by Alam, Donna
The car begins to slow alongside a stone-coloured wall, and I realise there’s not really an architectural theme running through the estate. Mishael’s house is what I’d call Moorish-Mediterranean as far as style is concerned, though I’m not sure you’d find the term in the Architectural Digest. Surrounded by an intricate and handsome wrought iron fence, the house is complete with colonnades and arches, yet somehow still appears welcoming.
Kai’s house is über modern, from what I can see beyond the white, high wall surrounding it; thick, solid and impenetrable. It says stay away, keep out. Visitors are unwelcome here.
We pull up in front of an opaque glass gate, Kai telling Rashid we’ll go in through the front.
The car pulls away as Kai pushes on a steel coloured handle, the gate, which seems more like a door now we’re in front of it, opening slowly. He turns swiftly, swooping down and putting one hand behind my knees, then I’m in his arms.
‘I’m too heavy, you arse! I’ll break your back!’
‘Nonsense. And it’s customary to carry the bride over the threshold.’
‘I’d prefer you to retain the use of your spine.’
Beyond the open gate is a timber walkway over a trough of water, floodlit from beneath the waterline. A large urn, almost as tall as me, stands in front of a screen of bamboo. The front yard has a tropical feel, but is very structured. Antique looking doors, the type you’d expect to find in a temple or the home of some Indian Raj, are seemingly unlocked, as Kai carries me inside.
The entrance hall is dark, illuminated only by a light from somewhere in the depths of the house. There’s an art-deco inlaid table in the centre of the square, marbled floor and a very grand staircase leading to the next floor.
Kai bends and my feet touch the floor.
‘Do you mind if we do the grand tour tomorrow?’
‘S’fine,’ I say, yawning. ‘Lead the way to your boudoir, milord, but can I have a bottle of water, please?’ One never drinks it from the taps; you can almost taste the salt in it out here.
His face in response is half smile, half disconcerted frown. ‘You can have whatever you want. This is as much your home as it is mine now. Come on.’ He takes my hand and leads me to the staircase, stopping on the bottom step, sensing my reluctance. ‘There’s a wet-bar upstairs.’
Of course there is.
The wet-bar turns out to be part of a snug upstairs living area. Squishy sofas that look like they’ve never felt the pressure of a bum sit in front of a cream shaggy rug with a massive TV hanging from the wall. Behind the lounge area, there’s a tiny round basin set in granite, a small stainless steel fridge and accompanying wine cooler underneath.
Kai hands me a bottle of water, and taking my hand, leads me further along the corridor.
‘This is us.’
Beyond another set of double timber doors is a massive bedroom, luxurious enough to challenge any hotel. Neutral shades—mainly whites and greys—give the room a tranquil feel, but it’s also a bit sterile and impersonal. An off-white rug covers almost the entire floor, and standing in the middle of the room is a modern take on a four-poster bed. It’s covered with pale coloured coordinated bedding and stacked high with pillows, cushions and bolsters. It must be a pain to make every day. The walls are a textured grey, and an upholstered bench sits at the end of the bed matching low slung chairs in front of floor to ceiling window.
Kai walks further into the room, opening another set of doors that lead into a dressing area that should come with its own post-code. But he doesn’t stop there, passing the rows of colour co-ordinated clothes to yet another set of double doors and a bathroom beyond. Quelle supris, it’s also mahoosive: a glass-walled shower almost the size of half a netball court. Okay, maybe a teensy exaggeration, but it is very big. An oversized claw-foot bath stands in one corner in front of a marble fireplace. Very out of place. Who needs a fireplace in Dubai? The walls are covered in a mosaic of neutral tiles, mirrors above a double vanity, and more doors leading to the toilet and bidet.
Kai pulls open an armoire, handing me a new toothbrush, towels and a whole host of stuff I don’t need.
‘You could have a party in there.’ I gesture to the shower, hoping my tone is one of careful restraint rather than insinuation. Returning my gaze to the toothbrush, I concentrate on peeling it from the packaging, not quite daring to watch his response. When he doesn’t—respond or answer—I raise my head.
‘Big, isn’t it?’
His face is inscrutable and his tone bland. I blink rapidly, not quite sure of the implication of his answer, when he takes the brush from my hand.
‘Yes, you could, but no I haven’t. Does that satisfy your curiosity?’ As my brows pull together, he adds with an almost exasperated rush, ‘Other than family, you’re the first woman I’ve had in this house, okay?’
‘That sounds incestuous.’ I keep my eyes lowered, hiding my smile.
He shakes his head and chuckles, squeezing paste onto the brush. ‘Dirty minded girl.’
Back in the bedroom, Kai chucks the pillows from the bed to the floor before stripping out of his clothes and sliding between the sheets.
I gaze around the room, evading his gaze.
‘What is it?’
‘I haven’t got any jammies,’ I answer quietly and a little forlorn. I’ve been naked in bed before with him, but usually he makes me naked first.
‘Good, because this is a no sleepwear zone. See that chair?’ Leaning up on his elbow, he points to one on the other side of the bed. ‘I expect to see all manner of fluffy pyjamas, sleepwear and onesies on that thing, because that’s as far as they’re allowed.
‘What about slinky nightwear? It’s not all fluffy duckies, you know.’
‘All of it. That chair.’ He points again. ‘Though, I may be of assistance in the process of putting it there. Now, get your cute arse over here. Don’t worry, your virtue is safe. I can barely raise an eyebrow just now.’
‘I thought I was safe when you got the old-school toothbrush out.’ Chuckling softly, I begin to strip, and not at all provocatively, because the truth is, I’m buggered, too.
‘Don’t,’ he pleads half laugh, half groan. ‘I don’t think I’ve the energy to lift an electric brush, let alone pleasure you with one.’
‘Pleasure me!’ And I snort. Naked and snorting. Some things never change.
His head angles slowly to one side and he stares at me through those thick, black lashes. ‘But I could watch.’
‘Kai, you must’ve gone to sleep already. You’re dreaming. Night-night.’ I slip between the sheets and rising on the pillows, kiss his forehead before then snuggling in.
Then, I go out like a light.
Chapter Seventy-Four
Christ on a bike—spanking hands!
Eating cheese causes bad dreams, right?
That’s what I’ll blame; seared halloumi, served on a bed of sesame greens. Yes, let’s blame the delicious inflight entrée, and maybe jet-lag, for making me wake in a blind panic. Though not blind to the images scorched onto my retinas, unfortunately.
I come awake, bolt upright in Kai’s bed, maybe five minutes ago, my heartrate so erratic I’m sure I’d short-circuit an electrocardiogram, and my mind in major need of some kind of brain bleach.
I’ll bloody kill Kai.
He’s to blame for the thought to worm at all into my head, especially after I’d managed during waking hours, at least, to keep it at bay. But in my subconscious, the spank—No, I won’t say it. The scenario rather, must’ve festered and fermented under the effects of cheese, champagne and interrupted sleep, releasing itself in lurid technicolour as I’d dreamed.
I was home. Home home, in Australia, and Mum answered the front door in her apron with the most serene smile on her face. The apron is one she doesn’t use often. The one I’d bought her last Christmas, in fact; the one with pink begonias on the front. But it wasn’t the blooms that disturbed me. It was when she’d turned around to walk back into the ki
tchen . . . and I saw she was wearing a red G-string.
Just an apron and a lot of colour . . .
Holding a hand to my mouth I try not to gag, remembering the more disturbing detail of the distinctly begonia-pink hand prints on each cheek of her bum. Her laughing voice as she’d informed me I was to call her Mama Cyn from now on.
Then I’d woken in an empty bed, slicked with a sheen of cold sweat. Though it’s probably just as well I’m alone. I think the way I’d woken screaming might’ve frightened him.
With a still bleary-eyed glance around the room, I can see neither sign of Kai nor our bags. I wiggle my legs from the enormous bed, determined to find one or the other. Or maybe go to the bathroom and retch.
My purse lies on the dresser, my phone along with it. Flat, of course. Kai’s phone lies on the opposite nightstand. I imagine he can’t have gone far, as it’s usually glued to his hand. I consider taking a peek, wondering if it contains any new images in the collection I’ve christened Kate Catches Z’s, when the central air turns over, flooding the room with a frigid burst of air. Shivering, I catch a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror, abstractly recalling the last time I’d visited the mall with Niamh. We were sitting in some corporate coffee emporium when a woman walked past in a skin tight T-shirt. The waiter, delivering warmed muffins to accompany our coffee, had frozen to the spot; mouth open, the only sign of animation was his head as it slowly turned to follow her progress. Though I imagine there were other signs of animation, namely the in-the-pants kind, not that I looked. Some men are just easily pleased, I guess, because Niamh’s assertion was right. The girl was a total butter-face.
‘Banging body, but ‘er face . . .’ Let’s just say it looked banged. ‘But, Jaysus, y’could dial a phone with them nipples!’
Getting back to my reflection in the dresser mirror, it agrees. My nipples are huge. Maybe it’s the pallor of my skin which makes them appear so, because as well as having the unfortunate appearance of the last chicken on the supermarket shelf, my skin seems much more pale this morning, hence the, er, enhancement of stiff, rosy and pink.
I could probably hang a towel from them.
Crossing my arms across my body, I rub chicken-flesh from my arms before heading into the closet in search of something to wear.
My, my. Someone’s a bit obsessed.
With a snigger, I consider messing with the colour-coded rows. Despite the thought, I’m too bloody cold to fart-arse about and just lift a lilac one—a shade I’ve never seen him wear, thank God—from the shelf.
Lilac shirts hanging before the blue ones, but after the grey. It’s like a Ralph Lauren showroom.
Slipping it from the hanger, I’m relieved that it’s not one of the more expensive brands, neither Armani nor custom Saville Row, but Boss Orange.
Oh, the deprivation! How does he not hang his head in shame?
Chuckling, I fasten the buttons then begin pulling open drawers in search of something that resembles, well, drawers.
Man, who colour co-ordinates their socks?
Pulling out a pair, I’m not exactly thrilled to find Kai’s Armani boxer briefs don’t exactly hang from my hips. Or need to be knotted at my waist. Fat bitch. I resolve to cut out carbs, from one meal a day, at least.
Grabbing mine and Kai’s discarded and dirty clothes, but not seeing a laundry basket in the room, I open the door to the upstairs-living-room-snug-space and make my way down the very grand staircase, thinking there’s bound to be a washing machine somewhere down there.
At the foot of the stairs, the front of the house is bathed in bright sunshine so I don’t quite notice the floor is wet until my foot slides on the marble and I skid, nearly falling flat on my arse.
Not a great start to the start of the day.
A mop and bucket stands nearby, causing me to smile as I imagine an insomniac Kai with a touch of OCD, waking in the early hours with a desperate need to clean. It’s a silly thought but preferable to the conclusion I jump to as I turn the corner, finding myself in the reception room. Majlis, I think Kai called it. A huge stone fireplace dominates one wall. Black and white leather sofas are the second things I see, almost not noticing the woman bent over the arm of one of them. A woman with jet black hair pulled tight in a bun. An improbable shade, I notice, as she turns to face me, the bright yellow duster forgotten in her hand and falling to the floor. Her craggy eyebrows lower once she’s martialled her surprise and dark, heavily wrinkled eyes sweep from my own, down my bra-less chest and mostly bare legs. Reaching the tips of my toes, her eyes sweep up my body again. Then she opens her mouth.
‘Aeeeiiii!’
At least that’s what it sounds like, as she claps her hands to her cheeks with some force. I don’t hang around for confirmation, or translation, as she grabs a large sweeping brush leaning against the back of a chair, heading for me in a rush.
‘Hell anni!’ And again, I can’t quite be sure that’s what she says—yells—as she charges at me, determined to sweep me away like something unsavoury trodden into her carpet. ‘Chi-chi-chi! Haram! Haram!’
‘Hey! Ow!’ I jump to avoid a violent sweep to the shins. I’ve heard of jumping brooms after marriage, but not like this. I make to run for the sanctuary of upstairs, when she spits at me—fricken spits at me!—on her own clean floors, because I assume the mop and bucket is hers. ‘Eww . . . that’s feral, you fucking nutter! Let me past!’
‘La, haram, haram!’
My armful of clothes are flung around the hall like a tornado as she lunges for me again. I squeal as I chuck them at her, partly in the hopes of creating a diversion and partly from shock.
‘I’m . . . I’m Mrs. Kai! Ismi Mrs. Kai, you geriatric git!’ I shout over my shoulder as she chases me around the lovely art deco table. ‘You’re going to make him very cross!’ Not to mention my jet-lagged legs very sore.
This is ridiculous and I’m bloody knackered and it’s way too early in the day to be having a domestic, with the domestic . . . staff. I immediately stop, obviously on the opposite side of the table, and well out of reach. She may be getting on a bit, but she’s bloody fast.
‘Listen here.’ I point a finger at her, filling my voice with all the authority of a primary school teacher. ‘Listen here, you . . . you, person you! I’m Mrs. Khalfan.’ And that just sounds wrong.
Muttering, she points her thumb to her wiry neck, and under a pugnacious, jutting chin she viciously draws it across her heavily jowled flesh. A death threat from a woman who’s clearly pushing seventy? I’m not gonna take it lightly. Just as well.
‘Aiieee!’ She yells, leaping around the table and charging at me again.
I stumble backward to the door—it’s still unlocked. Grabbing the handle on the other side, I shove my foot flat against the adjoining one, holding on tight as she yanks and pulls from inside, still yelling and cursing in whatever language that is. The handle stills, but I hold it for a minute, not to be fooled, before beginning to worry that she may be seeking another exit.
I’ve read a few weird newspaper stories in my short time in the UAE, including one that made the front page of the local paper where a maid was arrested for threatening her boss with a knife. That her boss had chased her around the kitchen table, wearing nothing but a smile on his face and a naked hard-on jutting from between his legs, wasn’t enough to prevent her arrest and eventual deportation, apparently. The police had accepted his trousers had just “fallen down”. Wonder what the headline would read if this maid manages to catch me? I don’t wait around to find out, slipping my feet into a very worn pair of yellow rubber thongs that I find by the front door. Looks like she’d been wearing them while watering the bamboo plants. They’re not exactly stylish, but they’re clean. Wet. And will prevent my feet from blistering against the extremely hot pavement.
The sun is blinding as I reach and open the gate, stepping out from the shade of the canopy of greenery. Without my sunglasses, my eyes begin to stream as I consider my choices. As I see it, I could
go back into the front yard and hide in wait for Kai, but I’d be running the risk of being found by this geriatric nutter, of course. My second choice is to see if his mum is home.
I turn right and head for Mishael’s.
Chapter Seventy-Five
The wrought iron entrance gate to Mishael’s palace, I mean house, is locked, so I ring the large bell. I ring it again. And again. And panic a bit, as well, when at the top of the steps, one half of the heavy front door opens, and a woman dressed in black and white appears. She’s not French, despite her uniform. A very proper looking housemaid, probably from the Philippines.
‘Is . . . could I speak to Mishael, please?’
She doesn’t answer and I could chuck table tennis balls into her open mouth. Easily. Straightening Kai’s shirt across my shoulders, I pull the hem as low as I can. ‘It’s Regina, isn’t it?’ I seem to have retained this from my visit. In any event, it appears to return her to her wits.
‘Y-yes, ma’am.’
‘Is Mishael at home? Mrs. Khalfan?’ God, that sounds weird. Is that me now?
‘Madam bathing, ma’am.’ Her expression is immediately disconcerted. ‘N-not to be disturbed.’
‘I’m a . . . a friend of her son. A friend of Kai’s?’
This earns me a doubtful look, then the appalled utterance of “Mr. Kai,” followed by a slight tutting and an almost infinitesimal shake of her head. They’re all signs of her disapproval, and a profound misunderstanding, as she begins to close the door.
‘No, please! I came for lunch—a couple of weeks ago. With Mr. Kai?’
The door halts as I hear the unmistakable voice of Mishael from inside.
‘Is that you, Kate?’ The door opens under her instruction. ‘Quickly!’