Gentleman Playboy

by Alam, Donna

  Sliding past her, I grasp the box, and begin climbing the stairs, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of sharing my surprise. At about the fourth stair, the box unbalances in my arms and I start to wish I’d let her open it, because this box contains something alive.

  I dread to think what it is.

  The contents meows, and right then, I know I’m going to kill Kai.

  A cat. Confirmed, as I lift the lid, when the thing shoots from the box like a demon fleeing hell. It fires under the sofa—cream coloured, I think, and probably not big enough to be labelled a cat. A kitten, maybe? Fluffy. Tiny paws. Scratchy nails. Teeth like sharp needles.

  I hate cats. They freak me out. I thought I’d already established this point.

  I realise I’ve curled my legs up from the floor, so I lower them again, feeling a bit ridiculous. And still a bit scared.

  Think calm rational thoughts. It’s probably much more frightened of you than you are of it.

  Then why is my heart beating in my ears?

  Dropping to my knees on the thick, shaggy rug, I peer under the sofa.

  ‘Here, puss . . . puss?’

  The thing is all teeth and hissing noises, but I think I would be, too, if I’d been stuck in a box for an undetermined period. And then dropped.

  Sitting back, I contemplate how to get the ick-ball out.

  If I were a cat, what would it take for me to come out from under the sofa, potentially exposing myself to scary things?

  A vodka martini?

  A naked Kai?

  I know . . . food!

  I dash downstairs to the kitchen, to find a mostly empty fridge. Feck. Desperate means call for desperate measures, so I return with a yoghurt pot.

  ‘Here you go, you little fucker—fella—I mean feline.’ Seriously, am I developing Tourette’s or something? ‘Come see what I’ve got for you. Here kitty, kitty.’

  Nope, that sounds wrong.

  ‘Here pussy, pussy.’ Also, more levels of wrongness.

  Getting back on my hands and knees proves a waste of energy as the fur-ball-feck has gone. ‘Where the hell are you?’

  ‘Madam?’

  ‘Ow, fuck!’ I hit my head on the coffee table in shock. Not because Martha has surprised me with her presence, rather this is the first time she’s referred to me with any sense of deference. As I turn, I realise why: she has the furry one nestled in her arms. Like a baby.

  Must’ve left the door open on my yoghurt hunt.

  ‘Labneh no good for the kittah!’ She purses her lips, pointing at my strawberry yoghurt pot. ‘Labneh giving loose motions,’ she continues in a warning tone.

  So what? Yoghurt will loosen the fur-ball’s limbs. No big deal. Might be able to catch it next time if it’s wobbling around, rather than speeding about the place like a demon on speed . . . ohhh wait, those loose “motions”.

  I giggle a little nervously. ‘I, erm, see what you mean. No, we don’t want any little accidents, do we?’ Not on cream carpets.

  At this, Martha clutches the kitten tighter, half turning, as though I’d issued a threat.

  ‘Is from the sir? From Mr. Kai?’

  ‘Yeah.’ And much I have to say about that, though not in current company.

  ‘Such a good boy, the Mr. Kai,’ she says rather wistfully.

  Not so much, I want to tell her, but instead answer unconvincingly, ‘Yes. Isn’t he.’

  An awkward silence falls, our fragile bond wiggling in her arms.

  ‘I will take,’ she says decisively. ‘I will bring again. Bukrah.’ Tomorrow.

  ‘Take your time,’ I answer to her retreating form. ‘I’m in no bloody hurry.’

  ‘Darling!’

  Mishael rises from the pale gold Louis armchair, champagne flute in hand. Feeding her free arm around my shoulders, she kisses my cheek soundly. None of this Dubai-air-kiss-business; it’s a real smacker that’s probably left my skin coated in her plum-coloured lipstick.

  ‘Isn’t your friend accompanying you?’

  ‘Niamh? Yeah, she’s making her own way here.’ Late as usual. ‘She has her own sense of time, I’m afraid.’ Yeah, permanently behind everyone else’s. Maybe I should’ve mentioned there’d be champagne at my dress fitting. Oh, and macaron. Yum.

  The door discreetly tinkles, the immaculately dressed assistant buzzing it open from her gold Rococo desk.

  ‘I’ve driven past the place twice!’ Niamh complains loudly. ‘Wouldn’t have even noticed the door if I hadn’t seen you standing there. The place doesn’t even have proper signage.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mishael answers. ‘There’s discreet and then there’s just plain snobbery. You must be Niamh.’

  ‘Niamh,’ I begin, thinking I should introduce the pair. ‘This is Mishael, my . . . My . . .’

  ‘Just call me Mummy, darling,’ she says with a wide smile. I actually think she’s being serious for a minute, until her shoulders begin to shake. ‘I’m the soon to be dreaded monster-in-law,’ she adds, holding out her hand to Niamh.

  Introductions over, the gorgeous and willowy assistant produces two more crystal flutes of champagne and we step into the belly of the beast.

  My designer—get me—my designer drew up the design based on those I’d liked in her portfolio. Glorious confections in satins, silks and lace. I’ve even had my grubby mitts on the fabric samples! Now we’re here at the atelier for my first try on of the unfinished garment. I’m so bloody excited! I can’t believe it even resembles a dress after only a few days. Mishael has come along for translation. My French doesn’t extend beyond grade six, but also because she’s uber excited. I suppose this is her one chance at playing wedding Barbie, having only one son. And Niamh, well, she’s here for moral support. And out of sheer nosiness, of course.

  I’d googled the word atelier after hearing it bandied around in wedding-talk. I’d been a bit disappointed to find out it meant nothing more than ‘workshop’, so I’m pleasantly surprised by my surrounds. It’s a bit like a movie set from the 1950’s; a sort of fashion house set, where models cat-walked potential purchases for wealthy customers. The place is all swagged fabrics and massive mirrors. There’s even a small dais for the model—that would be me—to stand on, while women—that would be Niamh and Mishael—watch from stylish sofas, dangling champagne flutes from bejewelled hands. Or in this case, sniffle and sob.

  ‘It’s beautiful, chick,’ says Niamh, surreptitiously wiping under her eyes.

  ‘Lay off the booze, Niamh. It’s just a bloody dress!’

  ‘Darling, it’s exquisite on you. You look like an absolute dream,’ adds Mishael, before turning to converse with Lena, the woman responsible for designing this vision, as she stands eyeing me critically.

  I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Despite being as yet unfinished, this gown is certainly dreamlike. In fact, this whole experience is. Who’d have thought running away to Dubai would’ve brought me to the man of my dreams? And I’ve never worn something that has made me feel so . . . bloody beautiful. I can’t wait to see his expression. Can’t wait for him to get home.

  Seriously. We’re on week three now. Fingers—and toes—crossed he’ll be back next week. And so much for his promise of phone sex, though I know he’s been incredibly busy. But knowing him, this is part of the tease. It’s always on his time.

  ‘Oui, je suis d’accord avec vous.’ This from Lena, who holds out her hand to help me down from the raised platform.

  ‘She’s just going to show you a few veils. I’ve told her chapel length or shorter.’ Perhaps sensing my reluctant expression, she adds, ‘It does no harm to try.’

  I’m not keen. In truth, there doesn’t seem like much of a point. I’m not getting married in church, so I don’t really care about a veil. But as Lena escorts me to an equally plush ante-room, lifting a sparkling tray onto another gold desk, I’m dazzled by its contents: tiaras, diamanté hair slides and all manner of hair baubles. Like a magpie on crack and dazzled by the pretty, I’m not really paying a
ttention to the voices from the outer-room. Until a particular voice freezes the blood in my veins.

  ‘Mishael, my dear. What a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘Sofia.’

  My stomach churns and my fingers begin to shake, though I can tell Mishael isn’t enthused by her presence.

  ‘You do not mind if I just use the changing room, do you? The girl on the desk seemed to think that this would be a problem.’ The assistant begins to apologize and explain, cut dead by Sofia as she powers on. ‘But when I hear your voice, I think to myself, ah! This is Mishael! She will not mind. I need only one moment to check the length of my alteration.’

  Smarmy bitch. Fucking whore. My hands are clutching the desk as Lena asks me in heavily accented English what the problem is. I can’t answer. And I can’t face going out there. I’ll . . . I’ll . . . Christ, I don’t know what I’ll do if I have to go out there.

  I hear heels clicking on the marbled floor before they stop abruptly as Mishael speaks.

  ‘Actually, Sofia, I don’t think that’s appropriate. I’m here with my future daughter-in-law for a dress fitting. Her wedding dress fitting.’

  Silence. And then, ‘Oh, Faris finally settled him on the girl?’ Her voice is pitched just a touch too high and I hear the clicking of heels again. ‘The girl from Saudi Arabia.’ Her pronunciation takes on a regional twang, rendering the word sa-owdi arabeeya. ‘Why not dress shopping in Paris or Rome, or with her own family?’

  ‘Faris?’ Mishael questions with a tinkling laugh, ignoring her further questions. ‘My goodness, no! He had no part in this. Kai’s marrying for love. A delightful Australian girl.’ Again with the silence. Until Mishael fills it with a sort of malicious sounding glee. ‘I’d ask you to stay and meet her, but I’m sure Kai would prefer to save those sorts of introductions for himself. He’s quite smitten, you see. And why wouldn’t he be? She’s such a lovely, wholesome sort of girl.’

  It’s funny how a few moments can flip things. My hands unclench as Sofia murmurs some half-hearted congratulations before I hear her heels hurrying her out of the room.

  ‘She’s a nasty little trollop.’ Mishael fumes, her arms and legs crossed as she sits bolt upright in her chair. ‘Ah, there you are, my dear. Find anything you like?’

  ‘What? Oh, no. I’ll . . . I’ll look another time. Was that Sofia I just heard?’ My voice falters on her name, cracking as the image of her kneeling and naked flashes through my head.

  ‘You’ve met, have you?’ The small collection of words is delivered with a tightening of her mouth. It’s a look I’ve seen before on Kai, her mouth nothing more than a thin line. She stands, coming towards me, taking my hands in hers.

  ‘She’s nothing, my dear. Nothing but a very bad idea.’

  ‘You know?’ My voice is barely more than a whisper; one treacherous tear rolling down the side of my nose.

  ‘That’s her?’ Niamh exclaims, shooting out of her chair. ‘That’s the lying blow job girl!’ Her gaze flicks to my future mother-in-law. ‘Sorry about that there, Mishael.’

  ‘No apologies necessary. The woman is nothing but a slut.’ My mouth is now open and Niamh is sniggering. A lot. ‘But I sense something else, something not very . . . palatable regarding that . . .’ Her hands tighten on mine before she leans in and dabs at my rogue tear.

  ‘It’s nothing.’ Nothing I want to repeat anyway.

  ‘I understand,’ she replies, her face settling into a more neutral expression. ‘But I want you to know, you have nothing to fear. Kai loves you, and is well aware of how toxic she is. I’ve no idea why he married her,’ she adds.

  ‘Kai married that slut?’ interjects Niamh as my heart falls to my ivory platform heels.

  ‘No, of course not. François married her. But why, I don’t know. Anyone would think it was 1902!’

  ‘She’s very beautiful,’ I demur.

  ‘Seriously hot,’ Niamh kicks in. ‘It’s like Milla Jovovich and Enrique Iglesias gave birth to a grown-up supermodel baby!’

  ‘I think she’s as appealing as Engelbert, myself.’

  ‘Who?’ we both chorus.

  ‘Never mind. The point is, she’s a very unappealing sort.’

  ‘Well, she got François to marry her, so she can’t be that unappealing.’ Probably does tricks. And, hello, I have eyes.

  ‘Oh my dear, no. He’s not interested in her. He’s a friend of Dorothy,’ she says, her tone heavy with implication.

  ‘Well, Kai said he was bisexual.’

  ‘No, no, no! The man is as gay as a maypole—I’ve known him for years! He married, like lots of gay men did a number of years ago, for appearances sake. Although what he gets out of it, I’ll never know.

  ‘Maybe he gets to convert a few of the hoors harem along the way. Or at least gets to watch.’

  ‘Niamh!’ I chastise, but Mishael is laughing.

  ‘Good point,’ she says, walking me towards the changing room again. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘So he did an Elton?’ Niamh says.

  ‘Exactly, my dear. Some men feel forced into marriage for appearances sake, especially in conservative countries such as this, sadly. Being gay is still a huge taboo. And punishable.’

  ‘That is sad.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? One of Faris’ cousins—a quite distant cousin—has been married five times, each one ending in a divorce before the year is out. He sends them back virgins. Well, at least the first three, as far as I know. The last two have been a little knowing, shall we say. Yes, divorced and virgins, but quite rich you see? From the mahr. You can’t blame him, it’s his family. They’re either blind or seeking a cure, sadly.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ Niamh answers. ‘I can’t imagine having to hide who I am. Who I want to be with.’

  ‘You couldn’t hide that bloke,’ I answer, hoping to lighten the tone. ‘All six foot four of him. And what is he? Like a hundred and ten kilos or something?’

  ‘All muscle.’ Niamh laughs. ‘It’s a pity a couple of those kilos weren’t between his ears.’

  And with that, the pair pull the door to the changing room closed.

  ‘I’ll send someone in to attend to your buttons, darling.’

  From beyond the door I hear Niamh snigger as she adds, ‘Well, at least he doesn’t need any help with my buttons.’

  ‘Then he’s a keeper,’ Mishael adds, the rest of her sentence lost in the distance as they draw away.

  We eat lunch in downtown Dubai, Mishael ordering mimosas to go along with our salads. Yep, I’m eating a salad. Blame Kai’s boxer shorts. Afterwards, Niamh heads off to do some shopping while Mishael and I have an appointment with the wedding planner, the fabulous Phillippe.

  ‘Meesiiiiss Meeshaaael!’

  We enter a plush set of offices set in a fancy looking strip mall, and I’ve barely closed the door before he begins to screech. I don’t know about fabulous. I’d say he was more screamin’ myself.

  Phillippe turns out to be Asian, and unusual in lots of ways, though the first oddity that hits me is his height. He’s as tall as Kai, though that’s including his jet-black quiff, which is pretty impressive. The second thing I notice is that he’s immaculately and very nattily dressed. Grey flat-fronted slacks and slim electric blue belt, a pale blue tailored button-down, and hipster specs. Add designer loafers below slightly too short pants, and no socks, and I’m not sure if he’s fashion forward or fashion enslaved.

  ‘Darling, you look gorgeous,’ he says, stalking towards Mishael, albeit with a little camp added to those loafered steps. ‘That colour looks so well on you.’

  Turns out his effusive greeting was some kind of act, his accent now very English and proper.

  The pair do the Dubai double-air-kiss thing, complementing each other on various items of clothing and general health, even mentioning Botox treatments in hushed tones.

  ‘I get migraines,’ he says with a wink.

  ‘You do not!’ Mishael chastises, slapping one hand against his chest
. ‘You’re just as vain as Narcissus.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he admits, his hand unconsciously touching his hair. ‘But when I look in the mirror in the morning, if I see lines, my head does ache.’

  ‘Phillippe, you’re incorrigible! Come now, enough about you. Let me introduce you to someone very special—’

  ‘Be still my aching heart!’ he exclaims, adding one fake sob.

  ‘Er, hello,’ I answer, offering a small, hesitant wave.

  ‘Pay no attention to the drama queen—’

  ‘Guilty as charged! Come on, let’s have a look at you.’

  He eyes me like a booker for Dior, which would make me the Russian teenager with a late onset of puberty. I wish! I’m probably nearer her pudgy, blini eating cousin.

  ‘You,’ he says with narrowed lids, ‘I should hate. But I can’t!’ His expression relaxes, as does my whole frame in response. ‘If I can’t have the man—I said, Meesh, she’d better be good for him!’ Taking my hands in his, he says, ‘And she says you are, so that’ll do me.’

  Wow, drama llama!

  ‘Come, my little antipodean strumpet,’ he says, sliding an arm around my shoulder. ‘Let’s get this wedding planned!’

  Its night-time and I’m curled up in the snug when my mobile rings.

  ‘Kitten.’

  Usually, that one word pours over me like warm honey. Not today.

  Kitten indeed.

  ‘Hi.’ Even though I so suck at sexy, today I’m not in the mood for even attempting a purr.

  Hmph. Purr.

  ‘How was your catch up with Niamh?’

  I haven’t spoken to him since before she arrived. Well, not beyond a couple of bland texts.

  ‘Oh, you know. She stayed over, got drunk, same old, same old.’

  ‘You had a good time?’

  ‘It was good to catch up.’

  ‘And today?’

  I’m not sullying this conversation by mentioning Essam. I need this to be just about us—I crave him right now. Just want to listen to his voice. Be absorbed in our connection, especially as we’re so far apart.

  ‘I went to meet my dress designer with your mum.’