by Alam, Donna
‘Is he a teacher?’ I ask, pocketing my own sunglasses.
‘Nah, building surveyor or something. He’s fit, and I saw him first.’ As we enter the elevator, she brings out her phone, tapping the screen.
‘Niamh,’ I say, addressing her as though she’s a grade two kid. ‘I’ve told you, I’m off men. How many times have I got to say this? Not interested and not at my best, see?’ I point my index finger at my hair, the humidity giving it twice its usual volume, and not in a good way.
‘Erm, hello? Babetown,’ Niamh replies, grabbing the waistband of my Capri pants. ‘Population: You.’
An apartment is part of my employment package, and I’ve been housed in a building a few blocks from a mall so large it even has a ski slope inside. Skiing and shopping in the desert does seem just a little bit mad, but Niamh insists the weather is so extreme most of the year that outdoor pursuits are almost impossible. I suppose it makes sense that there are alternatives, but snow in the desert is a bit over the top. Thankfully, I’m not the outdoorsy type, and my building offers both a pool and a gym. I don’t suppose I’ll be skiing anytime soon, but I’ve promised myself I’ll visit the gym. Who knows, maybe I’ll even step inside. In aiming for a whole new me, Kate the gym bunny still seems laughable.
‘Who knew there were so many shades of cream?’ Niamh places her bag on the hall table as she enters the very neutral room.
‘It’s very . . .’ I struggle for the appropriate adjective as I try to pull the key from the stiff lock.
‘Padded cell.’ She sniffs, unimpressed. ‘Or porridge.’
‘Oatmeal.’ I eye the sofa which is remarkably like the one I’d left in Australia.
‘What?’
‘The colour—you wouldn’t find porridge on the back of a colour swatch.’ And I’d know having looked at plenty recently. I push the thought to the back of my mind.
‘You would if you if the swatch was anywhere near my grandad eatin’ his breakfast,’ she replies. ‘He gets that shit everywhere. I suppose you’re about to tell me there’s no such a thing as l’eau d’turpentine, either?’
‘The admin woman at school said it was newly renovated,’ I answer, making my way to the nearest window to let in some air. ‘Oof, it’s stuck.’
‘It just needs a bit of colour,’ Niamh advises, waking around the room. ‘Some bright throw cushions, maybe a couple of candles. Bring a bloke back here and he’ll think you’ve brought him to the psychiatric ward.’
Again with the man thing. I try not to pull a face. Or roll my eyes.
‘It’s fine,’ I insist, because it is—it’s more than fine. ‘Just a bit impersonal, that’s all.’ I wheel in my solitary case, placing my purse on the kitchen worktop, which happens to be very close to the front door.
‘At least it’s all new,’ she says, lifting a pale cushion from the sofa, distractedly plumping it before placing it back.
‘Are all the apartments like this, do you think?’ It is small and very plain. And a bit like a dentist’s waiting area. Not that I’m complaining, just curious. ‘What about your friend’s place, the one who lives here?’
‘Remember that old movie with Tom Hanks where he’s a little boy trapped in a grownup’s body?’
‘Big?’
‘Is he ever!’ And now I know more than I need to. ‘I dunno,’ she says with a sigh, ‘I’ve only been inside his place once and it was far too messy to tell.’ Her gaze travels the room. ‘We’ll go to Ikea or something at the weekend, and I’ll come and pick you up for a bit of grocery shopping tomorrow, yeah?’
‘Thanks. I saw a mini-market on the corner on the way in, that’ll do for now.’
‘Grand. I’ve gotta love and leave ’ya, babes. I’m off to have my brows threaded. The traffic’s bound to be mad.’
I push the hair back off my forehead, eyebrows comically high. ‘Why do your brows need sewing back on?’
Unimpressed, she picks up her purse. ‘A social life, Kate, requires effort and grooming, especially out here. Now, haul your arse and make a bit of effort yourself. Go catch some rays by the pool. Any paler and you’d be on the slab.’
‘Pale says the ginger from Dublin.’
‘I’m auburn, not feckin’ orange. And I’m supposed to be pale. Or freckly, and I know which I prefer. You, on the other hand.’ She eyes me disparagingly. ‘Aren’t you Aussies meant to be all bronzed and gorgeous after living on the beach?’
‘You know I hate the sand,’ I mutter.
‘Then you moved to the wrong place, didn’t you?’ She makes a shooing motion with her fingers. ‘Come on, dig your swim suit out of your case.’
‘Why?’ I ask suspiciously. ‘I’ve just gotten here. I want to unpack and chill out, not swim.’
‘Because your neighbours are dying to meet you.’
‘No—no,’ I repeat more firmly. ‘No meddling and no men.’ Not even my ladder rescuer? my mind whispers. No, not even him. ‘I mean it, Niamh.’
‘I didn’t say anything about men. I said neighbours.’
‘So they aren’t men?’ I ask, my eyes narrowed.
‘They are, but that’s beside the point.’
‘No, Niamh, that’s exactly the point! I’ve told you—’
‘Do it for me, Kitty,’ she says suddenly.
‘No! If it means so much to you, you go meet them.’
‘I’ve already met them,’ she retorts. ‘Now I want you to meet them for my piece of mind. So that I know if you need anything, if you’re ever stuck and for some reason you can’t reach me, you’ll have a secondary contact in this brand-new country of yours.’
‘Oh. Well.’ That makes sense, I suppose. And don’t I feel like a bitch. Though not for long, as it happens.
‘They’re good lads,’ she adds, though a little more smugly. ‘Friendly and reliable, and totes willing to be crash test dummies.’
‘Dummies?’
‘Grand,’ she replies, ignoring my questioning.
So, ‘Dummies?’ I repeat.
‘Aye. A chance to practice your social skills.’
‘Oh.’
‘And absolutely up for a nice hard bang should you fancy.’ Urgh.
The latter she mutters in an undertone which I pretend not to hear. Banging dummies. I’d best not build my hopes too high—for intelligent conversation, I mean. Yes, that’s what I mean, because the image of Kai hammering me into my headboard did not just flash through my mind.
‘It’s called a break-up not a break-down,’ I retort, flopping into a chair. ‘My conversational skills remain unaffected.’ Libido not so much, but I won’t tell her about what happened in the classroom. The less she knows, the better. She’d probably take an ad out in the local paper.
Desperate in Dubai Seeks a Second Saving!
‘Look, Dubai isn’t some po-dunk woop-woop town out near bush.’
‘It’s the bush,’ I correct, in reference to outback Australia. ‘Not near one and before you say it, I know it makes it sound like we’ve only got one.’
‘Yeah, well, the bush is out and the Hollywood is in, and I’ve seen the spider-legs hanging out your knicker elastic.’
‘Maybe it’s a statement.’
‘Maybe you need to cop on.’
‘All right, I get the point! Dubai’s sophisticated, and I’m not.’
‘Babe, you’re totally missing the point.’ With a sudden gleam, she grabs my hands, pulling me up from the chair. ‘All I’m saying is you need to prepare yourself for a bit of fun.’ And with that, she leaves me standing in my very plain apartment, the sticky imprint of her lips plastered against my cheek.
I spend the next twenty minutes unpacking my case, trying to ignore the fact that I’m officially alone and destined to be so from now on. I’ve never lived by myself and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m lonely, which is ridiculous, considering I have enough fingers and toes to count the minutes since Niamh left. As sadness creeps into my throat, I can’t help but feel sorry for myself, sad for the l
oss of my relationship, filed now under what could’ve been. For a mad moment I think about calling Shane, even going as far as pulling out my phone, the chasm between us suddenly filled with nostalgia and memories. Well, at least those not involving his gland-to-gland contact with someone whose work uniform covers as much as a couple of Band-Aids and a bit of string. I don’t call, of course, because that would be mad. Instead, I wander around the small rooms, heavy with a sense of loss and feeling absolutely bereft. Eventually, I give into a cathartic sob on the bed.
Self-indulgence over, I take a good look at myself in the dresser mirror, trying to ignore my swollen and blood-shot eyes. My complexion is pale and kind of dull, and my hair darker than its usual honey blonde. I suppose a bit of sun-baking won’t do either any harm. Spotting my swim-togs in the haphazard pile on the bed, I pull them on and wrap myself in a huge towel. Stepping into the elevator clutching my sunnies, I immediately push them over my eyes, hopefully channelling Kim Kardashian rather than the puffy-eyed Kim Jong Un staring out at me from the mirrored walls.
On the rooftop, I snag a bed with a little shade and unfurl my towel, finding myself appreciative of the early end to school days for the first time since my arrival. I don’t think I’ll ever appreciate the early starts. Only masochists roll out of bed at 5 a.m. with a smile.
The pool is quiet, just a couple of women lounging on the far side and no sign of the guys Niamh mentioned. I plug in my earphones and pick up my trashy novel. There’s nothing like indulging yourself in a bit of chick-lit to while away the hours. Though as this is a book I’ve borrowed from Niamh, clit-lit might be a better match, especially judging by the buff-bloke-hint-of-butt-crack cover.
Damp heat tingles against my skin almost immediately and my last conscious thought is that my iPod is playing Nickelback again.
It’s dark in the classroom, the metal ladder cold at my back. He’s pressed tightly against me, the length of him hard against my thigh. Like a villain about to seduce the damsel, he arches a brow, the hot drag of his fingers suddenly between my legs.
My breath hitches and I begin to mewl, but not at all in distress.
‘Shh.’ His breath brushes my neck. ‘You must stay quiet . . . if you want to come.’
I bite my lip, the words curling and exploding in pure sensation inside. My body begins to bow and shift as I grind against him, seeking satisfaction, an ease to the aching as I’m . . .
Awake. Jerked upright. On the edge of the bed.
Flushed, panting and . . .
I’m wet.
Soaked through.
Yes, I’m wet there but I’m also soaked to my skin externally.
A sheet of wet hair lies across my face, ear-buds dangling from my shoulder as my book lies limp in a puddle on the tiles. I shake my head in an attempt to dislodge the lustful miasma, to calm the pounding inside as whispers and images barely linger, unlike the throb between my thighs.
‘Hey, sorry,’ splutters an amused voice.
‘No worries,’ I answer half to myself, peeling away the wet blanket of hair. Through the heavy strands, a guy in board-shorts smiles down. I don’t really take in his appearance other than the tan and the blond, but I get the impression he’s not very sorry at all.
‘Rob, you idiot,’ he shouts in the direction of the pool, which now seems to be filled with bodies. Not dead ones, thankfully, but bodies messing about and generally having fun.
‘No worries,’ I repeat almost by rote as my equilibrium continues to teeter, still coming down from, well, coming. I touch my lip, finding I’ve actually bitten it.
‘You’re Kate, right? From 3E?’ Board-shorts casts a sidelong look at the pool.
‘What? Sorry. Yeah, I am.’ I shake my nebulous head once more as his hand extends through the haze.
‘Matt Jarrow,’ he announces. ‘And the ass responsible for the soaking is my roommate, Rob. We’re on the same floor, friends of Niamh?’
‘Niamh’s friends,’ I repeat in a mumble, blood still pooling in my groin, starving my brain of its conversational capabilities.
‘She said to come say hi.’ His gaze flicks from my head to my toes and back again. ‘Wanna join us in the pool?’ Evidently a game of something is taking place, involving a ball and a lot of noise.
‘I’m good, that is . . . no thanks.’
As far as first impressions go, I’m making a poor one, but I doubt my legs even work just now.
‘So, Kate from 3E, you’re a teacher, like Niamh?’ Matt flops down on the adjacent bed not waiting for a response or an invitation. Linking his fingers behind his head, he stretches out. ‘You new to Dubai or just this part of town?’
As he flexes his biceps, he reminds me of a bird fluffing plumage, but he may as well be a dodo in light of my recent remote detonation from a man probably not even in the same zip code. Wait—maybe the school uses this building to house all its expat staff? He could be here, assuming he does actually work at the boys’ school, and not that it would mean anything but . . .
‘Cat got your tongue?’
Bugger. He’s still here. ‘More like the sun frazzled my brain. Sorry, I’m new. Just moved from Brisbane. Are you a teacher here, too?’
‘Nah, I work in engineering. Project management for one of the sites off Sheikh Zayed Road. Another mall, more office buildings, you know?’ I don’t, but I pretend I do, nodding where it seems appropriate. ‘Brisbane, Australia? I’ve never been, but I hear the country is truly beautiful.’
I cut him off from the usual barrage of kangaroo and koala questions with a vague gesture toward the pool. ‘Are any of your friends teachers?’ I’m eager to explore this avenue some more, and I’m nothing if not persistent. Some would say like a dog with a bone.
‘Nope, don’t think so. IT and engineering, maybe HR?’
‘Oh.’ My shoulders deflate. ‘I’d hoped some of the teachers from my school would be living here. I haven’t had a chance to meet many of the staff yet.’
‘I can ask.’ He accompanies this with a shrug, turning his gaze to the far side of the pool. Two fingers hooked into his mouth, his resulting whistle is ear-splittingly loud. All eyes turn toward us, one massively muscled guy climbing from the ladder at the edge. As the newcomer draws near, Matt tips his chin to the building behind. ‘Any teachers live here?’
‘Why? You finally admit you need special-ed?’ The taunting newcomer’s teeth gleam against his deep tan.
‘Funny,’ Matt deadpans. ‘Rob, this is Niamh’s friend, Kate. She’s looking for teachers from her school. What was the name of it again?’
The newcomer smile widens, staring down at me as I answer.
‘Teachers? I think there’s a couple from ASD.’ Rob frowns in deep thought or from stressing his brain cells. It’s hard to tell. Call me cynical, but men with builds like his are usually overcompensating for something. ‘You coming to brunch tomorrow? You could ask around.’
I nod a small response, my mind returning to Kai. I’m listening, kind of, while noticing—in a purely abstract way, you understand—the effects of gravity against the rivulets of water on Rob’s dark and toned abs. What was it Niamh said; fit and dumb? Definitely plenty of the former, the latter is a bit harder to tell. Wonder what Kai’s torso looks like; skin like caramel, a smattering of hair by way of a treasure trail? Aware now of a lull in conversation, I look up realising my companions are silent, smiling down at my off tangent stare-fest.
Yep, that’d be me. D-U-M, not even deserving of the final B.
‘B—brunch, yeah. Niamh mentioned something about it,’ I stammer as I begin to gather my things.
‘The weekend starts here!’ Rob says quite suddenly, sliding a hand through his hair. ‘Cool accent, B-T-dubs.’ Ugh, a man who speaks in acronyms. Definitely dumb. ‘I love Australians, if you were any more relaxed you’d be horizontal!’ Hah! You wish, mate. ‘Hey, tell me, do you guys really ride kangaroos?’
‘It’s a national past-time,’ I answer, meeting his tone. ‘Roo’s are a
doddle, getting them to carry your groceries is a bit tough, though.’
Talk turns to my homeland and its weird and wonderful creatures, and how to order a beer in an Australian pub: do you ask for a pot, a middie, a schooner? It’s very important to know. The atmosphere between us is relaxed and our conversation very tongue-in-cheek as I learn that for Dubai singles, the weekend is potentially one big party. I’m beginning to realise this place may not be the oasis of seclusion I’d imagined. Apparently, Friday brunch can be a bit of a raucous affair amongst the expat community. Fine foods and wine flowing, even dancing in some hotels. I like the idea of food and wine, but the thought of dancing in public is likely to bring me out in hives. I am looking forward to tomorrow, though. It all sounds very luxurious and a bit over the top.
Excusing myself from the offer of sundowners, I promise to see the pair at brunch.
Back in my new home, the setting sun has washed the blandness out of the room, christening it in a golden haze. As the muezzin in a nearby mosque begins calling the faithful to prayer, I close my eyes, absorbing his melodic tenor. My chest fills with warmth and I exhale my loneliness away.
Dubai. Not as I’d imagined, but it’s going to be interesting, I can tell.
Chapter Four
I’ve had brunch before; the meal in the place of breakfast and lunch, don’t you know. A pavement café, cool wine, bread and olives. Sophisticated. Get me, woman of the world, or so I thought until the following day finds me in the atrium of a very swanky hotel in Jumeirah Beach. Brunch Dubai style is something entirely else.
Unsure of the dress code, I’d opted for a cute tea dress with a cherry print and capped sleeves. Short but cutesy in a kind of 1940’s way, I pair it with a messy up-do and, of course, my current favourite killer heels. Other than a little leg, I’m dressed modestly enough for most occasions, neither under or overdressed in vintage chic. It’s a look Shane would hate, which is another good reason he isn’t here, I remind myself.