Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1)

by Donna Alam

  ‘Really? I didn’t see, not that it matters. It’s not like we’re together or anything.’

  ‘That’s not the point. Anyone with eyes could see Matt was making a play for you.’ If by play, she means making drunken lunges, maybe. ‘She’s got no feckin’ boundaries,’ Niamh grumbles.

  ‘Is she really that bad?’

  ‘Well, I’m not saying she puts it about, but her favourite shade of lipstick is penis, if you know what I mean.’

  Niamh sometimes cracks me up. She’d make a great caustic comedienne. I wonder if Jen owns Perspex stripper heels?

  ‘He’s a free agent,’ I reply, aware it sounds like I’m defending Jen.

  ‘He was seriously uninterested. In fact, I think his answer was something like “if he’d a bag full of willies, he wouldn’t give her one” ’.

  ‘No way, he did not!’

  Sounds more like something Niamh would say. Matt didn’t strike me as the offensive kind, not that I can honestly say I like Jen.

  ‘Ah, you’re right. He wasn’t drunk then. Anyway, he declined the invitation to her knickers with more kindness than she deserved.’ Niamh picks up her cup. ‘She’d lie down in nettles for it, that one. Stop changing the subject and get on with it. Tell me he’s hung like a horse.’

  I cough and splutter latte across the table. ‘Niamh, what the hell!’ I can’t help but laugh as I snort foam, despite catching unimpressed looks from a couple at a nearby table. I’m pleased to see the teenagers have already left.

  ‘I’ll take that as an answer in the affirmative,’ she says slyly, handing me a napkin. ‘A teacher, isn’t he?’

  ‘Take it how you like, I’m saying nothing. And don’t you have your own tales of hot from last night?’

  ‘Oh, that.’ She sighs protractedly. ‘It was a nightmare, actually.’ Leaning back in the chair, she folds her arms across her chest. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

  ‘What happened? Was he rubbish?’

  ‘Didn’t get that far. Remember what I said about Matt being able to hold his booze?’ Her mouth twists in distaste.

  ‘Oh, he did not!’

  ‘Oh, contraire. We got as far as your building when he hurled all over me new shoes. What are you gawking at, it’s true!’

  I burst out laughing. I can’t help it but hold a hand over my mouth. ‘And you said he wouldn’t—’

  ‘It’s my shoes he ruined, not yours! Night, too. I had to go home. Couldn’t face it after that.’

  ‘I’m not surprised and am very pleased I wasn’t there. Did he yak in the car?’ How mortifying, but there was no sign—or smell—when Kai dropped me off. Eww.

  ‘So you should be, and he managed to hang on until the driver pulled over, or there’d be a huge bill to pay back at the hotel. Speaking of which, the driver wouldn’t accept any money, your man must’ve paid the fare already. We’ll owe him for that.’

  I shake my head briefly, not sure where to begin. The car obviously belongs to Kai and not the hotel. I guess the driver is his, too.

  ‘English is he, and why aren’t there any blokes like him at my school?’

  Taking a deep breath, I begin to explain Kai’s mixed heritage, as well as the fact that he might, on some level, be sort of my boss. Or not. I also mention his hotel-come-home-away-from-home. As I do so, Niamh’s face flickers with a range of emotions, none of them particularly positive looking. I begin to regret mentioning the hotel.

  ‘But, oh. My. God! The man’s freaking sex on a stick!’ I gush, hoping to lighten the mood, plus it also happens to be true.

  Placing her cup against the table, a dour look darkens her face as she covers my hand with hers. ‘Promise me you’ll be careful, babes.’

  ‘What? Oh, be careful. Don’t want to end up in the clink for being pregnant!’ There are no unmarried mothers in Dubai. Not free ones, anyway. ‘I’m on the pill and he was erm . . . careful, too. I might be a bit of a latecomer to the casual side, but I’m pretty sure I can manage that.’

  ‘That goes without saying.’ She frowns. ‘I mean guard yourself. Emotionally. These men, they’re only out for a good time.’

  I pick at the muffin’s remains, not sure where her change in tone has come from. Gleeful a minute ago, and now she’s warning me, but against what?

  ‘Local men, Kate,’ she qualifies in a grave voice. ‘They’re only out for a shag. They won’t marry you.’

  I inhale muffin crumbs. Following that, I choke. It’s not a good look, or something I’d recommend.

  ‘You’re winding me up! Marry me—I’ve spent one night with him. Who’s getting hitched?’

  ‘That’s not what I mean. I’m not explaining myself well. I suppose I’m not talking about marriage exactly, either.’ Her words fall in a rush, hands pulled now into her lap.

  ‘Thank Christ for that. I thought for a minute there you were going to pull out one of those bracelets, you know, What Would Jesus Do?’

  Irreverent humour is usually well received by Niamh, but not today.

  ‘Dubai could do with a Jesus,’ she says. ‘There are enough feckin’ lepers, for sure. A what would Niamh do pin might be better for you, and what Niamh would do is be very careful. These guys, they’re only interested in getting into your knickers. They’ve no long term plans.’

  ‘Niamh, I’ve only known him five minutes, and probably four of those I had no knickers on. Weren’t you the one telling me this was a good idea? To get out, get laid. Move on.’

  ‘I know, I’m just saying don’t get involved. Men out here, especially the local ones, everyone knows they mess girls around. They’ll date you, wine and dine you, maybe buy you a few gifts, but it’s all in an effort to get you into the sack.’

  ‘Isn’t that the same with guys from wherever?’ I interrupt. ‘Their gifts of persuasion just closer in value to a couple bottle of wine? Am I missing something?’

  ‘If you like, all men are the same.’ She makes this sweeping statement with a flourish of her hand. ‘But one day, some bloke who’s trying to get you to part with your panties will also fall head over heels in love with you.’

  ‘Who says romance is dead,’ I interject but she ignores me, resolutely carrying on.

  ‘He’ll want to be with you, he’ll think of nothing else but you. The sado will even convince himself he wants you for the rest of his life. He might even propose, but you can be sure it won’t be Kai. Or anyone like him,’ she adds. ‘So don’t fall in love. Sure, they all have plans to marry eventually, it’s expected culturally or religiously, or some such thing. But it’ll be to someone their mother or sisters have found to avoid diluting the gene pool, despite it needing a feckin’ expansion.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They tend to keep it all in the family. Marry distant cousins, women from the same tribe and the like. Not a woman like you.’

  ‘Mate, thanks for the vote of confidence. Why does it have to be so different just because he’s Arab or whatever?’ I feel a little sad having this conversation. I know Niamh, and this doesn’t sound like her at all. ‘And you seem to forget, I was on the marriage track. And look where that got me.’

  She reels back in her chair as though slapped before her hands slide across the table, reaching for mine. ‘You’ve got it arseways. I’m not trying to put you off him. I think it’s great that you’re moving on, so long as you can see the implications. Just think about it for a minute, he lives in a hotel, for feck’s sakes. Probably to avoid awkward questions at home. And then there’s the money aspect, he’s obviously loaded and that kind of dough creates a whole different . . . mentality.’

  ‘Again, I’m not getting involved. And who knows, he may not even call.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Her tone is so defensive, I sort of snort-laugh, her shoulders relaxing in response.

  ‘No one wants to be used for sex, babe.’

  ‘Maybe it’s the other way around.’ I slide my hand from under hers. ‘The advice you gave me, get under a new bloke to get
over the old one? Doesn’t that mean I’m using him?’

  ‘My arse.’ Her laugh is brittle, her eyes like flint. ‘You don’t have it in you.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong—’

  ‘‘Cos you’ve had it in you all night?’

  ‘And he’s not Emirati, English or whatever; he doesn’t fit any of your categories. And as for wanting to get into my knickers, wherever he’s from, he already has and it was pretty fantastic, all half a dozen times!’

  ‘Jaysus, Kate, I’m surprised you’re able to walk at all!’ she exclaims with a laugh. I join her, escaping a conversation that is at the same time a little too honest and surreal.

  ‘Babes,’ she says eventually, our giggles dying down. ‘I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to get hurt again.’

  Her eyes are imploring and I know her words come from a place of true concern. I don’t want to fall out with her, not over this, so I nod my understanding, despite still feeling a little disturbed.

  The leather of the chair creaks loudly as she eases herself back. ‘And you expect me to believe you’re using Mr Hard for a ride? Maybe I’ll just call mammy dearest, I’m sure she’d have something to say.’

  ‘That is not funny. And it’s firm, not hard!’ I really wished I hadn’t mentioned that part of the evening at all. ‘Don’t ever mention it again,’ I say, giggling. ‘Delete, delete!’

  ‘I’ll have a terrible time keeping my eyes on his face.’ She sniggers, rolling her gaze heavenward. ‘But I will try very hard.’ She adds a three-fingered Girl Scout salute and I flip her the bird in return. ‘Sure, who’d believe me, anyway?’

  The fact that I’ve had a one-nighter or the basis of Kai’s name?

  ‘You know it could be worse. You could call mum and tell her I am marrying him,’ I reply, the thought rising along with more giggles.

  ‘Christ, she’d have a fit! Mrs Good-Heavens-what-will-the-neighbours-think? I’m surprised you escaped the basement this time, the shame of it all!’

  I clutch my sides, lungs drained of air from laughing. My mother probably lit enough candles to power a small town after the humiliation of my non-marriage. Bringing home a non-Catholic—never mind someone of a different religion—would have her writing letters to the Pope!

  Tears stream down our faces before, eventually, we calm enough to exhale more than singular, halting words.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ I say softly as Niamh dabs her eyes with a crumpled napkin. ‘I’ll take care.’

  With pursed lips and a furrowed brow she seems to consider my words, probably waging some internal battle and literally biting her tongue. Finally, she tips her cup and drains it in one.

  ‘Okay,’ she says, placing it back down, ‘but if you tell me he plays polo, I’m staging an intervention, great in the sack or not.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Its dark out by the time I return to my new home, and as I reach the elevator, Matt appears from the basement stairwell, coming up from the car-park.

  ‘Hey, Kate!’

  I press the hold button, smothering my smile as his expression morphs from pleasure to contrite. Dressed in grey pants and a white shirt, he has a leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Tucked under his arms are several of those cylindrical things that I imagine hold building plans, but really, what do I know? It could hold his sandwiches.

  ‘A working weekend?’

  He slides a hand through his messy blond hair then shakes his head. ‘I left some things in the office and just called in to pick ‘em up.’

  ‘Cool.’ I stand back for him to enter first, seeing as he’s weighed down with stuff.

  ‘Listen, Kate.’ Shifting from one foot to the other, he pauses at the open door. ‘I’m sorry about . . . last night. I had way too much to drink and my mind’s kinda hazy about what I might have said. Or done.’

  ‘You don’t remember?’ Selective amnesia, more like.

  ‘A little. I—I think I might have tried to kiss you. I feel pretty bad.’

  ‘That makes me feel special,’ I retort with a laugh.

  ‘No! No. That’s not, I just—’

  ‘No worries, we’re all good.’ Blame an earlier endorphin release for my magnanimous notions? Matt’s sloppy overtures seem like an age ago.

  His shoulders relax as he expels a breath of air. ‘Thanks. I’m glad I didn’t upset you.’

  ‘It’s not my shoes you vommed on.’ Okay, that wasn’t very generous but I couldn’t resist.

  His gaze falls, his complexion takings on a sudden red hue. And now I feel bad.

  ‘Sorry,’ I answer sheepishly.

  With an apologetic smile, he steps into the elevator and the doors close behind.

  ‘So, Niamh. She’s got to be annoyed, huh?’

  ‘She’ll be fine. Her bark’s worse than her bite, and between you and me, she’s been in that state once or twice. Not that you heard that from me.’

  ‘Sure.’ He nods. ‘My lips are sealed. I figured I’d get her some flowers or something, throw myself at her feet.’

  ‘Check which shoes she’s wearing first.’ Colour rises in his cheeks once more and I find myself apologizing again as we reach our floor. ‘I’m teasing, don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be cool.’ In a year or two.

  Matt nods, distracted, as we reach my door, pausing along with me as I rifle through my bag in search of keys.

  ‘I don’t remember you being in the car.’

  ‘What?’ Cue a comic double-take, purse hanging limp in my hand.

  ‘Did you leave early?’ His expression clouds as he attempts recollection. ‘Were you ill, like at brunch?’

  ‘Oh, that was nothing. No, I’m fine.’ Yikes, for a minute I thought I must’ve been walking funny or something. Like a cowboy too long on his horse. I could definitely blame any mobility limits on some twelve-hour thing, only more the kind that leaves you with a sore hoo-haw, rather than the sniffles and a sore throat. Hang on, my throat is a little sore, but that’s from . . . yeah. I’ll stop there.

  ‘Great. So, do you wanna grab a coffee? There’s a Coffee Bean around the corner.’

  He looks so adorably contrite with those huge, pleading eyes. Like some kind of large puppy. One that’d happily hump my leg, if the other night is anything to go by. And that I can’t help but be reminded of a Labrador doesn’t mean I think he’s a dog. Far from it. Maybe I’d appreciate his charms more if it weren’t for Kai.

  ‘Call it an I’m-sorry-I-can’t-hold-my-liquor kinda thing. My treat. They do great carrot cake,’ he almost sings.

  I wonder who told him my secret vice was sugar. No, I don’t. Not really. I’m sure Niamh saw us as a possible match, which—colour me cynical—would’ve fit into her plans for a cosy foursome with Rob. And while I’m not interested, I don’t want to be rude. Or make him feel any worse than he already does. Surely it would be churlish to say no? Just call me a people pleaser. Or a cake whore. And despite ploughing through a massive muffin earlier, I’m probably still in calorie deficit after my night with Kai.

  ‘Sure, why not.’

  ‘Great,’ he calls, walking backwards along the corridor, still balancing those tubes. ‘Just let me drop my things. See you in five.’

  Putting my purse on the kitchen worktops, I quickly change into jeans and a loose, white shirt, keeping on my pretty new thongs. The doorbell rings at the very same moment as my phone. The number on the screen is heavily familiar as I gesture Matt inside and to the sofa.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ I try not to make it sound like answering is a chore, while wishing I’d let the call ring out.

  ‘Katherine, love. How are you?’

  ‘Good, thanks.’ There’s the usual pregnant pause which I’ve long since grasped I don’t need to fill by babbling, handing over the conversational upper hand. On this occasion, Kate for the win.

  ‘Did you get my message, darl?’

  ‘Haven’t had a chance to check my email yet. Hey, isn’t it the middle of the night there? What are you
doing still up?’

  ‘Oh, I can’t sleep.’ My mum sighs dramatically. She’s got it down to a fine art, and I don’t have to ask why as it won’t be long until she tells me anyway. ‘I’ve such a lot on my mind. Worried about you in that God-forsaken place, the embarrassment of cancelling the wedding plans. It’s all been very sad.’

  ‘I told you, I’d deal with it, it’s only a few emails—’

  ‘The guests had to be called, Katherine,’ she softly berates. ‘We had to explain. To everyone. I just don’t think I’ll get a good night’s sleep until you come home.’

  Ah, the emotional blackmail card. I knew she’d get there in the end.

  ‘I’m sorry you felt you had to do that, but I’m pretty sure everyone had already heard.’ You remember Cousin Kate, the one whose fiancé hooked-up with a stripper? And as for forsaken by God, I’m pretty sure those five daily prayers must mean something. ‘I told you in my last email, I’m fine. I like it here. I’m having fun.’

  ‘Fun?’ The word drips with an ill-concealed scorn.

  ‘Yes, fun. And my contract is for two years. I won’t be coming home for good before then, just for holidays.’ Possibly. ‘Maybe you should get some lavender oil or something to help you sleep.’

  ‘Katherine, the Middle East is not the place to run away to, it’s . . . it’s dangerous! Your place is here, with your family. You’ve made your point and your fiancé is—’

  I cut her off immediately. ‘Please tell me you’re not doing this. I don’t have a fiancé. I don’t want to talk to him, talk about him, nothing!’ A sudden thought occurs to me, slithering uncomfortably from spine to gut. ‘He’s put you up to this, hasn’t he?’

  ‘He came around yesterday,’ she admits. ‘He’s very sad.’

  ‘You didn’t let him in, did you? You’d better not have given him my number.’ Pinching the bridge of my nose, I will away her response.

  ‘He was on the doorstep. What would Betty from across the road have thought if I’d left him out there, carrying on like a pork chop? And what harm could a call or an email do? He’s just a man, they do stupid things. He needs to apologize.’