She just wants to scrub Cowboy’s sweat away, Jennifer’s face away, crawl into bed and forget that this disastrous night ever happened. She hurriedly parks her Cayenne next to Lady Penelope (a gift from her father when she won the ‘Abaya Designer of the Year’ award) and jogs up to the villa barefooted. She feels nervous when she slowly opens the heavy wooden door after being confronted by her father last week, but is relieved to find her home still and quiet, despite it being just 1am. Mohamed has probably taken Leila to a hotel somewhere and Ahmed is likely to be sleeping. She drags herself up the stairs and into her bathroom, where she pulls off the outfit she had so carefully put together and stuffs it into the bin with distaste. She will never look upon it favorably again. Climbing into the shower cubicle, she puts it in ‘monsoon’ mode and stands under the rain-like water, allowing it to soothe her nerves.
Mohamed, she assumes, must go through women as swiftly as she goes through bottles of Evian. She is certain that he will discard Leila like a broken toy once he has slept with her, and this thought pacifies her. She won’t know who you are to him. They won’t even exchange dialogue other than monosyllabic grunts during the deed, she tells herself reassuringly as the water pounds down on her head and numbs her headache.
After showering, Lady Luxe sinks into her soft sheets, feeling far more relaxed than she did a couple of hours ago. He won’t even remember her name and she has sworn off Emirati guys she repeats to herself. The repetition lulls her into a slumber, but just as the sandman calls, her phone beeps, interrupting the tentative strokes of sleep.
Squinting down at screen, she sees Leila’s name and she hurriedly opens the message, forcing her eyes to focus and hoping that it is a rescue request which she will be delighted to attend to.
But it is not.
This guy is amazing… the short text message declares. And if I’m not mistaken, the feeling’s mutual!!!
Or so she righteously claimed until she became a victim of the ailment herself, with the only antidote being ever happily after with the very cause of her sickness. When Mr Delicious swept into her life with his wide, shiny smile, tousled brown hair and long, thick eyelashes, Lady Luxe, for the first time in her twenty-one years, felt the sweet pangs of smittenness and although she would rather don a pair of purple Crocs than admit it, she has been doing everything she can to stalk him since. She has found his Facebook profile and spends a few minutes every day looking at the only picture of him she can, her mouse pointer hovering over the ‘add friend’ button. She refuses to send him a friend request though. Everyone knows that adding a guy on Facebook is the cyber version of asking him out. She has also refrained from doing anything with his number, other than staring at it, willing him to miraculously find a way to track her down – despite the fact that he doesn’t even know her real eye colour, let alone her name. However, he is connected to her in one way – through Leila – and this bitter truth is what makes Lady Luxe seethe her way to slumber every night.
Although Lady Luxe has not confronted Leila about her backstabbing ways, she has thrown in just enough hints to encourage her to back off. Her warning signals however, do not consist of anything more than a knowing look here, an innuendo there, and have therefore seemed to have gone amiss. Leila was reportedly at the Movenpick Hotel earlier today and although Lady Luxe cannot be sure that she was frolicking with Mr Delicious as she is only tracking her Beemer, not her, what she can be sure about is that nothing except the fragrance of freshly printed dirhams can lure Leila to the wrong side of Dubai that early on a Friday. Other than getting her deported (ah, the beauty of wasta), for once, Lady Luxe is at a loss at how to control the situation. Although Leila only very, very vaguely has any inkling as to who she really is, she knows enough to find out more (should she ever desire to dig deeper) and this is a risk that no guy – no matter how delicious he is or how long his eyelashes are – is worth.
Chi @ the Lodge tonight? The message appears while Lady Luxe is sprawled over her Queen-sized bed, flicking through Ahlan and sighing in relief when seeing that ‘Jennifer’ has still managed to evade the society pages. She is surprised by Leila’s choice. Although she enjoys the occasional night out at Chi, her friend tends to prefer upscale venues where she can meet wealthy men over good music you can actually dance to. She wonders if the invitation is Leila’s attempt at extending an olive branch and gracefully decides to accept the token. After all, it’s been a while since she’s been to a club and actually danced her heart out instead of just posing prettily. Plus, after canceling Thursday night when her father postponed his next business trip, she feels as if her weekend is missing its very soul. Currently on a plane to China, her father is definitely far away enough for her to have a long night of brazen fun. Chi is notorious for its shamelessly thirsty men, and tonight, that is exactly what Lady Luxe needs – full on flirting without the usual, pretentious mask of sophistication.
Sure… Meet you there at 11:00pm, she writes swiftly, jumping out of bed and heading over to her dressing room to see what she can wear that is comfortable enough to dance properly in yet sexy enough to make sure the spotlight is on her, not Leila.
Any chance you can come and collect me? Leila usually takes taxis so the request comes as a surprise. Going home in a taxi is far too conspicuous for Lady Luxe who prefers to drink carefully and arrive home safely in her Cayenne instead. Even when she ends up leaving a club with a nameless man, she always follows him in her car. She never wants to be in a situation where she is stuck in dodgy Deira, unable to find a taxi to take her home, and then, (God forbid) bumping into her father or brother whilst stumbling out of it crumpled, abaya-less and smelling of fags and booze.
Okay, I’ll come by around 10:30, she texts back, more focused on what she should wear than Leila’s strange request for a ride. Looking around the dressing room, she notices that there isn’t much space left for new purchases and wonders whether or not she should clear out the clothes she hasn’t worn for a while to make space for new ones. The dressing room, designed by Lady Luxe herself, is a haven for fashionistas and shopaholics alike, with its spectacular floor-to-ceiling display of her two-hundred strong shoe collection, luscious thick, cream coloured carpet, hot pink walls and white furniture. The clothes rails are weighed down by everything from glitzy party dresses to elegant ball gowns to heavily adorned jellabiyas, abayas and even the odd Manish Malhotra saree.
After much deliberation, she chooses a sleeveless black sequined top by Anna Sui that she picked up in New York but still has the label on. She pairs it with black twill shorts by Marc Jacobs and her favourite Gina sandals - silver leather, studded with diamantes, big silver hoop earrings and matching bangles. Laying out all the clothes on her bed, she jumps in and out of the shower and after moisturising her entire body with La Mer face cream (she hates the clinical scent of the body cream,) she carefully smoothes body shimmer over it. Skin now soft, supple and glowing, she applies MAC primer, foundation and pressed powder onto her already good complexion and blends silver and black Sephora eyeshadow on her eyelids until she looks like she’s stepped out of a fashion magazine. Squeezing into her outfit, she adds one final layer of a metallic pink Sephora lipgloss created with crushed pearls, sprays herself with Romano Ricci’s Lady Vengeance and then slips an abaya over her head. Wrapping a sheila around her face to hide the golden wig, she grins at her reflection and grabs her tiny purple leather Zufi Alexander clutch (Zufi and Lady Luxe go way back, both being hot young Dubains in the fashion industry) to complete her look. As an afterthought, she sends an sms to both her father and Mohamed as she clatters down the marble stairs, ready for some action. Neither bothers to reply.
* * *
“Going like that?” Leila giggles when Lady Luxe pulls up in front of her building, still in her Emirati gear. “I’d love to see what the bouncers make of you!”
“Well hello to you too!” Lady Luxe answers, flinging open the door. She jumps out of the car and whips off her abaya like Clark Kent transforming into Superman, revealing her daring outfit underneath.
“That’s better,” Leila squeaks, absorbing her sequined top, tiny black shorts, silver strappy sandals and smoky eyes with envy. Fully aware that a designer ensemble compared to an ordinary outfit is like the difference between sashimi at Nobu and a fillet burger at McDonald’s, she unconsciously tugs at her TopShop leopard print boob tube dress and runs her fingers through her big blonde hair. Smug, Lady Luxe smiles and says nothing as she slips back into the car and turns up the stereo. You ain’t got nothing on me, bitch, she thinks to herself as she flies down SZR, completely ignoring the speed cameras and getting flashed at least twice. Wasta goes a long way in Dubai, and her father knows enough people to ensure that his children never get speeding fines, parking tickets or even the pink slip in a car accident when they are clearly at fault. Leila grips onto the edge of the beige leather seats as Lady Luxe increases her speed to 180 km per hour, weaving her way through the various lanes and narrowly avoiding the other cars.
“Um, could you slow down a little?” Leila gasps, her stomach beginning to churn.
“Why?” Lady Luxe laughs, edging up to 185. “I thought you liked living dangerously?”
“Please! I’m serious!” Leila’s stomach contracts and she clutches on to the dashboard, the blood disappearing from her face. She hates driving fast. She hates Sheikh Zayed Road. She hates Lady Luxe and her stupid fast cars.
“Fine, fine, I was just kidding.” Slowing down to 150, Lady Luxe pats Leila’s leg reassuringly. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you were serious,” she says, not wanting to spoil the night already. Leila smiles a wobbly smile back at her, still feeling queasy.
Cow, she thinks to herself, still smiling. I’ll get you back for this.
Leaning back in her seat and trying to bite her tongue, Leila remembers the first time she met Lady Luxe and wonders if she will one day look back and regret the effort she made to secure their friendship. It was one of those rare afternoons when she decided to treat herself to some quality pampering after selling a huge villa on the Palm and receiving a hefty bonus. Instead of grabbing a quick, cheap and temporarily satisfying massage at her local beauty salon, hesitating slightly, she pushed money-saving thoughts to the back of her mind and went to the Burj Al Arab instead. Although the thought of blowing a thousand dirhams on a massage at the Assawan spa was painful for Leila with her frugal ways, it transpired to be one of the best investments she had ever made.
Assawan is not the prettiest of spas. With its garish red and gold colour scheme, it is the complete opposite of what most (sane) people would find soothing. She made this comment to an attractive, thin woman who was lounging by the infinity pool that overlooks the Arabian Gulf. The girl laughed and, connecting instantly, they began talking. Upon discovering that the Emirati was one of the exclusive few to have a yearly membership at the 30,000 dhs a year health club (not to mention having paid a hefty 30,000 dhs joining free), Leila knew that there was a reason why fate had brought her to Assawan, and not Talise at Al Qasr or Cleopatras at Wafi. So, she laughed and joked with her while they swam and ended up getting a coffee at Sahn El Dar afterwards. Sitting amongst the opulent luxury whilst sipping freshly brewed Earl Grey and nibbling on buttery scones, Leila realised that the attractive local girl with the diamond encrusted Cartier watch and patent Prada peep-toes could quite possibly be her passport into the world of rich, handsome and powerful men that she was desperate to infiltrate.
Leila was right. In the past two years, she has been to exclusive gala dinners, has sat front row at fashion shows, has attended restaurant and store openings, movie premiers, all the while being chauffeured around in a pink Ferrari. She has also become close enough to her passport to be introduced to ‘Jennifer’, thus expanding their activities to clubbing, drinking and the occasional bunning, as well as posing of course.
They can feel the pounding bass before they can even see Chi, and Lady Luxe slips into an unexpected free parking space and screeches to a halt. They both slide out the car, aware that the men who are currently being denied entry are staring at them in appreciation, and as they do, Leila takes a quick, surreptitious look at the license plate and notes it in her unfailing memory. In case she gets too drunk to remember it in the morning, she pulls out her trusty phone, writes it in and then grabs Lady Luxe’s arm and pulls her into the heaving club.
Surprisingly, the atmosphere at Chi isn't as Lady Luxe remembers it to be. It used to be full of pervy, sex-starved men who wouldn’t bother feigning sophistication or aloofness. Instead, they would ogle freely at every single creature resembling a woman, and were often courageous enough to sneak up behind them, squashing their protruding nether-regions onto unsuspecting girls’ derrieres whilst they are dancing. The music however, is far from the techno, computerised Swedish rubbish that Lady Luxe cannot stomach, so although she detests uncouth men with a tendency to invade personal space, she likes to indulge her inner black gyal occasionally and goes there solely to wind and grind to her heart’s content.
Tonight however, there seem to be more white people than usual and the DJ is spinning a mix of R&B, hip hop, funky house and good ole Brit pub songs. Lady Luxe smiles, pretending that she is actually in London as she and Leila squeeze their way through hoards of sweaty people. They find a place right in the centre of one of the dance floors, next to a group of single men vaguely moving to the music and begin shaking their thangs to Sean Paul. A blur of gold, the fake blondes look spectacular together and soon, two brave men from the group edge their way over to them. In the darkness, Lady Luxe doesn’t get to see much of what they look like so she grabs the taller one’s hands, assuming he is the better catch, and pulls him towards her. She spins around so that he is behind her and leaning forward, does her legendary, crowd pleasing Beyonce butt-shake.
“Aiwa,” he calls out, pleased, and she freezes mid-shake. She knows that voice. Too afraid to turn back around, she continues dancing with him behind her but this time with breathing space between them. Gutt squirming, head spinning, palms sweating, she sneaks a look at the guy Leila is dancing with. Unable to make out his features clearly, all she can discern is that he is a little shorter than the one trying to squash up behind her, and is wearing a huge cowboy hat. She doubts that Leila will mind parting with him, so when the DJ mixes a bit of Lady Gaga, she spins around again, drops to a squat and as she flexes back up, grabs Cowboy’s hands and presses herself against him. The tall guy, now left facing Leila, laughs and begins to dance with her amicably. Out of his line of vision, Lady Luxe sneaks a look in his direction and feels her face turn green and her insides crumble when her suspicions are confirmed.
Dressed in dark blue jeans and a plain black shirt, Mohamed, her brother, is holding Leila’s hands and dancing with a big, cat-that-stole-the-cream grin on his face. Feeling utterly disgusted with herself, she cannot believe that she had just shown her brother her infamous butt-shake from a proximity that could be deemed as incestuous, had either of them known who the other was.
Resisting the urge to throw up, Lady Luxe looks over at him again just to make sure her eyes are not deceiving her. A second glance only confirms what she already knows and she racks her brain for ways to exit as discreetly as possible. However, if she vanishes, there is a small chance that Leila may realise something is wrong and she cannot let her conniving, backstabbing, boyfriend-stealing friend know who her dance-partner really is. She can just image the look of evil pleasure on Leila’s carefully made-up face if she realises that it is the eldest son of X who is currently being captivated by her fluid moves. She curses herself for coming to such a slimy place, one her brother would naturally thrive in, and then curses Mr Delicious for putting her in a compromising position with Leila to begin with. Pre-Mr D days, she could have just grabbed Leila and ran, but now, since war has been declared, she has to tread carefully around the volatile Lebanese who has too much of a hold over her.
“Can I wear your hat?” she asks Cowboy with a broad smile, dancing vaguely and trying her utmost to keep her back to Mohamed. Thankfully, Leila’s plentiful curves are enough to occupy his vision and she catches a quick glimpse of him with his arms on either side of her while she gyrates her behind against his crotch.
Ugh, she thinks, swallowing another desire to puke. No doubt Leila has spotted his Breitling watch and from an outsider’s perspective, Lady Luxe reluctantly concedes that Mohamed can be perceived as handsome. Unlike Ahmed who is thin and awkward, he takes after their father with broad shoulders and rugged charm. His black, wavy hair is longish and curls at the nape of his neck and his pseudo-beard is well-kept and groomed perfectly. With his fair skin, he looks more Iranian than Emirati, something that his candoura usually rectifies but in the club, Leila mostly likely assumes that he is not.
“Sure!” Cowboy bares his braces at her and whips off his hat. When his curly black hair is exposed, she recognizes him as Mohamed’s colleague, having once caught a glimpse of him in their home when he ‘accidentally’ stumbled into the ladies quarters. She feels dirty for dancing so close to him but knows that the proximity is the only way she can hide as much of herself as possible. She pulls the hat over her head in an attempt to disguise herself further and continues dancing with him, sneaking in peeks of Mohamed and Leila whenever she can and praying fervently that her brother continues to be satisfied by her friend and doesn’t bother trying to analyse her too much.
“Jennifer!” Leila calls out to her, untangling herself from Mohamed’s embrace and skipping over to her.
Shitfuckshit. Panicking, Lady Luxe turns her back on her and facing a short, fat man who cannot believe his luck, bops around in a very un-Lady Luxe like manner. She can't let Mohamed see her face. So long as he just has a view of her golden mane, he will never suspect that she is his sister.
“Leila, wassup,” she growls without looking around and deepening her voice by an octave. Huffing, Leila stomps around until she is facing her and squints at her a little strangely. But she is accustomed to her friend’s sudden bursts of weirdness and shrugs it off as another game she is playing.
“I’m going to go home with Mo,” she breathes excitedly, her eyes bright with lust. “Thank you for swapping with me! He is so cute!”
“But Leila-” Lady Luxe squeaks, losing the deep voice. “You never go home with guys from clubs! How can you marry him afterwards if you sleep with him first? You know what these Arab men are like!”
“I’m sick of playing games. I haven’t had a good lay in so long and I’m just going to go with the flow. See you later!” With that, she walks back over to Mohamed, and only looks back to shout “and get rid of that disgusting hat!” before she disappears.
Lady Luxe doesn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified. Although she is thankful that she can finally breathe now that her brother has left the scene, she cannot comprehend the fact that he has left with Leila. Leila whom she has tried so hard to keep away from her family, has been careful not to divulge any personal information to and who is on the war path with her. Sick to her stomach, Lady Luxe’s desire to party unashamedly has been well and truly murdered.
Shoving the sweaty fat man away from her, she smiles apologetically at Cowboy.
“Cowboy, I have to go,” she shouts over the music. Poor Cowboy, who watched her exchange with Leila but thankfully didn’t catch much of it, looks crushed.
“Don’t go,” he implores, following her through the club as she pushes past the throngs of people to escape. Bursting out into the fresh air, she takes big gulps of it, feeling lightheaded and dizzy. She just wants to get home as quickly as possible and when Cowboy pleads, “Stay a little longer,” she sighs in frustration.
Realising that he is likely to stand there begging for a long time (she is well accustomed to the type that refuses to allow ‘no’ into their dictionary) Lady Luxe decides that the only way to get rid of the over-enthusiastic Emirati with a bad taste in hats (but good taste in women of course) will be to show him some light at the end of the tunnel.
“Take my number and call me,” she says briskly. Grabbing his phone, she dials her ‘fun’ mobile line and lets him save the number. She gives him a quick peck on the cheek, smiles and gets into her Cayenne. Cowboy watches her long legs and small behind in awe.
“I love you!” he yells to her as she reverses out of the space. She blows him a kiss and then drives away. As soon as she can no longer see him, she lets her grin fall into a grimace, pulls his hat off her head and throws it to the back of the car, along with the wig that is making her head hot and sweaty. She can’t believe that right now, Leila is probably performing all sorts of Godless acts with her very own flesh and blood and she pounds the steering wheel in frustration. She makes her usual pit-stop to change and leaves the wig in the car, along with the hat and the shoes that are now pinching her toes. Spraying a generous dose of Midnight Oud all over herself to mask the smell of smoke, she continues her journey home, feeling sick the entire time.
Peace washes over her as the electronic gates to the villa open. She just wants to scrub Cowboy’s sweat away, Jennifer’s face away, crawl into bed and forget that this disastrous night ever happened. She hurriedly parks her Cayenne next to Lady Penelope (a gift from her father when she won the ‘Abaya Designer of the Year’ award) and jogs up to the villa barefooted. She feels nervous when she slowly opens the heavy wooden door after being confronted by her father last week, but is relieved to find her home still and quiet, despite it being just 1am. Mohamed has probably taken Leila to a hotel somewhere and Ahmed is likely to be sleeping. She drags herself up the stairs and into her bathroom, where she pulls off the outfit she had so carefully put together and stuffs it into the bin with distaste. She will never look upon it favorably again. Climbing into the shower cubicle, she puts it in ‘monsoon’ mode and stands under the rain-like water, allowing it to soothe her nerves.
Mohamed, she assumes, must go through women as swiftly as she goes through bottles of Evian. She is certain that he will discard Leila like a broken toy once he has slept with her, and this thought pacifies her. She won’t know who you are to him. They won’t even exchange dialogue other than monosyllabic grunts during the deed, she tells herself reassuringly as the water pounds down on her head and numbs her headache.
After showering, Lady Luxe sinks into her soft sheets, feeling far more relaxed than she did a couple of hours ago. He won’t even remember her name and she has sworn off Emirati guys she repeats to herself. The repetition lulls her into a slumber, but just as the sandman calls, her phone beeps, interrupting the tentative strokes of sleep.
Squinting down at screen, she sees Leila’s name and she hurriedly opens the message, forcing her eyes to focus and hoping that it is a rescue request which she will be delighted to attend to.
But it is not.
This guy is amazing… the short text message declares. And if I’m not mistaken, the feeling’s mutual!!!
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Chapter Thirteen – The stepping stone
Leila grabs her car keys and hurries her way to the lift, where she glances approvingly at her reflection and then adds another layer of her Smashbox lip paint to make her pout even shinier. Fluffing up her hair one last time, she saunters out of the building and gracefully eases into her dark grey BMW 330, revs up the engine and then starts blaring Fairouz from the stereo. Not the sexiest of choices, but it’s Friday morning, the weather is mild and she is on her way to meet Mr Delicious for brunch. What more could she possibly want at this precise moment? (Other than an engagement ring bigger than Lara’s, that is).
Lara called her the previous night, right after Lady Luxe cancelled their usual Thursday night shenanigans. She only ever cancelled their weekly perving ritual if there was a man around and her taste for one-night-wonders rarely meant that she put an ordinary guy before her friends. So when she called to whisper a quick "sorry, can’t make it tonight, see you later", Leila guessed that the man in question was her father.
Lady Luxe rarely spoke about her family with Leila, but it was obvious that they were powerful and affluent. Why else would she painstakingly keep her last name hidden from her and even go as far as to only pay in cash so that her name on her credit card wasn’t visible? At the beginning, when she was still under the illusion that they were becoming real friends, Lady Luxe’s trust issues annoyed Leila. After a while though, she realised it didn’t really matter. Their friendship wasn’t much deeper than a swimming pool and was based upon a mutual desire for men, a vague liking of each other's personality and equal attractiveness. So, up until last week, Leila wasn’t particularly interested in the dynamics of her friend’s family life, her last name or where she lived. But now, after the way Lady Luxe descended upon her apartment like a magpie spying a piece of silver, she feels a little uneasy. Maybe it is time to start investigating her friend’s other identity – just in case.
During her thirty-minute conversation with Lara, Leila didn’t feel insanely jealous by her sister’s excited squeals and lack of pauses between sentences. The wind wasn’t knocked out of her, her breath wasn’t caught in her throat and her head didn’t spin. Instead, she actually felt a little bit happy for her younger sister who had managed to secure the everlasting love of a decent, albeit unattractive, prospective life partner. After her evening with Mr Delicious and his friend, hope in male-kind has tentatively been restored in her and although her cynical side keeps reminding her to keep her feet firmly on the sand, the dreamer encourages her to float to the tip of the Burj Dubai.
So, instead of hurriedly trying to hang up the phone, she actually asked Lara questions about the venue (their back garden), the dress (to be confirmed) and the honeymoon (Turkey). She didn’t even start fantasising about her own wedding. Instead, she concentrated on her strategy to bag Mr Delicious as soon as possible.
According to writer Sherry Arcov, men married bitches. If this was the case though, Leila would surely have been married a few times by now. Another saying was that nice girls finish last, thus implying that mean girls finish first. But so far, she isn’t even close to finishing – first, second, or last. In fact, she barely even gets the race started at all. Somewhere along the first stretch, she stumbles, falls and automatically forfeits. Usually with a lot of bruising.
Tired of getting it wrong Leila wonders if now is the time to play it differently. She has tried nice, mean, sexy, sweet, intelligent and stupid and nothing has worked for her. Today, she decides to just go with her instincts (apart from the those in her loins, that is) and hope for the best. Maybe she will get lucky.
Cruising along Sheikh Zayed Road at 90 km per hour, she takes the Marina exit and joins Jumeirah Road in order to avoid the SALIK toll gate. She hates having to actually pay to drive down SZR, and usually refuses to do so, even if it means being late. She just can’t justify wasting hundreds of dirhams every month for the sake of saving a few minutes. Besides, although she will never admit it, she is actually a little afraid of the mammoth highway, with its six lanes on both sides and monstrous drivers speeding down the fast lane. Her beemer is purely for decoration purposes, not speed. She shudders when she remembers how once, she was caught in the fast lane with a tank behind her flashing her to move out the way and no space on the right to actually do so. The tank came right up to her bumper and had she tapped on her brakes, would have ploughed into Leila, leaving both her and Baby Bee as flat as a manaqeesh. She now avoids SZR like swine flu, and prefers to plod along Jumeirah Road fending off nothing more than a few wolf whistles instead.
Driving all the way down Jumeirah Road (referred to as Beach Road by the residents due to it running parallel to the coast), she finally makes it to Bur Dubai, countless traffic lights and speed bumps later. She enjoys driving down the equivalent of London’s Harley Street with its pretty cosmetic surgery clinics and dental spas, but not as much as she enjoys driving down Al Wasl Road, home to some of the finest old villas in Dubai, including those belonging to the Habtoors, according to Lady Luxe.
The roads are empty as most of Dubai either sleeps or prepares for Friday prayers and Leila reaches Oud Metha in record time. Except for the young Brits of course. They are most likely running riot at a champagne brunch somewhere, and although Leila has joined them on many occasions, today, she has forsaken drunken stupor for a finer pursuit.
Upon reaching Movenpick, Leila happily hands over her keys to the valet, thankful that she doesn’t have to get into a sweat by actually parking the car herself. She heads straight for the small and slightly dark restroom, where she applies her third coat of lipgloss, dusts a little powder onto her small, straight nose and checks her rear-end in the mirror one last time for any strange marks that shouldn’t be there. Despite wearing a cute, white cotton dress with tiny cap sleeves and carefully fixing a white carnation in her hair, with her voluptuous double Ds and round bottom, Leila somehow manages to make the colour of purity look devilish and provocative. Scowling at the dreary restroom, she wonders why Mr Delicious suggested Movenpick rather than something closer to (his) home, like Atlantis, and wonders if it’s because he doesn’t want to be caught seen with her. She shakes the suspicion out of her head – after all, who wouldn’t want to be seen with someone as sexy as herself? A married man her annoying conscience tells her. Shut the hell up, she replies, grabbing her faux tan coloured leather Chanel tote and stalking out of the restroom in her four inch heels.
“Leila, ahlan,” Mr Delicious greets her as she walks into the restaurant in the centre of the hotel foyer. With its huge glass ceiling, it is flooded with natural light, and together with the quiet live music and colonial décor, Leila decides that the general feel of the place is actually quite decadent and pretty.
“Good morning,” she replies accepting his kisses on her cheeks and inhaling his fresh, slightly musky scent. “What are you wearing?” she asks playfully as she sits down next to him rather than opposite him.
“Arabian Wood by Tom Ford,” he answers.
“Nice. It’s one of his private blends, right?” she confirms, excitement tickling her stomach. One 250 ml of Tom Ford’s private blends costs close to two thousand dirhams, and even the teeny 50 ml costs almost eight hundred.
“Right,” he affirms. “He originally created it for Sheikh Majid of Kuwait with the Sheikh’s personal collection of essential oils.”
“So do you know Sheikh Majid?” Leila can’t help but ask, leaning forward in her seat and ‘un’ knowingly giving Mr Delicious a good view of her cleavage.
“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you,” he jokes, smiling at her. “Anyway, let’s eat, the food here is great.”
Leila is not a fan of buffets. She hates having to wobble over to food stations and load up her plate like a homeless person at a soup kitchen. She doesn’t believe in limitless food either – no wonder most of the women in Dubai are so round. But she smiles and makes her way straight to the salads and the sushi, deciding it is the healthiest option and waits for Mr Delicious to finish piling his plate with everything that can fit. She watches him eat and wonders when she will get a chance to find out exactly what his mouth can do, aside from vacuuming up food and making charming remarks. She will never initiate anything though, and neither will she give obvious signals for him to pursue. She wants much more from him than a couple of pleasant gifts and everyone knows that Arab guys don’t marry girls they’ve screwed, no matter what proclamations of love they make prior to opening up the gates to the promised land. Like her mother always says: why buy the entire cow when you can get the milk for free?
They talk mindlessly and as always, she enjoys the conversation, preferring to talk rather than eat. She doesn’t get up to fill her plate again but takes great pleasure in watching Mr Delicious march over to the various stations. His body seems to be strong and powerful and his loose beige combats and a white t-shirt cling to his muscles as though they were made for him. She is secretly pleased that their outfits are matching, and takes this as another sign fate is throwing her way – first the gym incident, and now this. The way he looks at her, although unnerving, has Leila convinced that he is developing some kind of attachment to her. And who wouldn’t, she thinks gleefully. Look at me! I’m not only hot, but I’m classy and intelligent. What more could a man want?
“How’s your friend by the way? I never did hear from her,” Mr Delicious says, interrupting her self-appraisal while devouring a plate of freshly prepared pasta.
“My friend?” Thrown off-guard by the remark, Leila feels anger beginning to boil within. She has never been on a date that has resulted in the man enquiring after her friend before, and the sheer audacity of the question makes her eyes want to bulge out of their sockets.
“You know, the crazy blonde you were with at the Cavalli Club. Now that we’re friends, maybe you wouldn’t mind putting in a good word for me?”
Leila stares at Mr Delicious, at his perfect, chiseled cheekbones and his warm smile, speechless. ‘Friends?’ she screams to herself. Does it look like I need another ‘friend’? Furious, she clenches her fists tightly under the table and steadies herself before answering him.
“Oh, right, her,” she manages to choke out, along with a strangled laugh. “That’s probably because she’s actually Emirati. She likes to party but it’s all just a big game to her. She’s not looking for anything serious.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, a wave of regret washes over her. She knows she has stepped over a boundary.
“Really? Wow. She doesn’t look Emirati,” Mr Delicious says thoughtfully, his forehead creased with confusion.
“Well she is. Anyway habibi, this has been lovely but I really have to run. I have loads of things to do today.” Still feeling as if she is about to vomit, she picks up her handbag and sticks her mobile phone back into it. No matter how much she wants Mr Delicious to want her back, her pride will always come first and she refuses to spend another minute with a man who has dragged her all the way to the other side of Dubai only to pry about Lady Luxe.
“Are you sure?” he asks, eyeing up the chocolate fountain and the selection of fresh fruit and marshmallows lying appetisingly beside it. “I’m not quite finished yet…”
“I’m really sorry but I have to go. Feel free to stay longer. And please, let me pay my share,” she says, pretending to rummage around for her wallet, giving him enough time to decline angrily. No Arab man will ever allow a girl to tread on his ego like that and such a statement is the ultimate blow to his pride, tantamount to his girlfriend cheating on him.
“Sure, why not. I’m all for feminism,” he replies gamely.
Once again, Leila is horrified. She can feel her heart palpitating at the different shocks she has had to endure: first driving all the way to Bur Dubai, then finding out that she is just a stepping stone to the greater prize – Lady Luxe – and then being told to pay her own share. Never in the thousands of dates she has been on, has she ever had her offer to pay taken up. Pulling a range of fifties, twenties, tens and even a couple of fives from her wallet to cover her share of the bill, she dumps them on the table and then stands up.
“Well Mr Delicious, it’s been a pleasure. Hope you have a lovely day,” she manages to hiss between clenched teeth, with as much decorum as she can muster. Firmly shaking his hand, she turns on her heels and strides out of the restaurant. She has had enough for one morning.
As she waits for Baby Bee to be returned to her, her phone beeps and she yanks it out of her bag, expecting to find a message from Mr Delicious apologising profusely for his faux pas. She already begins preparing her sharp response, but instead, it is Lady Luxe. She opens it and then almost drops her phone as she is electrocuted once again. Ya Rab! She almost yells out loud. Have mercy on me!
Had a nice brunch? The ominous message reads. I’ve heard good things about the food at Movenpick.
Lara called her the previous night, right after Lady Luxe cancelled their usual Thursday night shenanigans. She only ever cancelled their weekly perving ritual if there was a man around and her taste for one-night-wonders rarely meant that she put an ordinary guy before her friends. So when she called to whisper a quick "sorry, can’t make it tonight, see you later", Leila guessed that the man in question was her father.
Lady Luxe rarely spoke about her family with Leila, but it was obvious that they were powerful and affluent. Why else would she painstakingly keep her last name hidden from her and even go as far as to only pay in cash so that her name on her credit card wasn’t visible? At the beginning, when she was still under the illusion that they were becoming real friends, Lady Luxe’s trust issues annoyed Leila. After a while though, she realised it didn’t really matter. Their friendship wasn’t much deeper than a swimming pool and was based upon a mutual desire for men, a vague liking of each other's personality and equal attractiveness. So, up until last week, Leila wasn’t particularly interested in the dynamics of her friend’s family life, her last name or where she lived. But now, after the way Lady Luxe descended upon her apartment like a magpie spying a piece of silver, she feels a little uneasy. Maybe it is time to start investigating her friend’s other identity – just in case.
During her thirty-minute conversation with Lara, Leila didn’t feel insanely jealous by her sister’s excited squeals and lack of pauses between sentences. The wind wasn’t knocked out of her, her breath wasn’t caught in her throat and her head didn’t spin. Instead, she actually felt a little bit happy for her younger sister who had managed to secure the everlasting love of a decent, albeit unattractive, prospective life partner. After her evening with Mr Delicious and his friend, hope in male-kind has tentatively been restored in her and although her cynical side keeps reminding her to keep her feet firmly on the sand, the dreamer encourages her to float to the tip of the Burj Dubai.
So, instead of hurriedly trying to hang up the phone, she actually asked Lara questions about the venue (their back garden), the dress (to be confirmed) and the honeymoon (Turkey). She didn’t even start fantasising about her own wedding. Instead, she concentrated on her strategy to bag Mr Delicious as soon as possible.
According to writer Sherry Arcov, men married bitches. If this was the case though, Leila would surely have been married a few times by now. Another saying was that nice girls finish last, thus implying that mean girls finish first. But so far, she isn’t even close to finishing – first, second, or last. In fact, she barely even gets the race started at all. Somewhere along the first stretch, she stumbles, falls and automatically forfeits. Usually with a lot of bruising.
Tired of getting it wrong Leila wonders if now is the time to play it differently. She has tried nice, mean, sexy, sweet, intelligent and stupid and nothing has worked for her. Today, she decides to just go with her instincts (apart from the those in her loins, that is) and hope for the best. Maybe she will get lucky.
Cruising along Sheikh Zayed Road at 90 km per hour, she takes the Marina exit and joins Jumeirah Road in order to avoid the SALIK toll gate. She hates having to actually pay to drive down SZR, and usually refuses to do so, even if it means being late. She just can’t justify wasting hundreds of dirhams every month for the sake of saving a few minutes. Besides, although she will never admit it, she is actually a little afraid of the mammoth highway, with its six lanes on both sides and monstrous drivers speeding down the fast lane. Her beemer is purely for decoration purposes, not speed. She shudders when she remembers how once, she was caught in the fast lane with a tank behind her flashing her to move out the way and no space on the right to actually do so. The tank came right up to her bumper and had she tapped on her brakes, would have ploughed into Leila, leaving both her and Baby Bee as flat as a manaqeesh. She now avoids SZR like swine flu, and prefers to plod along Jumeirah Road fending off nothing more than a few wolf whistles instead.
Driving all the way down Jumeirah Road (referred to as Beach Road by the residents due to it running parallel to the coast), she finally makes it to Bur Dubai, countless traffic lights and speed bumps later. She enjoys driving down the equivalent of London’s Harley Street with its pretty cosmetic surgery clinics and dental spas, but not as much as she enjoys driving down Al Wasl Road, home to some of the finest old villas in Dubai, including those belonging to the Habtoors, according to Lady Luxe.
The roads are empty as most of Dubai either sleeps or prepares for Friday prayers and Leila reaches Oud Metha in record time. Except for the young Brits of course. They are most likely running riot at a champagne brunch somewhere, and although Leila has joined them on many occasions, today, she has forsaken drunken stupor for a finer pursuit.
Upon reaching Movenpick, Leila happily hands over her keys to the valet, thankful that she doesn’t have to get into a sweat by actually parking the car herself. She heads straight for the small and slightly dark restroom, where she applies her third coat of lipgloss, dusts a little powder onto her small, straight nose and checks her rear-end in the mirror one last time for any strange marks that shouldn’t be there. Despite wearing a cute, white cotton dress with tiny cap sleeves and carefully fixing a white carnation in her hair, with her voluptuous double Ds and round bottom, Leila somehow manages to make the colour of purity look devilish and provocative. Scowling at the dreary restroom, she wonders why Mr Delicious suggested Movenpick rather than something closer to (his) home, like Atlantis, and wonders if it’s because he doesn’t want to be caught seen with her. She shakes the suspicion out of her head – after all, who wouldn’t want to be seen with someone as sexy as herself? A married man her annoying conscience tells her. Shut the hell up, she replies, grabbing her faux tan coloured leather Chanel tote and stalking out of the restroom in her four inch heels.
“Leila, ahlan,” Mr Delicious greets her as she walks into the restaurant in the centre of the hotel foyer. With its huge glass ceiling, it is flooded with natural light, and together with the quiet live music and colonial décor, Leila decides that the general feel of the place is actually quite decadent and pretty.
“Good morning,” she replies accepting his kisses on her cheeks and inhaling his fresh, slightly musky scent. “What are you wearing?” she asks playfully as she sits down next to him rather than opposite him.
“Arabian Wood by Tom Ford,” he answers.
“Nice. It’s one of his private blends, right?” she confirms, excitement tickling her stomach. One 250 ml of Tom Ford’s private blends costs close to two thousand dirhams, and even the teeny 50 ml costs almost eight hundred.
“Right,” he affirms. “He originally created it for Sheikh Majid of Kuwait with the Sheikh’s personal collection of essential oils.”
“So do you know Sheikh Majid?” Leila can’t help but ask, leaning forward in her seat and ‘un’ knowingly giving Mr Delicious a good view of her cleavage.
“If I tell you, I’ll have to kill you,” he jokes, smiling at her. “Anyway, let’s eat, the food here is great.”
Leila is not a fan of buffets. She hates having to wobble over to food stations and load up her plate like a homeless person at a soup kitchen. She doesn’t believe in limitless food either – no wonder most of the women in Dubai are so round. But she smiles and makes her way straight to the salads and the sushi, deciding it is the healthiest option and waits for Mr Delicious to finish piling his plate with everything that can fit. She watches him eat and wonders when she will get a chance to find out exactly what his mouth can do, aside from vacuuming up food and making charming remarks. She will never initiate anything though, and neither will she give obvious signals for him to pursue. She wants much more from him than a couple of pleasant gifts and everyone knows that Arab guys don’t marry girls they’ve screwed, no matter what proclamations of love they make prior to opening up the gates to the promised land. Like her mother always says: why buy the entire cow when you can get the milk for free?
They talk mindlessly and as always, she enjoys the conversation, preferring to talk rather than eat. She doesn’t get up to fill her plate again but takes great pleasure in watching Mr Delicious march over to the various stations. His body seems to be strong and powerful and his loose beige combats and a white t-shirt cling to his muscles as though they were made for him. She is secretly pleased that their outfits are matching, and takes this as another sign fate is throwing her way – first the gym incident, and now this. The way he looks at her, although unnerving, has Leila convinced that he is developing some kind of attachment to her. And who wouldn’t, she thinks gleefully. Look at me! I’m not only hot, but I’m classy and intelligent. What more could a man want?
“How’s your friend by the way? I never did hear from her,” Mr Delicious says, interrupting her self-appraisal while devouring a plate of freshly prepared pasta.
“My friend?” Thrown off-guard by the remark, Leila feels anger beginning to boil within. She has never been on a date that has resulted in the man enquiring after her friend before, and the sheer audacity of the question makes her eyes want to bulge out of their sockets.
“You know, the crazy blonde you were with at the Cavalli Club. Now that we’re friends, maybe you wouldn’t mind putting in a good word for me?”
Leila stares at Mr Delicious, at his perfect, chiseled cheekbones and his warm smile, speechless. ‘Friends?’ she screams to herself. Does it look like I need another ‘friend’? Furious, she clenches her fists tightly under the table and steadies herself before answering him.
“Oh, right, her,” she manages to choke out, along with a strangled laugh. “That’s probably because she’s actually Emirati. She likes to party but it’s all just a big game to her. She’s not looking for anything serious.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, a wave of regret washes over her. She knows she has stepped over a boundary.
“Really? Wow. She doesn’t look Emirati,” Mr Delicious says thoughtfully, his forehead creased with confusion.
“Well she is. Anyway habibi, this has been lovely but I really have to run. I have loads of things to do today.” Still feeling as if she is about to vomit, she picks up her handbag and sticks her mobile phone back into it. No matter how much she wants Mr Delicious to want her back, her pride will always come first and she refuses to spend another minute with a man who has dragged her all the way to the other side of Dubai only to pry about Lady Luxe.
“Are you sure?” he asks, eyeing up the chocolate fountain and the selection of fresh fruit and marshmallows lying appetisingly beside it. “I’m not quite finished yet…”
“I’m really sorry but I have to go. Feel free to stay longer. And please, let me pay my share,” she says, pretending to rummage around for her wallet, giving him enough time to decline angrily. No Arab man will ever allow a girl to tread on his ego like that and such a statement is the ultimate blow to his pride, tantamount to his girlfriend cheating on him.
“Sure, why not. I’m all for feminism,” he replies gamely.
Once again, Leila is horrified. She can feel her heart palpitating at the different shocks she has had to endure: first driving all the way to Bur Dubai, then finding out that she is just a stepping stone to the greater prize – Lady Luxe – and then being told to pay her own share. Never in the thousands of dates she has been on, has she ever had her offer to pay taken up. Pulling a range of fifties, twenties, tens and even a couple of fives from her wallet to cover her share of the bill, she dumps them on the table and then stands up.
“Well Mr Delicious, it’s been a pleasure. Hope you have a lovely day,” she manages to hiss between clenched teeth, with as much decorum as she can muster. Firmly shaking his hand, she turns on her heels and strides out of the restaurant. She has had enough for one morning.
As she waits for Baby Bee to be returned to her, her phone beeps and she yanks it out of her bag, expecting to find a message from Mr Delicious apologising profusely for his faux pas. She already begins preparing her sharp response, but instead, it is Lady Luxe. She opens it and then almost drops her phone as she is electrocuted once again. Ya Rab! She almost yells out loud. Have mercy on me!
Had a nice brunch? The ominous message reads. I’ve heard good things about the food at Movenpick.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Chapter Twelve – The loneliness of being an expat
I thought living in a country where I barely know anyone would be easy. I assumed I’d make friends at work and I’d have people to go out with if I wanted to, and that I would be okay pottering around by myself the days I stayed at home. I really wasn’t expecting an achy feeling in my chest whenever I experienced something funny/interesting/weird and I had no one to share it with. I didn’t realize that evenings can be so long when you spend each and every one alone either and that the novelty of solitude wears off pretty quickly when you have it forced upon you.
Huda has been avoiding my calls as well. I tried ringing her a couple of times but I think she just needs some space to herself while she works out what to do with that skinny rat she married. So until then, I’m officially friendless.
I hear the front door of our apartment in JBR close and I wander out of my room in my mismatched pj’s, thankful to have a bit of space where I can walk around without hijab. I slide open the balcony door and step out onto it, basking in the sun and enjoying the rare feeling of the wind in my hair and the sun on my bare arms. I still haven’t made it to ladies only day at the beach, and doubt I ever will as it’s on a Monday and I’m at work then. So, until I can take a day off, it will have to be a few minutes on the balcony whenever the family goes out.
My hosts are a very lovely South African couple with their cute two year-old daughter. They’ve been really kind to me – letting me use their PC, taking me to the mall and even to the mosque. If I weren’t on my period, I would have gone for Friday prayers at the Spring's Mosque today (they're translated into English over there) but in Islam, you can’t pray when you are menstruating. Some girls see this as a holiday period, when they can do what they want without having to stop five times a day, make wudhu (translation: mess up their makeup) and submit to God. To be honest, I used to be one of them until I started praying properly, sincerely and with concentration. Now, I revel in the chance to connect with my creator so frequently and if I miss a prayer, I feel disorientated. It’s also a lot easier in Dubai where every mall has a prayer hall and there are mosques on almost every dusty street corner. In the UK though, I had friends who would pray in the most bizarre places whenever it was time – the beach, the park, a museum, a train station and I always thought it was a little extreme. Now I realise that they just didn’t believe that nothing should get in the way of their five minutes with God, that those little breaks within the day kept them in tune with their spiritual selves, offered a little clarity amidst all the confusion.
Instead of going to the mosque, I log into Facebook (*cough*) to check out Goldenboy’s page and see what he’s been up to. I learn that on Monday, he was painting, on Tuesday he felt sick from all the shisha, on Wednesday he was bored at work and on Thursday he was looking forward to clubbing with his friends. Today, he is still recovering from last night. I feel a twinge of jealousy when I look at all the sexy girls he’s friends with, with their big boobs and bootylicious bums, who he was no doubt dancing up against last night. He’s not good enough for you, I tell myself self-righteously, forgetting the fact that up until a few months ago, when I had my religious awakening, I was a hardcore clubber and would direct lost tourists in London using clubs, bars and pubs as landmarks.
Browsing through his 'clubbing' photo album and getting more and more annoyed by the pictures of him grinning with loads of pouty hoes by his side, I decide that he clearly isn’t the kind of guy who fears God. In fact, he’s probably the kind who sleeps around with any girl who’s up for it. He has probably fathered babies all over the Arabian Peninsula.
“Hi!” A message pops up on my Facebook Chat, interrupting my thoughts and I turn red when I see that it is Goldenboy himself. After working myself up into a frenzy with my stupid imagination, I feel a little annoyed with him, wondering how much of my speculations are true.
“Good morning,” I reply stiffly.
“How are you?”
“Fine thanks. You?”
“Sleepy!”
“Too much clubbing?”
“Too much everything!”
“So go and rest.”
“I’d rather chat to you.”
When he says that, my stomach begins to flutter and I forget that two seconds ago, I thought he was a harlot. I tell myself not to get worked up over nothing as usual, and just play it cool. He's just being nice. We continue talking and I’m pleased to see that he’s actually funny and friendly without being overtly flirtatious. We have a lighthearted conversation without finding anything out about each other, until he asks me the dreaded ‘where are you from’ question.
I’m a North Londoner, through and through and everything from my accent to my trainers shouts out where I’m from. Well, it used to anyway. Lately, I’ve been called an Emirati, an Egyptian, a Palestinian, a Pakistani and a few things in between. Everything except British because, with my brown skin and hijab, I can’t possibly be from the UK.
In a bid to add a bit of variety to this tedious inquiry, I’ve started making up answers to the question. I never thought I’d do that again, not after the terrible faux pas I made back in London when I couldn’t be bothered to go through the long-winded truth behind my Arabic name and Arabic surname after an exercise class. Inspired by the Yaser Arafat scarf wrapped around my neck, I pretended I was Palestinian and I thought I got away with it until some know-it-all asked me about the elections.
What elections? I remember thinking. I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, so I gave the most ambiguous answer I could think of.
“It was surprising,” I said at last.
“Oh really?” she answered, raising her eyebrows. “I thought it was quite obvious that Hamas would win.”
Oops. So she was talking about the Palestinian election, not the local ones.
“Maybe to us, living in the West,” I explained mysteriously. “In Palestine, the general feeling amongst the people is confusing." I then legged it as fast as I could.
When I first moved out here, I would answer truthfully when people asked me where I’m from, but after going through the routine around a hundred times, the conversation has become extremely tedious. Saying I’m from the UK isn’t good enough as it only explains my accent, not my colour or my hijab. Then there’s my Arabic name. So I have to explain that my grandparents moved to the UK from India many years ago, but no, we're not Hindus, we're Muslim. This explanation makes me fall from grace immediately, and I can almost visibly see the descent in their contemptuous eyes. At the beginning, it would bother me that I was judged by my culture and not my personality or my credentials. After three weeks though, I find I don’t care as much. I feel like I’m an ambassador of India (forget the fact that I haven’t been to India in 17 years), trying to prove that contrary to mass consensus, Indians, by default, are not short, stupid and smelly.
So now, depending on my mood and whether or not I can be bothered to go into a lengthy account of my heritage and the origins of my Arabic name, I answer different things.
“Where do you want me to be from?” I answer in the end, diverting the question away from me and back to him.
“I don’t care,” he replies. “It would be quite cool if you were from another planet though. I’ve always wanted to make friends with an alien.”
I laugh, and before I can think of a witty answer, he writes: “Would you like to go to the cinema tonight?”
Would I like to have the chance to spend time with an actual person rather than a computer? Hell yeah! I resist the urge to pump my fist in the air like they do in American movies and move my hands back to the keyboard.
“Sure, why not?” I reply coolly. “I’ll meet you at Ibn Battuta Mall at 8:00pm.”
“Aren’t you going to give me your number?”
“You don’t need it. Let’s pretend we’re from an era where people actually show up when they say they will. I’ll meet you by the cinema. Bye!”
Before he can change his mind, I log out of Facebook and sit staring at the PC for a few minutes. Is this a date, I wonder nervously. It can’t be a date. Hijabis don’t date. It’s just a meeting with a friend, I tell myself. Who happens to be a guy. An attractive guy.
As I sit at the desk, wondering if I'm about to launch into the second biggest mistake of my life, the hairs on my body begin to prickle and I'm struck by a sense of déjà vu. I feel as if I've been through all this before and I shouldn’t be going through it all over again. I've tried so hard to block out everything that happened a year ago from my mind but now, the excitement pulsating in my body has brought it all back – the fun, the secrets, the confusion… and that awful night when it all came tumbling down around me.
But no, this is different I tell myself. I need friends. I can’t just sit around alone all the time. I push the queasiness aside and focus on the matter at hand which is a mission in itself. I have about four hours to beautify myself without actually looking like I've made much of an effort.
After thinking for a few moments, I know exactly what to do. I pull on my abaya over my pyjamas, throw on a hijab, stuff my feet into flipflops and go out into the plaza level of our cluster of apartments in JBR which is buzzing with families playing in the pools or lounging around outside the restaurants.
I’ve only ever ventured into a salon to have a haircut before, but now that I’m in Dubai I might as well live like a Dubaian, so I stride into the tiny reception of my nearest beauty salon and ask for a manicure and pedicure. I relax on one of the large, comfortable, chairs as two nail technicians begin working on my hands and feet simultaneously. I feel as if I’ve gone to heaven, once I get over the fact that people are touching up my feet that is. I fall asleep soon after letting the therapists just do their thing without instructing them. When they shake me awake an hour later, I have neat, clean and shiny nails that have been buffed to perfection.
By 7:30, I’ve finally finished my regime. I’ve perfected the effortless, ‘natural’ look that appears to have taken ten minutes, not three hours. My complexion looks bright and slightly flushed, thanks to the help of my signature MAC studio fix and blusher that I stole from my older sister years ago, my lips are shiny and pouty, all praise going to Mr Calvin Klein’s lip plumping gloss and I smell fresh and young, courtesy of Kate Moss’s debut perfume. I’m wearing my favourite magic jeans again and a loose purple jersey dress, casual enough for the cinema and dressy enough in case Goldenboy suggests dinner afterwards. And deep down, I’m hoping he will.
I spot him standing outside the cinema, by the big wooden ship in the China Court of the mall and wave at him. Although I prefer Mall of the Emirates (MOE) to Ibn Battuta as the atmosphere is friendlier and warmer, there’s no doubt that the latter is stunning to look at, especially for first timers. Immortalising the journeys of the famous Arab traveler, Ibn Battuta, each section of the mall follows a different theme. The India court, with its elephants and ornate, marble like pillars feels like the inside of a Moghul palace whereas the Persian court, with its imposing dome and intricately decorated ceiling is exactly how I imagined the interior of the stone mosques in Tehran to look like.
I can barely prevent myself from grinning widely as I walk up to him, trying not to stare at his biceps that are just perfectly proportionate with the rest of him, straining against the fabric of his black t-shirt. We shake hands and I wonder what he will think if I don’t let go of his hand. I do of course, reluctantly, relishing the warmth of human contact while I can and he gives me a weird look. I look intently at the crepe menu, ignoring his gaze.
For the next two hours, I am in agony. I’m dying to lean against him and feel his arm against mine and I have to apply every ounce of self control in order to restrain myself. I’ve never been this attracted to a guy before and I begin to wonder if God is testing me more now that I’m a hijabi. If I had met him in my pre-enlightened days, I would have been delighted by all the sexual tension knowing that it would bear some fruit eventually. But now, I’m beginning to wish he was ugly and smelly so that I didn’t have to be subjected to this masochistic torture. So I spend the entire film holding my breath and muttering swear words under my breath occasionally.
It ends without me having a clue what happened so I avoid making small talk about it after. He invites me for dinner at the Marina Walk, which despite dying to accept, I yawn a fake, dainty yawn and decline politely, claiming that my self-imposed curfew has been reached. In the two hours I spent not watching the film, I had plenty of time to analyse all possible outcomes of my newfound 'friendship' with Goldenboy, and in this pivotal time I decided that it simply wasn’t worth the risk. I didn’t leave everything behind – my friends, my family, my life, just to make the same mistakes all over again. So, hoping my sudden holier-than-thou strategy will deter him and render me a geeky loser, I insist that I have to go home and that I am usually in bed by 10pm.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his eyebrows raised. No I'm bloody not but with every second I spend with him, my barriers are getting weaker and weaker. I've only been a 'good' Muslim for a couple of months. It's much too soon to test the waters. I now know how Edward Cullen felt when meeting whatsherface, only he had plenty more years of practice.
My plan doesn't appear to have worked though. There is newfound respect in his eyes as he realises I’m not like all the other girls he knows, that I'm not just going to drop everything and run off with every fit guy who appears to be interested in me.
“Next time then,” he says. It’s not a statement, but a question, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, to feel flattered or to run a mile. I get the feeling that the faster I run though, the harder he will chase. And in all honesty, I don’t want to run. A part of me is hoping that platonic relationships do exist between girls and guys who fancy each other. But then, that’s what I thought last time.
Huda has been avoiding my calls as well. I tried ringing her a couple of times but I think she just needs some space to herself while she works out what to do with that skinny rat she married. So until then, I’m officially friendless.
I hear the front door of our apartment in JBR close and I wander out of my room in my mismatched pj’s, thankful to have a bit of space where I can walk around without hijab. I slide open the balcony door and step out onto it, basking in the sun and enjoying the rare feeling of the wind in my hair and the sun on my bare arms. I still haven’t made it to ladies only day at the beach, and doubt I ever will as it’s on a Monday and I’m at work then. So, until I can take a day off, it will have to be a few minutes on the balcony whenever the family goes out.
My hosts are a very lovely South African couple with their cute two year-old daughter. They’ve been really kind to me – letting me use their PC, taking me to the mall and even to the mosque. If I weren’t on my period, I would have gone for Friday prayers at the Spring's Mosque today (they're translated into English over there) but in Islam, you can’t pray when you are menstruating. Some girls see this as a holiday period, when they can do what they want without having to stop five times a day, make wudhu (translation: mess up their makeup) and submit to God. To be honest, I used to be one of them until I started praying properly, sincerely and with concentration. Now, I revel in the chance to connect with my creator so frequently and if I miss a prayer, I feel disorientated. It’s also a lot easier in Dubai where every mall has a prayer hall and there are mosques on almost every dusty street corner. In the UK though, I had friends who would pray in the most bizarre places whenever it was time – the beach, the park, a museum, a train station and I always thought it was a little extreme. Now I realise that they just didn’t believe that nothing should get in the way of their five minutes with God, that those little breaks within the day kept them in tune with their spiritual selves, offered a little clarity amidst all the confusion.
Instead of going to the mosque, I log into Facebook (*cough*) to check out Goldenboy’s page and see what he’s been up to. I learn that on Monday, he was painting, on Tuesday he felt sick from all the shisha, on Wednesday he was bored at work and on Thursday he was looking forward to clubbing with his friends. Today, he is still recovering from last night. I feel a twinge of jealousy when I look at all the sexy girls he’s friends with, with their big boobs and bootylicious bums, who he was no doubt dancing up against last night. He’s not good enough for you, I tell myself self-righteously, forgetting the fact that up until a few months ago, when I had my religious awakening, I was a hardcore clubber and would direct lost tourists in London using clubs, bars and pubs as landmarks.
Browsing through his 'clubbing' photo album and getting more and more annoyed by the pictures of him grinning with loads of pouty hoes by his side, I decide that he clearly isn’t the kind of guy who fears God. In fact, he’s probably the kind who sleeps around with any girl who’s up for it. He has probably fathered babies all over the Arabian Peninsula.
“Hi!” A message pops up on my Facebook Chat, interrupting my thoughts and I turn red when I see that it is Goldenboy himself. After working myself up into a frenzy with my stupid imagination, I feel a little annoyed with him, wondering how much of my speculations are true.
“Good morning,” I reply stiffly.
“How are you?”
“Fine thanks. You?”
“Sleepy!”
“Too much clubbing?”
“Too much everything!”
“So go and rest.”
“I’d rather chat to you.”
When he says that, my stomach begins to flutter and I forget that two seconds ago, I thought he was a harlot. I tell myself not to get worked up over nothing as usual, and just play it cool. He's just being nice. We continue talking and I’m pleased to see that he’s actually funny and friendly without being overtly flirtatious. We have a lighthearted conversation without finding anything out about each other, until he asks me the dreaded ‘where are you from’ question.
I’m a North Londoner, through and through and everything from my accent to my trainers shouts out where I’m from. Well, it used to anyway. Lately, I’ve been called an Emirati, an Egyptian, a Palestinian, a Pakistani and a few things in between. Everything except British because, with my brown skin and hijab, I can’t possibly be from the UK.
In a bid to add a bit of variety to this tedious inquiry, I’ve started making up answers to the question. I never thought I’d do that again, not after the terrible faux pas I made back in London when I couldn’t be bothered to go through the long-winded truth behind my Arabic name and Arabic surname after an exercise class. Inspired by the Yaser Arafat scarf wrapped around my neck, I pretended I was Palestinian and I thought I got away with it until some know-it-all asked me about the elections.
What elections? I remember thinking. I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, so I gave the most ambiguous answer I could think of.
“It was surprising,” I said at last.
“Oh really?” she answered, raising her eyebrows. “I thought it was quite obvious that Hamas would win.”
Oops. So she was talking about the Palestinian election, not the local ones.
“Maybe to us, living in the West,” I explained mysteriously. “In Palestine, the general feeling amongst the people is confusing." I then legged it as fast as I could.
When I first moved out here, I would answer truthfully when people asked me where I’m from, but after going through the routine around a hundred times, the conversation has become extremely tedious. Saying I’m from the UK isn’t good enough as it only explains my accent, not my colour or my hijab. Then there’s my Arabic name. So I have to explain that my grandparents moved to the UK from India many years ago, but no, we're not Hindus, we're Muslim. This explanation makes me fall from grace immediately, and I can almost visibly see the descent in their contemptuous eyes. At the beginning, it would bother me that I was judged by my culture and not my personality or my credentials. After three weeks though, I find I don’t care as much. I feel like I’m an ambassador of India (forget the fact that I haven’t been to India in 17 years), trying to prove that contrary to mass consensus, Indians, by default, are not short, stupid and smelly.
So now, depending on my mood and whether or not I can be bothered to go into a lengthy account of my heritage and the origins of my Arabic name, I answer different things.
“Where do you want me to be from?” I answer in the end, diverting the question away from me and back to him.
“I don’t care,” he replies. “It would be quite cool if you were from another planet though. I’ve always wanted to make friends with an alien.”
I laugh, and before I can think of a witty answer, he writes: “Would you like to go to the cinema tonight?”
Would I like to have the chance to spend time with an actual person rather than a computer? Hell yeah! I resist the urge to pump my fist in the air like they do in American movies and move my hands back to the keyboard.
“Sure, why not?” I reply coolly. “I’ll meet you at Ibn Battuta Mall at 8:00pm.”
“Aren’t you going to give me your number?”
“You don’t need it. Let’s pretend we’re from an era where people actually show up when they say they will. I’ll meet you by the cinema. Bye!”
Before he can change his mind, I log out of Facebook and sit staring at the PC for a few minutes. Is this a date, I wonder nervously. It can’t be a date. Hijabis don’t date. It’s just a meeting with a friend, I tell myself. Who happens to be a guy. An attractive guy.
As I sit at the desk, wondering if I'm about to launch into the second biggest mistake of my life, the hairs on my body begin to prickle and I'm struck by a sense of déjà vu. I feel as if I've been through all this before and I shouldn’t be going through it all over again. I've tried so hard to block out everything that happened a year ago from my mind but now, the excitement pulsating in my body has brought it all back – the fun, the secrets, the confusion… and that awful night when it all came tumbling down around me.
But no, this is different I tell myself. I need friends. I can’t just sit around alone all the time. I push the queasiness aside and focus on the matter at hand which is a mission in itself. I have about four hours to beautify myself without actually looking like I've made much of an effort.
After thinking for a few moments, I know exactly what to do. I pull on my abaya over my pyjamas, throw on a hijab, stuff my feet into flipflops and go out into the plaza level of our cluster of apartments in JBR which is buzzing with families playing in the pools or lounging around outside the restaurants.
I’ve only ever ventured into a salon to have a haircut before, but now that I’m in Dubai I might as well live like a Dubaian, so I stride into the tiny reception of my nearest beauty salon and ask for a manicure and pedicure. I relax on one of the large, comfortable, chairs as two nail technicians begin working on my hands and feet simultaneously. I feel as if I’ve gone to heaven, once I get over the fact that people are touching up my feet that is. I fall asleep soon after letting the therapists just do their thing without instructing them. When they shake me awake an hour later, I have neat, clean and shiny nails that have been buffed to perfection.
By 7:30, I’ve finally finished my regime. I’ve perfected the effortless, ‘natural’ look that appears to have taken ten minutes, not three hours. My complexion looks bright and slightly flushed, thanks to the help of my signature MAC studio fix and blusher that I stole from my older sister years ago, my lips are shiny and pouty, all praise going to Mr Calvin Klein’s lip plumping gloss and I smell fresh and young, courtesy of Kate Moss’s debut perfume. I’m wearing my favourite magic jeans again and a loose purple jersey dress, casual enough for the cinema and dressy enough in case Goldenboy suggests dinner afterwards. And deep down, I’m hoping he will.
I spot him standing outside the cinema, by the big wooden ship in the China Court of the mall and wave at him. Although I prefer Mall of the Emirates (MOE) to Ibn Battuta as the atmosphere is friendlier and warmer, there’s no doubt that the latter is stunning to look at, especially for first timers. Immortalising the journeys of the famous Arab traveler, Ibn Battuta, each section of the mall follows a different theme. The India court, with its elephants and ornate, marble like pillars feels like the inside of a Moghul palace whereas the Persian court, with its imposing dome and intricately decorated ceiling is exactly how I imagined the interior of the stone mosques in Tehran to look like.
I can barely prevent myself from grinning widely as I walk up to him, trying not to stare at his biceps that are just perfectly proportionate with the rest of him, straining against the fabric of his black t-shirt. We shake hands and I wonder what he will think if I don’t let go of his hand. I do of course, reluctantly, relishing the warmth of human contact while I can and he gives me a weird look. I look intently at the crepe menu, ignoring his gaze.
For the next two hours, I am in agony. I’m dying to lean against him and feel his arm against mine and I have to apply every ounce of self control in order to restrain myself. I’ve never been this attracted to a guy before and I begin to wonder if God is testing me more now that I’m a hijabi. If I had met him in my pre-enlightened days, I would have been delighted by all the sexual tension knowing that it would bear some fruit eventually. But now, I’m beginning to wish he was ugly and smelly so that I didn’t have to be subjected to this masochistic torture. So I spend the entire film holding my breath and muttering swear words under my breath occasionally.
It ends without me having a clue what happened so I avoid making small talk about it after. He invites me for dinner at the Marina Walk, which despite dying to accept, I yawn a fake, dainty yawn and decline politely, claiming that my self-imposed curfew has been reached. In the two hours I spent not watching the film, I had plenty of time to analyse all possible outcomes of my newfound 'friendship' with Goldenboy, and in this pivotal time I decided that it simply wasn’t worth the risk. I didn’t leave everything behind – my friends, my family, my life, just to make the same mistakes all over again. So, hoping my sudden holier-than-thou strategy will deter him and render me a geeky loser, I insist that I have to go home and that I am usually in bed by 10pm.
"Are you sure?" he asks, his eyebrows raised. No I'm bloody not but with every second I spend with him, my barriers are getting weaker and weaker. I've only been a 'good' Muslim for a couple of months. It's much too soon to test the waters. I now know how Edward Cullen felt when meeting whatsherface, only he had plenty more years of practice.
My plan doesn't appear to have worked though. There is newfound respect in his eyes as he realises I’m not like all the other girls he knows, that I'm not just going to drop everything and run off with every fit guy who appears to be interested in me.
“Next time then,” he says. It’s not a statement, but a question, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, to feel flattered or to run a mile. I get the feeling that the faster I run though, the harder he will chase. And in all honesty, I don’t want to run. A part of me is hoping that platonic relationships do exist between girls and guys who fancy each other. But then, that’s what I thought last time.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Chapter Eleven – Out of the frying pan…
Huda is still burning from David’s touch and she is yet to shower, reluctant to wash away the scent of his skin against hers. She hates herself for fighting for a man she is sharing with someone else, for trying to remind him of all the reasons they got married to begin with and for hoping that his infatuation with sexy Sarah is temporary. But as much as she is furious with herself for giving a man who is undeserving of her love so much attention, a part of her feels proud that she is trying to salvage her marriage. She actually meant it when she swore "for better or worse."
When she was younger, perhaps more idealistic and a little naïve, whenever she’d hear tales of cheating husbands, she vowed that she would never allow herself to linger in such circumstances. That she was strong enough to walk away from an unfaithful husband. She was subconsciously brought up to believe that whenever a man did you wrong, you left him, and preferably castrated him in the process. After all, that was what her grandmother did. And her mother. Twice. Divorce wasn't a taboo in her family, it was a tradition. As a child, she would listen to her single aunts' stories about the wonders of singledom, her married aunts' complaints about their husbands and her divorced grandmother’s woes about her ex, with sadness. She ached to be different.
Now, it was her turn to be tested. Leaving David would be so, so easy but staying with him would show the world that her grandmother's descendants were more than just divorcees.
This determination prevented Huda from confronting him the painful night she saw him with his ex – or perhaps current – girlfriend. Her pride stopped her from talking to Sugar about what had happened as well. She felt embarrassed and naked, as if all of her weaknesses had been exposed and she had nothing to shield herself with. That night, she went home and crawled into bed without even scrubbing her face clean of the layers of makeup she had foolishly thought would repair her confidence and make her feel sexy and desirable again. She was convinced that David would continue ignoring her, giving her time to work out her strategy, to assess what she really wanted out of her relationship.
He didn’t give her that time though. He came rushing into the apartment soon after and woke her up from her pretend sleep, claiming he had something to confess. Eyes wide with innocence, he told her a long and detailed story of his 'colleague', Sarah, who had just come out of an abusive relationship and who needed a shoulder to cry on.
“Did it have to be your shoulder?” Huda asked in a controlled voice, playing along.
“She has no one else, babe,” he explained earnestly. “I just wanted to help her out, and I don’t know, she was all over me and I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I’ve told her that I can’t help her anymore. It’s not my place. Honey, I’m so, so sorry for losing my judgment. Please forgive me.”
Stunned by the lies her husband had told so effortlessly, Huda began to cry. David, mistaking her angry tears as those of forgiveness, cuddled her affectionately and kissed away the black streaks running down her face. Soon, they were clinging onto each other’s bodies and weeping together, a mess of warm limbs and hot tears. And with every caress, her resolve to hate him forever slipped away. Their bodies united, she suddenly felt like everything was going to be okay.
For a few days, things had been okay. David came home every evening at 7:00pm, an hour after Huda, giving her just enough time to rustle up a quick pasta dish or stir fry. After dinner, they snuggled up together on the large, L-shaped sofa to watch mindless TV, arguing over whether to watch MBC Action or Showseries. They didn’t talk much, but neither minded the long silences. It was better than having to reassess their relationship and try and figure out a way to save it. They didn’t have sex the next two nights though, despite Huda going to bed in silky nightgowns that could cure even the most impotent man.
The third night, while David was still watching Pimp My Ride and lusting over the rusty SUVs that had transformed into cinemas or swimming pools, Huda decided to go to bed in her birthday suit. Having analysed their relationship with excruciating precision for the past few days, she was convinced that his reason for straying was because she was unable to satisfy his sexual desires. Desperate to make him want her and to depend on her for everything – not just a clean, warm home – she doused herself in Very Sexy by Victoria’s Secret, lathered on fragrant body cream and lay between satin sheets waiting for him.
David, when discovering his wife’s smooth, slim body between the fresh sheets, felt his heartbeat quicken, but in fear, not lust. Claiming to be tired, he gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and then lay as far away from her as possible, his baggy t-shirt and shorts providing an extra barrier. Smarting from his rejection, Huda lay awake, her face hot with shame and anger. She resolved to divorce him the next morning.
Soon though, their bodies somehow ended up pressed against each other’s and they made slow, lazy love, which confused Huda more than ever. Just when she began to think that there was no hope, he turned to her once again, dispelling her doubts momentarily.
On Wednesday, Huda comes home early from work with a headache so intense that she feels as if her eyes will explode. She hasn’t completed a single paper the entire week, and she is already a day late on a report on oil prices. Managing to wangle an extension from her manager who silently observed her dark circles and pale complexion and then advised her to go home, she takes two painkillers and then lies in bed with the heavy curtains drawn until the strength of the headache slowly begins to fade. When it does, she forces her lethargic body into the living room, where she takes out her laptop despite knowing that it will probably make her head feel worse. She feels old and haggard. Is this what it feels like to be pushing thirty?
She performs her usual ritual of checking her email and then her Facebook, where she updates her status to 'Huda is at home with a splitting headache,' after almost writing: 'Huda is contemplating whether or not to hack into her husband's email.' Don’t be so masochistic she warns herself while entering his password – patrolman1234 – and hovering over the 'log in' button. She pauses for a few seconds, chewing on her bottom lip. She knows that she will only make herself feel worse. After a little deliberation, her curiosity prevails and soon, she is opening up the latest chapter in the David and Sarah love story.
"It was so lovely seeing you again and I'm really sorry you had to leave so abruptly," Sarah writes. "I can't stop thinking about you and I'm dying to see you again. Name the place and I'll be there."
Bitch, Huda thinks, scowling. Just take a hint and take a hike.
"I'm sorry for rushing out like that," David replies. "And although I'd love to see you again, things are really hectic at work at the moment so I don’t think I'll be able to make the time."
Huda's pulse races in excitement. Although he hasn’t even come close to ending this ‘relationship’ with Sarah, she feels as if she has won a battle. He's choosing me, she thinks, tears brimming in her eyes, the smallest smile beginning to play on her lips. She is relieved that she never confronted David about all she knows and that he has actually chosen her without her forcing the decision on him. She has never been one to force men to take a stand, unlike many of her girlriends who would place time limits on their boyfriends to propose to them - or else.
David and Huda had ‘dated’ for only six months before they he proposed to her. In Huda's world, 'dating' consisted of hanging out together like friends and occasionally saying romantic things to each other. There was no kissing, no hugging and definitely no screwing. They had met through mutual friends while he was in London on an internship and after their relationship developed into a romance, he had decided to stay on, despite being unemployed and relying purely on his savings. He rented a tiny room in Forest Gate, using up all of his funds in pursuing Huda, and when he had just about used up every penny he had ever accumulated, he proposed to her with a cheap ring, promising a better one once he was wealthier.
Huda didn’t care that the ring was cheap. Just seeing him kneel down before her, his eyes bright with hope, made her warm up, his love wrapping itself around her. She agreed without thinking twice and he pulled her into their first embrace. She didn’t melt at his touch though. Instead, she stiffened slightly and pulled away, blushing at the longing in his face.
“Just wait until we’re married,” she had said with a shy smile, looking down and fixing her turquoise cotton top. He looked away, and she squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, reminding him that it wasn't her who wanted to keep a distance, but their Lord.
So they waited. Although occasionally tentatively entwining their fingers, Huda was careful not to break down the barriers she had spent years building in accordance with her faith and her beliefs. David did plead for her to relent every so often, his desire at times too strong to remain silent, reasoning that they were about to get married anyway. She always tried to lightheartedly brush off his advances, sometimes getting annoyed at his persistence.
Now, the man who would have become horny at the sight of his wife in a shell suit, didn't even bat an eyelash at seeing her in sexy lingerie. And for the life of her, Huda cannot understand why.
She feels much lighter knowing that whatever it was that David and Sarah had is over. Her headache now just a slight twinge at the back of her head, she logs into David’s Facebook, telling herself that she will feel better once she knows that she can definitely trust him.
After a quick browse through his friends list, which she is already familiar with, she opens the inbox. The entire first page is full of messages from women. Her hands shaking, she struggles to open one up randomly. It has been sent by a girl lying on the beach in a barely-there bikini, clearly just a teenager. The blood drains from her face when she reads it.
Hitting the back button, she quickly checks all the messages on the first page to find the same sort of thing with very slight variations.
Looking at his stuffed inbox, one would assume that David is very popular with attractive women and has them all falling at his feet. However, one reading the exchanges would learn otherwise. Rather, the attractive ladies are popular with David and he is falling at their feet. He has sent messages to countless women, usually scantily clad ones, asking them if they are in Dubai and whether they would like to meet up for some ‘harmless, no-strings-attached fun’.
Harmless. The word glares at Huda, telling her that her feelings and her heart mean nothing, that it is okay to slowly kill her. It is harmless to break her heart, to shatter her world.
Old, young, fat, thin, white, Arab, Asian, Huda wonders why David feels the need to seek attention from random women when she is willing to provide him with as much love, care and attention he can possibly need. What is it about her he loathes so much? Why isn't she enough?
Exhausted, she steps under the shower and with a loofah, begins to rid herself of every caress and kiss he planted on her body the night before. Fuck you, she repeats over and over in her head, scrubbing her arms and her thighs with aggression. Her skin becomes raw but she doesn't stop, her hands working faster and faster until finally, the tender skin splits under the pressure and begins to bleed. Gasping for breath, she drops the loofah and sinks to the floor of the shower, water pounding down on her head and dripping down her face, mixing with her tears and her blood. She stays there for over an hour, her knees drawn to her chest and her arms clasped around them.
At 7:00pm, David comes home and knocks on the bathroom door. He waits for a moment, and when there is no answer, he pushes it open, the hot steam instantly clinging to his face.
“Huda?” he calls out from the other side of the curtain. Again, he can hear nothing but the sound of rushing water. He pulls the curtain open and finds his wife, small and shriveled, curled up on the floor of the shower. Her eyes are bloodshot, her skin is red, and her usually wild hair is flat against her head.
“Get away from me,” she stammers, looking up at him, her body shaking violently and her teeth chattering.
“What the hell -” he starts, reaching down to her, shocked at the state she is in. She flinches violently when his fingers touch her sore skin.
“Don’t touch me!” she screams, shoving his arm away from her. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
He stares at her as she buries her face back into her legs and screams. Without a word, he leaves the bathroom and closes the door softly behind him, her screams now muffled. Feeling panicky, he looks around the apartment in an attempt to work out exactly what she thinks she knows about his extra-marital activities. It could be anything. Spotting the Vaio sleeping on the coffee table, his palms begin to sweat. He wakes it up tentatively and finds his own Facebook page staring up at him.
Shame fills his body and he frantically looks through his messages, anxious to know exactly what Huda has seen. The more conversations he opens, the more embarrassed he feels until his sense of shame is so huge, it numbs his desire to lie his way through the layers of deceit he has wrapped around his relationship.
The initial cold, numbing fear rapidly turns into the lightness of liberation as the boulder on his back is lifted and he realises that he doesn't have to lie anymore. He doesn't have to keep looking over his shoulder. He can just be himself, regardless of the consequences. Closing the laptop, he leans back against the sofa and waits for Huda to confront him.
When she was younger, perhaps more idealistic and a little naïve, whenever she’d hear tales of cheating husbands, she vowed that she would never allow herself to linger in such circumstances. That she was strong enough to walk away from an unfaithful husband. She was subconsciously brought up to believe that whenever a man did you wrong, you left him, and preferably castrated him in the process. After all, that was what her grandmother did. And her mother. Twice. Divorce wasn't a taboo in her family, it was a tradition. As a child, she would listen to her single aunts' stories about the wonders of singledom, her married aunts' complaints about their husbands and her divorced grandmother’s woes about her ex, with sadness. She ached to be different.
Now, it was her turn to be tested. Leaving David would be so, so easy but staying with him would show the world that her grandmother's descendants were more than just divorcees.
This determination prevented Huda from confronting him the painful night she saw him with his ex – or perhaps current – girlfriend. Her pride stopped her from talking to Sugar about what had happened as well. She felt embarrassed and naked, as if all of her weaknesses had been exposed and she had nothing to shield herself with. That night, she went home and crawled into bed without even scrubbing her face clean of the layers of makeup she had foolishly thought would repair her confidence and make her feel sexy and desirable again. She was convinced that David would continue ignoring her, giving her time to work out her strategy, to assess what she really wanted out of her relationship.
He didn’t give her that time though. He came rushing into the apartment soon after and woke her up from her pretend sleep, claiming he had something to confess. Eyes wide with innocence, he told her a long and detailed story of his 'colleague', Sarah, who had just come out of an abusive relationship and who needed a shoulder to cry on.
“Did it have to be your shoulder?” Huda asked in a controlled voice, playing along.
“She has no one else, babe,” he explained earnestly. “I just wanted to help her out, and I don’t know, she was all over me and I didn’t know what the hell was going on. I’ve told her that I can’t help her anymore. It’s not my place. Honey, I’m so, so sorry for losing my judgment. Please forgive me.”
Stunned by the lies her husband had told so effortlessly, Huda began to cry. David, mistaking her angry tears as those of forgiveness, cuddled her affectionately and kissed away the black streaks running down her face. Soon, they were clinging onto each other’s bodies and weeping together, a mess of warm limbs and hot tears. And with every caress, her resolve to hate him forever slipped away. Their bodies united, she suddenly felt like everything was going to be okay.
For a few days, things had been okay. David came home every evening at 7:00pm, an hour after Huda, giving her just enough time to rustle up a quick pasta dish or stir fry. After dinner, they snuggled up together on the large, L-shaped sofa to watch mindless TV, arguing over whether to watch MBC Action or Showseries. They didn’t talk much, but neither minded the long silences. It was better than having to reassess their relationship and try and figure out a way to save it. They didn’t have sex the next two nights though, despite Huda going to bed in silky nightgowns that could cure even the most impotent man.
The third night, while David was still watching Pimp My Ride and lusting over the rusty SUVs that had transformed into cinemas or swimming pools, Huda decided to go to bed in her birthday suit. Having analysed their relationship with excruciating precision for the past few days, she was convinced that his reason for straying was because she was unable to satisfy his sexual desires. Desperate to make him want her and to depend on her for everything – not just a clean, warm home – she doused herself in Very Sexy by Victoria’s Secret, lathered on fragrant body cream and lay between satin sheets waiting for him.
David, when discovering his wife’s smooth, slim body between the fresh sheets, felt his heartbeat quicken, but in fear, not lust. Claiming to be tired, he gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and then lay as far away from her as possible, his baggy t-shirt and shorts providing an extra barrier. Smarting from his rejection, Huda lay awake, her face hot with shame and anger. She resolved to divorce him the next morning.
Soon though, their bodies somehow ended up pressed against each other’s and they made slow, lazy love, which confused Huda more than ever. Just when she began to think that there was no hope, he turned to her once again, dispelling her doubts momentarily.
On Wednesday, Huda comes home early from work with a headache so intense that she feels as if her eyes will explode. She hasn’t completed a single paper the entire week, and she is already a day late on a report on oil prices. Managing to wangle an extension from her manager who silently observed her dark circles and pale complexion and then advised her to go home, she takes two painkillers and then lies in bed with the heavy curtains drawn until the strength of the headache slowly begins to fade. When it does, she forces her lethargic body into the living room, where she takes out her laptop despite knowing that it will probably make her head feel worse. She feels old and haggard. Is this what it feels like to be pushing thirty?
She performs her usual ritual of checking her email and then her Facebook, where she updates her status to 'Huda is at home with a splitting headache,' after almost writing: 'Huda is contemplating whether or not to hack into her husband's email.' Don’t be so masochistic she warns herself while entering his password – patrolman1234 – and hovering over the 'log in' button. She pauses for a few seconds, chewing on her bottom lip. She knows that she will only make herself feel worse. After a little deliberation, her curiosity prevails and soon, she is opening up the latest chapter in the David and Sarah love story.
"It was so lovely seeing you again and I'm really sorry you had to leave so abruptly," Sarah writes. "I can't stop thinking about you and I'm dying to see you again. Name the place and I'll be there."
Bitch, Huda thinks, scowling. Just take a hint and take a hike.
"I'm sorry for rushing out like that," David replies. "And although I'd love to see you again, things are really hectic at work at the moment so I don’t think I'll be able to make the time."
Huda's pulse races in excitement. Although he hasn’t even come close to ending this ‘relationship’ with Sarah, she feels as if she has won a battle. He's choosing me, she thinks, tears brimming in her eyes, the smallest smile beginning to play on her lips. She is relieved that she never confronted David about all she knows and that he has actually chosen her without her forcing the decision on him. She has never been one to force men to take a stand, unlike many of her girlriends who would place time limits on their boyfriends to propose to them - or else.
David and Huda had ‘dated’ for only six months before they he proposed to her. In Huda's world, 'dating' consisted of hanging out together like friends and occasionally saying romantic things to each other. There was no kissing, no hugging and definitely no screwing. They had met through mutual friends while he was in London on an internship and after their relationship developed into a romance, he had decided to stay on, despite being unemployed and relying purely on his savings. He rented a tiny room in Forest Gate, using up all of his funds in pursuing Huda, and when he had just about used up every penny he had ever accumulated, he proposed to her with a cheap ring, promising a better one once he was wealthier.
Huda didn’t care that the ring was cheap. Just seeing him kneel down before her, his eyes bright with hope, made her warm up, his love wrapping itself around her. She agreed without thinking twice and he pulled her into their first embrace. She didn’t melt at his touch though. Instead, she stiffened slightly and pulled away, blushing at the longing in his face.
“Just wait until we’re married,” she had said with a shy smile, looking down and fixing her turquoise cotton top. He looked away, and she squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, reminding him that it wasn't her who wanted to keep a distance, but their Lord.
So they waited. Although occasionally tentatively entwining their fingers, Huda was careful not to break down the barriers she had spent years building in accordance with her faith and her beliefs. David did plead for her to relent every so often, his desire at times too strong to remain silent, reasoning that they were about to get married anyway. She always tried to lightheartedly brush off his advances, sometimes getting annoyed at his persistence.
Now, the man who would have become horny at the sight of his wife in a shell suit, didn't even bat an eyelash at seeing her in sexy lingerie. And for the life of her, Huda cannot understand why.
She feels much lighter knowing that whatever it was that David and Sarah had is over. Her headache now just a slight twinge at the back of her head, she logs into David’s Facebook, telling herself that she will feel better once she knows that she can definitely trust him.
After a quick browse through his friends list, which she is already familiar with, she opens the inbox. The entire first page is full of messages from women. Her hands shaking, she struggles to open one up randomly. It has been sent by a girl lying on the beach in a barely-there bikini, clearly just a teenager. The blood drains from her face when she reads it.
Hitting the back button, she quickly checks all the messages on the first page to find the same sort of thing with very slight variations.
Looking at his stuffed inbox, one would assume that David is very popular with attractive women and has them all falling at his feet. However, one reading the exchanges would learn otherwise. Rather, the attractive ladies are popular with David and he is falling at their feet. He has sent messages to countless women, usually scantily clad ones, asking them if they are in Dubai and whether they would like to meet up for some ‘harmless, no-strings-attached fun’.
Harmless. The word glares at Huda, telling her that her feelings and her heart mean nothing, that it is okay to slowly kill her. It is harmless to break her heart, to shatter her world.
Old, young, fat, thin, white, Arab, Asian, Huda wonders why David feels the need to seek attention from random women when she is willing to provide him with as much love, care and attention he can possibly need. What is it about her he loathes so much? Why isn't she enough?
Exhausted, she steps under the shower and with a loofah, begins to rid herself of every caress and kiss he planted on her body the night before. Fuck you, she repeats over and over in her head, scrubbing her arms and her thighs with aggression. Her skin becomes raw but she doesn't stop, her hands working faster and faster until finally, the tender skin splits under the pressure and begins to bleed. Gasping for breath, she drops the loofah and sinks to the floor of the shower, water pounding down on her head and dripping down her face, mixing with her tears and her blood. She stays there for over an hour, her knees drawn to her chest and her arms clasped around them.
At 7:00pm, David comes home and knocks on the bathroom door. He waits for a moment, and when there is no answer, he pushes it open, the hot steam instantly clinging to his face.
“Huda?” he calls out from the other side of the curtain. Again, he can hear nothing but the sound of rushing water. He pulls the curtain open and finds his wife, small and shriveled, curled up on the floor of the shower. Her eyes are bloodshot, her skin is red, and her usually wild hair is flat against her head.
“Get away from me,” she stammers, looking up at him, her body shaking violently and her teeth chattering.
“What the hell -” he starts, reaching down to her, shocked at the state she is in. She flinches violently when his fingers touch her sore skin.
“Don’t touch me!” she screams, shoving his arm away from her. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
He stares at her as she buries her face back into her legs and screams. Without a word, he leaves the bathroom and closes the door softly behind him, her screams now muffled. Feeling panicky, he looks around the apartment in an attempt to work out exactly what she thinks she knows about his extra-marital activities. It could be anything. Spotting the Vaio sleeping on the coffee table, his palms begin to sweat. He wakes it up tentatively and finds his own Facebook page staring up at him.
Shame fills his body and he frantically looks through his messages, anxious to know exactly what Huda has seen. The more conversations he opens, the more embarrassed he feels until his sense of shame is so huge, it numbs his desire to lie his way through the layers of deceit he has wrapped around his relationship.
The initial cold, numbing fear rapidly turns into the lightness of liberation as the boulder on his back is lifted and he realises that he doesn't have to lie anymore. He doesn't have to keep looking over his shoulder. He can just be himself, regardless of the consequences. Closing the laptop, he leans back against the sofa and waits for Huda to confront him.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Chapter Ten – Move over Miss Charming
Lady Luxe waves goodbye to her father and then closes the front door, pulling off the big black shawl that she has wrapped around her head and body as she does so. Whenever she ventures out of the villa, even if it's just to get something from her car or to sneak in a cigarette, she is obliged to cover herself up completely in case there is a visitor in the grounds, male staff walking around or a pervert with binoculars hiding in a palm tree. Leaning against the door, she pulls out her phone from a pocket in her loose, khaki green combat trousers and checks it once again, in the impossible hope that Mr Delicious has contacted her.
"How can he text you if he doesn’t have your number?" Leila quite rightfully asked her the previous day, when Lady Luxe couldn’t help but call her to complain.
"I don’t care," she snapped. "He should find a way! What the hell did he mean, the ball is in my court? It's him who has balls, not me, so he can bloody well find a way of calling me!" Hanging up the phone, she had stormed on to her balcony and smoked three consecutive Marlboro Lights. In her frustration, she accidentally let the last butt fall to the garden below, which happened to be where her father was taking a phone call. She heard him pause in the middle of a sentence and her eyes wide with fear, she ducked into her room before he looked up and saw her.
Shitshitshit, she thought to herself as she ran silently across the upstairs hall way, barefooted, straight to her seventeen year-old brother's room.
"Knocking is common courtesy," he mumbled as she burst in. Unlike Lady Luxe's room which exudes her personality perfectly with the bold hot pink feature wall, pale silver muslin hanging from the four poster bed and the plasma screen conveniently fitted on the opposite wall, Ahmed's room gives absolutely nothing away at first glance. The walls are a neutral beige, the sheets on the double bed are white and there are no posters or pictures hanging on the walls or sitting on the bedside cabinets. However, upon examining the contents of his bookcase, it is clear that Ahmed is nothing like his older siblings. The shelves are weighed down with books on Arab history, Islamic heritage, Middle Eastern politics, interpretations of the Qur'an, narrations from the Prophet's (Peace Be Upon Him) companions and volumes on Islamic jurisprudence. At the top of the bookcase, above all the other items, sits a small, worn Qur'an.
"Sorry habibi but you have to help me," Lady Luxe implored, grabbing Ahmed and yanking him out of his swivel chair. "Please go and stand on my balcony and pretend you were smoking before Baba comes up. Please!"
Pulling his arm, she half dragged Ahmed to her room, lit another cigarette and then shoved it into his hand. She ran back into his room, picked up the first book she could lay her hands on and opened it randomly. She heard her father's slow, steady footsteps go up the marble stairs and into her room and she strained her ears, trying to listen.
"And what do you think you're doing –" her father began as he entered her room. The pause, Lady Luxe figured, was him coming across Ahmed awkwardly leaning against the railings with the cigarette sitting uncomfortably between his fingers.
"Hi Baba," Ahmed replied in a strangled voice. "Are you looking for my sister? She's in my room if you want her."
Without a word, her father turned on his heels and marched into Ahmed's room, flinging open the door.
"What are you doing in your brother's room?" he asked suspiciously, seeing his daughter sitting crossed-legged in the middle of the neat bed reading a book.
"Reading," she replied in the most nonchalant voice she could muster, given the circumstances.
"Reading what?" he asked, coming closer to look at the book.
"This." Not knowing what she had hurriedly chosen, Lady Luxe held it up and showed her father the jacket.
"The Muslim Marriage Guide by Ruqqaiyya Waris Maqsood?" he read, the disbelief evident in his raised voice. "You want me to believe that you're actually reading a Muslim Marriage Guide?!"
"So?" Lady Luxe retorted defiantly, slamming the book closed. "I need to be prepared, don’t I?" Glaring at her father's impassive face, she realized she would have to change tactics if she wanted him to believe her. She softened her voice and relaxed her frowning eyebrows.
"I'm sorry for freaking you out Baba," she started, casting her gaze down in faux sadness so convincing, that it could have competed with Leila's fake Karama handbags. "It's just that…well, seeing as Mama isn't even Muslim and lives in another continent altogether, I don’t really have anyone to talk to about these things. It's too embarrassing to speak to anyone else about it so I was looking through this to see if I want to borrow it from Ahmed or not." She looked up at her father with the tiniest amount of water in her eyes, not enough to seem crocodile-like, but enough for him to notice.
Lady Luxe's father, despite pushing fifty, is still ruggedly handsome. His face is smooth with the exception of the small creases around his eyes, his thick, jet black hair is still full on his head and his smile is wide and generous. With his strong jaw line, faint beard and broad shoulders, he is often a target for women looking for wealthy yet handsome men but he rarely indulges himself in Dubai. Like his daughter, he prefers to play abroad.
"Yalla ya bnayti, I'll let you continue," he said sheepishly after a moment, his voice now soft. Looking down at his beautiful, strong daughter, he wondered whether or not she was suffering without a female role model in her life. Maybe it was time to get married again. Patting her shoulder in an unusual display of affection, he left the room and Lady Luxe sunk back against the pillow in relief. A moment later, Ahmed reappeared, a scowl on his face.
"I can't believe you just did that. You know I think smoking is haraam!" he chastised indignantly. "And what's that you're reading? The guide to marriage? Maybe you should try this instead." Picking up a book on seeking forgiveness from God, he tossed it over to his sister who smiled sweetly back at him.
"You know I love you," she said, jumping out of bed and hugging him. "Thanks. I owe you one!"
"More like a million," Ahmed muttered as she skipped out of the room, still holding the book that had saved her life. May God save her soul, he prayed, watching her retreating back.
After the close call with her father, Lady Luxe spent the rest of the day hanging around the villa moping. Whenever she bumped into him, she would look at him with hurt eyes and say very little. Until dinner, that is, when he became annoyed and told her to get over it. She slumped back to her room and occupied herself with staring at her phone and Googling Mr Delicious, as she had been doing all week.
And now, after saying goodbye to her father who is off to Kuwait for another business trip, she is tired of checking her phone a million times and decides it's time to take matters into her own hands.
I'm going to the Cavalli Club to find him, she texts Leila when she hears her father's Mercedes leave the grounds for yet another business trip. Meet me there in an hour.
In a record forty-five minutes, Lady Luxe transforms into Jennifer. Wearing a black and white three-quarter length silk Cavalli dress over black leggings, she puts on a delicate diamond bracelet on her right wrist, fixes on the blonde wig and then covers herself in an abaya.
"Ahmed, I'm going to Maryam's house, tell Mohamed or Baba or anyone who asks," she calls out, running down the stairs and into her Porsche Cayenne. Her pink Ferrari is still being serviced and anyhow, she never, ever drives it as Jennifer as it is far too conspicuous.
Entering the Club alone, she takes a seat at the bar and orders a juice, wanting to stay completely alert. She doesn’t feel uncomfortable sitting by herself and just absorbs the ambience instead. With the Swarovksi crystals hanging from the high ceilings, she feels right at home and wonders if Roberto, with his interest in bling, would also be interested in collaborating with her to design a Cavalli abaya range. She writes down the idea in her phone so that she doesn’t forget.
"Hello," a British voice whispers to her right. Startled, she looks over to see an okay-looking middle aged man in a Paul Smith shirt smiling at her and she smiles vaguely back, not wanting to get side-tracked. The last thing she wants is Mr Delicious appearing only to find her flirting with another man. Turning her body away from him slightly, she sends Leila a message urging her to hurry up.
An hour later, Lady Luxe is still sitting completely alone. In this hour, she has sent five messages to Leila, who eventually replied saying she has guests over for dinner, has had six men try and talk to her, believing her lonely demeanour to be a request for company and has visited the restroom to powder her nose once. Although it is only 11pm, she decides to go home.
She makes the customary pit stop at a petrol station to take off her wig and put on her abaya, and when she does, she realizes she's not ready to go home just yet. Turning back onto the mammoth Sheikh Zayed Road with its six lanes on either side, she skillfully maneuvers onto the fast lane and heads South, ignoring the speed cameras as always. She curses herself for allowing Mr Delicious to artfully pull her phone out of her hands and store his number in it when everyone knows that no decent Arab girl with a shred of self-respect will ever call a man first. No matter how charming he appears to be or how desperate for him she is. She also curses Mr Delicious for being so damn delicious in the first place, for assuming that she wouldn’t give him her number and for putting the ball in her court when she obviously didn’t want it there. Then she curses Leila, whom she is on her way to visit, for bailing on her with 'guests'. In the two years they have known each other, Leila has had a handful of guests come to visit her, add to that the fact that she ignored almost all of her text messages… Lady Luxe is convinced that her friend is lying.
She takes the Discovery Gardens exit and screeches to a halt outside Leila's building, reluctant to leave the car. She doesn’t think much of the location (its only saving grace being its proximity to Ibn Battuta mall), the architecture (if you can even call it that) or the quiet and dull atmosphere. She feels that it is a complete mirror of Dubai itself – badly planned and utterly soulless.
As she walks up to the building, the door opens and a man comes out, brushing past her as he does.
"Sorry!" he says in an American accent, the darkness shielding his face.
"It's okay," Lady Luxe murmurs, the hair on her body beginning to prickle. She has heard this voice before. She stops at the door and watches the man gracefully get into a white Audi R8. He turns on the engine, the roar filling the entire street, and opens his tinted windows. Without looking back at her, he turns the car around and leaves, but not before she catches a quick glimpse of his sharp profile in the dim streetlamp.
Entering the building, her breath still a little too fast and her mind racing she calls for the lift. Who was that guy? She asks herself, waiting impatiently for it to reach the eighth floor. Exiting the lift, she is just in time to see Leila kissing the cheeks of a tall, bald man in the usual Lebanese way before saying goodbye to him and closing the door. Lady Luxe watches him stand at the door for a couple of seconds, smiling, before he turns and heads towards the lift. She feels relieved, hoping that this man was her only guest and the guy downstairs - who she has a niggling feeling may have been Mr Delicious - had nothing to do with anything.
"Marhaba," he says politely as he passes her, quickly absorbing in her pretty hazel eyes, immaculate complexion and slim frame. Although she is easily six feet tall in her heels, he is still taller than her.
"Good evening," she replies, smiling warmly and looking straight into his eyes. Inspiration coming to her, she adds, "Excuse me, but I think your friend is waiting for you downstairs? A tall gentleman with brown hair? Perhaps you ought to hurry a little?"
"Oh, he's still here? Thanks for telling me," the man answers, still shaken by her gaze, without even questioning how she knows he's his friend. Men, Lady Luxe sniggers to herself. They never think with their heads when they see a pretty face.
Striding purposefully over to Leila's apartment, she rings the bell. The door is flung open immediately, as if Leila is waiting for someone and she has a huge smile on her face. When finding Lady Luxe on the other side, standing formidable in her four-inch heels and abaya, Leila's smile falters so slightly that Lady Luxe could have easily imagined it.
"Hi! Come in!" she exclaims, without skipping a beat.
"My pleasure," Lady Luxe replies, her voice as smooth as silk. She walks in and smells the delicious fragrance of roast lamb and mint lingering in the air. Taking off her abaya and sitting down on the sofa, she looks straight at Leila who is making a big show of clearing away the dining table.
"So," she begins, her eyebrow raised and her voice innocent. "Who did you have over for dinner?"
"How can he text you if he doesn’t have your number?" Leila quite rightfully asked her the previous day, when Lady Luxe couldn’t help but call her to complain.
"I don’t care," she snapped. "He should find a way! What the hell did he mean, the ball is in my court? It's him who has balls, not me, so he can bloody well find a way of calling me!" Hanging up the phone, she had stormed on to her balcony and smoked three consecutive Marlboro Lights. In her frustration, she accidentally let the last butt fall to the garden below, which happened to be where her father was taking a phone call. She heard him pause in the middle of a sentence and her eyes wide with fear, she ducked into her room before he looked up and saw her.
Shitshitshit, she thought to herself as she ran silently across the upstairs hall way, barefooted, straight to her seventeen year-old brother's room.
"Knocking is common courtesy," he mumbled as she burst in. Unlike Lady Luxe's room which exudes her personality perfectly with the bold hot pink feature wall, pale silver muslin hanging from the four poster bed and the plasma screen conveniently fitted on the opposite wall, Ahmed's room gives absolutely nothing away at first glance. The walls are a neutral beige, the sheets on the double bed are white and there are no posters or pictures hanging on the walls or sitting on the bedside cabinets. However, upon examining the contents of his bookcase, it is clear that Ahmed is nothing like his older siblings. The shelves are weighed down with books on Arab history, Islamic heritage, Middle Eastern politics, interpretations of the Qur'an, narrations from the Prophet's (Peace Be Upon Him) companions and volumes on Islamic jurisprudence. At the top of the bookcase, above all the other items, sits a small, worn Qur'an.
"Sorry habibi but you have to help me," Lady Luxe implored, grabbing Ahmed and yanking him out of his swivel chair. "Please go and stand on my balcony and pretend you were smoking before Baba comes up. Please!"
Pulling his arm, she half dragged Ahmed to her room, lit another cigarette and then shoved it into his hand. She ran back into his room, picked up the first book she could lay her hands on and opened it randomly. She heard her father's slow, steady footsteps go up the marble stairs and into her room and she strained her ears, trying to listen.
"And what do you think you're doing –" her father began as he entered her room. The pause, Lady Luxe figured, was him coming across Ahmed awkwardly leaning against the railings with the cigarette sitting uncomfortably between his fingers.
"Hi Baba," Ahmed replied in a strangled voice. "Are you looking for my sister? She's in my room if you want her."
Without a word, her father turned on his heels and marched into Ahmed's room, flinging open the door.
"What are you doing in your brother's room?" he asked suspiciously, seeing his daughter sitting crossed-legged in the middle of the neat bed reading a book.
"Reading," she replied in the most nonchalant voice she could muster, given the circumstances.
"Reading what?" he asked, coming closer to look at the book.
"This." Not knowing what she had hurriedly chosen, Lady Luxe held it up and showed her father the jacket.
"The Muslim Marriage Guide by Ruqqaiyya Waris Maqsood?" he read, the disbelief evident in his raised voice. "You want me to believe that you're actually reading a Muslim Marriage Guide?!"
"So?" Lady Luxe retorted defiantly, slamming the book closed. "I need to be prepared, don’t I?" Glaring at her father's impassive face, she realized she would have to change tactics if she wanted him to believe her. She softened her voice and relaxed her frowning eyebrows.
"I'm sorry for freaking you out Baba," she started, casting her gaze down in faux sadness so convincing, that it could have competed with Leila's fake Karama handbags. "It's just that…well, seeing as Mama isn't even Muslim and lives in another continent altogether, I don’t really have anyone to talk to about these things. It's too embarrassing to speak to anyone else about it so I was looking through this to see if I want to borrow it from Ahmed or not." She looked up at her father with the tiniest amount of water in her eyes, not enough to seem crocodile-like, but enough for him to notice.
Lady Luxe's father, despite pushing fifty, is still ruggedly handsome. His face is smooth with the exception of the small creases around his eyes, his thick, jet black hair is still full on his head and his smile is wide and generous. With his strong jaw line, faint beard and broad shoulders, he is often a target for women looking for wealthy yet handsome men but he rarely indulges himself in Dubai. Like his daughter, he prefers to play abroad.
"Yalla ya bnayti, I'll let you continue," he said sheepishly after a moment, his voice now soft. Looking down at his beautiful, strong daughter, he wondered whether or not she was suffering without a female role model in her life. Maybe it was time to get married again. Patting her shoulder in an unusual display of affection, he left the room and Lady Luxe sunk back against the pillow in relief. A moment later, Ahmed reappeared, a scowl on his face.
"I can't believe you just did that. You know I think smoking is haraam!" he chastised indignantly. "And what's that you're reading? The guide to marriage? Maybe you should try this instead." Picking up a book on seeking forgiveness from God, he tossed it over to his sister who smiled sweetly back at him.
"You know I love you," she said, jumping out of bed and hugging him. "Thanks. I owe you one!"
"More like a million," Ahmed muttered as she skipped out of the room, still holding the book that had saved her life. May God save her soul, he prayed, watching her retreating back.
After the close call with her father, Lady Luxe spent the rest of the day hanging around the villa moping. Whenever she bumped into him, she would look at him with hurt eyes and say very little. Until dinner, that is, when he became annoyed and told her to get over it. She slumped back to her room and occupied herself with staring at her phone and Googling Mr Delicious, as she had been doing all week.
And now, after saying goodbye to her father who is off to Kuwait for another business trip, she is tired of checking her phone a million times and decides it's time to take matters into her own hands.
I'm going to the Cavalli Club to find him, she texts Leila when she hears her father's Mercedes leave the grounds for yet another business trip. Meet me there in an hour.
In a record forty-five minutes, Lady Luxe transforms into Jennifer. Wearing a black and white three-quarter length silk Cavalli dress over black leggings, she puts on a delicate diamond bracelet on her right wrist, fixes on the blonde wig and then covers herself in an abaya.
"Ahmed, I'm going to Maryam's house, tell Mohamed or Baba or anyone who asks," she calls out, running down the stairs and into her Porsche Cayenne. Her pink Ferrari is still being serviced and anyhow, she never, ever drives it as Jennifer as it is far too conspicuous.
Entering the Club alone, she takes a seat at the bar and orders a juice, wanting to stay completely alert. She doesn’t feel uncomfortable sitting by herself and just absorbs the ambience instead. With the Swarovksi crystals hanging from the high ceilings, she feels right at home and wonders if Roberto, with his interest in bling, would also be interested in collaborating with her to design a Cavalli abaya range. She writes down the idea in her phone so that she doesn’t forget.
"Hello," a British voice whispers to her right. Startled, she looks over to see an okay-looking middle aged man in a Paul Smith shirt smiling at her and she smiles vaguely back, not wanting to get side-tracked. The last thing she wants is Mr Delicious appearing only to find her flirting with another man. Turning her body away from him slightly, she sends Leila a message urging her to hurry up.
An hour later, Lady Luxe is still sitting completely alone. In this hour, she has sent five messages to Leila, who eventually replied saying she has guests over for dinner, has had six men try and talk to her, believing her lonely demeanour to be a request for company and has visited the restroom to powder her nose once. Although it is only 11pm, she decides to go home.
She makes the customary pit stop at a petrol station to take off her wig and put on her abaya, and when she does, she realizes she's not ready to go home just yet. Turning back onto the mammoth Sheikh Zayed Road with its six lanes on either side, she skillfully maneuvers onto the fast lane and heads South, ignoring the speed cameras as always. She curses herself for allowing Mr Delicious to artfully pull her phone out of her hands and store his number in it when everyone knows that no decent Arab girl with a shred of self-respect will ever call a man first. No matter how charming he appears to be or how desperate for him she is. She also curses Mr Delicious for being so damn delicious in the first place, for assuming that she wouldn’t give him her number and for putting the ball in her court when she obviously didn’t want it there. Then she curses Leila, whom she is on her way to visit, for bailing on her with 'guests'. In the two years they have known each other, Leila has had a handful of guests come to visit her, add to that the fact that she ignored almost all of her text messages… Lady Luxe is convinced that her friend is lying.
She takes the Discovery Gardens exit and screeches to a halt outside Leila's building, reluctant to leave the car. She doesn’t think much of the location (its only saving grace being its proximity to Ibn Battuta mall), the architecture (if you can even call it that) or the quiet and dull atmosphere. She feels that it is a complete mirror of Dubai itself – badly planned and utterly soulless.
As she walks up to the building, the door opens and a man comes out, brushing past her as he does.
"Sorry!" he says in an American accent, the darkness shielding his face.
"It's okay," Lady Luxe murmurs, the hair on her body beginning to prickle. She has heard this voice before. She stops at the door and watches the man gracefully get into a white Audi R8. He turns on the engine, the roar filling the entire street, and opens his tinted windows. Without looking back at her, he turns the car around and leaves, but not before she catches a quick glimpse of his sharp profile in the dim streetlamp.
Entering the building, her breath still a little too fast and her mind racing she calls for the lift. Who was that guy? She asks herself, waiting impatiently for it to reach the eighth floor. Exiting the lift, she is just in time to see Leila kissing the cheeks of a tall, bald man in the usual Lebanese way before saying goodbye to him and closing the door. Lady Luxe watches him stand at the door for a couple of seconds, smiling, before he turns and heads towards the lift. She feels relieved, hoping that this man was her only guest and the guy downstairs - who she has a niggling feeling may have been Mr Delicious - had nothing to do with anything.
"Marhaba," he says politely as he passes her, quickly absorbing in her pretty hazel eyes, immaculate complexion and slim frame. Although she is easily six feet tall in her heels, he is still taller than her.
"Good evening," she replies, smiling warmly and looking straight into his eyes. Inspiration coming to her, she adds, "Excuse me, but I think your friend is waiting for you downstairs? A tall gentleman with brown hair? Perhaps you ought to hurry a little?"
"Oh, he's still here? Thanks for telling me," the man answers, still shaken by her gaze, without even questioning how she knows he's his friend. Men, Lady Luxe sniggers to herself. They never think with their heads when they see a pretty face.
Striding purposefully over to Leila's apartment, she rings the bell. The door is flung open immediately, as if Leila is waiting for someone and she has a huge smile on her face. When finding Lady Luxe on the other side, standing formidable in her four-inch heels and abaya, Leila's smile falters so slightly that Lady Luxe could have easily imagined it.
"Hi! Come in!" she exclaims, without skipping a beat.
"My pleasure," Lady Luxe replies, her voice as smooth as silk. She walks in and smells the delicious fragrance of roast lamb and mint lingering in the air. Taking off her abaya and sitting down on the sofa, she looks straight at Leila who is making a big show of clearing away the dining table.
"So," she begins, her eyebrow raised and her voice innocent. "Who did you have over for dinner?"
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Chapter Nine – If you don’t look out for number one, who will?
Leila hangs up the phone and slumps down on her cream coloured IKEA sofa, her face in her hands. She stays in this position for ten minutes, her eyes closed, while she tries to regulate her breath. When her face starts feeling hot and sweaty, she slowly gets up, straightens her stained grey vest top and black velour jogging bottoms and shuffles her way to her fake Chanel handbag that is sitting on the tiny dining table next to a wilting bunch of flowers. She rummages around for her diary, flicks through the pages and when she finds July 14th, she writes: Lara’s Wedding in tiny letters, pressing down on the page so hard that the imprint can be seen on the following three pages.
Lara, Leila’s sister, has just been proposed to by her boyfriend of two years, and is wearing a 2.8 carat solitaire on her left hand that is so heavy, she was barely able to hold the phone to her ear in order to call her older sister with the good news.
“Congratulations habibti!” Leila had exclaimed, visibly grimacing and resisting the urge to throw the phone at the plain, white wall in front of her. “I’m so happy for you!”
Now, as she stares at the date that somehow seems more insulting in its written form, Leila fights the urge to collapse into a bundle of tears. She repeatedly tells herself that she is not a failure. She has a good job, she drives a nice car and she has her own apartment, while Lara, although engaged, is unemployed and still living with her parents. Leila also has a nicer ass, bigger boobs and a smaller waist than her 28 year-old younger sister.
But Lara has a fiancée who loves her and wants to spend the rest of his life with her. And Leila comes home every evening to a hollow apartment, which her mother seems to take great pleasure in reminding her of every time they speak.
Leila’s mother has never forgiven her fiercely independent daughter for moving to Dubai without her permission. It had taken the twenty-one year-old Leila two years to persuade her overprotective, very Christian parents to allow her to leave Beirut to complete her final year of her Bachelor’s in Marketing in the US. Two years of arguing, crying, reasoning and begging eventually made them relent – but only to study and only for one year.
Only that year in the States wasn't half as glamorous as Leila had expected it to be. With barely a cent to her name, she waited on tables almost every evening to get by and her social life was non-existent. As soon as she had completed her degree, she withdrew the little money she had managed to save and flew straight out to Dubai, the land of opportunities, all the while pretending to her parents that she was still in the US doing a little work experience. When she eventually confessed that she was actually in Dubai after embarking on a flourishing career in real estate, her mother’s first reaction was screeching: “How will you ever find a husband if you carry on being so CRAZY? How will we ever find Lara a husband when her older sister doesn’t care about HONOUR?” down the phone. And every month since that day, Mrs. Saade reminds her daughter that independent, career girls always end up alone. So far, she is right.
Sighing audibly, Leila grabs her iPod, scrapes her hair into a messy ponytail and heads over to the gym on the top floor of her building. She is relieved to find she is the only one there, as she hates having to worry about people spotting sweat patches under her arms. Thankfully, the gym is usually empty. Although ideal for those wanting an average bit of space in a not-extremely-bad location but who don't want to pay too much for it, half the apartments in Discovery Gardens are still uninhabited. The rent decrease has meant that those who can afford it, have moved to more happening locations like Jumeirah Beach Residence or the Marina. Leila may like appearing wealthy in public but she doesn't believe in throwing away money on rent.
Sticking her iPod into her ears, she starts jogging on the treadmill to old Amr Diab tracks, and with every step she takes, she feels another stab of envy at the way her shy, sensitive little sister who everyone thought was too simple to find a decent man, has bagged a fiancee before her.
Leila remembers standing in the middle of Sheikh Zayed Road ten years ago absorbing in the construction, the growth and the sheer potential rippling in the city with excitement buzzing in her stomach. Young, naïve and full of hope, she was certain that she would find a dashing prince, preferably a Westerner, who would sweep her off her feet and whisk her away to a place that was protected from war, where she would fall asleep to the comforting sound of owls hooting, not bombs falling. But despite the loneliness that tempted most men into marriages, somehow, she could never make a relationship last longer than a couple of months. Every man she had ever dated just ended up disappointing her.
Her thirty minutes of jogging over, she slows down to a brisk walk, perspiration dripping down her hairline and tickling her forehead when she suddenly realises that in her bitterness, she hasn’t paid much attention to Lara’s wedding itself. The wedding where she will probably have to be the single, lonely and very desperate maid of honour, the focus of everyone's pity.
“FUCK!” she shouts as an image of herself in a fuchsia pink taffeta dress blinds her temporarily, and she stumbles on the belt of the treadmill and falls down hard on her knees. Rolling off to the bottom of the machine on her knees, she somehow ends up on flat on her back. Gasping for air, she squeezes her eyes closed, her legs throbbing in pain.
“Are you okay?” a concerned voice asks as she lies on the ground, not moving. Too embarrassed to open her eyes and face the man who has witnessed her yell an obscenity and then fly off the treadmill, Leila keeps her eyes closed, cursing herself for being so absorbed in her thoughts, the music and the running, that she never noticed anyone else enter the gym. Maybe he’ll think I’ve fainted, she thinks to herself, trying not to let her eyelids twitch.
“Dude, I think she’s passed out,” an American voice says from somewhere to her right. “Shall we call an ambulance? Concussion can be serious.”
Leila, who has no medical insurance, has no desire to be sent to hospital and billed crazy amounts for a fake concussion. At the same time, she doesn’t want to have to put a face to the male voices either. She is acutely aware that with no makeup, unwashed hair and her tattered vest, she looks like she belongs in a trailer park, not in a nice-ish apartment in Discovery Gardens. Get lost and leave me alone she thinks, desperately trying to transmit this thought telepathically.
“I don’t know. Let’s see if we can wake her up first,” the first voice replies in Arabic. “Go and get some water, let’s splash some on her face.”
“No!” Leila cries out without thinking, her eyes flying open. The last thing she wants is water washing away her carefully drawn in eyebrows.
“You’re awake?!” The second voice exclaims.
“Nooooo,” Leila whimpers, not looking at the boy. She flutters her eyelids a little, pretending to be woozy and tries to sit up. “Nooo,” she says again, unsure what else she can say that will make her sound ill and weak.
“Here, sit up and drink this,” the first voice says. Leila slowly opens her eyes and lets them roll into focus. She stares up at a beautiful, tanned face with thick eyelashes and messy, dark brown hair and realises it's the same face that has been appearing in her dreams all week.
"Hey, do I know you?" Mr Delicious asks, helping her to her feet. The warmth from his strong grip surges through her body and she feels a stirring in the pit of her stomach that has nothing to do with the fear of him recognizing her.
"No you don't!" she answers sharply, standing up straight. "I'm sorry but I have to go, I don’t feel well. Thanks for your help. Bye!" She pulls her hand away from his and mentally swears never, ever to work out without makeup, blow dried hair and fashionable sportswear.
"Wait, let me help you, you might hurt yourself," he says, following her as she limps out of the gym.
"No thank you," she replies curtly without looking around. Just go away she prays as she calls for the lift. Her prayers go unanswered and he enters the lift with her.
"Let me just make sure you get to your apartment in one piece," he explains kindly, looking down at her tiny, 5,3" frame. Well over six feet, he makes her feel like a little girl and dizzy with anticipation, her sore knees buckle and she grabs on to him to steady herself.
"Thanks," she says, finally looking up at him properly and smiling shyly. Screw it, she tells herself. He's seen me now anyway. Might as well make the most of it. "I think I may need your help after all."
They smile at each other and she leans against him, pretending that she can't hold herself up properly and he puts his arm around her to steady her. Heart pounding, she relishes the feeling of his lean, toned frame against her and loves the way the top of her head nestles into the crook of his armpit. He is looking just as delicious as he did at the Cavalli Club in black adidas jogging bottoms, a black t-shirt and hair messed to perfection. Leila resists the urge to run her fingers through it and clenches her fists tightly.
"This is me," she says dejectedly when the lift reaches the eighth floor, wishing it would break down and they would be stuck there for eternity.
"Let me see you to your apartment," he replies without a thought. "What number is it?"
"803," she tells him, barely getting the number ‘three’ out of her mouth before the doors open and he effortlessly scoops her into his arms.
“What are you doing?” she protests halfheartedly, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her heart feels like it may suddenly go into cardiac arrest, and she presses herself up to him more to let him feel it beat against his chest.
“You’re obviously in no state to walk so just be quiet and let me make sure you reach your home safely.” His tone is authoritative, making Leila melt even more. She can’t believe that after an entire week of dreaming about him, wondering what she should do with his phone number and persuading Lady Luxe not to call him, she has ended up in his arms without even plotting. Fate must be on her side.
The door is unlocked as always, security rarely being an issue in Dubai, and he walks in purposefully, carrying her as if he is afraid she may break. She is painfully aware of her empty, plain apartment, the one bit of colour being the half dead flowers on the dining table, wishing that it was cosy and inviting as he gently lays her down on the sofa. He is so close that she can smell his aftershave and she inhales deeply, absorbing the fresh, lemony fragrance.
"Let me get you some water before I go," he says, walking through to her open-plan kitchen and grabbing a glass as if he owns the place. "The layout of your apartment is the same as Khaled's," he explains at her surprised face. "You know, the guy upstairs. I don’t actually live here, I was just visiting him."
"Where do you live then?" she asks nonchalantly, lying back on the sofa. When his back is turned, she quickly pulls off her hair band and lets her hair tumble to her shoulders.
"The Palm," he replies, filling the glass with water. He comes back to the sofa and sits on the edge with a familiarity that makes her yearn for him to stay exactly where he is for ever.
"I swear we've met before," he says, frowning as he takes in her dark blonde, wavy hair in confusion while she gulps down the water. "Anyway, get lots of rest okay? I'm going to be at Khaled's apartment pretty much all day so here, take my number and call me if you need anything." Scribbling down his number on her diary that is still open at July 14th, he gives her a quick smile and then exits the apartment, leaving her full of longing.
As soon as the door closes, Leila runs to the bathroom and looks at herself in the mirror. Her stained vest is pretty bad but the rest of her looks better than she had expected. After showering, she decides that she should thank Mr Delicious for his help. Grabbing her phone, she writes:
Thank you for saving my life. Let me make it up to you and Khaled. Dinner at mine at 8pm?
She enters his number without even looking at it in her diary and then waits anxiously for a response. A minute later, her phone beeps.
Sounds good!
Grinning happily, Leila grabs her car keys and makes her way to Spinney's. She has a dinner to prepare and if there's one thing she's good at after ten years of husband searching, it's cooking.
Lara, Leila’s sister, has just been proposed to by her boyfriend of two years, and is wearing a 2.8 carat solitaire on her left hand that is so heavy, she was barely able to hold the phone to her ear in order to call her older sister with the good news.
“Congratulations habibti!” Leila had exclaimed, visibly grimacing and resisting the urge to throw the phone at the plain, white wall in front of her. “I’m so happy for you!”
Now, as she stares at the date that somehow seems more insulting in its written form, Leila fights the urge to collapse into a bundle of tears. She repeatedly tells herself that she is not a failure. She has a good job, she drives a nice car and she has her own apartment, while Lara, although engaged, is unemployed and still living with her parents. Leila also has a nicer ass, bigger boobs and a smaller waist than her 28 year-old younger sister.
But Lara has a fiancée who loves her and wants to spend the rest of his life with her. And Leila comes home every evening to a hollow apartment, which her mother seems to take great pleasure in reminding her of every time they speak.
Leila’s mother has never forgiven her fiercely independent daughter for moving to Dubai without her permission. It had taken the twenty-one year-old Leila two years to persuade her overprotective, very Christian parents to allow her to leave Beirut to complete her final year of her Bachelor’s in Marketing in the US. Two years of arguing, crying, reasoning and begging eventually made them relent – but only to study and only for one year.
Only that year in the States wasn't half as glamorous as Leila had expected it to be. With barely a cent to her name, she waited on tables almost every evening to get by and her social life was non-existent. As soon as she had completed her degree, she withdrew the little money she had managed to save and flew straight out to Dubai, the land of opportunities, all the while pretending to her parents that she was still in the US doing a little work experience. When she eventually confessed that she was actually in Dubai after embarking on a flourishing career in real estate, her mother’s first reaction was screeching: “How will you ever find a husband if you carry on being so CRAZY? How will we ever find Lara a husband when her older sister doesn’t care about HONOUR?” down the phone. And every month since that day, Mrs. Saade reminds her daughter that independent, career girls always end up alone. So far, she is right.
Sighing audibly, Leila grabs her iPod, scrapes her hair into a messy ponytail and heads over to the gym on the top floor of her building. She is relieved to find she is the only one there, as she hates having to worry about people spotting sweat patches under her arms. Thankfully, the gym is usually empty. Although ideal for those wanting an average bit of space in a not-extremely-bad location but who don't want to pay too much for it, half the apartments in Discovery Gardens are still uninhabited. The rent decrease has meant that those who can afford it, have moved to more happening locations like Jumeirah Beach Residence or the Marina. Leila may like appearing wealthy in public but she doesn't believe in throwing away money on rent.
Sticking her iPod into her ears, she starts jogging on the treadmill to old Amr Diab tracks, and with every step she takes, she feels another stab of envy at the way her shy, sensitive little sister who everyone thought was too simple to find a decent man, has bagged a fiancee before her.
Leila remembers standing in the middle of Sheikh Zayed Road ten years ago absorbing in the construction, the growth and the sheer potential rippling in the city with excitement buzzing in her stomach. Young, naïve and full of hope, she was certain that she would find a dashing prince, preferably a Westerner, who would sweep her off her feet and whisk her away to a place that was protected from war, where she would fall asleep to the comforting sound of owls hooting, not bombs falling. But despite the loneliness that tempted most men into marriages, somehow, she could never make a relationship last longer than a couple of months. Every man she had ever dated just ended up disappointing her.
Her thirty minutes of jogging over, she slows down to a brisk walk, perspiration dripping down her hairline and tickling her forehead when she suddenly realises that in her bitterness, she hasn’t paid much attention to Lara’s wedding itself. The wedding where she will probably have to be the single, lonely and very desperate maid of honour, the focus of everyone's pity.
“FUCK!” she shouts as an image of herself in a fuchsia pink taffeta dress blinds her temporarily, and she stumbles on the belt of the treadmill and falls down hard on her knees. Rolling off to the bottom of the machine on her knees, she somehow ends up on flat on her back. Gasping for air, she squeezes her eyes closed, her legs throbbing in pain.
“Are you okay?” a concerned voice asks as she lies on the ground, not moving. Too embarrassed to open her eyes and face the man who has witnessed her yell an obscenity and then fly off the treadmill, Leila keeps her eyes closed, cursing herself for being so absorbed in her thoughts, the music and the running, that she never noticed anyone else enter the gym. Maybe he’ll think I’ve fainted, she thinks to herself, trying not to let her eyelids twitch.
“Dude, I think she’s passed out,” an American voice says from somewhere to her right. “Shall we call an ambulance? Concussion can be serious.”
Leila, who has no medical insurance, has no desire to be sent to hospital and billed crazy amounts for a fake concussion. At the same time, she doesn’t want to have to put a face to the male voices either. She is acutely aware that with no makeup, unwashed hair and her tattered vest, she looks like she belongs in a trailer park, not in a nice-ish apartment in Discovery Gardens. Get lost and leave me alone she thinks, desperately trying to transmit this thought telepathically.
“I don’t know. Let’s see if we can wake her up first,” the first voice replies in Arabic. “Go and get some water, let’s splash some on her face.”
“No!” Leila cries out without thinking, her eyes flying open. The last thing she wants is water washing away her carefully drawn in eyebrows.
“You’re awake?!” The second voice exclaims.
“Nooooo,” Leila whimpers, not looking at the boy. She flutters her eyelids a little, pretending to be woozy and tries to sit up. “Nooo,” she says again, unsure what else she can say that will make her sound ill and weak.
“Here, sit up and drink this,” the first voice says. Leila slowly opens her eyes and lets them roll into focus. She stares up at a beautiful, tanned face with thick eyelashes and messy, dark brown hair and realises it's the same face that has been appearing in her dreams all week.
"Hey, do I know you?" Mr Delicious asks, helping her to her feet. The warmth from his strong grip surges through her body and she feels a stirring in the pit of her stomach that has nothing to do with the fear of him recognizing her.
"No you don't!" she answers sharply, standing up straight. "I'm sorry but I have to go, I don’t feel well. Thanks for your help. Bye!" She pulls her hand away from his and mentally swears never, ever to work out without makeup, blow dried hair and fashionable sportswear.
"Wait, let me help you, you might hurt yourself," he says, following her as she limps out of the gym.
"No thank you," she replies curtly without looking around. Just go away she prays as she calls for the lift. Her prayers go unanswered and he enters the lift with her.
"Let me just make sure you get to your apartment in one piece," he explains kindly, looking down at her tiny, 5,3" frame. Well over six feet, he makes her feel like a little girl and dizzy with anticipation, her sore knees buckle and she grabs on to him to steady herself.
"Thanks," she says, finally looking up at him properly and smiling shyly. Screw it, she tells herself. He's seen me now anyway. Might as well make the most of it. "I think I may need your help after all."
They smile at each other and she leans against him, pretending that she can't hold herself up properly and he puts his arm around her to steady her. Heart pounding, she relishes the feeling of his lean, toned frame against her and loves the way the top of her head nestles into the crook of his armpit. He is looking just as delicious as he did at the Cavalli Club in black adidas jogging bottoms, a black t-shirt and hair messed to perfection. Leila resists the urge to run her fingers through it and clenches her fists tightly.
"This is me," she says dejectedly when the lift reaches the eighth floor, wishing it would break down and they would be stuck there for eternity.
"Let me see you to your apartment," he replies without a thought. "What number is it?"
"803," she tells him, barely getting the number ‘three’ out of her mouth before the doors open and he effortlessly scoops her into his arms.
“What are you doing?” she protests halfheartedly, wrapping her arms around his neck. Her heart feels like it may suddenly go into cardiac arrest, and she presses herself up to him more to let him feel it beat against his chest.
“You’re obviously in no state to walk so just be quiet and let me make sure you reach your home safely.” His tone is authoritative, making Leila melt even more. She can’t believe that after an entire week of dreaming about him, wondering what she should do with his phone number and persuading Lady Luxe not to call him, she has ended up in his arms without even plotting. Fate must be on her side.
The door is unlocked as always, security rarely being an issue in Dubai, and he walks in purposefully, carrying her as if he is afraid she may break. She is painfully aware of her empty, plain apartment, the one bit of colour being the half dead flowers on the dining table, wishing that it was cosy and inviting as he gently lays her down on the sofa. He is so close that she can smell his aftershave and she inhales deeply, absorbing the fresh, lemony fragrance.
"Let me get you some water before I go," he says, walking through to her open-plan kitchen and grabbing a glass as if he owns the place. "The layout of your apartment is the same as Khaled's," he explains at her surprised face. "You know, the guy upstairs. I don’t actually live here, I was just visiting him."
"Where do you live then?" she asks nonchalantly, lying back on the sofa. When his back is turned, she quickly pulls off her hair band and lets her hair tumble to her shoulders.
"The Palm," he replies, filling the glass with water. He comes back to the sofa and sits on the edge with a familiarity that makes her yearn for him to stay exactly where he is for ever.
"I swear we've met before," he says, frowning as he takes in her dark blonde, wavy hair in confusion while she gulps down the water. "Anyway, get lots of rest okay? I'm going to be at Khaled's apartment pretty much all day so here, take my number and call me if you need anything." Scribbling down his number on her diary that is still open at July 14th, he gives her a quick smile and then exits the apartment, leaving her full of longing.
As soon as the door closes, Leila runs to the bathroom and looks at herself in the mirror. Her stained vest is pretty bad but the rest of her looks better than she had expected. After showering, she decides that she should thank Mr Delicious for his help. Grabbing her phone, she writes:
Thank you for saving my life. Let me make it up to you and Khaled. Dinner at mine at 8pm?
She enters his number without even looking at it in her diary and then waits anxiously for a response. A minute later, her phone beeps.
Sounds good!
Grinning happily, Leila grabs her car keys and makes her way to Spinney's. She has a dinner to prepare and if there's one thing she's good at after ten years of husband searching, it's cooking.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Chapter Eight - When the Penny Drops
I don’t know how I got through my first week at the English Language Institution. Name learning, playing embarrassing ice-breaking games with an enthusiasm that could give the Balamory presenters a run for their money and sitting in utter boredom during my lunch break with my dry sandwiches (the bread in Dubai is awful) in my hands and my iPod glued to my ears, is pretty much all I did. Alhamdulillah, I’ve made it to Friday and now I’m getting ready to go and meet my one and only friend.
Yes! I have a friend! I met up with Roba’s sister, Huda, the day after I went out with that volleyball crowd and contrary to my initial wary feelings of hanging out with my best mate’s older sister, I actually had a really good time. We had a cheapy dinner at the MOE food court (halal food everywhere is still a novelty for me so I'm refusing to touch veggies or seafood after twenty-three years of the stuff in London) and just being able to speak English without having to carefully enunciate every letter was amazing. Chilling out with someone who I’ve known for years and who can relate to more than just who I am, but where I’m from, made my insides warm up. This little piece of North London in the middle of New Dubai has somehow brought a little order to my new, confusing life and I’m grateful for it. So grateful in fact, that this morning, I woke up to pray Fajr (my very first time) to thank God for his mercy. It wasn’t easy though. When the alarm went off at four in the morning, I whacked the snooze button so hard that it went flying off my nightstand and crashed into the hard, tiled floor. The bloody thing didn’t break though. It went off again ten minutes later and I covered my head with my pillow in a pitiful attempt to ignore it, muttering profanities under my breath. I eventually yanked myself out of bed, fuming, grabbed the alarm and took the batteries out and started climbing back into bed. As I lifted one knee onto the soft mattress, I felt conflicted. Part of me wanted to sink into the warm sheets but the better part kept telling me that now I had got up, I had won half the battle - it was only a matter of a bit of water and a few minutes on the prayer rug and then I could jump back into bed and sleep for as long as I liked.
Eventually, the angel in me conquered and bleary eyed, I made my way to my en-suite bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. Every ritual I performed, from rinsing my mouth to washing my face, my arms, my feet, made me feel stronger and when I finally stood on the prayer mat, I felt like I wasn’t alone – that Allah was looking after me.
After prayers, instead of going straight to sleep as I originally planned, I felt inspired to actually move my body a bit. I ended up throwing on jogging bottoms and a baggy, long sleeved t-shirt and went for a walk on the beach. Feeling the warm sand between my toes, and listening to the sound of the calm ocean lapping against the shore, as I sat and watched the sunrise, the hues of pinks, reds and oranges all around me, I felt completely connected to myself and to my Lord. For the first time in a very long time, I felt truly happy.
I'm not the only one surprised by my new, spiritual self. Huda was shocked to see me in hijab. The last time I saw her was when she was a newlywed and I was a bit of a rebel. I went over to Roba’s apartment and she was there, canoodling with David. They looked so cute together – him sitting on the floor doing something on a laptop and her sitting behind him on the armchair, playing with his neck. I remember Roba telling me afterwards that they’d been at it like rabbits ever since the wedding and that her mum had walked in on them a couple of times. She had a key to their flat and was prone to just walking in without ringing the bell first. Mind you, I personally think that Huda could have done better. She is gorgeous – tall, slim, huge eyes, endearing smile. David is also tall, but thin with a bald head and weedy look about him.
Anyway, she asked me why I’ve started wearing hijab and I gave her the usual ‘I want to be a better Muslim’ line because I don’t know how to articulate the depths of what I was really feeling the very first time I carefully wrapped a stripy blue scarf around my head and walked out of the house. It’s tricky trying to explain the events that lead to the decision – the mistakes I made, the slow recognition that the path I was on was taking me to a place I didn’t want to be, the sense of pride I felt when I declared my faith to the world - so I tend to just bluff my way through the question.
The spiritual vibe lasted all the way home, while I ate my breakfast and while I showered. When I turned on my PC and logged onto Facebook though, it fizzled out as soon as I saw that I had a friend request from Goldenboy. Before the angel in me could persuade me to ignore it, I quickly accepted it and then spent the next hour browsing through all his pictures, his friends list and the wall comments. He looked just as delectable scuba diving as he did clubbing but my favourite album was the one of him camping. Wearing khaki combats and a black wife-beater, I was pleased to see that his muscles are honed and he looks like he knows what he's doing with his hands. I shook the image of his hands out of my head and busied myself with tidying my room and doing my laundry, taking Facebook breaks every ten minutes to see if he had come online. He hadn't. He clearly had better things to do on a Friday.
I’m meeting Huda at a shisha place called Momo’s tonight and I’m really looking forward to some stimulating conversation coupled with the subtle, smoky sweetness of double apple shisha. I’m wearing my one and only abaya and I must say, the layers of long, flowing black cloth really do make me feel like a million dirhams. Slipping it on over my jeans and t-shirt has transformed me from a cute, chubby and slightly awkward Egyptian into a slim, graceful and sophisticated Emirati. I’ve even secured a garish flower clip to my head under the sheila to give it the height at the back, have dumped the usual ballet pumps for my one and only pair of three-inch heels and have lined my eyes with MAC’s smolder eye pencil.
Huda glides up to me and gives me a quick hug and kiss outside the entrance to Momo’s, looking like the epitome of Emirati beauty in an abaya scattered with black Swarovski crystals, lots of mascara and even more glittery lipgloss. We laugh at how local we look when neither of us even understand Arabic and walk into the restaurant.
I look around me and absorb the North African inspired décor and imagine myself to be in Aladdin’s cave. The high ceilings are covered with Moroccan lamps of all different shapes and sizes, the shadows from the little holes in the lamps playing on the burnt orange walls, and the DJ is fusing traditional Rai music with pounding hip hop beats. There is a large projector on the wall showing old, black and white Arabic movies which can barely be seen in the dim lighting, and all around us locals, expats and tourists lounge on the low sofa seats along the walls or at the circular tables in the middle of the restaurant, puffing shisha or nibbling on Arabic mezzas.
“Gosh this place is stunning,” I say to Huda in awe, unable to tear my eyes away from the seductive lights. We lean back against the cushions on the low seats and chat away, and I enjoy being able to talk without explaining the words I’m choosing to use and without adding appendices to explain the London references. I take my phone out to send Huda some pictures of Roba that I have, and when I turn on my Bluetooth, it automatically buzzes with an incoming message. Surprised, I look around me to see at least ten people playing with their phones. I ignore it but it buzzes again. Curious to find out what it says, I accept the message and then almost choke on my mocktail.
“Sugar, are you okay?” Huda asks as I cough and splutter, tears filling my eyes and threatening to smudge the eye make-up I had painstakingly applied.
“Yes,” I gasp. “Here, check this out.”
Handing over my phone to her, I watch her mouth turn into a huge grin as she reads the message that I know I will never forget.
“i whant tel you you are so butfill,” the message declares. “Take cer abuot you slef every one he dreem he have one like you 0509190889.”
Butfill?! Huda cracks up and the two of us can’t stop laughing for a good few minutes. I don’t know what to be more outraged by – the atrocious spelling or the fact that some loser out there has the audacity to send such messages to complete randoms without even knowing who he is sending the message to. For the next hour, my phone consistently beeps with incoming messages and Huda and I have a good giggle at the variety – some just send their numbers, some add corny messages and others are more creative - one guy actually sends a picture of his torso with his number running across the middle. We just can't understand why guys would use Bluetooth to hit on girls they don't even know when they have mouths that can obviously do a better job.
Our giggles are interrupted when a couple walk into the shisha lounge, hand in hand. Completely focused on each, they take a seat in the corner of the room without looking around at all, and we can just about make out their faces in the shadows. I squint at the guy, trying to work out where I’ve seen him before. He’s tall, bald and very slim, bordering on skinny. The girl looks like any other white girl. She is petite and blonde and is dressed in a tiny white summer dress and I feel a burst of annoyance at the way her big chest is nearly hanging out of her dress.
“Oh my God,” Huda whispers and I look at her face to see that all the blood has drained out of it. I glance back at the couple and realize that the guy is David – her David – and the way he is looking at her suggests that their relationship isn’t purely platonic. His gaze is fixed on her, he is leaning forward and he has a tiny smile on his thin lips.
“Huda,” I start tentatively, not knowing what to say or do. Maybe they’re just friends, I tell myself, not wanting to draw conclusions.
“It’s okay. I already knew about this,” she says with a strained smile. “I’ve read all their emails.” She is gripping on to her glass tightly and I’m worried it will crack under the pressure.
“Do you want me to go up to them?” I ask, rage beginning to simmer inside me. I can’t believe that my beautiful, sweet friend has such an asshole for a husband and the more I look at him, the more I get the urge to castrate him and then report him to the Dubai Police for adultery. I can't help but wish we were in Saudi so that he can get stoned to death.
“No, don’t. I still haven’t worked out what I want to do.” Huda’s voice is tight, and her clenched knuckles have turned white. She is staring at David and the Busty Blonde, watching him laugh with her, feed her some humous with bread, tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. I feel the pain radiating from her pores and I touch her arm, trying to transfer some of her agony to me.
“Yalla, let’s go,” I say after a while, unable to watch the scene in front of me anymore. Our fun-filled evening completely destroyed, Huda wordlessly agrees and we both get up to go. As we walk out of the restaurant, our abayas flowing out behind us, I catch David’s eye. I see recognition dawn upon him and I look at him with a completely blank expression. He looks to see who is with me, and when he spots Huda in front of me, her gaze fixed straight ahead, he snatches his hand away from the Busty Blonde’s bare thigh. But it’s too late. And he knows.
Yes! I have a friend! I met up with Roba’s sister, Huda, the day after I went out with that volleyball crowd and contrary to my initial wary feelings of hanging out with my best mate’s older sister, I actually had a really good time. We had a cheapy dinner at the MOE food court (halal food everywhere is still a novelty for me so I'm refusing to touch veggies or seafood after twenty-three years of the stuff in London) and just being able to speak English without having to carefully enunciate every letter was amazing. Chilling out with someone who I’ve known for years and who can relate to more than just who I am, but where I’m from, made my insides warm up. This little piece of North London in the middle of New Dubai has somehow brought a little order to my new, confusing life and I’m grateful for it. So grateful in fact, that this morning, I woke up to pray Fajr (my very first time) to thank God for his mercy. It wasn’t easy though. When the alarm went off at four in the morning, I whacked the snooze button so hard that it went flying off my nightstand and crashed into the hard, tiled floor. The bloody thing didn’t break though. It went off again ten minutes later and I covered my head with my pillow in a pitiful attempt to ignore it, muttering profanities under my breath. I eventually yanked myself out of bed, fuming, grabbed the alarm and took the batteries out and started climbing back into bed. As I lifted one knee onto the soft mattress, I felt conflicted. Part of me wanted to sink into the warm sheets but the better part kept telling me that now I had got up, I had won half the battle - it was only a matter of a bit of water and a few minutes on the prayer rug and then I could jump back into bed and sleep for as long as I liked.
Eventually, the angel in me conquered and bleary eyed, I made my way to my en-suite bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. Every ritual I performed, from rinsing my mouth to washing my face, my arms, my feet, made me feel stronger and when I finally stood on the prayer mat, I felt like I wasn’t alone – that Allah was looking after me.
After prayers, instead of going straight to sleep as I originally planned, I felt inspired to actually move my body a bit. I ended up throwing on jogging bottoms and a baggy, long sleeved t-shirt and went for a walk on the beach. Feeling the warm sand between my toes, and listening to the sound of the calm ocean lapping against the shore, as I sat and watched the sunrise, the hues of pinks, reds and oranges all around me, I felt completely connected to myself and to my Lord. For the first time in a very long time, I felt truly happy.
I'm not the only one surprised by my new, spiritual self. Huda was shocked to see me in hijab. The last time I saw her was when she was a newlywed and I was a bit of a rebel. I went over to Roba’s apartment and she was there, canoodling with David. They looked so cute together – him sitting on the floor doing something on a laptop and her sitting behind him on the armchair, playing with his neck. I remember Roba telling me afterwards that they’d been at it like rabbits ever since the wedding and that her mum had walked in on them a couple of times. She had a key to their flat and was prone to just walking in without ringing the bell first. Mind you, I personally think that Huda could have done better. She is gorgeous – tall, slim, huge eyes, endearing smile. David is also tall, but thin with a bald head and weedy look about him.
Anyway, she asked me why I’ve started wearing hijab and I gave her the usual ‘I want to be a better Muslim’ line because I don’t know how to articulate the depths of what I was really feeling the very first time I carefully wrapped a stripy blue scarf around my head and walked out of the house. It’s tricky trying to explain the events that lead to the decision – the mistakes I made, the slow recognition that the path I was on was taking me to a place I didn’t want to be, the sense of pride I felt when I declared my faith to the world - so I tend to just bluff my way through the question.
The spiritual vibe lasted all the way home, while I ate my breakfast and while I showered. When I turned on my PC and logged onto Facebook though, it fizzled out as soon as I saw that I had a friend request from Goldenboy. Before the angel in me could persuade me to ignore it, I quickly accepted it and then spent the next hour browsing through all his pictures, his friends list and the wall comments. He looked just as delectable scuba diving as he did clubbing but my favourite album was the one of him camping. Wearing khaki combats and a black wife-beater, I was pleased to see that his muscles are honed and he looks like he knows what he's doing with his hands. I shook the image of his hands out of my head and busied myself with tidying my room and doing my laundry, taking Facebook breaks every ten minutes to see if he had come online. He hadn't. He clearly had better things to do on a Friday.
I’m meeting Huda at a shisha place called Momo’s tonight and I’m really looking forward to some stimulating conversation coupled with the subtle, smoky sweetness of double apple shisha. I’m wearing my one and only abaya and I must say, the layers of long, flowing black cloth really do make me feel like a million dirhams. Slipping it on over my jeans and t-shirt has transformed me from a cute, chubby and slightly awkward Egyptian into a slim, graceful and sophisticated Emirati. I’ve even secured a garish flower clip to my head under the sheila to give it the height at the back, have dumped the usual ballet pumps for my one and only pair of three-inch heels and have lined my eyes with MAC’s smolder eye pencil.
Huda glides up to me and gives me a quick hug and kiss outside the entrance to Momo’s, looking like the epitome of Emirati beauty in an abaya scattered with black Swarovski crystals, lots of mascara and even more glittery lipgloss. We laugh at how local we look when neither of us even understand Arabic and walk into the restaurant.
I look around me and absorb the North African inspired décor and imagine myself to be in Aladdin’s cave. The high ceilings are covered with Moroccan lamps of all different shapes and sizes, the shadows from the little holes in the lamps playing on the burnt orange walls, and the DJ is fusing traditional Rai music with pounding hip hop beats. There is a large projector on the wall showing old, black and white Arabic movies which can barely be seen in the dim lighting, and all around us locals, expats and tourists lounge on the low sofa seats along the walls or at the circular tables in the middle of the restaurant, puffing shisha or nibbling on Arabic mezzas.
“Gosh this place is stunning,” I say to Huda in awe, unable to tear my eyes away from the seductive lights. We lean back against the cushions on the low seats and chat away, and I enjoy being able to talk without explaining the words I’m choosing to use and without adding appendices to explain the London references. I take my phone out to send Huda some pictures of Roba that I have, and when I turn on my Bluetooth, it automatically buzzes with an incoming message. Surprised, I look around me to see at least ten people playing with their phones. I ignore it but it buzzes again. Curious to find out what it says, I accept the message and then almost choke on my mocktail.
“Sugar, are you okay?” Huda asks as I cough and splutter, tears filling my eyes and threatening to smudge the eye make-up I had painstakingly applied.
“Yes,” I gasp. “Here, check this out.”
Handing over my phone to her, I watch her mouth turn into a huge grin as she reads the message that I know I will never forget.
“i whant tel you you are so butfill,” the message declares. “Take cer abuot you slef every one he dreem he have one like you 0509190889.”
Butfill?! Huda cracks up and the two of us can’t stop laughing for a good few minutes. I don’t know what to be more outraged by – the atrocious spelling or the fact that some loser out there has the audacity to send such messages to complete randoms without even knowing who he is sending the message to. For the next hour, my phone consistently beeps with incoming messages and Huda and I have a good giggle at the variety – some just send their numbers, some add corny messages and others are more creative - one guy actually sends a picture of his torso with his number running across the middle. We just can't understand why guys would use Bluetooth to hit on girls they don't even know when they have mouths that can obviously do a better job.
Our giggles are interrupted when a couple walk into the shisha lounge, hand in hand. Completely focused on each, they take a seat in the corner of the room without looking around at all, and we can just about make out their faces in the shadows. I squint at the guy, trying to work out where I’ve seen him before. He’s tall, bald and very slim, bordering on skinny. The girl looks like any other white girl. She is petite and blonde and is dressed in a tiny white summer dress and I feel a burst of annoyance at the way her big chest is nearly hanging out of her dress.
“Oh my God,” Huda whispers and I look at her face to see that all the blood has drained out of it. I glance back at the couple and realize that the guy is David – her David – and the way he is looking at her suggests that their relationship isn’t purely platonic. His gaze is fixed on her, he is leaning forward and he has a tiny smile on his thin lips.
“Huda,” I start tentatively, not knowing what to say or do. Maybe they’re just friends, I tell myself, not wanting to draw conclusions.
“It’s okay. I already knew about this,” she says with a strained smile. “I’ve read all their emails.” She is gripping on to her glass tightly and I’m worried it will crack under the pressure.
“Do you want me to go up to them?” I ask, rage beginning to simmer inside me. I can’t believe that my beautiful, sweet friend has such an asshole for a husband and the more I look at him, the more I get the urge to castrate him and then report him to the Dubai Police for adultery. I can't help but wish we were in Saudi so that he can get stoned to death.
“No, don’t. I still haven’t worked out what I want to do.” Huda’s voice is tight, and her clenched knuckles have turned white. She is staring at David and the Busty Blonde, watching him laugh with her, feed her some humous with bread, tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. I feel the pain radiating from her pores and I touch her arm, trying to transfer some of her agony to me.
“Yalla, let’s go,” I say after a while, unable to watch the scene in front of me anymore. Our fun-filled evening completely destroyed, Huda wordlessly agrees and we both get up to go. As we walk out of the restaurant, our abayas flowing out behind us, I catch David’s eye. I see recognition dawn upon him and I look at him with a completely blank expression. He looks to see who is with me, and when he spots Huda in front of me, her gaze fixed straight ahead, he snatches his hand away from the Busty Blonde’s bare thigh. But it’s too late. And he knows.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Chapter Seven – The awful feeling of enlightenment
Huda waits for David to slip out of bed and leave the apartment for his weekly offroading expedition before she opens her eyes and kicks off the covers. She counts to three hundred after she hears the front door close in case he bursts back into the apartment and when the sound of his rumbling Nissan Patrol fades away, she climbs out of bed and starts making wudhu for Salaatul Fajr. As she washes her face, rinses her mouth and drips water over her arms, she feels a sense of peace fill her soul.
After the failed dinner, Huda has not spoken a single word to David, waiting for him to apologise and make the first move to repair their wounded relationship. He hasn’t. Instead, he sneaks out of bed in the morning when he thinks she’s still asleep and reappears late at night, either crashing on the living room sofa or sleeping as far away from her as possible on the king-sized bed. If she wants to, she can make it difficult for him to avoid her by staying up reading, or curling up on the sofa watching TV. But the reality is, she doesn’t want to see his face, because whenever she does, she gets the urge to slap it. Hard.
Wudhu completed, she pats herself dry with her navy blue thick, fluffy towel and then dabs a little moisturizer on her face. Slipping an abaya over her yellow cotton pyjamas, she wraps a pashmina around her head and lays out the silk Persian prayer rug facing Makkah on the cold bedroom floor. Standing straight with her eyes cast down, she starts in the name of God, the Beneficent, the Merciful, and begins with Surah Al Fatiha – The Opening.
She finds that she can’t concentrate on her morning prayers and stumbles on the words she has recited a thousand times. When she finishes, she sits still on the rug and clutches onto her turquoise prayer beads, a gift from her maternal grandmother in Marrakesh She runs her fingers over the smooth beads that feel cool against her warm hands and breathes deeply with her eyes closed, imagining herself in the Koutoubia Mosque. She misses Marakkesh, with its countless minarets and spiritual fervour that thrives despite the secular government that tries to tame it, and wishes she could walk through the labyrinth-like alleyways in Jamaa el Fnaa once again, or sit leaning against a pillar in famous Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca. Although she is only half Moroccon (her father's side Algerian) and lived in Morocco for just a couple of years, she feels more Moroccan than any other part of her identity.
When the sun slowly begins its ascent into the violet sky, Huda pulls herself to her feet and puts on the kettle, still in her plain black abaya and purple pashmina. As the water boils, she makes the bed and then takes out her laptop with trepidation. Spending all day on a computer at work, David hasn't bothered with buying his own laptop and uses Huda's pink Sony Vaio whenever he wants to check his Facebook or Myspace in the evenings or weekends. Last week though, she installed a keylogging device on her Vaio that tracks every password entered and today, she is planning on using the knowledge she will receive from it.
Huda pushes aside the niggling twinge of guilt she feels at betraying his trust, telling herself that it is her right to do what she can to understand their relationship, that she has waited long enough for him to acknowledge her existence. With every day that passes, she realizes that he has no intention of changing, and that realization has bred a desperate urge to find out exactly what is occupying his mind. It obviously isn’t her.
The laptop welcomes her to Windows, and she stares at the desktop wallpaper, willing her eyes not to fill with tears. It is a picture of her and David on their wedding day, fifteen months ago. She looks radiant in a simple white dress with long, fitted sleeves adorned with tiny white beads and David looks equally as ecstatic and handsome in a plain black suit. Although Huda is looking at the camera, David is looking at her and his expression is that of a young man who simply cannot believe his luck. He is staring at her as if she is a precious jewel and he wants to hold her, protect her and keep her by him for ever.
Huda wonders if today, forever is about to come to an end.
The wedding was a small, private affair – a mosque ceremony followed by dinner at her grandparents' large, detached house in Surrey, and there weren’t more than thirty people present but despite the small size of the wedding, the simple dress she had bought from Fonthill Road and the bouquet she had made herself, she felt like a queen.
That night, they drove to a boutique hotel in Hampshire and Huda quivered with anticipation as David slowly and deliberately unwrapped her white, silk hijab and let her curly brown hair tumble to her shoulders. It was the first time he had seen her without hijab – he hadn’t even seen any pictures – and it was worth the wait. He touched her as if she was a porcelain doll, his fingers shaking, drunk on love and the beautiful feeling of knowing that his wife was all his – that no other man would ever be able to see her as he could.
Opening the hidden program, Huda quickly scans in all the passwords that have been entered. His Gmail, his Yahoo, his Facebook and his Myspace are all there. She copies and pastes them all onto a blank email and saves the draft, just in case she forgets them, and then opens up his Gmail.
Everything is normal in David's inbox and she feels a twinge of guilt for doubting him. There are emails from his friends and family in the US, work related messages and some forwarded mail from her sister. Her eyes eventually fall on an email thread from a girl named Sarah. She wracks her brain, certain she has heard her name before. She gives up trying to work out who it is and just opens it, telling herself that as his wife, it is her right to know about his interaction with women. The thread opens to show at least fifty messages exchanged between the two of them over the course of a couple of months. Feeling vulnerable and yet hopeful – after all, Sarah could just be a colleague - she finds the very first email and begins to read.
Half an hour later, Huda is still sitting in the very same position she was in when she turned on the laptop. She feels as if her bones are made of lead and she cannot move without experiencing a sharp ache in her head. David and Sarah, Sarah and David. She rolls around the names in her mouth. They sound good together, like salt and pepper, similar but different. Better than David and Huda. Chalk and cheese.
David and Sarah, it seems, are meeting today. From their messages, she feels as if she has watched their entire relationship in a movie. They both like to write and their emails are full of colourful stories and descriptions. Huda has worked out that Sarah is his ex-girlfriend, she wishes she never dumped him four years ago and she is visiting Dubai. Just to see him. The emails are littered with innuendos and the underlying passion of two people who desperately want to be together but cannot and although David mentions that he is in a relationship, he forgets to add that it is the kind united by God. There are also pictures – Sarah in a bikini on South Beach, Miami, Sarah in an evening gown at a fancy party in LA, Sarah looking pretty in pink at her sister’s wedding in New York.
Sarah is small and curvy with short, wavy blonde hair. She is definitely attractive in a girly, innocent way, with wide blue eyes and a small tulip mouth but Huda knows that she is much better looking. So what exactly is the fascination with this woman?
You look good enough to devour, he wrote after receiving the bikini image. It reminds me of that day we spent on the beach when we were still friends, and we somehow ended up home together. That day, as we messed around in the water, all I could think about was untying those bikini strings, watching it fall and letting the sea swallow it up.
Huda’s tea remains cold and untouched on the coffee table as the adjectives he has used to describe her play over and over in her head. Sexy, smart, sweet, cute, lovable, beautiful. Does that mean she is none of those things? Her hands begin to shake and she quickly logs out of Gmail and climbs back into bed. Too scared to tell her family that her relationship with her husband is failing, too ashamed to confide in her friends, loneliness wraps itself around her as she buries her head under her pillow. The tears start slowly, but soon, they are gushing out of her eyes like a broken tap and her sobs are wracking her entire body.
Right now, my husband is with another woman, she keeps repeating to herself over, and over again.
Eventually, the tears subside and she wonders what his Facebook is hiding. She doesn’t have the willpower to look through it, though. She has read enough for one day.
After the failed dinner, Huda has not spoken a single word to David, waiting for him to apologise and make the first move to repair their wounded relationship. He hasn’t. Instead, he sneaks out of bed in the morning when he thinks she’s still asleep and reappears late at night, either crashing on the living room sofa or sleeping as far away from her as possible on the king-sized bed. If she wants to, she can make it difficult for him to avoid her by staying up reading, or curling up on the sofa watching TV. But the reality is, she doesn’t want to see his face, because whenever she does, she gets the urge to slap it. Hard.
Wudhu completed, she pats herself dry with her navy blue thick, fluffy towel and then dabs a little moisturizer on her face. Slipping an abaya over her yellow cotton pyjamas, she wraps a pashmina around her head and lays out the silk Persian prayer rug facing Makkah on the cold bedroom floor. Standing straight with her eyes cast down, she starts in the name of God, the Beneficent, the Merciful, and begins with Surah Al Fatiha – The Opening.
She finds that she can’t concentrate on her morning prayers and stumbles on the words she has recited a thousand times. When she finishes, she sits still on the rug and clutches onto her turquoise prayer beads, a gift from her maternal grandmother in Marrakesh She runs her fingers over the smooth beads that feel cool against her warm hands and breathes deeply with her eyes closed, imagining herself in the Koutoubia Mosque. She misses Marakkesh, with its countless minarets and spiritual fervour that thrives despite the secular government that tries to tame it, and wishes she could walk through the labyrinth-like alleyways in Jamaa el Fnaa once again, or sit leaning against a pillar in famous Hassan II Mosque in Casablanca. Although she is only half Moroccon (her father's side Algerian) and lived in Morocco for just a couple of years, she feels more Moroccan than any other part of her identity.
When the sun slowly begins its ascent into the violet sky, Huda pulls herself to her feet and puts on the kettle, still in her plain black abaya and purple pashmina. As the water boils, she makes the bed and then takes out her laptop with trepidation. Spending all day on a computer at work, David hasn't bothered with buying his own laptop and uses Huda's pink Sony Vaio whenever he wants to check his Facebook or Myspace in the evenings or weekends. Last week though, she installed a keylogging device on her Vaio that tracks every password entered and today, she is planning on using the knowledge she will receive from it.
Huda pushes aside the niggling twinge of guilt she feels at betraying his trust, telling herself that it is her right to do what she can to understand their relationship, that she has waited long enough for him to acknowledge her existence. With every day that passes, she realizes that he has no intention of changing, and that realization has bred a desperate urge to find out exactly what is occupying his mind. It obviously isn’t her.
The laptop welcomes her to Windows, and she stares at the desktop wallpaper, willing her eyes not to fill with tears. It is a picture of her and David on their wedding day, fifteen months ago. She looks radiant in a simple white dress with long, fitted sleeves adorned with tiny white beads and David looks equally as ecstatic and handsome in a plain black suit. Although Huda is looking at the camera, David is looking at her and his expression is that of a young man who simply cannot believe his luck. He is staring at her as if she is a precious jewel and he wants to hold her, protect her and keep her by him for ever.
Huda wonders if today, forever is about to come to an end.
The wedding was a small, private affair – a mosque ceremony followed by dinner at her grandparents' large, detached house in Surrey, and there weren’t more than thirty people present but despite the small size of the wedding, the simple dress she had bought from Fonthill Road and the bouquet she had made herself, she felt like a queen.
That night, they drove to a boutique hotel in Hampshire and Huda quivered with anticipation as David slowly and deliberately unwrapped her white, silk hijab and let her curly brown hair tumble to her shoulders. It was the first time he had seen her without hijab – he hadn’t even seen any pictures – and it was worth the wait. He touched her as if she was a porcelain doll, his fingers shaking, drunk on love and the beautiful feeling of knowing that his wife was all his – that no other man would ever be able to see her as he could.
Opening the hidden program, Huda quickly scans in all the passwords that have been entered. His Gmail, his Yahoo, his Facebook and his Myspace are all there. She copies and pastes them all onto a blank email and saves the draft, just in case she forgets them, and then opens up his Gmail.
Everything is normal in David's inbox and she feels a twinge of guilt for doubting him. There are emails from his friends and family in the US, work related messages and some forwarded mail from her sister. Her eyes eventually fall on an email thread from a girl named Sarah. She wracks her brain, certain she has heard her name before. She gives up trying to work out who it is and just opens it, telling herself that as his wife, it is her right to know about his interaction with women. The thread opens to show at least fifty messages exchanged between the two of them over the course of a couple of months. Feeling vulnerable and yet hopeful – after all, Sarah could just be a colleague - she finds the very first email and begins to read.
Half an hour later, Huda is still sitting in the very same position she was in when she turned on the laptop. She feels as if her bones are made of lead and she cannot move without experiencing a sharp ache in her head. David and Sarah, Sarah and David. She rolls around the names in her mouth. They sound good together, like salt and pepper, similar but different. Better than David and Huda. Chalk and cheese.
David and Sarah, it seems, are meeting today. From their messages, she feels as if she has watched their entire relationship in a movie. They both like to write and their emails are full of colourful stories and descriptions. Huda has worked out that Sarah is his ex-girlfriend, she wishes she never dumped him four years ago and she is visiting Dubai. Just to see him. The emails are littered with innuendos and the underlying passion of two people who desperately want to be together but cannot and although David mentions that he is in a relationship, he forgets to add that it is the kind united by God. There are also pictures – Sarah in a bikini on South Beach, Miami, Sarah in an evening gown at a fancy party in LA, Sarah looking pretty in pink at her sister’s wedding in New York.
Sarah is small and curvy with short, wavy blonde hair. She is definitely attractive in a girly, innocent way, with wide blue eyes and a small tulip mouth but Huda knows that she is much better looking. So what exactly is the fascination with this woman?
You look good enough to devour, he wrote after receiving the bikini image. It reminds me of that day we spent on the beach when we were still friends, and we somehow ended up home together. That day, as we messed around in the water, all I could think about was untying those bikini strings, watching it fall and letting the sea swallow it up.
Huda’s tea remains cold and untouched on the coffee table as the adjectives he has used to describe her play over and over in her head. Sexy, smart, sweet, cute, lovable, beautiful. Does that mean she is none of those things? Her hands begin to shake and she quickly logs out of Gmail and climbs back into bed. Too scared to tell her family that her relationship with her husband is failing, too ashamed to confide in her friends, loneliness wraps itself around her as she buries her head under her pillow. The tears start slowly, but soon, they are gushing out of her eyes like a broken tap and her sobs are wracking her entire body.
Right now, my husband is with another woman, she keeps repeating to herself over, and over again.
Eventually, the tears subside and she wonders what his Facebook is hiding. She doesn’t have the willpower to look through it, though. She has read enough for one day.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Chapter Six - Everything always seems better in the morning
Lady Luxe lazily opens her eyes and stretches out on her four poster bed, enjoying the sensation of the soft, 100% pure Egyptian cotton sheets against her skin. For a moment, she forgets who she is, who is expected to be and who she wants to be as she relishes the warmth of the glorious morning sun on her arms. She kicks off the bedcovers and lies in the middle of the bed, enjoying the sun’s rays and remembering the previous night’s antics which now seem funny. The fear she felt when falling asleep has faded away entirely and she is already wondering what devilish acts she should commit after sunset. But before she does, she has business to attend to. Last week, she received a call from a woman who wanted a customized abaya.
Lady Luxe, unlike most couture abaya designers, offers a bespoke service that allows her customers to create their own abayas with her guidance. This freedom to play with her existing designs makes her popular with women looking for something unique and personal. Bounding out of bed, she has a shower and then wanders downstairs in three-quarter length white pyjama trousers and a pink French Connection t-shirt that has shrunk and now exposes a tiny bit of her torso. She is reluctant to get rid of it because it makes her feel like a teenager.
“Sabah al khair,” Mohamed mutters as she enters the spacious bright kitchen with its pristine black and white surfaces and cabinets. Very contemporary, it looks like it belongs in a catalogue and is nothing like the cluttered and cosy kitchen of her childhood.
“Good morning yourself,” she answers, sitting opposite him on the centre island counter, watching him devour his homemade waffles, courtesy of Claudine, the competent European cook. “Had a good night?”
“Yes.” He continues eating and flicking through the newspaper without looking at her.
“What did you do?” she tries again.
“I went out with my friends.”
“Where did you go?”
“What the hell is up with these questions? Are you mutawwa or something?” He finally looks up at her and scowls. “You need new pyjamas. You look indecent.”
“These pyjamas are fine. It’s not as if there are strange guys here.”
Frowning, she takes a bite of the homemade waffles smothered in whipped cream, hot chocolate sauce with fresh strawberries on the side and sighs. She has given up trying to be friends with Mohamed. He is only three years older than her but she feels as if there is a ravine between them. He is wearing a beige candoura and his briefcase is sitting on the stool next to him, as if it is a very important person.
They sit in silence for a while, Lady Luxe enjoying the buttery fragrance of the waffles and Mohamed reading Gulf News, when he suddenly looks up.
“My friend took your number for his mother who wants something designed,” he begins. “You’re meeting her today I heard. Don’t mess it up, I don’t want to be embarrassed in front of him.”
Lady Luxe stares at him. In just one year, she has created and launched a successful fashion label, has showcased at Dubai Fashion Week, has designed over fifty customized abayas as well as two collections and has made a tidy profit for herself. She is also in the process of signing a contract with the founders of X Boutique, who want to sell both her SS and AW collections.
“Says the guy whose career in government is as menial and unimaginative as his penis,” she mumbles in Arabic under her breath, fuming. Because of his comment, she is half-inclined to intentionally destroy the woman’s abaya, just to embarrass him.
“What did you say?” Mohamed growls, grabbing her wrist from across the counter and squeezing it hard. Although not obviously buff, his hours at the gym have paid off and he is broad and muscular. He can easily break Lady Luxe’s arm in two and she winces at the force of his grip.
“Nothing!” she says defiantly. She doesn’t have enough time to cover any bruises with concealor and foundation again when the woman will arrive in less than an hour.
“Good,” he says, letting go of her wrist and shoving her arm away from him as if it is contagious. Pushing his plate to one side, he leaves it for Anna-Marie, the maid, to clear up and exits the villa.
“Have a good day, habibi,” Lady Luxe calls out after him. Now that he has gone, she allows herself to rub her sore wrist, asks Claudine for some ice in order to numb the tenderness, and then quickly changes into a pretty, yellow, Tara Jarmon dress. She often dresses in Jarmon when she is meeting clients as the cuts are flattering and feminine but conservative. She loves Tara Jarmon as a person as well and prefers to support those she likes and admires. Her customers also like to feel that they are dealing with a professional, fashionable and respectable young woman so she puts on the act as much as she can. She even has a pair of black, Prada glasses that she often wears to look older and more intelligent. Spraying herself with ‘Miss Charming’, she scans her office to ensure everything is in place. Previously a guest bedroom, her office is elegant and luxurious, with its three off-white walls and black and white patterned feature wall. Together with the black leather sofas, chrome furniture and lots of turquoise and purple accessories, it is exactly how she always envisioned it to be.
She makes sure she has her sketchbook to hand and that her look book is out on the glass coffee table next to the artfully arranged fresh lilies that arrive every three days. On the opposite end of the room, by the bay window, are the silver mannequins wearing her latest designs and the closet is full of the older collections. On the marble mantel piece is her coveted ‘Abaya Designer of the Year’ award and next to it is the framed photo of her receiving it. She also has a file with cuttings from all the magazines and newspapers that have featured her as a ‘bright young thing’ which she likes to look through every once in a while.
“Miss Lady Luxe, Madame X is here,” says Anna-Marie, who always transforms into her assistant whenever she has clients over.
“Salam’Alaikom khalti,” Lady Luxe greets the forty-something, robust woman with three kisses and gestures for her to take a seat. They sip black tea and browse the look book together, creating an abaya with the tiniest smattering of real pearls, talking fashion, beauty and traveling. After two hours, Madame X has been measured, has chosen her fabric and will come back in two weeks for a fitting when the abaya has been made. Sitting back on the black, leather sofa, Lady Luxe picks up her Blackberry and emails Leila. Her father is away once again and will not be back for three days. No matter how relieved she is after last night's narrow escape, she is not so relieved that she is ready to pledge allegience to God. She is however, slightly wary so to protect herself should her father make another surprise visit home, she sends both him and Mohamed a quick SMS saying she'll be out late. She has business to attend do.
***
That evening, Lady Luxe meets Leila at the Cavalli Club. Having attended the opening party and exchanged business cards with Roberto himself, Lady Luxe isn’t as impressed as Leila by the decadent, Swarovski studded interior. In ode to the creator, she is wearing a hot pink short, flowery Cavalli dress that shows off her small but firm cleavage and long, toned legs. Together with three-inch gold, strappy Cavalli sandals and her blonde wig now recovered from being accosted the previous night, she looks lithe and sophisticated. With Leila by her side in a tiny black sheath dress, her hair tumbling down her back in loose curls and her eyes rimmed in thick kohl, every single man in the club has his eyes on them both. And the girls know it.
“So, what’s the latest on Old Fart?” Lady Luxe asks as they sit in a small booth with a perfect view of the entrance.
“He called me a couple of times but I’ve been ignoring him,” Leila replies.
“Loser,” they both say in unison and then smile at each other.
“Well, here’s to the better hammour in the Gulf pacific,” Lady Luxe toasts, holding up her martini. They clink glasses, take delicate sips from their drinks and then survey the talent. Lady Luxe spots one potential, and although she usually steers clear of Arab guys, she is willing to make an exception with him. Well over six-feet with dark brown, messy hair, his complexion is slightly fairer than hers and she guesses him to be Lebanese. She tells herself that this doesn’t really count as Arab anyway. He looks youngish, around twenty-seven maybe, and she glances over at Leila hoping that she hasn’t spotted him. She sighs in relief when she realizes Leila is preoccupied with the contents of her signature Gucci clutch.
“Okay, I’ve spotted a potential and I’ve seen him first,” she declares. As she does, Mr Delicious catches her gaze and flashes a wide smile at her. He’s wearing a plain white shirt over faded jeans and trainers and she wonders how he managed to get in dressed like that. She smiles a small, shy smile back and then looks away. Let the game begin, she thinks to herself.
“Hmm, yes, he is nice but far too boyish for me,” Leila says after checking him out. Busy trying to make eye contact with Lady Luxe, he doesn’t even look at Leila and she feels a twang of envy. Not at the way Lady Luxe looks – she knows she is far, far sexier - but because her youth is silently slipping away. Too boyish = too young. She sighs and rummages around for her phone.
Having made eye contact a couple of times with Lady Luxe, Mr Delicious feels confident enough to introduce himself and saying something to his less fabulous friend, starts heading in their direction. Lady Luxe averts her gaze, pretending not to notice his approach.
“Yes, I totally agree that the UAE government needs to be made aware of the situation,” she says in a loud, English accent as soon as he is within earshot. Leila stares at her and Lady Luxe stares back, opening her eyes wider, trying to get the message across.
“What situation?” Leila asks stupidly.
“Yes, yes, I fully comprehend what you are saying,” she replies, almost shouting and nudging her sharply. “IT REALLY IS A COMPLEX ISSUE THAT I BELIEVE WILL BE SOLVED!”
“I DON’T THINK YOU DO COMPREHEND WHAT I’M SAYING,” Leila shouts back in confusion. When Mr Delicious coughs and looks down at them, realization finally dawns and she hurriedly exclaims the poshest thing she can think of.
“Rightly so!” she yells in a strange accent and a massive smile. “Gosh, you really are intelligent!”
“Good evening ladies. May I partake in this riveting conversation?” Mr Delicious asks with a small smile.
“We would be delighted to invite you to join us but I’m afraid the conversation was confidential,” Lady Luxe purrs, moving up to let him sit beside her. As he does, their thighs collide and she gets a whiff of his cologne. Her stomach begins to tingle and a shiver runs down her spine. A man hasn’t had this affect on her for a long time and unlike most men, he looks even better close up. His jaw line is sharp, his eyelashes are thick and his body seems to be tight and toned under the fitted shirt.
As the night progresses, Lady Luxe finds herself slowly becoming more and more drawn to him. They talk solely in English, so she still hasn’t worked out where he is from and his American accent hasn’t given anything away either, given the amount of American schools in Dubai.
The three of them laugh and joke together like old friends as they talk about books, films, music and Dubai, with Mr Delicious' friend appearing every so often to say a few words before disappearing back into the darkness for some ambiguous 'business'. When the DJ finally starts playing R&B, Mr Delicious stands up and pulls Lady Luxe to the dance floor. She is conflicted as they start moving to the music, half of her desperately wanting to grind against him and reenact Usher’s ‘Love in the Club.’ The other half, however, is anxious for him to respect her and want her for more than just sex. So, instead of giving in to her wantonness, she dances prettily in front of him, careful not to shake her small derrière too much.
Towards the end of the night and countless drinks later (which he pays for), he takes her phone from her hand while she checks it for messages and stores his phone number in it himself.
“I never ask for a lady’s number,” he explains at her amused smile. “A real lady will never give it anyway. So here you go Princess, the ball’s in your court.” With that, he shakes her and Leila’s hands gently, bids them farewell and disappears, leaving both girls in complete awe but also a little surprised. It's not normal for a decent Arab guy to just leave two girls alone in a club without offering to drive them home, or at the very least, seeing them into a taxi.
Lady Luxe watches his retreating back, her body on fire. She can’t believe that they have spent an entire evening together and she doesn’t know anything about him other than his name, the music he listens to and the movies he likes.
And Leila? She too is stunned. Although Mr Delicious is very clearly uninterested in her, the few times he stared into her eyes, she felt a stirring in the pit of her stomach. She has never gone for ‘boyish’ boys before – that is Lady Luxe’s style – but this one is charming, witty, friendly and funny… She also spotted a Rolex on his left wrist.
Half an hour later, they are ready to leave, and Lady Luxe feels an odd pang of loneliness now that Mr Delicious has gone. They go to the restroom briefly and when she hands over her Hermes clutch for Leila to hold while she pees, Leila takes out her best friend's phone, scrolls through the contact list and commits Mr Delicious’ number to memory. Just in case.
Lady Luxe, unlike most couture abaya designers, offers a bespoke service that allows her customers to create their own abayas with her guidance. This freedom to play with her existing designs makes her popular with women looking for something unique and personal. Bounding out of bed, she has a shower and then wanders downstairs in three-quarter length white pyjama trousers and a pink French Connection t-shirt that has shrunk and now exposes a tiny bit of her torso. She is reluctant to get rid of it because it makes her feel like a teenager.
“Sabah al khair,” Mohamed mutters as she enters the spacious bright kitchen with its pristine black and white surfaces and cabinets. Very contemporary, it looks like it belongs in a catalogue and is nothing like the cluttered and cosy kitchen of her childhood.
“Good morning yourself,” she answers, sitting opposite him on the centre island counter, watching him devour his homemade waffles, courtesy of Claudine, the competent European cook. “Had a good night?”
“Yes.” He continues eating and flicking through the newspaper without looking at her.
“What did you do?” she tries again.
“I went out with my friends.”
“Where did you go?”
“What the hell is up with these questions? Are you mutawwa or something?” He finally looks up at her and scowls. “You need new pyjamas. You look indecent.”
“These pyjamas are fine. It’s not as if there are strange guys here.”
Frowning, she takes a bite of the homemade waffles smothered in whipped cream, hot chocolate sauce with fresh strawberries on the side and sighs. She has given up trying to be friends with Mohamed. He is only three years older than her but she feels as if there is a ravine between them. He is wearing a beige candoura and his briefcase is sitting on the stool next to him, as if it is a very important person.
They sit in silence for a while, Lady Luxe enjoying the buttery fragrance of the waffles and Mohamed reading Gulf News, when he suddenly looks up.
“My friend took your number for his mother who wants something designed,” he begins. “You’re meeting her today I heard. Don’t mess it up, I don’t want to be embarrassed in front of him.”
Lady Luxe stares at him. In just one year, she has created and launched a successful fashion label, has showcased at Dubai Fashion Week, has designed over fifty customized abayas as well as two collections and has made a tidy profit for herself. She is also in the process of signing a contract with the founders of X Boutique, who want to sell both her SS and AW collections.
“Says the guy whose career in government is as menial and unimaginative as his penis,” she mumbles in Arabic under her breath, fuming. Because of his comment, she is half-inclined to intentionally destroy the woman’s abaya, just to embarrass him.
“What did you say?” Mohamed growls, grabbing her wrist from across the counter and squeezing it hard. Although not obviously buff, his hours at the gym have paid off and he is broad and muscular. He can easily break Lady Luxe’s arm in two and she winces at the force of his grip.
“Nothing!” she says defiantly. She doesn’t have enough time to cover any bruises with concealor and foundation again when the woman will arrive in less than an hour.
“Good,” he says, letting go of her wrist and shoving her arm away from him as if it is contagious. Pushing his plate to one side, he leaves it for Anna-Marie, the maid, to clear up and exits the villa.
“Have a good day, habibi,” Lady Luxe calls out after him. Now that he has gone, she allows herself to rub her sore wrist, asks Claudine for some ice in order to numb the tenderness, and then quickly changes into a pretty, yellow, Tara Jarmon dress. She often dresses in Jarmon when she is meeting clients as the cuts are flattering and feminine but conservative. She loves Tara Jarmon as a person as well and prefers to support those she likes and admires. Her customers also like to feel that they are dealing with a professional, fashionable and respectable young woman so she puts on the act as much as she can. She even has a pair of black, Prada glasses that she often wears to look older and more intelligent. Spraying herself with ‘Miss Charming’, she scans her office to ensure everything is in place. Previously a guest bedroom, her office is elegant and luxurious, with its three off-white walls and black and white patterned feature wall. Together with the black leather sofas, chrome furniture and lots of turquoise and purple accessories, it is exactly how she always envisioned it to be.
She makes sure she has her sketchbook to hand and that her look book is out on the glass coffee table next to the artfully arranged fresh lilies that arrive every three days. On the opposite end of the room, by the bay window, are the silver mannequins wearing her latest designs and the closet is full of the older collections. On the marble mantel piece is her coveted ‘Abaya Designer of the Year’ award and next to it is the framed photo of her receiving it. She also has a file with cuttings from all the magazines and newspapers that have featured her as a ‘bright young thing’ which she likes to look through every once in a while.
“Miss Lady Luxe, Madame X is here,” says Anna-Marie, who always transforms into her assistant whenever she has clients over.
“Salam’Alaikom khalti,” Lady Luxe greets the forty-something, robust woman with three kisses and gestures for her to take a seat. They sip black tea and browse the look book together, creating an abaya with the tiniest smattering of real pearls, talking fashion, beauty and traveling. After two hours, Madame X has been measured, has chosen her fabric and will come back in two weeks for a fitting when the abaya has been made. Sitting back on the black, leather sofa, Lady Luxe picks up her Blackberry and emails Leila. Her father is away once again and will not be back for three days. No matter how relieved she is after last night's narrow escape, she is not so relieved that she is ready to pledge allegience to God. She is however, slightly wary so to protect herself should her father make another surprise visit home, she sends both him and Mohamed a quick SMS saying she'll be out late. She has business to attend do.
***
That evening, Lady Luxe meets Leila at the Cavalli Club. Having attended the opening party and exchanged business cards with Roberto himself, Lady Luxe isn’t as impressed as Leila by the decadent, Swarovski studded interior. In ode to the creator, she is wearing a hot pink short, flowery Cavalli dress that shows off her small but firm cleavage and long, toned legs. Together with three-inch gold, strappy Cavalli sandals and her blonde wig now recovered from being accosted the previous night, she looks lithe and sophisticated. With Leila by her side in a tiny black sheath dress, her hair tumbling down her back in loose curls and her eyes rimmed in thick kohl, every single man in the club has his eyes on them both. And the girls know it.
“So, what’s the latest on Old Fart?” Lady Luxe asks as they sit in a small booth with a perfect view of the entrance.
“He called me a couple of times but I’ve been ignoring him,” Leila replies.
“Loser,” they both say in unison and then smile at each other.
“Well, here’s to the better hammour in the Gulf pacific,” Lady Luxe toasts, holding up her martini. They clink glasses, take delicate sips from their drinks and then survey the talent. Lady Luxe spots one potential, and although she usually steers clear of Arab guys, she is willing to make an exception with him. Well over six-feet with dark brown, messy hair, his complexion is slightly fairer than hers and she guesses him to be Lebanese. She tells herself that this doesn’t really count as Arab anyway. He looks youngish, around twenty-seven maybe, and she glances over at Leila hoping that she hasn’t spotted him. She sighs in relief when she realizes Leila is preoccupied with the contents of her signature Gucci clutch.
“Okay, I’ve spotted a potential and I’ve seen him first,” she declares. As she does, Mr Delicious catches her gaze and flashes a wide smile at her. He’s wearing a plain white shirt over faded jeans and trainers and she wonders how he managed to get in dressed like that. She smiles a small, shy smile back and then looks away. Let the game begin, she thinks to herself.
“Hmm, yes, he is nice but far too boyish for me,” Leila says after checking him out. Busy trying to make eye contact with Lady Luxe, he doesn’t even look at Leila and she feels a twang of envy. Not at the way Lady Luxe looks – she knows she is far, far sexier - but because her youth is silently slipping away. Too boyish = too young. She sighs and rummages around for her phone.
Having made eye contact a couple of times with Lady Luxe, Mr Delicious feels confident enough to introduce himself and saying something to his less fabulous friend, starts heading in their direction. Lady Luxe averts her gaze, pretending not to notice his approach.
“Yes, I totally agree that the UAE government needs to be made aware of the situation,” she says in a loud, English accent as soon as he is within earshot. Leila stares at her and Lady Luxe stares back, opening her eyes wider, trying to get the message across.
“What situation?” Leila asks stupidly.
“Yes, yes, I fully comprehend what you are saying,” she replies, almost shouting and nudging her sharply. “IT REALLY IS A COMPLEX ISSUE THAT I BELIEVE WILL BE SOLVED!”
“I DON’T THINK YOU DO COMPREHEND WHAT I’M SAYING,” Leila shouts back in confusion. When Mr Delicious coughs and looks down at them, realization finally dawns and she hurriedly exclaims the poshest thing she can think of.
“Rightly so!” she yells in a strange accent and a massive smile. “Gosh, you really are intelligent!”
“Good evening ladies. May I partake in this riveting conversation?” Mr Delicious asks with a small smile.
“We would be delighted to invite you to join us but I’m afraid the conversation was confidential,” Lady Luxe purrs, moving up to let him sit beside her. As he does, their thighs collide and she gets a whiff of his cologne. Her stomach begins to tingle and a shiver runs down her spine. A man hasn’t had this affect on her for a long time and unlike most men, he looks even better close up. His jaw line is sharp, his eyelashes are thick and his body seems to be tight and toned under the fitted shirt.
As the night progresses, Lady Luxe finds herself slowly becoming more and more drawn to him. They talk solely in English, so she still hasn’t worked out where he is from and his American accent hasn’t given anything away either, given the amount of American schools in Dubai.
The three of them laugh and joke together like old friends as they talk about books, films, music and Dubai, with Mr Delicious' friend appearing every so often to say a few words before disappearing back into the darkness for some ambiguous 'business'. When the DJ finally starts playing R&B, Mr Delicious stands up and pulls Lady Luxe to the dance floor. She is conflicted as they start moving to the music, half of her desperately wanting to grind against him and reenact Usher’s ‘Love in the Club.’ The other half, however, is anxious for him to respect her and want her for more than just sex. So, instead of giving in to her wantonness, she dances prettily in front of him, careful not to shake her small derrière too much.
Towards the end of the night and countless drinks later (which he pays for), he takes her phone from her hand while she checks it for messages and stores his phone number in it himself.
“I never ask for a lady’s number,” he explains at her amused smile. “A real lady will never give it anyway. So here you go Princess, the ball’s in your court.” With that, he shakes her and Leila’s hands gently, bids them farewell and disappears, leaving both girls in complete awe but also a little surprised. It's not normal for a decent Arab guy to just leave two girls alone in a club without offering to drive them home, or at the very least, seeing them into a taxi.
Lady Luxe watches his retreating back, her body on fire. She can’t believe that they have spent an entire evening together and she doesn’t know anything about him other than his name, the music he listens to and the movies he likes.
And Leila? She too is stunned. Although Mr Delicious is very clearly uninterested in her, the few times he stared into her eyes, she felt a stirring in the pit of her stomach. She has never gone for ‘boyish’ boys before – that is Lady Luxe’s style – but this one is charming, witty, friendly and funny… She also spotted a Rolex on his left wrist.
Half an hour later, they are ready to leave, and Lady Luxe feels an odd pang of loneliness now that Mr Delicious has gone. They go to the restroom briefly and when she hands over her Hermes clutch for Leila to hold while she pees, Leila takes out her best friend's phone, scrolls through the contact list and commits Mr Delicious’ number to memory. Just in case.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Chapter Five - The Ticking Clock
As Lady Luxe looks down at Buff, admiring the hard lines on his body, she has the strangest urge to climb back into bed with him. Although the sex isn’t the best she’s had (far from it in fact), there is something comforting about his droopy eyes and strong arms, and she enjoys being in his embrace. There was a tricky moment during the session though, when he became a little too enthusiastic and grabbed a fistful of her 7,000 dhs golden wig, which turned lopsided on her head. In his passion, he thankfully didn’t notice and she quickly pulled it back into place, mentally cursing herself for having such a ridiculous disguise in the first place. In that moment, fear crept inside her and the nagging voice that bugged her during the quiet hours of the night reminded her that her luck would eventually run out. What if he had pulled it off altogether and then recounted the story of the Arab brunette with the yellow wig to all his friends? Gossip spread like thrush in Dubai and if even a whisper got out, she would have to ditch her ‘Jennifer’ persona altogether. This voice ruined any pleasure she may have got from Buff’s fumbling, clumsy hands and big, vacuum-like mouth as now, she was more interested in keeping her wig in place than orgasming.
Carefully lifting his heavy arm off her back, she slides out of bed as gently as possible. As she does, she catches sight of herself in his floor length mirror. Mascara smudged, wig askew, she looks like a Russian prostitute in the cold, white light illuminating the room from the en-suite bathroom door that has been left ajar. She pulls on her skinny jeans and tight, white sleeveless top, stuffs her feet into her purple metallic Manolos and hurries out of the 18th floor apartment in Dubai Marina. As she passes the reception area, she makes sure to look completely straight ahead, familiar with the smirk that is likely to be on the security guard’s face and not in the mood to acknowledge it.
On her way back to Za’abeel in her nondescript black Porsche Cayenne Turbo with the equally nondescript five number license plate (after all, no one forgets a double digit plate), Lady Luxe stops in a quiet road in Jumeirah, retrieves her abaya from the back seat and slowly puts it on. Removing the blonde wig from her hair, she places it in a plastic bag and leaves it in the back of the car, her handbag too stuffed to accommodate it. She takes out the prescription-free, purely cosmetic blue contact lenses, pops a mint into her mouth and sprays a generous dose of ‘Midnight Oud’, the new fragrance by Romano Ricci’s quirky perfume brand, Juliette Has a Gun, all over herself. After meeting him at a fashion party in Paris, she has fallen in love with his charm and only ever wears his perfumes. During the day, she is ‘Miss Charming’, in a club she’s ‘Lady Vengeance’ and on a date, she is ‘Citizen Queen’. However, whenever she has to be herself – Lady Luxe – she opts for ‘Midnight Oud’, a mysterious, sexy fragrance infused with sandalwood, amber and saffron. Rubbing away the mascara from under her eyes, she reapplies her lip gloss and then continues her journey home. The clock reads 02:45. She is surprised as she assumed it was far later, and she is thankful that her father is still away on business. However, her older brother, Mohamed, may be back from an evening entertaining voluptuous, Moroccan women so she has to be careful not to let him suspect that her own adventures are far more daring than his.
Passing through the security gates of her father’s sprawling villa, she feels her heart shudder when spots the study light on. Only her father ever enters the study at night. Parking between Mohamed’s orange AMG and her younger brother Ahmed’s run-of-the-mill Nissan Patrol, she turns off the engine and takes a deep breath before getting out the car. She winces at the shrill beep when she locks it, acutely aware of every rustle around her, and wishes she was wearing silent trainers and not heels that will undoubtedly clatter across the marble hallway.
They do.
“Meno hni?” a deep voice calls out, echoing in the sparse hallway, void of any furniture, the only decoration being the stained glassed window at the top of the stairs. During the day, the greens, blues and reds dance along the marble floors in the warm sunlight and as a child, Lady Luxe believed them to come from heaven.
“It’s me,” she replies in English, her pace quickening as she hastily makes for the stairs that are in the centre of the foyer, splitting into two at the top. Her bedroom is on the left, whereas her father’s and brothers’ rooms are on the right. He isn't due back for another three days and even his PA confirmed that he wouldn't be back until mid-week when she called the day before.
“Come here,” her father says, his soft voice laced with ice.
Shit.
Taking another long breath, Lady Luxe composes herself as her mind quickly creates the stories she will have to tell. As she enters her father’s study, she is engulfed by the intoxicating scent of bakhoor. A contrast to the rest of the contemporary décor in the spacious, airy villa, the study is painted a dark maroon and is lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves. Her father is sitting on a large, dark green leather armchair smoking a cigar and he gestures for her to sit down on an identical chair next to him.
“Salam’alaikom Baba,” she says, sitting down.
“ ‘Alaikom salam,” he replies without looking at her. They sit in silence for a while as he continues to inhale and exhale his cigar and Lady Luxe wishes she could ask him for a draw herself as her palms begin to sweat.
“What is the time?” he asks after a while.
“Almost 3am,” she replies confidently.
“And what were you doing roaming the streets until Al Fajr?”
“I went to Maryam Al X’s home. She has some ideas for my business.” At the mention of her business, Lady Luxe sees her father soften. Disappointed in Mohamed for not having a single entrepreneurial bone in his body, he is secretly proud of his daughter for creating an abaya label, putting together a business plan, securing funding (albeit from him) and gaining a steady stream of returning customers.
"What ideas does she have?"
Lady Luxe stares at her father, unsure as to what to say. Her pulse racing and her mind struggling to keep up, she keeps a straight face, well aware she is hugging her bag to her chest so tightly that her fists are turning white.
"Loads," she manages to say airily. "She told me about her friend who is a website designer who can create a website for me, so we spent some time researching websites and so on. She also thinks that I need to cater to international clientele. You know, khaleejis living in London or the US who wear abaya and she has a contact in London who can help me."
"So you spent five hours talking about these two points?" Lady Luxe's father looks at her straight in the eyes and she looks back at him, anxious not to break her gaze and make herself look like she is crumbling.
"Of course not!" she laughs, still holding on to her bag for support. "Baba, you know us girls. First we had dinner, they made delicious home made pizza which I have to get the recipe for. Claudine's pizza is really lacking. Then we were chatting about...you don't want to know the details of who wore what to whose party do you?" She flashes her father a big smile and he visibly relaxes. She doesn't though. She is well aware of her father's temper and what he is capable of doing if his boundaries are pushed.
"Fine, but you know how I feel about you coming home late."
"I know Baba and I'm sorry, I would have called you but I knew you were away and you know how Mohamed is. He hates it when I disturb him when he's out so I didn't want to have to deal with that." Still gripping onto her bag, scared that if she releases her hands, they will start shaking and if she gives her father the slightest hint that she is less confident than she appears, he will be sure to pounce on her hestitation like a lion and it's prey.
“Let me see your handbag,” he suddenly demands after a pause. Shocked, Lady Luxe's mouth falls open slightly.
"Why?" she asks, buying time, her mind spinning as she tries to work out what is in it. Although she is relieved that she left the wig in the car, she still doesn’t know what other incriminating objects may be lurking around in the depths of her large and very full Birkin bag. She’s positive that there is a packet of Marlboro Lights somewhere amongst the makeup, spare shoes, sunshade, spare sheila and she prays with every ounce of her being that there are no condoms.
"Because you have been clutching on to it like a mother with her newborn and I am curious as to why you are worried that I will see what is inside."
"I'm not worried. I'm holding it because it's stuffed full of rubbish and I don't want everything to spill out." I really don't want everything to spill out.
"Then hand it over. Let me see what you girls are carrying around with you these days and why you insist on lugging such huge bags with you." His voice is jolly, but Lady Luxe recognises the hardness behind the facade and wordlessly hands it over.
She watches her father rummage through her Birkin with her breath stuck in her throat and for the first time, is thankful that it is full of useless things – fabric samples, leaflets, jewellery. Almost immediately, he comes across a pair of flimsy, lacy knickers, he withdraws his as if he has been burnt and thrusts the bag back at her. Lady Luxe releases the air in her lungs. Her breath now steady, her heart slowing down, she now feels indignant that her father had the audacity to question her like that and the more she thinks about it, the more annoyed she feels. She feels like an innocent bystander accused of murder.
“I can’t believe you did that, Baba,” she says, feeling a lot stronger knowing that he is now embarrassed. "You see why I didn't want my things to fall out?”
“Be quiet,” he snaps. “I don’t care if you’re working on your business, you are a lady and you will behave like one. If you wish to stay out later than 2am, you will inform me and Mohamed of your exact whereabouts. Go to your room.”
She does, relief pouring out of every pore, every cell. As soon as she gets to her bedroom, she empties out her entire handbag onto her four poster bed. She finds a single, foil wrapped condom as well as a tiny plastic bag of weed. She flushes them both down the toilet in her en-suite bathroom, her heart beginning to work overtime again. This time, her father had checked her bag but what if next time he checked her phone? Although she has two – one for business, family and friends and another unregistered one for fun, he can easily come across the wrong one if he decides to make a habit of looking through her things.
Making space on her bed, she sits crossed legged, still in her abaya, and opens her ‘fun’ inbox. Her face turns pale as she comes across hundreds of dirty text messages from countless guys. She hits ‘delete all’ and decides to delete every new message that comes through. She does the same with the sent messages.
Tonight she has been lucky and she knows that it’s only a matter of time – or in her case – an investigative father – before it runs out.
Carefully lifting his heavy arm off her back, she slides out of bed as gently as possible. As she does, she catches sight of herself in his floor length mirror. Mascara smudged, wig askew, she looks like a Russian prostitute in the cold, white light illuminating the room from the en-suite bathroom door that has been left ajar. She pulls on her skinny jeans and tight, white sleeveless top, stuffs her feet into her purple metallic Manolos and hurries out of the 18th floor apartment in Dubai Marina. As she passes the reception area, she makes sure to look completely straight ahead, familiar with the smirk that is likely to be on the security guard’s face and not in the mood to acknowledge it.
On her way back to Za’abeel in her nondescript black Porsche Cayenne Turbo with the equally nondescript five number license plate (after all, no one forgets a double digit plate), Lady Luxe stops in a quiet road in Jumeirah, retrieves her abaya from the back seat and slowly puts it on. Removing the blonde wig from her hair, she places it in a plastic bag and leaves it in the back of the car, her handbag too stuffed to accommodate it. She takes out the prescription-free, purely cosmetic blue contact lenses, pops a mint into her mouth and sprays a generous dose of ‘Midnight Oud’, the new fragrance by Romano Ricci’s quirky perfume brand, Juliette Has a Gun, all over herself. After meeting him at a fashion party in Paris, she has fallen in love with his charm and only ever wears his perfumes. During the day, she is ‘Miss Charming’, in a club she’s ‘Lady Vengeance’ and on a date, she is ‘Citizen Queen’. However, whenever she has to be herself – Lady Luxe – she opts for ‘Midnight Oud’, a mysterious, sexy fragrance infused with sandalwood, amber and saffron. Rubbing away the mascara from under her eyes, she reapplies her lip gloss and then continues her journey home. The clock reads 02:45. She is surprised as she assumed it was far later, and she is thankful that her father is still away on business. However, her older brother, Mohamed, may be back from an evening entertaining voluptuous, Moroccan women so she has to be careful not to let him suspect that her own adventures are far more daring than his.
Passing through the security gates of her father’s sprawling villa, she feels her heart shudder when spots the study light on. Only her father ever enters the study at night. Parking between Mohamed’s orange AMG and her younger brother Ahmed’s run-of-the-mill Nissan Patrol, she turns off the engine and takes a deep breath before getting out the car. She winces at the shrill beep when she locks it, acutely aware of every rustle around her, and wishes she was wearing silent trainers and not heels that will undoubtedly clatter across the marble hallway.
They do.
“Meno hni?” a deep voice calls out, echoing in the sparse hallway, void of any furniture, the only decoration being the stained glassed window at the top of the stairs. During the day, the greens, blues and reds dance along the marble floors in the warm sunlight and as a child, Lady Luxe believed them to come from heaven.
“It’s me,” she replies in English, her pace quickening as she hastily makes for the stairs that are in the centre of the foyer, splitting into two at the top. Her bedroom is on the left, whereas her father’s and brothers’ rooms are on the right. He isn't due back for another three days and even his PA confirmed that he wouldn't be back until mid-week when she called the day before.
“Come here,” her father says, his soft voice laced with ice.
Shit.
Taking another long breath, Lady Luxe composes herself as her mind quickly creates the stories she will have to tell. As she enters her father’s study, she is engulfed by the intoxicating scent of bakhoor. A contrast to the rest of the contemporary décor in the spacious, airy villa, the study is painted a dark maroon and is lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves. Her father is sitting on a large, dark green leather armchair smoking a cigar and he gestures for her to sit down on an identical chair next to him.
“Salam’alaikom Baba,” she says, sitting down.
“ ‘Alaikom salam,” he replies without looking at her. They sit in silence for a while as he continues to inhale and exhale his cigar and Lady Luxe wishes she could ask him for a draw herself as her palms begin to sweat.
“What is the time?” he asks after a while.
“Almost 3am,” she replies confidently.
“And what were you doing roaming the streets until Al Fajr?”
“I went to Maryam Al X’s home. She has some ideas for my business.” At the mention of her business, Lady Luxe sees her father soften. Disappointed in Mohamed for not having a single entrepreneurial bone in his body, he is secretly proud of his daughter for creating an abaya label, putting together a business plan, securing funding (albeit from him) and gaining a steady stream of returning customers.
"What ideas does she have?"
Lady Luxe stares at her father, unsure as to what to say. Her pulse racing and her mind struggling to keep up, she keeps a straight face, well aware she is hugging her bag to her chest so tightly that her fists are turning white.
"Loads," she manages to say airily. "She told me about her friend who is a website designer who can create a website for me, so we spent some time researching websites and so on. She also thinks that I need to cater to international clientele. You know, khaleejis living in London or the US who wear abaya and she has a contact in London who can help me."
"So you spent five hours talking about these two points?" Lady Luxe's father looks at her straight in the eyes and she looks back at him, anxious not to break her gaze and make herself look like she is crumbling.
"Of course not!" she laughs, still holding on to her bag for support. "Baba, you know us girls. First we had dinner, they made delicious home made pizza which I have to get the recipe for. Claudine's pizza is really lacking. Then we were chatting about...you don't want to know the details of who wore what to whose party do you?" She flashes her father a big smile and he visibly relaxes. She doesn't though. She is well aware of her father's temper and what he is capable of doing if his boundaries are pushed.
"Fine, but you know how I feel about you coming home late."
"I know Baba and I'm sorry, I would have called you but I knew you were away and you know how Mohamed is. He hates it when I disturb him when he's out so I didn't want to have to deal with that." Still gripping onto her bag, scared that if she releases her hands, they will start shaking and if she gives her father the slightest hint that she is less confident than she appears, he will be sure to pounce on her hestitation like a lion and it's prey.
“Let me see your handbag,” he suddenly demands after a pause. Shocked, Lady Luxe's mouth falls open slightly.
"Why?" she asks, buying time, her mind spinning as she tries to work out what is in it. Although she is relieved that she left the wig in the car, she still doesn’t know what other incriminating objects may be lurking around in the depths of her large and very full Birkin bag. She’s positive that there is a packet of Marlboro Lights somewhere amongst the makeup, spare shoes, sunshade, spare sheila and she prays with every ounce of her being that there are no condoms.
"Because you have been clutching on to it like a mother with her newborn and I am curious as to why you are worried that I will see what is inside."
"I'm not worried. I'm holding it because it's stuffed full of rubbish and I don't want everything to spill out." I really don't want everything to spill out.
"Then hand it over. Let me see what you girls are carrying around with you these days and why you insist on lugging such huge bags with you." His voice is jolly, but Lady Luxe recognises the hardness behind the facade and wordlessly hands it over.
She watches her father rummage through her Birkin with her breath stuck in her throat and for the first time, is thankful that it is full of useless things – fabric samples, leaflets, jewellery. Almost immediately, he comes across a pair of flimsy, lacy knickers, he withdraws his as if he has been burnt and thrusts the bag back at her. Lady Luxe releases the air in her lungs. Her breath now steady, her heart slowing down, she now feels indignant that her father had the audacity to question her like that and the more she thinks about it, the more annoyed she feels. She feels like an innocent bystander accused of murder.
“I can’t believe you did that, Baba,” she says, feeling a lot stronger knowing that he is now embarrassed. "You see why I didn't want my things to fall out?”
“Be quiet,” he snaps. “I don’t care if you’re working on your business, you are a lady and you will behave like one. If you wish to stay out later than 2am, you will inform me and Mohamed of your exact whereabouts. Go to your room.”
She does, relief pouring out of every pore, every cell. As soon as she gets to her bedroom, she empties out her entire handbag onto her four poster bed. She finds a single, foil wrapped condom as well as a tiny plastic bag of weed. She flushes them both down the toilet in her en-suite bathroom, her heart beginning to work overtime again. This time, her father had checked her bag but what if next time he checked her phone? Although she has two – one for business, family and friends and another unregistered one for fun, he can easily come across the wrong one if he decides to make a habit of looking through her things.
Making space on her bed, she sits crossed legged, still in her abaya, and opens her ‘fun’ inbox. Her face turns pale as she comes across hundreds of dirty text messages from countless guys. She hits ‘delete all’ and decides to delete every new message that comes through. She does the same with the sent messages.
Tonight she has been lucky and she knows that it’s only a matter of time – or in her case – an investigative father – before it runs out.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Chapter Four - The Endless Quest for a Husband
Leila suppresses a yawn as politely as possible as the fifty-three year old banker sitting opposite her bores her with supposedly witty tales from the banking industry. He drones on and on, completely oblivious to the blank look on her face, the emptiness in her eyes and the slump of her shoulders.
The date starts off promisingly. He picks her up in a black BMW 7 series which may not be the caliber she has experienced before, but is good enough. He has taken her to Zheng He's, the Chinese restaurant at the Madinat Jumeirah and has booked an outside table that boasts of spectacular views of the Burj al Arab, illuminated in the warm, night sky. Another box is mentally ticked. She can’t decipher the cut of his dark grey suit and is unsure as to whether it is designer or not, but at this stage, she doesn’t really care. She may be desperate for a husband but unless he is filthy rich, she will never put up with such a selfish dinner partner who refuses to at least try and make an effort to be polite and charming. In Leila's opinion, men who aren’t in the private jet league, have no right to be so mind-numbingly boring.
"Excuse me," she manages to say as soon as there is a pause in his monologue, getting up to go to the restroom. "I'll be back in just a moment."
"No problem sweetheart," he drools, staring at her plunging neckline with his beady blue eyes decorated with wrinkles. At fifty-three, he is older than most of the men she has ever dated but still far from her secret cut-off mark of fifty-nine. She narrows her eyes at him, smoothes down her beige knee-length cashmere skirt and stalks off to the restroom in relief. She can feel his eyes on her ass and she wiggles it a little bit more. After all, he isn’t going to get anything else tonight so he may as well get a good look at her infamous, Lebanese trunk full of junk, as described by the ever-eloquent Fergie.
Plenty of heads turn as she saunters across the restaurant, men and women alike – the men appreciative and the women constantly looking for flaws or praying for her to stumble and reveal old, greying knickers.
Men are always watching Leila move. Her walk is graceful and seductive, her shoulders always pulled back and her head held up high. She moves as if she is on a catwalk in Milan, not a restaurant, mall or even beach in Dubai. She is not overtly beautiful; her lips are a little bit too big (too much collagen), her nose is a little bit too sharp (an over-enthusiastic cosmetic surgeon) and her eyebrows are a tad too thin (no one to blame but herself). However, her big, blonde hair (courtesy of a fabulous hair stylist), smooth skin (La Mer), double Ds (a souvenir from Beverly Hills) and firm behind (her maternal genes) more than compensate for her aesthetically-off facial features.
As soon as she is away from everyone’s scrutiny, Leila whips out her mobile phone and hits speed dial number eight – her equivalent of 999.
“ ‘Sup shorty,” Lady Luxe drawls, answering almost immediately. “It’s only 10pm so he's either tried groping your ass a little too early or he's taken you for a streetside shawarma. It's not good, is it?”
“It’s not!” Leila whispers, afraid that the Old Fart may be skulking around outside the door, listening, until she remembers that he isn’t creative enough to think of something so adventurous and he isn't Arab either, so the chances of him stalking her are very thin.
“What’s wrong?”
“Ya’ani… he’s… just… so… boring!” she finally splutters, at a loss for a better adjective.
“That’s it? Come on habibti, you’ve dated worse,” Lady Luxe reminds her with a laugh. “Remember the one who tried to impress you by - ”
“I remember!” Leila snaps. “But you don’t understand! He’s not only ridiculously boring but he’s a pervert and keeps trying to stare down my blouse. I need to get out of here quickly!”
“Fine, I’ll arrange something. Go back to the table and order some dessert for a change. It might sweeten you up. What’s his name again?”
“Old Fart,” Leila answers quickly and then hangs up. Reapplying her signature deep red Bobbi Brown lipstick and blotting her slightly greasy nose, she quickly checks for food lurking around in her bright, white teeth and heads out of the restroom with dread. Directly outside the door stands a tall local man, quite handsome, with a gleam in his small eyes.
“Marhaba,” he drawls in a deep voice, slowly looking her up and down and absorbing the curve of her hips, her tiny waist and the swell of her chest.
“Hello,” she replies, quickly assessing him. His pristine white candoura is gleaming almost as much as his eyes, he is wearing a Tag Heur watch and there is no wedding ring in sight.
“Here’s my business card. Call me.” It’s not a question, but a statement, and before Leila can reply, he stalks off, leaving behind a faint scent of ‘oud. Not sure whether to be affronted by his assumption or complimented by the interest, she slips the card into her Gucci clutch (courtesy of the Generous Geriatric) and drags herself back to her table.
Almost as soon as she sits down though, Old Fart’s phone begins to ring and she sits up straight, her ears perking up with interest. He answers nonchalantly but his face quickly turns red with rage. Hanging up abruptly and spluttering something about an emergency, he gestures for the bill.
“I’m so sorry dear, but something has come up,” he says vaguely whilst signing the cheque. “Here, take a taxi home.” He throws a hundred dirham note on the table and disappears, leaving Leila half relieved and half pissed off. She hates taxis.
***
Half an hour later, Leila is sitting at Barasti with Lady Luxe, who is in her 'Jennifer' disguise – a long, blonde wig and blue contact lenses – sipping a colourful cocktail and ignoring the feeling of disappointment from yet another bad date. She is one of the very few people who knows about Lady Luxe's alter-ego and is fully aware of her privilege. Although she is happy that she is trusted with the knowledge, she does wonder if she will ever have to use it as leverage. She hopes not. Despite the ten year age difference (which she will never, ever admit and has even sworn on her dead grandmother's grave, may God bless her soul, that she is still twenty-seven), the difference in social status, upbringing and religion, she actually likes Lady Luxe and enjoys her company. She's a lot less pretentious than the majority of her friends and despite her craziness, her heart is usually in the right place. They also have completely different tastes in men (Lady Luxe is still young enough to care solely about looks and charm) and thankfully, the 'hoes over bros' philosophy has never had to be tested.
"So what did you do to get the Old Fart running out of Madinat Jumeirah like his wife's in labour?" Leila asks.
"I got his wife to call." Lady Luxe shrugs nonchalantly, looking around her for potential meals in the form of sexy men.
"He has a wife?" Leila splutters, choking on her drink. "The lying bastard! He told me he's divorced!"
"He is. Three times. But he's also married to the daughter of some Iranian businessman who knows my brother." Lady Luxe spots her dinner and smiles cheekily at a tall, broad man on the other side of the bar. He smiles back at her and she averts her gaze. Her rule is to only make eye contact with a man once until he musters up the courage to talk to her.
Leila sighs as embarrassment washes over her, willing her face not to turn pink in shame. She has been in Dubai for nearly a decade and she still isn’t able to spot the winners from the losers, the honest from the deceitful. The single from the married. Her last boyfriend turned out to be all three. A wealthy local businessman, he wooed her with orchids on her doorstep every Friday, long, lazy cruises aboard his private yacht in the weekends and, deeper into their six-month relationship, spontaneous weekend trips to Oman. Leila hadn’t found it unusual that he never introduced her to his family – Arab men rarely did until they were ready to get married – and nor did she find it strange that he was always working. Maybe she just didn’t want to read the signs; the way he would never let her look through his phone, the way he was never free on a Friday and the way he would suddenly become withdrawn, his mind clearly preoccupied with something he would refuse to talk about. She was just too hopeful that maybe this time, she had found The One.
They broke up after Leila had received a hysterical phone call from a woman who swore by her entire clan, ancestors and descendents that if Leila married her husband and became his second wife, she would poison her in her sleep. She never told any of her friends – including Lady Luxe - what the real reason for their break up was. Until now, she still pretends that she had grown bored of the tall, handsome, wealthy and charming Emirati (yeah right, was the look on most of her friends’ faces) and she has also resolved never to date a local guy again. She has a sneaking suspicion that Lady Luxe, with her ability to find out everything - from how many fillings a man has to how many women he has slept with - knows the truth but didn’t tell her for fear of hurting her, and for this, she is thankful. She hates being at anyone’s mercy, hates appearing weak or vulnerable.
When Leila moved to Dubai, when she was still a brunette with a wonky nose, blemished skin and B cup breasts, she never expected that she would grow into the kind of woman that needs a husband in order to feel accomplished. She thought that having a successful career and driving a BMW 3 series would be enough to make her feel content until Sheikh Charming came along. Over the years though, as most of her friends have settled down and started families, she has been feeling more and more alone. Dubai is, after all, a lonely, transitory place. People are always coming and going and it’s hard to maintain relationships like that. It is also full of temptation for men. The Las Vegas of the Middle East, women are available in all shapes and sizes and many are willing to sell their souls (not to mention their bodies) for the slightest bit of financial stability. The competition is tough for all women with high(ish) standards. An extended family that is desperate to see you with a ring on your finger doesn’t make the situation anymore bearable.
Towards the end of the evening, Lady Luxe disappears with a beefy but attractive Australian and Leila decides to go back to her one bedroom apartment in Discovery Gardens. Alone.
She walks into her empty apartment with tired eyes and a throbbing head. She longs for quiet evenings curled up on the sofa, leaning against a husband while they argue over what to watch on TV. She’s had a lot of time to visualize her fantasies in detail. In her dream, she’s wearing pink cotton pyjamas and he’s in shorts and a t-shirt.
In reality, she stands under the shower alone, trying to let the water numb the pain of having no one by her side. She goes through the motions of scrubbing her body clean with Bodyshop exfoliating scrubs, lathering her skin with moisturizer and carefully applying a dab of Crème De La Mer to her face, careful not to use too much for fear of it running out too soon, and rubbing cream onto her feet that are tired of being squeezed into tiny heels. Her beauty regime completed, she shuffles into her Queen-sized bed in an old, faded white nightshirt completely, and utterly alone. Face barren of makeup, she looks strangely innocent and young.
It takes her over an hour to eventually fall into a restless slumber.
The date starts off promisingly. He picks her up in a black BMW 7 series which may not be the caliber she has experienced before, but is good enough. He has taken her to Zheng He's, the Chinese restaurant at the Madinat Jumeirah and has booked an outside table that boasts of spectacular views of the Burj al Arab, illuminated in the warm, night sky. Another box is mentally ticked. She can’t decipher the cut of his dark grey suit and is unsure as to whether it is designer or not, but at this stage, she doesn’t really care. She may be desperate for a husband but unless he is filthy rich, she will never put up with such a selfish dinner partner who refuses to at least try and make an effort to be polite and charming. In Leila's opinion, men who aren’t in the private jet league, have no right to be so mind-numbingly boring.
"Excuse me," she manages to say as soon as there is a pause in his monologue, getting up to go to the restroom. "I'll be back in just a moment."
"No problem sweetheart," he drools, staring at her plunging neckline with his beady blue eyes decorated with wrinkles. At fifty-three, he is older than most of the men she has ever dated but still far from her secret cut-off mark of fifty-nine. She narrows her eyes at him, smoothes down her beige knee-length cashmere skirt and stalks off to the restroom in relief. She can feel his eyes on her ass and she wiggles it a little bit more. After all, he isn’t going to get anything else tonight so he may as well get a good look at her infamous, Lebanese trunk full of junk, as described by the ever-eloquent Fergie.
Plenty of heads turn as she saunters across the restaurant, men and women alike – the men appreciative and the women constantly looking for flaws or praying for her to stumble and reveal old, greying knickers.
Men are always watching Leila move. Her walk is graceful and seductive, her shoulders always pulled back and her head held up high. She moves as if she is on a catwalk in Milan, not a restaurant, mall or even beach in Dubai. She is not overtly beautiful; her lips are a little bit too big (too much collagen), her nose is a little bit too sharp (an over-enthusiastic cosmetic surgeon) and her eyebrows are a tad too thin (no one to blame but herself). However, her big, blonde hair (courtesy of a fabulous hair stylist), smooth skin (La Mer), double Ds (a souvenir from Beverly Hills) and firm behind (her maternal genes) more than compensate for her aesthetically-off facial features.
As soon as she is away from everyone’s scrutiny, Leila whips out her mobile phone and hits speed dial number eight – her equivalent of 999.
“ ‘Sup shorty,” Lady Luxe drawls, answering almost immediately. “It’s only 10pm so he's either tried groping your ass a little too early or he's taken you for a streetside shawarma. It's not good, is it?”
“It’s not!” Leila whispers, afraid that the Old Fart may be skulking around outside the door, listening, until she remembers that he isn’t creative enough to think of something so adventurous and he isn't Arab either, so the chances of him stalking her are very thin.
“What’s wrong?”
“Ya’ani… he’s… just… so… boring!” she finally splutters, at a loss for a better adjective.
“That’s it? Come on habibti, you’ve dated worse,” Lady Luxe reminds her with a laugh. “Remember the one who tried to impress you by - ”
“I remember!” Leila snaps. “But you don’t understand! He’s not only ridiculously boring but he’s a pervert and keeps trying to stare down my blouse. I need to get out of here quickly!”
“Fine, I’ll arrange something. Go back to the table and order some dessert for a change. It might sweeten you up. What’s his name again?”
“Old Fart,” Leila answers quickly and then hangs up. Reapplying her signature deep red Bobbi Brown lipstick and blotting her slightly greasy nose, she quickly checks for food lurking around in her bright, white teeth and heads out of the restroom with dread. Directly outside the door stands a tall local man, quite handsome, with a gleam in his small eyes.
“Marhaba,” he drawls in a deep voice, slowly looking her up and down and absorbing the curve of her hips, her tiny waist and the swell of her chest.
“Hello,” she replies, quickly assessing him. His pristine white candoura is gleaming almost as much as his eyes, he is wearing a Tag Heur watch and there is no wedding ring in sight.
“Here’s my business card. Call me.” It’s not a question, but a statement, and before Leila can reply, he stalks off, leaving behind a faint scent of ‘oud. Not sure whether to be affronted by his assumption or complimented by the interest, she slips the card into her Gucci clutch (courtesy of the Generous Geriatric) and drags herself back to her table.
Almost as soon as she sits down though, Old Fart’s phone begins to ring and she sits up straight, her ears perking up with interest. He answers nonchalantly but his face quickly turns red with rage. Hanging up abruptly and spluttering something about an emergency, he gestures for the bill.
“I’m so sorry dear, but something has come up,” he says vaguely whilst signing the cheque. “Here, take a taxi home.” He throws a hundred dirham note on the table and disappears, leaving Leila half relieved and half pissed off. She hates taxis.
***
Half an hour later, Leila is sitting at Barasti with Lady Luxe, who is in her 'Jennifer' disguise – a long, blonde wig and blue contact lenses – sipping a colourful cocktail and ignoring the feeling of disappointment from yet another bad date. She is one of the very few people who knows about Lady Luxe's alter-ego and is fully aware of her privilege. Although she is happy that she is trusted with the knowledge, she does wonder if she will ever have to use it as leverage. She hopes not. Despite the ten year age difference (which she will never, ever admit and has even sworn on her dead grandmother's grave, may God bless her soul, that she is still twenty-seven), the difference in social status, upbringing and religion, she actually likes Lady Luxe and enjoys her company. She's a lot less pretentious than the majority of her friends and despite her craziness, her heart is usually in the right place. They also have completely different tastes in men (Lady Luxe is still young enough to care solely about looks and charm) and thankfully, the 'hoes over bros' philosophy has never had to be tested.
"So what did you do to get the Old Fart running out of Madinat Jumeirah like his wife's in labour?" Leila asks.
"I got his wife to call." Lady Luxe shrugs nonchalantly, looking around her for potential meals in the form of sexy men.
"He has a wife?" Leila splutters, choking on her drink. "The lying bastard! He told me he's divorced!"
"He is. Three times. But he's also married to the daughter of some Iranian businessman who knows my brother." Lady Luxe spots her dinner and smiles cheekily at a tall, broad man on the other side of the bar. He smiles back at her and she averts her gaze. Her rule is to only make eye contact with a man once until he musters up the courage to talk to her.
Leila sighs as embarrassment washes over her, willing her face not to turn pink in shame. She has been in Dubai for nearly a decade and she still isn’t able to spot the winners from the losers, the honest from the deceitful. The single from the married. Her last boyfriend turned out to be all three. A wealthy local businessman, he wooed her with orchids on her doorstep every Friday, long, lazy cruises aboard his private yacht in the weekends and, deeper into their six-month relationship, spontaneous weekend trips to Oman. Leila hadn’t found it unusual that he never introduced her to his family – Arab men rarely did until they were ready to get married – and nor did she find it strange that he was always working. Maybe she just didn’t want to read the signs; the way he would never let her look through his phone, the way he was never free on a Friday and the way he would suddenly become withdrawn, his mind clearly preoccupied with something he would refuse to talk about. She was just too hopeful that maybe this time, she had found The One.
They broke up after Leila had received a hysterical phone call from a woman who swore by her entire clan, ancestors and descendents that if Leila married her husband and became his second wife, she would poison her in her sleep. She never told any of her friends – including Lady Luxe - what the real reason for their break up was. Until now, she still pretends that she had grown bored of the tall, handsome, wealthy and charming Emirati (yeah right, was the look on most of her friends’ faces) and she has also resolved never to date a local guy again. She has a sneaking suspicion that Lady Luxe, with her ability to find out everything - from how many fillings a man has to how many women he has slept with - knows the truth but didn’t tell her for fear of hurting her, and for this, she is thankful. She hates being at anyone’s mercy, hates appearing weak or vulnerable.
When Leila moved to Dubai, when she was still a brunette with a wonky nose, blemished skin and B cup breasts, she never expected that she would grow into the kind of woman that needs a husband in order to feel accomplished. She thought that having a successful career and driving a BMW 3 series would be enough to make her feel content until Sheikh Charming came along. Over the years though, as most of her friends have settled down and started families, she has been feeling more and more alone. Dubai is, after all, a lonely, transitory place. People are always coming and going and it’s hard to maintain relationships like that. It is also full of temptation for men. The Las Vegas of the Middle East, women are available in all shapes and sizes and many are willing to sell their souls (not to mention their bodies) for the slightest bit of financial stability. The competition is tough for all women with high(ish) standards. An extended family that is desperate to see you with a ring on your finger doesn’t make the situation anymore bearable.
Towards the end of the evening, Lady Luxe disappears with a beefy but attractive Australian and Leila decides to go back to her one bedroom apartment in Discovery Gardens. Alone.
She walks into her empty apartment with tired eyes and a throbbing head. She longs for quiet evenings curled up on the sofa, leaning against a husband while they argue over what to watch on TV. She’s had a lot of time to visualize her fantasies in detail. In her dream, she’s wearing pink cotton pyjamas and he’s in shorts and a t-shirt.
In reality, she stands under the shower alone, trying to let the water numb the pain of having no one by her side. She goes through the motions of scrubbing her body clean with Bodyshop exfoliating scrubs, lathering her skin with moisturizer and carefully applying a dab of Crème De La Mer to her face, careful not to use too much for fear of it running out too soon, and rubbing cream onto her feet that are tired of being squeezed into tiny heels. Her beauty regime completed, she shuffles into her Queen-sized bed in an old, faded white nightshirt completely, and utterly alone. Face barren of makeup, she looks strangely innocent and young.
It takes her over an hour to eventually fall into a restless slumber.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Chapter Three - Sugar, Spice and all things nice...
It doesn’t take me long to figure out that being an Indian in Dubai sucks. So does being an Egyptian. The fact that I'm a British Indian that looks like an Egyptian pretty much means I'm screwed.
I've been here for exactly three days and it took me about two and a half to figure all that out. It doesn’t take a genius though. All you have to do is walk through the glitzy malls and see the way people look at the sari-clad women with their greasy, plaited hair to realise that they're more or less considered to be second-class citizens. They're even served differently. I went into a shop in MOE yesterday and asked for help from the friendly assistant. She obliged me with a toothy smile and the customary sing-song 'thank you ma'am' at the end of our exchange. The Indian lady who sought her help after me got no 'thank you', no 'ma'am' and no smile. Coincidence? I doubt it. Why wasn't I treated the same way? Probably 'cause of my British accent and Westernised dress-sense. Although I never paid much attention to my accent before, it suddenly seems to be my passport into the judgmental world of respect.
Today I've decided to be a little more adventurous in my solitary excursions and I'm braving the beach completely alone. Shopping is usually a pleasurable experience but until I get my first salary (I start teaching English to speakers of other languages in a couple of days), I’m as broke as a joke so I have to find cheaper ways to amuse myself. Living next to the beach is still a novelty for me as the closest thing to a beach in London is Southend - which, with its dilapidated pier and Essex location, isn't quite as appealing as Jumeirah Beach Park. So, I’m quite happy to just sit on the warm sand in my white linen trousers and long sleeved pale blue cotton top and absorb the atmosphere. All around me, children are squealing in the azure waters, teenagers are posing sexily in brightly coloured bikinis and old Arab women are a stark contrast to them in their white headscarves and long skirts, preparing hefty chunks of meat on metal barbecue skewers. I'm not usually such a billy-no-mates but I haven’t exactly had enough time here to make friends yet. I know one girl out here – my best friend, Roba, has an older sister who lives here somewhere but I'm not meeting her until tomorrow. I don’t really know her very well and she's a few years older than me, but hey, beggars can't be choosers and right now, if a palm tree offers to hang out with me I'll probably throw my arms around it and invite it out for some shisha.
I lay out my beach towel, sit down cross legged on it, roll up my sleeves and take out my book but it's actually more interesting to people watch. I still can't get over the way Muslims out here are so different from back in the UK. Back home, being the gross minority, they're all so united and overtly Muslim, if you know what I mean. Islam is a huge part of their identity and because they face a lot of difficulties getting accepted into mainstream society, they have this defensive nature. Here, it's so much more relaxed and you see girls in Hijab doing stuff you rarely see back home – like smoking shisha, hanging out with guys or going to concerts. I'm not sure why that is, but I'm guessing it has something to do with Hijab being more of a cultural piece of clothing than a declaration of faith or a religious statement.
I never used to notice stuff like that until I actually started wearing Hijab, which wasn’t until… um, the day I boarded the plane to get here. In London, although there is a pretty diverse Muslim community, I never really felt like I was a good enough Muslim to be an ambassador of Islam – and trust me, in Hijab, you are. Everyone watches to see what you're doing and you get labeled 'that Muslim girl' rather than the Indian girl or the tall girl or any other part of your identity. When I was mulling over whether to move out here or not, I made a conscious decision to be a better Muslim if I did, and I guess this is my first step. After all the crap that happened, I felt like I had to do something to change but now, sitting here on the beach completely covered up and no chance of a tan, I'm wondering if I was a little too hasty in my decision.
Watching a group of girls and guys playing volleyball, I can't help but feel a slight twang of envy. Not because they're playing sports as I'm crap at all forms of physical exertion but because they're having such a great, social time while I'm sitting here alone, watching on like the outsider that I am.
“Hey, wanna join us?” a girl calls out, catching my gaze and probably noticing the desperation in my coffee brown eyes. She jogs up to me and I try not to ogle at her body in case she can see my stare through my cheap sunglasses and thinks I’m a lesbian or something. Her body is so golden, lean and toned that I make a spur of the moment decision to join the gym and start exercising.
“Okay,” I reply without realising, my mind still thinking of ways I can fix up my wobbly body and before I know it, I'm in the middle of this group of ten girls and guys, trying to play volleyball. I don’t hit the ball even once. It’s pretty hard to, when the moment it comes in my direction I either run the other way or hold up my hands to shield my face. The opposing side is too kind to exploit their enemy's weakest link and try hard not to let the ball come my way, so for the rest of the game I end up just standing around wishing I wore stronger sunblock and trying not to check out the hot guy opposite me. Which isn’t easy. He too has a golden body but instead of the usual coal coloured hair, his is a dark brown with tiny strands of honey. With his intense eyes and strong yet gentle hands, he is definitely bad news for me. So I make sure to prevent my tongue from hanging out or my saliva from dripping out of my open mouth and concentrate on the chubby, hairy guy at nine ‘o’ clock instead. Ugh. He really needs a wax.
Despite not really moving much (apart from flapping my arms around when the ball came near me), I feel exhausted when the game slowly rolls to an end. The Goddess, who I find out has a ‘good name’, X, but I prefer to call her The Goddess, saunters up to me and invites me to meet the group in the evening for some dinner and shisha. My tiredness disappears instantly and I agree quickly before the offer is taken away, like a child who has just been told she can have ice-cream for breakfast.
I hail a taxi home and begin a long, slow beautifying regime, images of Goldenboy haunting me the entire time.
* * *
It takes me three hours to get ready. Three whole hours of showering, blow-drying (not that anyone can see my hair, but still, you never know, maybe there’ll be a hurricane and my hijab will be whipped off, exposing flat, unkempt hair underneath), exfoliating, facialising and countless outfit changes. I eventually decide to go with my favourite jeans that actually make my legs look slim and a pretty, cream colored dress over it adorned with hot pink beads. Together with a pink headscarf and light, subtle makeup, I look pretty good. My new tan suits me and with a little bit of MAC bronzer, I look radiant and healthy.
The taxi drops me off at Reem al Bawadi, a Lebanese restaurant I’ve never been to before and makes the eatieries in Edgware Road look bland in comparison. As I walk up the short steps, I feel my heart pounding against my ribcage. There are plants and leaves hanging from the walls and ceiling, old Middle Eastern ornaments in every corner, live Arabic music as well as the faint hum of voices and fragrant whisps of apple shisha wafting through the air. The atmosphere is so warm and reminiscent of sticky summers in Beirut, that I slowly begin to relax and feel at ease.
In the far left-hand corner, I spot the group and I navigate my way around tables, chairs and glass shishas, praying that I don’t knock one over, and approach the table. I feel slightly awkward as I mumble ‘hi’ in a timid voice but even that melts away as The Goddess jumps up, exclaims ‘Sugar, hi, how are you?’ in a loud, friendly voice and plants the customary kisses on my cheeks. I shake hands with everyone else (Hijabis here don’t seem to mind shaking hands with non-related guys which is fine by me) and sit down at the nearest available seat. After I plant my big behind on the chair, bumping into my neighbour and almost knocking over a tall glass of a crazy looking fruit cocktail kinda drink, I realise I'm sitting next to Goldenboy.
“Ahlan,” he says, smiling warmly. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me. He's wearing a black shirt with jeans, and he too has a beautiful tan that, against his shirt, looks simply delicious. His evening attire, along with the way he said 'Ahlan' in that accent, is all a bit too hot for me and I feel my face turning the same colour as my scarf. I've always had a thing for Arabs, with their sexy manliness and slightly dominating nature. My heart starts thudding again and I silently beg Allah not to let him hear it.
“Thanks,” I reply stupidly, not knowing how else to reply to the greeting. Ahlan means 'welcome' right? He is obviously confused by my answer.
“Keefik enti?” he tries again, frowning slightly. Not with condescendence, but with befuddlement.
“Um… ana la atakallam al ‘arabiya,” (I don’t speak Arabic) I answer sheepishly. In classical, Qur'anic Arabic. The Goddess, who overhears the awkward exchange, bursts into peals of laughter and explains something to the group in fast, incomprehensible Arabic and soon, they are all laughing.
‘Sorry,” Goldenboy says with a grin. “I thought you were Arab – you look Palestinian.”
“It’s okay,” I reply with a shrug, secretly feeling thrilled. For some reason, I don’t want him to know I’m Indian, and I don’t want him to think I’m Egyptian either. I just want to be me, Sugar, without all these extra labels.
We don’t say much else to each other throughout the evening, and although I’m glad to be with people other than my host family, it’s hard trying to have fun when everyone around you speaks a language you don’t understand, and never had any connection with outside the mosque. Sometimes, they look at my blank face and remember to translate jokes and anecdotes, and I force a laugh, losing a lot of the meaning and humour in translation.
That night, as I lie in my bed, the drum beats still ringing in my ears, I feel a sudden pang of longing for my friends back home. I miss Roba’s quirkiness, Stephanie's craziness and Ellen's wit. I miss the comfortable feeling of knowing exactly who I am, where I am, what my existence on this planet means. But it's all my fault that I had to leave everything I had ever known.
Beneath the ache and the disorientation though, there lies a dangerous tingle of excitement. I fall asleep thinking of Goldenboy’s beautiful, copper coloured eyes with the tiniest specks of amber. I fall asleep smiling.
I've been here for exactly three days and it took me about two and a half to figure all that out. It doesn’t take a genius though. All you have to do is walk through the glitzy malls and see the way people look at the sari-clad women with their greasy, plaited hair to realise that they're more or less considered to be second-class citizens. They're even served differently. I went into a shop in MOE yesterday and asked for help from the friendly assistant. She obliged me with a toothy smile and the customary sing-song 'thank you ma'am' at the end of our exchange. The Indian lady who sought her help after me got no 'thank you', no 'ma'am' and no smile. Coincidence? I doubt it. Why wasn't I treated the same way? Probably 'cause of my British accent and Westernised dress-sense. Although I never paid much attention to my accent before, it suddenly seems to be my passport into the judgmental world of respect.
Today I've decided to be a little more adventurous in my solitary excursions and I'm braving the beach completely alone. Shopping is usually a pleasurable experience but until I get my first salary (I start teaching English to speakers of other languages in a couple of days), I’m as broke as a joke so I have to find cheaper ways to amuse myself. Living next to the beach is still a novelty for me as the closest thing to a beach in London is Southend - which, with its dilapidated pier and Essex location, isn't quite as appealing as Jumeirah Beach Park. So, I’m quite happy to just sit on the warm sand in my white linen trousers and long sleeved pale blue cotton top and absorb the atmosphere. All around me, children are squealing in the azure waters, teenagers are posing sexily in brightly coloured bikinis and old Arab women are a stark contrast to them in their white headscarves and long skirts, preparing hefty chunks of meat on metal barbecue skewers. I'm not usually such a billy-no-mates but I haven’t exactly had enough time here to make friends yet. I know one girl out here – my best friend, Roba, has an older sister who lives here somewhere but I'm not meeting her until tomorrow. I don’t really know her very well and she's a few years older than me, but hey, beggars can't be choosers and right now, if a palm tree offers to hang out with me I'll probably throw my arms around it and invite it out for some shisha.
I lay out my beach towel, sit down cross legged on it, roll up my sleeves and take out my book but it's actually more interesting to people watch. I still can't get over the way Muslims out here are so different from back in the UK. Back home, being the gross minority, they're all so united and overtly Muslim, if you know what I mean. Islam is a huge part of their identity and because they face a lot of difficulties getting accepted into mainstream society, they have this defensive nature. Here, it's so much more relaxed and you see girls in Hijab doing stuff you rarely see back home – like smoking shisha, hanging out with guys or going to concerts. I'm not sure why that is, but I'm guessing it has something to do with Hijab being more of a cultural piece of clothing than a declaration of faith or a religious statement.
I never used to notice stuff like that until I actually started wearing Hijab, which wasn’t until… um, the day I boarded the plane to get here. In London, although there is a pretty diverse Muslim community, I never really felt like I was a good enough Muslim to be an ambassador of Islam – and trust me, in Hijab, you are. Everyone watches to see what you're doing and you get labeled 'that Muslim girl' rather than the Indian girl or the tall girl or any other part of your identity. When I was mulling over whether to move out here or not, I made a conscious decision to be a better Muslim if I did, and I guess this is my first step. After all the crap that happened, I felt like I had to do something to change but now, sitting here on the beach completely covered up and no chance of a tan, I'm wondering if I was a little too hasty in my decision.
Watching a group of girls and guys playing volleyball, I can't help but feel a slight twang of envy. Not because they're playing sports as I'm crap at all forms of physical exertion but because they're having such a great, social time while I'm sitting here alone, watching on like the outsider that I am.
“Hey, wanna join us?” a girl calls out, catching my gaze and probably noticing the desperation in my coffee brown eyes. She jogs up to me and I try not to ogle at her body in case she can see my stare through my cheap sunglasses and thinks I’m a lesbian or something. Her body is so golden, lean and toned that I make a spur of the moment decision to join the gym and start exercising.
“Okay,” I reply without realising, my mind still thinking of ways I can fix up my wobbly body and before I know it, I'm in the middle of this group of ten girls and guys, trying to play volleyball. I don’t hit the ball even once. It’s pretty hard to, when the moment it comes in my direction I either run the other way or hold up my hands to shield my face. The opposing side is too kind to exploit their enemy's weakest link and try hard not to let the ball come my way, so for the rest of the game I end up just standing around wishing I wore stronger sunblock and trying not to check out the hot guy opposite me. Which isn’t easy. He too has a golden body but instead of the usual coal coloured hair, his is a dark brown with tiny strands of honey. With his intense eyes and strong yet gentle hands, he is definitely bad news for me. So I make sure to prevent my tongue from hanging out or my saliva from dripping out of my open mouth and concentrate on the chubby, hairy guy at nine ‘o’ clock instead. Ugh. He really needs a wax.
Despite not really moving much (apart from flapping my arms around when the ball came near me), I feel exhausted when the game slowly rolls to an end. The Goddess, who I find out has a ‘good name’, X, but I prefer to call her The Goddess, saunters up to me and invites me to meet the group in the evening for some dinner and shisha. My tiredness disappears instantly and I agree quickly before the offer is taken away, like a child who has just been told she can have ice-cream for breakfast.
I hail a taxi home and begin a long, slow beautifying regime, images of Goldenboy haunting me the entire time.
* * *
It takes me three hours to get ready. Three whole hours of showering, blow-drying (not that anyone can see my hair, but still, you never know, maybe there’ll be a hurricane and my hijab will be whipped off, exposing flat, unkempt hair underneath), exfoliating, facialising and countless outfit changes. I eventually decide to go with my favourite jeans that actually make my legs look slim and a pretty, cream colored dress over it adorned with hot pink beads. Together with a pink headscarf and light, subtle makeup, I look pretty good. My new tan suits me and with a little bit of MAC bronzer, I look radiant and healthy.
The taxi drops me off at Reem al Bawadi, a Lebanese restaurant I’ve never been to before and makes the eatieries in Edgware Road look bland in comparison. As I walk up the short steps, I feel my heart pounding against my ribcage. There are plants and leaves hanging from the walls and ceiling, old Middle Eastern ornaments in every corner, live Arabic music as well as the faint hum of voices and fragrant whisps of apple shisha wafting through the air. The atmosphere is so warm and reminiscent of sticky summers in Beirut, that I slowly begin to relax and feel at ease.
In the far left-hand corner, I spot the group and I navigate my way around tables, chairs and glass shishas, praying that I don’t knock one over, and approach the table. I feel slightly awkward as I mumble ‘hi’ in a timid voice but even that melts away as The Goddess jumps up, exclaims ‘Sugar, hi, how are you?’ in a loud, friendly voice and plants the customary kisses on my cheeks. I shake hands with everyone else (Hijabis here don’t seem to mind shaking hands with non-related guys which is fine by me) and sit down at the nearest available seat. After I plant my big behind on the chair, bumping into my neighbour and almost knocking over a tall glass of a crazy looking fruit cocktail kinda drink, I realise I'm sitting next to Goldenboy.
“Ahlan,” he says, smiling warmly. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me. He's wearing a black shirt with jeans, and he too has a beautiful tan that, against his shirt, looks simply delicious. His evening attire, along with the way he said 'Ahlan' in that accent, is all a bit too hot for me and I feel my face turning the same colour as my scarf. I've always had a thing for Arabs, with their sexy manliness and slightly dominating nature. My heart starts thudding again and I silently beg Allah not to let him hear it.
“Thanks,” I reply stupidly, not knowing how else to reply to the greeting. Ahlan means 'welcome' right? He is obviously confused by my answer.
“Keefik enti?” he tries again, frowning slightly. Not with condescendence, but with befuddlement.
“Um… ana la atakallam al ‘arabiya,” (I don’t speak Arabic) I answer sheepishly. In classical, Qur'anic Arabic. The Goddess, who overhears the awkward exchange, bursts into peals of laughter and explains something to the group in fast, incomprehensible Arabic and soon, they are all laughing.
‘Sorry,” Goldenboy says with a grin. “I thought you were Arab – you look Palestinian.”
“It’s okay,” I reply with a shrug, secretly feeling thrilled. For some reason, I don’t want him to know I’m Indian, and I don’t want him to think I’m Egyptian either. I just want to be me, Sugar, without all these extra labels.
We don’t say much else to each other throughout the evening, and although I’m glad to be with people other than my host family, it’s hard trying to have fun when everyone around you speaks a language you don’t understand, and never had any connection with outside the mosque. Sometimes, they look at my blank face and remember to translate jokes and anecdotes, and I force a laugh, losing a lot of the meaning and humour in translation.
That night, as I lie in my bed, the drum beats still ringing in my ears, I feel a sudden pang of longing for my friends back home. I miss Roba’s quirkiness, Stephanie's craziness and Ellen's wit. I miss the comfortable feeling of knowing exactly who I am, where I am, what my existence on this planet means. But it's all my fault that I had to leave everything I had ever known.
Beneath the ache and the disorientation though, there lies a dangerous tingle of excitement. I fall asleep thinking of Goldenboy’s beautiful, copper coloured eyes with the tiniest specks of amber. I fall asleep smiling.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Chapter Two – Things are sometimes exactly as they seem
It has been an hour since he last called, promising to be home in 20 minutes. He was already 45 minutes late when he had finally bothered to check his phone and respond to her three missed calls. In that hour and forty-five minutes, his dinner has turned stone cold and is almost inedible. But he has already eaten with his friends, despite being fully aware that Thursday nights are 'family night'.
He doesn’t really care that his wife has been waiting for him with a churning stomach, reluctant to start eating without him and destroying the 'family night' concept she was forced to create in a desperate attempt to see him more. Neither is he particularly perturbed that she spent over two hours roasting a leg of lamb to perfection, had painstakingly prepared and stuffed courgettes with rice and minced meat and had even bothered with a salad, a yoghurt dip, saffron rice and homemade lemon juice with mint. David is, after all, so wrapped up in his own life (work, friends, internet perving, offroading) that he barely notices Huda anymore. New haircuts are lost on him, sexy lingerie rarely rustles up interest down below and tears just turn him into stone.
Huda is painfully aware of it all.
That evening, she sits at the carefully laid dining table in a simple red summer dress that she bought from Oasis on a whim, hoping that her husband would notice it and pay a compliment, dangly Monsoon earrings hanging from her ears and her crazy curly hair left loose and sexy. She has had her monthly Brazilian, her legs are smooth enough to be in a Gillette ad and her lips are painted a daring scarlet, matching her dress.
When she first got married, she didn’t feel the need to make such an effort – she could walk around in faded flannel pyjamas with holes in them and her husband would still look at her as if she were a priceless jewel. Now, she finds herself spending more and more time on her appearance, desperately trying to catch his interest, anxious to make him happy in some way or another, wondering when she became so meaningless to him.
With each second that eventually turns into a minute, Huda becomes more and more resolved to make her marriage work. With her first class Biology degree from King's College London and her Masters in Environmental Biology from Imperial, she is used to succeeding and when she married David, she thought that she had also succeeded in finding the perfect husband as well. Sexy, attentive and deep, he wooed her with profound poetry that he had written himself, long, sensual love letters and a willingness to massage her feet during balmy summer evenings in Regent's Park.
His spirituality had also drawn her to him. A recent convert to Islam, he was so thirsty for knowledge, yearning to learn more and more about the new way of life he had adopted, that his eagerness shone through in every pore of his translucent skin and Huda, with her staunch faith, was drawn to him like a beggar to a generous merchant.
She would have been happy to continue living in their dark, basement flat in North London, while she consulted for an energy company and he worked on the novel that would change the world. Only a five-minute walk from her sister's place, her flat may have been tiny but it felt like a proper home. Huda loved having her family nearby, which was why she didn’t mind paying a slightly higher rent for the Zone Two address, loved the proximity to the local mosque and Islamic bookshop, and the fact that the tube station was only ten minutes away (in trainers - in heels it was more like twenty), was an added bonus.
David also seemed to like living in Arsenal, unperturbed by the abundance of immigrants (after all, with his US passport and Swiss upbringing, he was a foreigner himself), the pigeon droppings that littered the pavements and the regular muggings.
The poet in him romanticised his life and he fancied himself as a renaissance writer, struggling with poverty, trying to find fulltime employment whilst indulging in a passionate affair (well, marriage), with a beautiful, Middle Eastern woman. Until his jobless state slowly began to strip him of his ego, his sense of manhood, his self-respect. Every time he came across Islamic sayings that emphasised the husband's duty of taking care of his wife, reiterating the fact that the wife's income is purely her own and a husband has no claim over it unless the wife chooses to share it with him, he began to feel less like a man, less like a husband and less like a Muslim.
David being David though, he kept the queasiness in his stomach and the loss of power in his limbs to himself. Until one day, he announced that he had been offered a job in Dubai and he was hoping that Huda would move out there with him. She did. She worked out her noticed period at her company, gave away the little furniture she had, packed up her clothes and boarded an economy class flight to Dubai.
And now, she lived in a spacious two bedroom apartment (courtesy of the X University, where David worked), had found a new job that she could actually walk to and she spent her evenings waiting around for David, who always seemed to be busy with everything and everyone but her.
At 9.36pm, two hours and 36 minutes after her husband was supposed to be home, Huda finally carves herself a piece of rock hard lamb, serves herself a small portion of limp salad and ignores the stuffed courgettes – David's favourite – altogether. At 9.49pm, she has finished repeatedly rearranging the food on her plate and when washing her hands in the bathroom sink, realises how pitiful she looks. She stares at her huge, black eyes rimmed with kohl, pale cheeks, pert cleavage and slender arms feeling disgusted with herself. When she remembers the matching red lingerie underneath, and the agony she went through getting waxed, a wave of nausea washes through her body.
He doesn’t even care, she tells herself slowly. Turning the tap on full blast, she scrubs her face with aggression, until her skin becomes pink and raw, rid of every inch of makeup. Her eyes turn red as she relentlessly rubs them until the kohl also disappears down the sink.
Pulling off her new dress and underwear, she stuffs them all into the bathroom bin and shivering slightly, she wraps her arms around her thin body and looks at her naked reflection. Her collar bones are protruding and her skin is beginning to strain over her hips and ribs. She never used to be this thin. She used to relish in her curves, enjoying feeling like a real woman, but since she has moved to Dubai, she has learnt that she detests eating alone. The pounds have slipped off as she spends less time eating and more time playing with the food on her plate, waiting.
Forcing her lethargic limbs into cotton pyjamas, Huda makes herself a cup of green tea and climbs into bed with it. She opens her bedside cabinet and takes out a bundle of papers, anxious to remember why she married David in the first place, desperate to find a reason to continue trying. Choosing a leaf randomly, she begins to read.
Huda, my angel, my savior, he wrote one evening, when they were at the brink of falling in love, when she was still wary of his advances, still unsure of the depth of his feelings for her.
I can’t concentrate on anything – not my thesis, my lectures or even my friends. Every time my mind begins to focus on what it should be focusing on, my heartstrings tug it back to where it belongs – with you. When I became Muslim, I thought I had finally discovered my purpose in life, I had found a sense of peace and solace that had warmed my soul with its radiance. But now, even those intense emotions have been displaced. I live, I breathe, for you.
Liar.
She stares at the words written by a man consumed with love and longing and tries to understand how, in a little over a year, he has forgotten. She traces her fingers over the indentations on the page, running them over the small neat print, wondering if he would ever feel the same towards her as he used to. Goosebumps form on her bare arms and she rubs them, shivering slightly, her teeth beginning to chatter despite the air conditioning being switched off and December night being far from cold.
She falls asleep with the letter still in her hand, the lamp still on and the cup of green tea still full. When David comes home at midnight, he sees the dinner table still set, the food still on it, and stops. His heart pounding, he tiptoes into the bedroom and finds his wife curled up in a foetal position, clutching a piece of paper in her right hand. He slowly eases it from her hand and glances at his elegant font. The words glare up at him in accusation. Why couldn’t she just understand that things were no longer the same? He crumples up the page and tosses it into the bathroom bin, and when he does, notices the red cloth inside. He takes out the dress and looks at it in embarrassment, guilt finally creeping into his heart.
Red is his favourite colour.
He doesn’t really care that his wife has been waiting for him with a churning stomach, reluctant to start eating without him and destroying the 'family night' concept she was forced to create in a desperate attempt to see him more. Neither is he particularly perturbed that she spent over two hours roasting a leg of lamb to perfection, had painstakingly prepared and stuffed courgettes with rice and minced meat and had even bothered with a salad, a yoghurt dip, saffron rice and homemade lemon juice with mint. David is, after all, so wrapped up in his own life (work, friends, internet perving, offroading) that he barely notices Huda anymore. New haircuts are lost on him, sexy lingerie rarely rustles up interest down below and tears just turn him into stone.
Huda is painfully aware of it all.
That evening, she sits at the carefully laid dining table in a simple red summer dress that she bought from Oasis on a whim, hoping that her husband would notice it and pay a compliment, dangly Monsoon earrings hanging from her ears and her crazy curly hair left loose and sexy. She has had her monthly Brazilian, her legs are smooth enough to be in a Gillette ad and her lips are painted a daring scarlet, matching her dress.
When she first got married, she didn’t feel the need to make such an effort – she could walk around in faded flannel pyjamas with holes in them and her husband would still look at her as if she were a priceless jewel. Now, she finds herself spending more and more time on her appearance, desperately trying to catch his interest, anxious to make him happy in some way or another, wondering when she became so meaningless to him.
With each second that eventually turns into a minute, Huda becomes more and more resolved to make her marriage work. With her first class Biology degree from King's College London and her Masters in Environmental Biology from Imperial, she is used to succeeding and when she married David, she thought that she had also succeeded in finding the perfect husband as well. Sexy, attentive and deep, he wooed her with profound poetry that he had written himself, long, sensual love letters and a willingness to massage her feet during balmy summer evenings in Regent's Park.
His spirituality had also drawn her to him. A recent convert to Islam, he was so thirsty for knowledge, yearning to learn more and more about the new way of life he had adopted, that his eagerness shone through in every pore of his translucent skin and Huda, with her staunch faith, was drawn to him like a beggar to a generous merchant.
She would have been happy to continue living in their dark, basement flat in North London, while she consulted for an energy company and he worked on the novel that would change the world. Only a five-minute walk from her sister's place, her flat may have been tiny but it felt like a proper home. Huda loved having her family nearby, which was why she didn’t mind paying a slightly higher rent for the Zone Two address, loved the proximity to the local mosque and Islamic bookshop, and the fact that the tube station was only ten minutes away (in trainers - in heels it was more like twenty), was an added bonus.
David also seemed to like living in Arsenal, unperturbed by the abundance of immigrants (after all, with his US passport and Swiss upbringing, he was a foreigner himself), the pigeon droppings that littered the pavements and the regular muggings.
The poet in him romanticised his life and he fancied himself as a renaissance writer, struggling with poverty, trying to find fulltime employment whilst indulging in a passionate affair (well, marriage), with a beautiful, Middle Eastern woman. Until his jobless state slowly began to strip him of his ego, his sense of manhood, his self-respect. Every time he came across Islamic sayings that emphasised the husband's duty of taking care of his wife, reiterating the fact that the wife's income is purely her own and a husband has no claim over it unless the wife chooses to share it with him, he began to feel less like a man, less like a husband and less like a Muslim.
David being David though, he kept the queasiness in his stomach and the loss of power in his limbs to himself. Until one day, he announced that he had been offered a job in Dubai and he was hoping that Huda would move out there with him. She did. She worked out her noticed period at her company, gave away the little furniture she had, packed up her clothes and boarded an economy class flight to Dubai.
And now, she lived in a spacious two bedroom apartment (courtesy of the X University, where David worked), had found a new job that she could actually walk to and she spent her evenings waiting around for David, who always seemed to be busy with everything and everyone but her.
At 9.36pm, two hours and 36 minutes after her husband was supposed to be home, Huda finally carves herself a piece of rock hard lamb, serves herself a small portion of limp salad and ignores the stuffed courgettes – David's favourite – altogether. At 9.49pm, she has finished repeatedly rearranging the food on her plate and when washing her hands in the bathroom sink, realises how pitiful she looks. She stares at her huge, black eyes rimmed with kohl, pale cheeks, pert cleavage and slender arms feeling disgusted with herself. When she remembers the matching red lingerie underneath, and the agony she went through getting waxed, a wave of nausea washes through her body.
He doesn’t even care, she tells herself slowly. Turning the tap on full blast, she scrubs her face with aggression, until her skin becomes pink and raw, rid of every inch of makeup. Her eyes turn red as she relentlessly rubs them until the kohl also disappears down the sink.
Pulling off her new dress and underwear, she stuffs them all into the bathroom bin and shivering slightly, she wraps her arms around her thin body and looks at her naked reflection. Her collar bones are protruding and her skin is beginning to strain over her hips and ribs. She never used to be this thin. She used to relish in her curves, enjoying feeling like a real woman, but since she has moved to Dubai, she has learnt that she detests eating alone. The pounds have slipped off as she spends less time eating and more time playing with the food on her plate, waiting.
Forcing her lethargic limbs into cotton pyjamas, Huda makes herself a cup of green tea and climbs into bed with it. She opens her bedside cabinet and takes out a bundle of papers, anxious to remember why she married David in the first place, desperate to find a reason to continue trying. Choosing a leaf randomly, she begins to read.
Huda, my angel, my savior, he wrote one evening, when they were at the brink of falling in love, when she was still wary of his advances, still unsure of the depth of his feelings for her.
I can’t concentrate on anything – not my thesis, my lectures or even my friends. Every time my mind begins to focus on what it should be focusing on, my heartstrings tug it back to where it belongs – with you. When I became Muslim, I thought I had finally discovered my purpose in life, I had found a sense of peace and solace that had warmed my soul with its radiance. But now, even those intense emotions have been displaced. I live, I breathe, for you.
Liar.
She stares at the words written by a man consumed with love and longing and tries to understand how, in a little over a year, he has forgotten. She traces her fingers over the indentations on the page, running them over the small neat print, wondering if he would ever feel the same towards her as he used to. Goosebumps form on her bare arms and she rubs them, shivering slightly, her teeth beginning to chatter despite the air conditioning being switched off and December night being far from cold.
She falls asleep with the letter still in her hand, the lamp still on and the cup of green tea still full. When David comes home at midnight, he sees the dinner table still set, the food still on it, and stops. His heart pounding, he tiptoes into the bedroom and finds his wife curled up in a foetal position, clutching a piece of paper in her right hand. He slowly eases it from her hand and glances at his elegant font. The words glare up at him in accusation. Why couldn’t she just understand that things were no longer the same? He crumples up the page and tosses it into the bathroom bin, and when he does, notices the red cloth inside. He takes out the dress and looks at it in embarrassment, guilt finally creeping into his heart.
Red is his favourite colour.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Chapter One - Meet Lady Luxe
Lady Luxe has never sat so still in her life. She stretches in her airplane seat but after almost seven hours of sitting in one place, she feels like bounding out of her seat and launching into a Jane Fonda aerobics routine. Before she persuades herself to test out her theory though, she finds that crossing her legs in a Buddha like pose stretches out her muscles adequately, and sinks back into her seat in relief. She can imagine Dubai's expat newspaper headlines the next day if she had decided to make a spectacle of herself – ‘X heiress loses the plot,’ and the Arabic ones not as colourful – ‘Daughter of X has publicly shamed herself and her family.’ She sighs, already missing London’s grey skies, cool breezes and the beautiful fragrance of freedom.
In London, Lady Luxe doesn’t need to don a blonde wig over her thick, dark brown hair whenever she decides to have a little fun. Nor does she bother with the blue contact lenses that mask her own hazel eyes, giving them an ethereal look. In London, her abaya is carefully hung in her South Kensington closet, acquiring the slightest sheen of dust until it is time to board an EK flight back to DXB, her sheila lies discarded somewhere close by and her name is definitely not Lady Luxe. She isn’t the daughter of X, granddaughter of X and niece of X either. In London, she is just plain Jennifer. She struggles to board the tube with everyone else, she stands squashed against sweaty commuters with everyone else and in every restaurant she is served just.like.everyone. else. She is completely anonymous; an ordinary, twenty-something girl living an ordinary(ish) life.
Shifting around in her seat and rearranging her legs once again, Lady Luxe mindlessly flicks through the movie options, realising upon reading the brief film descriptions that her life is probably far more interesting than any movie.
For a split second, she toys with the idea of writing a screenplay about her family. A script full of dry, British humour intertwined with colourful Gulf jokes; English with a splash of Arabic, just like her. She knows she will never be able to though. She knows that telling anyone about her father's mistresses, her mother's addiction to prescription drugs, her brother's fierce temper and her own scandalous double life, will guarantee the X family's exile from the desert and her own head on a platter.
"Can I get you something to drink, ma'am. Some wine perhaps?" The air stewardess is pretty, like all Emirates staff, and she smiles a white smile at Lady Luxe, her pearly teeth even more apparent by the deep red lipstick they are framed by.
Yes please. "No thank you," Lady Luxe murmurs, her throat dry, wishing she could. But she has already spotted four other Khaleejis in the cabin and can't risk having a drink in case they happen to know who she is. She snorts when she sees a man in the traditional Emirati white robe, known as the candoura, indulging himself in a glass of something clearly haraam and wonders why it is okay for Emirati men to do as they please when God has set clear rules that apply to both men and women. Hypocrites, she thinks to herself.
Sighing audibly, she grabs her huge orange Birkin from where she hid it under her black pashmina to avoid having to store it in the overhead hanger, and rummages through it in search of something to occupy her mind. She comes across torn cinema stubs, old concert passes, dried rose petals and scrunched up receipts – all reminders of her amazing three and a half years in London, of a time she knows she will never be able to get back.
"Having a bad flight?"
Lady Luxe knew that the boy sitting next to her on the business class flight home would eventually work up the courage to speak to her. There is something about her clear, open face that often encourages strangers to make idle conversation with her.
"Not anymore," she flirts, watching his cheeks turn pink with pleasure.
Recently graduated, he tells her that he has been headhunted by an American company in Dubai to join an investments firm. He shifts around in his seat, clearly not used to flying Business, which she finds endearing. She tunes out, concentrating on his hands instead. Small with long, delicate fingers, she wonders how niftily he could do undo the buttons on her Seven jeans and then quickly shakes the questions out of her head. She is trying to stop being such a rebel.
“So where exactly is your office based?” she asks in a slightly British, slightly American and even slightly Arabic accent – the product of being born and raised in Dubai, studying in an International school and having an English mother. Her caramel complexion is also hard to place – too tanned to be from Iranian descent, too fair to be an original Emirati and too rosy to be Lebanese, most find it difficult to work out where she’s from. Her hair also makes her stand out from most of her cousins, who, with their frizzy jet black hair subjected to countless biolustre hair treatments, dark brown eyes and large noses (until they make the customary ‘coming of age’ trip to Lebanon to rectify it), envy her small, straight nose, glossy chestnut hair and greenish brown eyes.
Although the combination is definitely attractive, and with her lean limbs, small shoulders and trendy dress sense she often turns heads, Lady Luxe isn’t what you would call beautiful. There’s something mischievous about her wide smile though and something strangely innocent about her bright eyes, and together with her infectious laugh, the full package can be lethal.
“In Dubai International Finance Centre,” he replies proudly and slowly, careful not to fumble the words. She suppresses a giggle at his using the full name instead of the DIFC acronym. Dubai is full of acronyms – DLC, DFC, DMC, DIC, DIFC, JBR, JLT, MOE. The country that has grown so rapidly has an equally fast pace. No one even has the time to speak slowly and pronouncing a title fully is a gross waste of time.
“It’s obvious you’re a newbie,” she says with a coy smile. Do you need someone to help you out? is the unasked question. She dares him with her eyes and he responds exactly how she expects.
“I could do with someone showing me the ropes,” he says hesitantly.
“Don’t worry, there are plenty of friendly people who would be happy to assist you,” she replies, smiling warmly.
Lady Luxe doesn’t mean to play mind games, but for some reason, she just can’t help it. From a young age, every word that she has uttered has held an underlying meaning – whether it’s negotiating for a new car, pleading for a new vacation or asking for a credit card with a higher limit, she has always had to choose her words carefully to get the response she wants. Now, at twenty-one, it’s not just her father or her brothers she tests her verbal skills with. Every man (or boy) that comes in contact with Lady Luxe never quite knows where he stands, what she wants or what she’s thinking. Most of the time, that’s exactly how she likes it, but occasionally, she wishes that a guy would just read her mind and give her what her subconscious desperately wants – a stable, uncomplicated marriage. No cultural issues, no second wives, just love. But everyone knows that such a thing doesn’t exist – not in an Emirati girl’s life.
“Um, I hope so,” he replies, his disappointment obvious. She takes in his sandy blonde hair and dark brown eyes with appreciation but then looks away. She’s not in the mood to continue playing with him, no matter how attractive he is and how much fun they can have together, and it’s not worth the risk either. No matter what she does in London – the bars she visits, the clubs she stumbles out of at dawn, the men whose bedrooms she finds herself in when the cold, British sun seeps its way in through the cracks in the curtains and gently wakes her up. In Dubai, she is Lady Luxe – and with a surname like that, she just can’t afford to let her secret adventures become public. She doesn’t care about tarnishing her reputation and becoming unmarriageable. What she does care about however, is risking her life. Honour killings may not make the headlines, or even seep into community gossip, but after what happened to her cousin, she knows better than to flaunt her escapades. So, in Dubai, she continues her good girl façade when she has to, and when the cat’s away (in her case, her father), she plays. Hard.
It wasn't easy for Lady Luxe to persuade her father to allow her to study Fashion at the Central Saint Martins College of Art and Design, one of Britain's most revered art institutions. It took her most of her life to make him accept that she wasn't interested in business administration, and then a full year of cajoling, pleading, crying, arguing and hypothesizing to make him agree to her studying abroad. Eventually, both her mother and uncle had to step in, explaining to her father the importance of her learning about her full heritage, of spending time with her mother, the importance of studying at a prestigious, historic college rather than a new Dubai establishment and learning how to be independent.
Lady Luxe's father was right to be concerned.
For three and a half years, his beloved daughter has tried everything she ever dreamed of trying – and more. Never particularly religious, God-fearing or traditional, she utilised every minute of her freedom as if it were her last, knowing that eventually, her time would come to and end and she would have to return to her home country and continue living a double life.
With her very own South Kensington apartment that her mother only visited monthly during her London 'shopping' (botox) weekends, for the first time in her eighteen years, she was accountable to no one but herself. There was no one noting when she would arrive home (usually at dawn, with makeup smeared under her eyes, smelling faintly of booze and cigarettes), no one to care about what she wore (nothing particularly hooker-like, but definitely never an abaya), no one to gossip about whom she mixed with (a gloriously eclectic range of different art students from all walks of life, all nationalities and all religions) and no one to threaten to kill her for talking to a man (talking? More like… 'dating'). All in all, it was a hugely liberating experience for the young Emirati girl who had always dreamed about paving her own path in life, but was forced to living in a labyrinth of hypocritical rules.
"Well, I would kind of like it if you would show me around," the Brit says hesitantly, his nervousness clear in his eyes.
"Would you now?" Lady Luxe replies, surprised. She had underestimated him. He is clearly more resilient than she initially gave him credit for. Against her better judgment, she pulls out a Mont Blanc pen, reaches over and takes hold of his hand. He freezes and she can sense that he has stopped breathing. She grins to herself.
"Here you go. That's my number. Call me if you need any help," she says, scribbling down her second phone number on the back of his hand. The one that serves one, very clear purpose.
"Thanks. I will," he replies, staring down at the number as if he is afraid it will disappear before he has a chance to commit it to memory.
As the captain announces the descent into DXB, Lady Luxe untangles her folded legs and hauls herself off her seat. Ignoring the Brit’s bemused gaze, she scrapes her hair into a ponytail, rearranges her fringe and attaches a big, pink flower clip to the back of her head. Retrieving her Swarovski crystal encrusted abaya from the hostess, she slips it on and loosely places her sheila back onto her head.
“Bloody hell,” the Brit chuckles, watching her in amazement. “You look completely different!”
“That’s the point,” she answers, sitting back down, this time folding her legs delicately. Jimmy Choos peep out from beneath the abaya’s long hem, and she looks down at them happily. The sale at Selfridges definitely dented the holiday budget she tried to allocate herself in a bid to learn responsibility. Anyhow, at least they were on sale and everyone knows that shopping abroad is far cheaper than shopping in Dubai. She looks across the cabin and sees a pretty girl with silky black hair perform the exact same ritual she has just completed. They make eye contact and smile wry smiles at each other.
Alighting from the plane, Lady Luxe says a quick, halal goodbye to the Brit, grabs her luggage that has been prioritised to come out first and heads out into the humid Dubai night. The airport was freezing cold, but the weather outside, despite it being the middle of January, is pleasant enough for light sweaters. Only in Dubai do you wear your jacket indoors and remove it outdoors. Enjoying the warm breeze and the familiar scent of petrol by the taxi stand, Lady Luxe looks around for the white Bentley Continental that usually picks her up from the airport. Instead, all she sees are the beige taxis waiting to pick up naïve passengers who don't have any idea that riding a taxi in Dubai is tantamount to suicide.
"Need a lift?" The Brit is back, lugging a large, new suitcase, beads of sweat appearing on his hairline as he is confronted with the warm winter's night, his thick woolen polo neck and leather jackets completely inappropriate for Dubai's climate.
"Thanks but I'm expecting someone," she says, her eyes looking around quickly, hoping no one will notice the Emirati girl conversing with the foreign boy.
"A boyfriend?" he asks tentatively, taking off his jacket and slinging it over his suitcase.
"Haha, no. My driver," she laughs, relaxing upon realising that no one is looking in her direction.
"You have a driver?"
"So?"
"A bit precious don’t you think?" He looks into Lady Luxe's hazel eyes, amused as they narrow in annoyance.
"You'll understand in a couple of months," she says patronisingly, a little peeved at his impertinence. "Anyway, shouldn’t you be catching a taxi like the rest of the commoners?"
"Are you trying to get rid of me? Fine, I can take a hint. See you later, it's been a pleasure." Before she has a chance to react, the Brit leans forward and gives Lady Luxe a peck on the cheek before heading over to the taxi rank, leaving her feeling as if she has been slapped.
Shit. What if someone saw that? She looks around, ignoring the disapproving gaze of the security guard, her heart pounding as she prays that her eyes don’t fall on anything white – be it a candoura, guttra or worse, her driver.
But they do.
A hundred metres away, a white Bentley is waiting for her. Her heart still thudding against her ribcage, she walks over to it, pulling along her Louis Vuitton luggage as she does.
"Hi Mahboob," she greets the Pakistani driver with a small smile as he hops out of the car and relieves her of her luggage.
"Salaam," he replies abruptly, loading her bags into the car. Without waiting for him to open the door for her, she yanks it open herself and sinks into the plush leather seats. She wonders if she should say anything to him, implore him not to mention anything to her father or brother, or if she should pretend that nothing happened. She decides to stay silent.
Mahboob skillfully manoeuvers his way through the lanes of traffic, over Garhoud Bridge and into Za’abeel, one of the most exclusive areas in Dubai and home to not only the ruler and his family, but countless other royalty and their staff. Lady Luxe she stares blankly out of the tinted windows at the blur of mismatched villas as they make their way to her large, white villa. It's only when she feels the wetness on her cheeks, she realises that the blur of colour is caused by her tears.
"Miss X we are here," Mahboob states the obvious as the gates of the villa glide open and he pulls inside the grounds, driving around the fountain and into the garage where he parks next to a row of glistening, luxury cars. He opens the door and sees the tears rolling down Lady Luxe's face.
"What's wrong, beta?" he asks kindly, handing her a tissue which she accepts gratefully.
"Nothing, I'm fine," she answers, embarrassed, climbing out of the car and rearranging her sheila so that it sits perfectly over her head, her eyes and nose tinged with pink.
Mahboob opens his mouth to say something and then closes it.
"What?" Lady Luxe asks, walking over to the huge, berber style front door, looking back at him. "I said I'm fine."I'm not. I'm scared. I miss London. I don't want to be back here.
"I…" He looks at her, his eyes filled with concern. "I didn’t see anything, okay?"
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