Gentleman Playboy

by Alam, Donna

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Sorry, babes.’ Her mouth becomes a small moue. Mine, meanwhile, probably looks more like a cat’s bum. ‘You know I’m only having a laugh. That and I’m jealous of all the action you’ve been getting, of course.’

  Her words settle in my stomach like a cold stone. ‘You think maybe that’s all this is for him?’ I catch the bartender’s eye, masking my concern by ordering two beers. ‘A casual hook-up?’

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ she says reaching for her bottle. ‘Right now, I’d settle for uncomplicated, if there is such a thing.’

  ‘We were talking about me, not you.’

  ‘I can’t catch a feckin’ break. It’s like the world’s conspiring against me or something!’ One hand on the neck of her bottle, the other weaves her frustration in the air. ‘First Rob’s all over me, but now . . . I don’t understand.’ Shoulders sinking, she swallows a mouthful of her beer. ‘Sorry. You. If you’re asking are his motives that transparent, you’re asking the wrong person. I can tell you what I see, if it’ll help.’

  ‘Can’t hurt,’ I mumble.

  ‘He seems a bit besotted. And then there’s all the time he spends with you. He’s obviously dead keen.’ Then she slides me a sly smile. ‘Could be he’s just imagining you in those knickers, mind.’

  The music seems to have increased around us, so slowly it’s barely noticeable, until you try to have a conversation. Relaxed and enjoying our girls’ night, we move away from the bar onto a quieter table, each with a cocktail in hand.

  ‘That guy over there’s giving you the eye.’ Niamh giggles. ‘Don’t turn ‘round!’

  ‘What do you expect?’ I say, resist the urge to turn further. ‘You say look. I ask where.’

  ‘I thought you were all loved-up?’

  ‘I am!’

  ‘ ‘Cos you’ve only got eyes for Kai.’ With a quick vomit inducing finger mime, she stares blatantly over my shoulder. ‘He’s not bad looking. Shame his pal has a head like a half chewed toffee.’

  ‘He’s got what?’

  ‘He’s fugly,’ she replies with an expressive glance. And by that, I mean crossing her eyes.

  ‘You haven’t got your glasses on. From where you’re sat, they could both be primordial, lacking opposable thumbs.’ I hold both of mine up with a manic grin.

  ‘I dated a guy like that once. From Cork. They’re a bit like that from down there. And I’ve got my lenses in, ‘cos boys don’t make passes—’

  ‘At girls who wear glasses,’ we finish together.

  ‘That’s crap, though. They buzz ‘round you like flies on—’

  ‘Shit?’ she asks, sweetly.

  ‘I was going to say sugar, but it is what it is. See, what I’d like to know is, if you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, why doesn’t your gob keep them away?’

  ‘Some men like to be humiliated.’ She snorts before her eyes become wide, like she’s farted in the middle of mass or something. That can’t be right, Niamh doesn’t blush. It must be the lights.

  ‘Hey, if I’m playing the faithful seeing eye dog tonight ‘cos you’re too vain to put on your specs, I should tell you there’s a woman over there waving at you.’ I gesture behind her with my glass.

  One look over her shoulder and Niamh is pushing back her chair, exclaiming, ‘My god, Liv!’

  Half watching the pair’s effusive greeting, I take a small sip of my martini before scooping out the suicidal olive bobbing in the glass. Death by martini. Not a bad way to go.

  I start as hands cover my eyes.

  ‘Guess who.’

  The accented voice is distinctive, familiar almost. Before a split second passes, I know it isn’t Kai. The hands move as Kai’s cousin slides himself into Niamh’s vacated chair.

  ‘Essam?’

  He certainly looks like Kai’s pretend pious cousin, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. A mufti in mufti. I know, lame.

  ‘You remembered.’

  He smiles with satisfaction, grabbing a bottle of beer from a waitress’ passing tray. I expect her to bat his hand away but instead, she smiles and gives him the eye as she sashays away. His gaze and salacious smile eventually draw back. Looks like the wolf in sheep’s clothing is au naturel tonight.

  ‘I . . . I wouldn’t have expected to see you here.’ My voice holds a false brightness, the understatement hiding in the words.

  He hooks an elbow around the chair back, eyes flicking over me, obviously so. I straighten in my seat, aware again of how alike, and yet poles apart, he and Kai are. Similar features, the same luxurious hair, but where Kai has a slight air of rake about him, in Essam I can only sense sleaze.

  His hand grasps my wrist. ‘Shu al moshkil? What’s wrong?’

  ‘No, nothing,’ I answer too quickly, retracting the offended appendage ostensibly to push hair behind my ears. ‘So, what brings you out? I mean, a bar is the last place I’d expect to see you.’

  Foot. Mouth. Cultural sensitivity and I are passing acquaintances sometimes.

  ‘We are all here for the same thing, I think.’

  I look down at my glass before scanning the space over his shoulder, looking anywhere but at him, as warning bells the size of a cathedral’s begin to ring. ‘Yeah, what’s that?’ I mumble distractedly.

  ‘A drink, a chance to relax. To make new friends . . . To fuck.’

  Words fire from my mouth, incredulous. ‘You’ve got a wife!’

  ‘They do not naturally go together, habibti.’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’ The hairs on the back of my neck prickle and rise and I can’t help the look of derision, of distaste, that crosses my face. ‘I guess she doesn’t know you’re here, then.’

  ‘It is not her concern.’

  ‘Why? Is she at some other bar, whoring it around the same as you?’

  His face hardens, dark eyes burning like coals as a flare of light from the dance floor flashes across his face. The expression is fleeting, anger melting into an insipid smile. ‘You would no more find an Emirati wife in a meat market like this than you would find her washing her own floors.’ Smiling at his own joke, he relaxes back into the chair, expansive hands now behind his head. My distaste deepens. If this is a meat market, I’m under no illusion what he thinks this makes me. ‘Does Kai know you’re here, habibti?’

  I ignore the endearment this time, using my teacher’s voice instead. ‘Are you suggesting I need permission?’

  ‘You would know better than me. Controlling, isn’t he? It comes with the territory, of course. You have met Faris, my esteemed uncle?’

  ‘Are you, like, making small talk, or do you actually have something to say?’

  ‘Me? No, wallah—I swear!’ He holds out his hands. ‘Only . . .’ He smiles wolfishly, his pale imitation of Kai. ‘I think you are perhaps not aware of his father’s favourite pastime. Controlling his son? For instance, this Riyadh . . . what would you call it? A merger? A union?’

  Not him as well, what’s with all this Riyadh talk? I didn’t even know there was such a place until last week.

  ‘Yeah, I know he’s there. What of it?’

  He laughs. It’s almost as though he forces the sound from his chest. ‘I think you do not truly know.’ I don’t like his tone. Scratch that, I don’t like him. Or his smirking face. ‘Personally, I’d call it a merger, not that it is my place.’ He taps the side of his nose. ‘Ask him. I dare you.’

  ‘I don’t play childish games and what he’s doing in Riyadh is his business.’

  ‘Very trusting, habib—’ Halting the endearment mid flow, he shrugs with acquiesce, watching me through hooded eyes. ‘Secrets. We all have skeletons lurking in our closets. I know for certain Kais’ rattle chains.’

  I’m not playing his guessing games and am almost out of my chair when he speaks once more.

  ‘You seem like a nice girl. You should know Kais has certain . . . predilections. I think you are not yet aware. And in a no win situation. A job tied to your, what would y
ou call him, lover, perhaps? And he tied to his father’s plans.’

  ‘I don’t have to listen to this.’ I make to rise again when a hand rests on my shoulder, pressing me back into the chair.

  ‘She’s not interested. Shift, you’re in my seat.’ Niamh’s gaze narrows before flaring with recognition. ‘Ah, the elusive Khalid. What? Left the little woman at home tonight?’

  ‘Essam,’ I correct. ‘And apparently his wife wouldn’t be seen dead in this knocking shop.’

  ‘Wife? You’ve not married her already!’

  ‘They’ve already . . . got a baby?’ I answer, confused.

  He turns in a gesture of irritation, eyes shining hot and angry as he glowers at Niamh. ‘I think you have me confused with someone else.’

  ‘You wish,’ she sneers, satisfaction settling around her like a favourite coat. ‘So, does your wife know you’ve got a girlfriend stashed away in some skeevy flat? What about Sarah? She know your real name, that you’ve got a wife?’

  ‘Is there a problem here?’

  Rob’s familiar figure joins our table as Essam stands. With a contemptuous look, he edges around Niamh, disregarding Rob. ‘You must ask him about Riyadh,’ he says with a last penetrating glare.

  ‘I can’t believe the neck of him! A wife and he goes and gets an apartment for Sarah!’

  ‘Who’s Sarah?’ Rob asks, sitting next to Niamh. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A bastard is who he is. She’s a mate, maybe more a friend of a friend. A hairdresser, been here about eight months when that . . . that bollix tells her he loves her and wants her to give up her job and move in with him. And she does, the daft cow. Only, he’s not there all of the time. Leading her a merry feckin’ dance and I can see why. A wife!’

  My thoughts tumble like water over rocks; Niamh’s warnings, Jen’s brunch insinuations that sounded neither sane nor true. I begin to wonder if Kai knows about Essam. True, he didn’t look overly pleased when he turned up at his mum’s art thing, but a wife and a girl on the side? Surely he can’t know.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Matt.’ I shake my head, and confusion away, perturbed to see his face inches from mine. His hand rests on the back of my chair. ‘Yeah, fine. I’m okay.’ Not nearly as fine as Niamh, I notice, as Rob slides his arm around her shoulder.

  ‘Can I get anyone a drink?’ Matt straightens, his hand resting now on my shoulder.

  ‘Still got one thanks.’ Automatically, I reach for the stem of my glass. ‘Oh, Christ, cold!’ I jump from my seat as Matt’s hip collides with my arm, pushed by some force from behind. Ice cold liquid soaks my blouse, chilling my skin, the glass bouncing out of my hand to shatter against the floor.

  ‘Hey, buddy, go easy there!’ Matt pushes the offender, a slumped over drunk, upright.

  ‘Asif, so sorry,’ he slurs, glassy eyes stuck to my wet chest. Pushed upright, he beams a toothy smile before wobbling on his merry way.

  ‘That little—ah, would you look at the state of her shirt!’

  I’d rather they didn’t, as transparent as it is. She begins to blot the silk with a napkin.

  ‘Here, babe, dry yourself off.’

  She hands me another as I flap the fabric from my cold skin. Sagging back into the chair, my spirits now matching my blouse.

  ‘I’m gonna head home.’

  ‘No, don’t let the tosser spoil a good evening!’ Niamh looks genuinely disappointed, if not a little panicked. But I don’t have the energy to have to spend an evening playing nice with Matt while she makes a play for Rob.

  ‘You stay, I’m tired. Rob, you’ll make sure she gets home okay, won’t you?’

  ‘Sure thing,’ he confirms.

  ‘Yeah, I think I’ll call it a night, too,’ Matt says. ‘We could share a cab.’

  So should have seen that one coming.

  ‘If you’re sure? I don’t like the idea of Kate going home alone.’ Niamh glances at me, eyes wide with innocence. ‘You’re both going the same way.’

  But are we though, really?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  In the dark of the taxi, an uncomfortable silence prevails. Street lamps wash Matt intermittently in a sickly orange hue as I fiddle with the clasp of my purse, so not in the mood for conversation after his less than smooth move.

  ‘You didn’t mind sharing a cab, did you?’ Matt asks, unnecessarily loud. ‘I thought maybe they needed some time alone.’

  ‘No, that’s fine. It’d be good to see them work this out,’ I mumble, grabbing my phone.

  ‘He’s a little shy, even though he seems like this loud-ass sometimes. I think she’ll be good for him. You wanna grab a drink with me sometime?’

  And here it begins.

  ‘Yeah, thing is, I’m kind of already involved.’

  ‘The boyfriend back home? After the phone call, you know, I figured that was done.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s over.’ I’m sure he doesn’t need confirmation; he was there when I yelled as much down the phone to my mum. ‘Actually, I’ve started to see someone here.’

  ‘You move quick.’ This comes on a breath of a laugh. ‘Do you work with him or something? Where’s he from?’

  ‘I met him through work.’ Well, that’s not a lie. ‘And he’s kind of from here, an Emirati, I mean. You’ve already met him.’

  ‘Huh.’ He says nothing else for a beat, then, ‘Not that guy at the hotel, the real smooth one? Tell me to mind my own business, only—’

  ‘How about you do that,’ I snap, not sure how my angry gaze translates in the near darkness. ‘Look, we’re here.’ I shove a few dirham notes in the front seat and scramble for the door.

  A shower rids me of eau de brewery and I grab a pair of PJ’s from the ever growing clean laundry mountain at the end of my bed. They’re bright pink and cute, especially if you’re five years old, dotted with cartoon ducks, their speech bubbles decrying quackers in lurid lines. As a character reference, this might be spot on, but at least they don’t smell like booze.

  A hoodie hangs at the end of my bed. I slip it on as I head to the sofa, curling against the arm. I’m agitated, my mind racing over the things Essam said. Probably because it makes no sense. Restless, I grab my book from the table, reading the same paragraph again and again without making sense of the words. I begin to peel the pages apart, those stuck together from the soaking at the pool. God, I feel antsy. Chucking it down, I plump a cushion for my head before deciding to alter the thermostat. Goose-flesh dapples my legs, the air conditioning in this place seems to have only three setting: off, Saharan or Arctic. I usually leave it set to the latter as I don’t like sitting in a pool of my own sweat. Making a mental note to complain to maintenance tomorrow, I go back to my bedroom in the search for warmer clothes.

  My yoga pants hold a distinct whiff of recent take-out, so I grab a pair of footy socks and slip them on and up over my knees. Last time I saw socks like these, a witch was wearing them. She was also wearing a house, but I’m cold and this isn’t a fashion parade. I pull on my ugg boots for good measure and turn on the TV, selecting the Middle East’s version of MTV. Arabic pop videos are so much fun, it’s like the eighties revisited; big hair and the aura of cheese. I love guessing what the song is about, not that it’s difficult given that Arabic pop seems to be universally about love. Happy love, angsty love, unrequited love, child love . . . no, not like that. Families and children. They’re big on love, plus they make me smile. Settling my head against the cushion, I decide I’ll watch for a while.

  A buzzing sounds in the distance, like a horsefly trying to escape from a window, bashing its bulk against the glass. Pulling the cushion over my ears, I complain the noise is hurting my head as it becomes one long, insistent sound, a bit like a fly spinning on tiles in the final throes of death.

  My body jerks abruptly, wrenched from sleep as I realise it’s the doorbell.

  ‘I’m coming,’ I grumble, rubbing sleep away. ‘Ouch, shit!’ I bang my shin against the coffee table, stumble, hop and c
ontinue to the door.

  ‘Wha . . . Kai?’ I lower my leg, my sleepy self trying to get a better grip on this reality. ‘I thought you were away?’

  ‘I was. I know it’s late . . . ’

  The husky timbre of his voice sends shivers across my skin. God, that mouth. Those lips. I want to kiss them, take the plump flesh between my teeth and—

  Think in words, not pictures. Form a sentence, girl!

  ‘Are you going to invite me in?’

  ‘What? Oh, yeah.’

  I step back and Kai steps in, tie hanging slack from his open collar, a light stubble covering his chin. At first glance he looks loose, and gorgeous with it, but there’s a definite tightness around his eyes. Not entering the room fully, he leans back against the wall, his body almost crowding me.

  ‘How’d you get in?’ Walking further into the room, I pick up the remote, interrupting some smoky-eyed singer shaking her groove-thing. ‘I came in behind one of your neighbours.’ He gestures to my book on the coffee table. ‘Bedtime reading?’ he asks with a smirk.

  Picking up the trashy novel, I fold it into my arms, hiding the butt-crack cover with my hand.

  ‘I was aiming for a bit of literary induced bliss.’

  He snorts, gaze lowering, where he frowns at my feet. ‘What on earth are those?’

  Oh. That’s a good question. ‘Would you believe it if I said I got dressed in the dark?’ I look down at my hideous ensemble. Daggy knee socks, hoodie and uggs. Not to mention a highly probable drizzle of drool at my chin. And God only knows what my hair must look like. My hand goes there self-consciously to pat and smooth.

  ‘I wouldn’t doubt it,’ he answers. ‘Are they some sort of hideous house slipper?’

  ‘No.’ Wiggling my toes in their furry covering, I rock back on my heel. ‘They’re uggs.’

  ‘They’re ug-ly.’

  I join him in frowning down at my feet. ‘Would you like a drink?’ As I lift my gaze, I suddenly grasp that he’s probably had enough. Yes, that’s it. He’s a little bit drunk!

  ‘I didn’t come here to drink.’ His gaze remains on the floor, allowing me to study unhindered the day-worth of stubble on his chin.