No Sex in the City

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

‘Really?’ I mutter, knowing full well that she’s right.

  ‘Of course! It was only yesterday that I was talking to a friend who’s started a waxing business. Most of her clients are of a Mediterranean background, so she needs an assistant who knows how to rip off that kind of hair. Most of the Anglos, well, you couldn’t make a tiny plait out of their leg hair. And still they complain!’ She stands up abruptly. ‘Don’t disappoint me, okay?’

  I smile warily and collect my things. ‘I won’t,’ I say, conscious that my boss will kill me if I lose this contract, given that the Goldmans own five pharmacies across the eastern suburbs and have only just come on board as a new client.

  The traffic on the way home is bad but not shocking. I call my boss, Danny Blagojevic, and give him a blast about Mrs Goldman.

  ‘You’re overreacting,’ he scolds. ‘She’s the client and it’s up to her to hire whoever she wants. It happens all the time.’

  ‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,’ I mumble.

  ‘Like she said, it all comes back to the screening process. Just specify that speaking Hebrew is a bonus. Advertise in the Jewish News. Use your imagination ... So how’d your family date go the other night?’

  I almost hit the car in front of me.

  ‘Excuse me? How on earth do you know about that? And it wasn’t a family date.’

  ‘I heard you on the phone. So the guy was fresh off the boat, hey?’

  ‘I’m really not sure what you mean by that, Danny,’ I say. ‘Are you referring to European settlers?’

  He chuckles. ‘If you want to hook up with an asylum seeker, that’s your call. But how’s he going to afford a ring or house when he’s locked up in a detention centre?’

  ‘That’s offensive, Danny.’

  ‘When are you going to realise it’s not the eighteen hundreds?’ he presses. ‘They had the sexual liberation movement in the sixties for a reason, you know.’

  ‘Oh, give it up,’ I say mildly.

  What I really want to say is, Shut the F up, Danny! But self-preservation wins out.

  Let me explain. Danny’s a forty-year-old spoilt rich boy in an unhappy relationship (‘My wife married me, put on ten kilos and has been a bitch to me ever since’), who opened the recruitment firm when he was twenty-three and has since refused several offers to buy it for over a million dollars. He likes his expensive clothes, expensive watches, expensive cars. He’s a pretentious prick who can turn on the charm one moment and viciously cut you down the next.

  The thing is, I’ve never been in his bad books. In fact, for reasons that elude me, I’m his favourite. And it makes our relationship excruciating.

  ‘I told you, you’re crazy to want to settle down,’ he says. ‘Marco’s a top bloke. I’ll set you up with him – you can have some fun, and Jesus, if it works out and you’re that desperate for commitment, he might even call himself your boyfriend. But trust me: you don’t want to get married. Only masochists choose that path.’

  ‘Not everybody is unhappily married,’ I say. ‘So don’t go projecting your failures onto the rest of us.’

  ‘Ooh, see, that’s why I want to set you up with Marco. You two are never lost for words.’

  ‘Have a great weekend, Danny,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, that’s frigging unlikely given Mary’s forcing me to go furniture shopping with her.’

  I want to tell Danny where he can stick his furniture shopping, but he’s my boss. There’s only so much I can say without crossing the line. And as annoyed as I am by his constant remarks about my way of life (not drinking, making up excuses to get out of after-work partying sessions at the local club, wanting to settle down with a Muslim, volunteering to help ‘queue jumpers’), I’ve never taken him on about any of it. I need this job too badly.

  Because I have a secret.

  About two years ago, my dad’s ‘gambling for fun’ turned into a serious addiction. He hasn’t been near a fruit machine since, and is slowly trying to get his life back on track. The thing is this: I’m part of the ‘back on track’ plan. And nobody, including my mum or my sister, Senem, knows about it.

  I only know because I came home from work early one day to find Dad alone, sobbing in the lounge room. Before then I’d only ever seen my dad cry when his mother and, later, his father passed away.

  ‘Dad?’ I said, shocked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Our house,’ he said. ‘Our house.’

  That’s when I noticed the letter in his hand. I walked over to him. It was from the bank, advising of the arrears on a loan. Our house had been used as security against the loan. The letter warned that the last two monthly repayments had to be paid within seven days or enforcement steps would be taken. I almost cried out when I saw the outstanding balance: just under one hundred thousand dollars. I remember the burning sensation that came over my face, as though I’d stuck my head in the doors of a furnace.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I asked, desperately trying to remain calm as I sat down next to him.

  ‘Your mother doesn’t know,’ he choked out. ‘Neither does your sister. Nobody knows. This is between you and me only.’

  My mum, who defies most of the usual stereotypes about migrants, housewives and Muslims (the trifecta), has nonetheless always been happy to leave Dad with the responsibility of managing the finances. Since migrating from Turkey, she hasn’t done a single day’s paid work, preferring instead to be a housewife. She’s happy to let Dad be responsible for paying the bills and mortgage. Dad has had lots of jobs but for the past ten years he’s mainly worked as a cleaner at a hospital. I always thought that this must work for them, because I’ d never known them to fight about money.

  I nodded and he took a deep breath, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. I’d never seen him so vulnerable; he seemed defeated and helpless. Then and there the dynamics between us shifted for good. I was still his daughter, of course, but suddenly I was also his confidante.

  I’d grown up to believe that my parents were infallible; I was their daughter and respected them as wiser and more experienced. That didn’t mean I wouldn’t argue and fight and attempt to shift the power balance when it suited me, but there was always a line – drawn out of respect, deference and gratitude – that I would never dare cross.

  Every word Dad uttered that day threatened to erase that line.

  ‘I never meant for this to happen,’ he said, speaking to me in Turkish. His voice was thick with shame. ‘It was just for fun at first. When I was with my friends at the club I was happy. One thing led to another and we tried the fruit machine. You win once and you think, Why can’t I win again? I couldn’t stop. Like my smoking.’ He let out a small, cheerless laugh. ‘The cigarette burns down to a stub and I look at it, surprised by how quickly it’s gone. So I reach for another cigarette, thinking I’ll savour this one, but then in another second I forget I’m smoking. It’s become so natural to me that I hardly know I’m doing it. That’s how the gambling was.’

  I sucked in my breath. ‘Are you still gambling?’ I eventually asked.

  ‘No, thank God I quit. I met somebody at the mosque ... he’d gone through the same thing and he’s helped me. And I haven’t gone near a machine for two years.’

  ‘Two years ... How have you kept this from us – from Mum – for so long?’

  He stared down at the carpet. He hadn’t looked me in the eye since he’d started speaking. ‘There are many things that even the closest of people can hide from each other. Being deceitful is easier than being honest, especially when the other person has such trust in you.’

  I tried not to cry as he spoke.

  ‘I took out a loan against the house, but I’ve missed a couple of payments. That’s why the bank is now chasing me. And this is why, Esma ...’ He turned to face me then, grabbing my hands and holding on tight. ‘I need you, darling. I have no one but you to depend on. I can’t lose this house. Your mother would never forgive me. It would destroy her – the betrayal, the shame.’ He sq
ueezed my hands. ‘I need to ask you to please help me pay the loan.’

  Dad went on to explain how he’d taken extra shifts at work but that it was getting very hard to meet the monthly repayments. He needed my help. He also needed me to keep his secret, even from my sister, Senem. He didn’t want Senem’s husband, Farouk, to know. It would mean losing face in front of his son-in-law.

  ‘I’ve begged God’s forgiveness,’ he continued. ‘And I beg yours too. But I don’t wish to beg forgiveness from your mother. We have to spare her that.’

  I couldn’t sleep much that night. I thought long and hard. Cried. Wallowed in self-pity, anger and hurt. I remember I woke up numb. I left the house for work before Mum was up, glad I didn’t have to look her in the eye and pretend that the security she took for granted rested squarely on my shoulders. Dad had already left. He was working longer hours now.

  When I arrived at work I sent an email to the accounts department instructing them to direct debit more than a third of my wages to my dad’s loan account.

  So that explains why I’m tied to a job I love but a boss I hate. Every time Danny edges into sleaze territory I have to bite my tongue, because my parents’ house, and maybe their marriage, depends on me keeping this job.

  Three

  My sister, Senem, is one year younger than me and is so happily married it’s sickening. Of course, I love her to bits and I wish her all the happiness in the world. Hers is one of those ‘you wouldn’t believe it ...’ stories.

  It started like this. When Senem finished her beauty therapy course at TAFE, she worked at a salon that shared the same floor as a Chinese massage parlour in a shop along a prominent road in the eastern suburbs. There was nothing dodgy about it, and yet the fact that the salon was next to a remedial massage parlour meant that a lot of men would arrive for a spray tan or back wax and expect to be offered something more as part of the price. Senem got sick and tired of having to call security. It turned her off the whole industry altogether. Well, that and the Brazilian waxes.

  After Senem quit her job, she got a job with Virgin Blue, working at the check-in counter at Sydney Airport’s domestic terminal. She was lucky enough to get a long break before starting and went on a holiday to Turkey with Mum. Within four days of arriving, Senem met her soulmate, The One, at our grandmother’s house.

  Our grandmother was hosting a massive feast for all the family and friends in honour of Mum and Senem visiting. Farouk, the son of my grandmother’s cousin’s friend’s brother’s daughter (or something like that), was invited. It was all arranged. We know this because my grandmother has never shied away from reminding us that the only reason she’s hanging onto life is because she wants to see us married.

  It was arranged that Senem and Farouk would be seated next to each other at the table. Apparently one of our younger second (or was it third?) cousins attempted to sit next to Senem and my grandmother rapped her knuckles with her walking stick. She’s a charmer, my grandmother.

  Senem called me later that night to announce she’ d fallen in love. I told her she was an idiot and should stop watching movies starring Drew Barrymore. She insisted she’d experienced love at first family-get-together sight. This was inconceivable to me as Senem has always been the rebel of the family and, unlike me, had absolutely no tolerance for family set-ups.

  I demanded proof. She explained that she’ d been so mesmerised by Farouk that she’d drunk a glass of Coke.

  Enough said.

  Senem is gorgeous and works hard to maintain her beautiful hair, beautiful skin and beautiful white teeth. She is scrupulous about what she eats (organic mainly), sips on herbal tea and warm water between meals, and even now still maintains her Friday-night ritual of a face mask, nail kit and rom-com DVD. So basically she would rather touch a used syringe than drink Coke. She practically uses gloves when she plays her ‘look at the coin in the Coke’ party trick.

  Within three weeks of Senem drinking Coke, Farouk’s family and my extended family got together to celebrate at my grandmother’s house. My dad and I were still in Australia and attended the prayer ceremony via Skype. Everybody recited a prayer and Senem and Farouk’s intention to marry was officially recognised by the family. One month later, Dad and I flew to Turkey to attend a lavish engagement party. I rejected every guy my grandmother tried to set me up with (because of her myopia she had no clue that she was, for the most part, recommending balding, overweight, cross-eyed guys) and spent most of my free time sightseeing and having the time of my single life, much to my grandmother’s consternation.

  A year later and Senem and Farouk were married. Which means my grandmother’s very life, as she constantly reminds me, now depends on me finding Mr Right.

  When I arrive home from Mrs Goldman’s pharmacy at six-thirty I find Senem sitting on the kitchen bench helping Farouk with the cooking. I completely forgot they were coming over for dinner tonight.

  ‘I’ve got to love you and leave you,’ I say apologetically, giving Senem a kiss hello.

  ‘Why?’ Senem pouts. ‘I haven’t seen you all week.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, I’m sorry but I’ve got plans.’

  ‘I’m making my famous lasagne,’ Farouk says, dangling a lasagne sheet in front of my face. ‘Tempting?’

  I laugh. ‘Is it that wholemeal crap Senem used to make Mum buy?’

  He grins. ‘No. Senem insists on having only a salad tonight.’ He pulls a face. Senem takes a sip of her water.

  I punch my fist in the air and cheer. ‘Save me a piece.’

  ‘Why can’t you stay?’ Senem moans. ‘You’re so mean. I’ve got so much to tell you.’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t get out of this. It’s ... er ... kind of a business meeting.’

  ‘On a Friday night?’ Senem isn’t convinced.

  ‘Come upstairs and help me pick out an outfit and I’ll tell you.’

  She hops off the bench and gives Farouk a peck on the cheek. ‘See you soon!’

  ‘I’ll miss you, hon!’

  I stick my finger in my mouth and make barfing noises.

  Upstairs in my room I take out two tops and lay them on the bed. I kick off my work pants and put on my jeans.

  Senem inspects the tops, chooses the black one and passes it to me. ‘So?’ she says. ‘What meeting are you going to? Amnesty? Human rights lecture? Peace protest?’

  ‘Prefer it if I spent my free time shopping and getting my hair done?’ I ask cheerily.

  ‘You do get your hair done and you love to shop.’

  I smile ironically. ‘Yes, I’m the activist with good hair and style.’

  ‘I wish I could be like you,’ she says with a sigh. ‘But work is so draining. Not to mention life is so much busier since I got married.’

  ‘Oh Senem, that’s pathetic. I’ll take any excuse but that.’

  I pick up my eyeliner and apply a thin line. Senem flops down onto my bed and examines her nails.

  ‘Do you remember how we used to talk about finding Mr Right?’ I say.

  ‘How could I forget? What he’ d look like. His job. How we’d know if he was The One. Whether people’s teeth bump when they kiss.’

  I burst out laughing. ‘Oh my God, yes, I remember that. Anyway, you went and betrayed me by finding Farouk and leaving me at the mercy of matchmakers who’ll throw any Turk my way so long as he’s single and wants to get married.’

  ‘You have a point. Thank God I never went through that.’

  ‘Yes, you’ve always been spared a lot of things ...’ The words hang in the air but she’s flipping through one of my magazines and is oblivious to my meaning.

  Senem and I have very different personalities. I’m the dependable one. The one my parents can rely on. The one to cover up for Senem, who always bent the rules more than I did.

  ‘I’m over it,’ I say, pulling on the black top. ‘Since Seyf, I haven’t met a guy who’s shared my obsession with Pearl Jam and Tool.’

  ‘No more contact with the scumbag, hey?’

/>   ‘Nope.’

  I’ve never told her about the last time I saw him. It was at Big Day Out in 2006. I’ve been listening to Tool for fifteen years, so when they started playing I couldn’t help but go a tiny bit mental and run into the mosh pit. The crowd was going nuts and it was so packed that I was being lifted off the ground. The crowd moved and swayed, and before I knew it I was in an empty area, shouting out, ‘Yay! Dance space!’ I looked around and realised I’d actually been sucked into the fight circle. I panicked, and was knocked around a bit before I managed to get out of there (I lasted four songs, though, and was quite proud of myself). And as I walked away, rubbing my sore arms, a big goofy smile on my face, I saw Seyf standing in the crowd, staring at me, jaw almost to the floor, his wife hanging off his arm.

  That knocked the smile off my face.

  ‘How’s work?’ Senem asks. ‘Is your boss still a pig?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately I’m still working for a Neanderthal who wants to flirt with me and set me up with his best friend.’

  ‘No cute single guys who are just as intent as you on saving the world?’

  I groan. ‘There is nobody eligible at work. Or around work. Or through work. I’m not bitter, though,’ I say, laughing bitterly.

  Senem starts prattling on about how she and Farouk have found their dream apartment and are a couple of months away from saving enough for the deposit.

  I’d love to tell her about the predicament I’m in. To tell her that I don’ t know how I’m ever going to be able to buy a place of my own when I’m managing Dad’s debt. I want to vent about the fact that all the pressure is on me to save our parents’ marriage. Dad seems to think I have less to lose because I’m single.

  But I hold back. I won’t betray my dad.

  ‘I want my own place,’ I say when she’s done talking. ‘What if I’m thirty-five and still living at home? That’s just tragic. If you’ve got any suggestions, help me out, because the other night was the last straw.’

  ‘You mean Hassan?’

  ‘Mum told you, huh?’

  ‘She’s spewing about your bad Turkish. I told her to get over it, so don’t stress.’