No Sex in the City

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  ‘That’s easy for you to say.’

  ‘Hey, don’t take it out on me. This is my kismet – your destiny will come when you least expect it.’

  ‘I swear to God, Senem, if I hear that statement one more time I’m going to stab myself with my nail file.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ She flips over onto her stomach and rests on her elbows. ‘So what does all this have to do with your meeting?’

  ‘I’ve created an excuse to get together with my girlfriends, to vent about the drought of eligible men. The No Sex in the City Club.’

  She bursts out laughing. ‘Oh come on, it can’t be that bad.’

  I sit down next to her. ‘Don’t be so smug. I just want to wallow in some self-pity without being judged, okay?’

  She smiles. ‘Okay.’

  Four

  We squeal for five minutes.

  ‘It’s been ages!’

  ‘Your hair looks gorgeous red!’

  ‘You’ve lost weight!’

  ‘I love your shoes!’

  When the waiter is fed up waiting for us to move out of the entrance of the restaurant, he takes a step into our huddle and politely but firmly asks us to move to our seats.

  ‘I’ve been doing step classes all week in preparation for tonight,’ Nirvana boasts, ‘and I’m hanging for a skim iced chocolate. Apparently the colder the drink, the more calories your body expends trying to heat the liquid.’

  ‘Nirvana,’ I groan, ‘I said no skim. And a drink is not emotional eating.’

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud, Esma,’ Lisa says, ‘there’s nothing to be emotional about.’

  We pore over the menu, the waiter standing over us, daring us to lose the plot again. We place our orders, proudly totalling about five million calories between us. In the end we succeed in convincing Nirvana to break her diet because it’s Friday and she’s always vulnerable on a Friday. It’s Monday to Thursday when you can’t prise her jaws open for anything with an energy value higher than a carrot.

  Nirvana’s of Indian background, Gujarati to be precise. We call her Miss Bollywood because she has typically beautiful Indian hair (silky black and flowing down her back), luminous hazel eyes and layers of lashes. She’s the most mild-mannered in our group, all class and refinement and measured words (there’s no swearing or outbursts of irrational name-calling for her). She’s a size twelve to fourteen (manufacturers can be so evil that way) and is always on a different fad diet because she’s under the illusion that she resembles a heifer. But Nirvana’s tall, and even though we’re always trying to convince her that she’s a head-turner, she still insists that she won’t be content until her thighs stop rubbing.

  Out of the four of us, Nirvana and I come from the more conservative backgrounds. We’re both still virgins, and although Nirvana had a couple of boyfriends during university and was in a long-term relationship for three years, it’s always been behind her parents’ back. She’s ready to settle down, and in the past couple of years has, out of desperation, agreed to be more open to traditional matchmaking attempts. Like me, she’s had her fair share of over-my-dead-body ‘suitors’. Only last week she met somebody who insisted that he was a ‘very modern Indian boy’. Here’s how the scene went:

  Guy: I was born in Australia, I’ve got properties, earn good money and I’m very independent. Don’t worry, I won’t be following the old ways.

  Nirvana: Great, that’s how I was brought up too. So where do you live?

  Guy: At home.

  Nirvana: Didn’t you say you have properties?

  Guy: Yes, investment properties.

  Nirvana: So will you move into one when you get married?

  Guy: Of course not. My parents have extended the house for when my wife moves in. It’s fully equipped with plasma TV and surround sound. But no kitchen, obviously. Dinner is always with the family.

  Ruby is Greek Orthodox, and I only introduce her by her religious and ethnic background because it means a lot to her. She’s fiercely proud of her Greek heritage, speaks the language fluently, observes all the traditions and has always been an active member of her local Greek youth organisations. Throughout university, she made sure she was on every executive committee and generally bossed everybody around, whether it came to organising the annual Greek Ball (which we all went along to) or running youth camps. She’s since relinquished control to the younger crowd but still helps out with the occasional community event. Ruby comes from a very educated and successful family. Her dad is an aeronautical research scientist, her mother is a psychologist, one brother is a doctor and the other is a pharmacist. Lisa, Nirvana and I refer to Ruby’s family as ‘the Nobel Laureates’.

  Ruby has wild curly hair that refuses to be styled and looks different every time I see her. One day her curls are loose and bouncy, the next they’re tight and frizzy. She’s got an unforgettable face: strong jawline, thick, beautifully arched eyebrows, and massive dark eyes framed by funky glasses which aren’t prescription but which she insists on wearing a couple of days a week because she’s a Gemini and gets bored with her look every five seconds.

  Ruby is an astrology fanatic. In her own words: ‘I’d rather die single than fall for a Taurus, Cancer or Pisces.’ So Ruby’s Mr Right checklist is therefore just as unviable (some might say screwed-up) as mine. Despite being into astrology, Ruby is exceptionally bright (she was made an associate at her law firm within a year of starting there) and pretty much fits the profile of the ‘CC’ lawyer (confident and cocky – again her words, not mine). She was in a relationship with another law student throughout university and a couple of years afterwards broke it off. She’s now also ready to fall in love again, but has experienced absolutely zero success so far. Thankfully Ruby, like Nirvana and me, thinks that finding Mr Right adds to your life rather than defines it.

  Lisa, on the other hand, takes a completely different view.

  Lisa has sky-blue eyes, freckles and a mop of long dark hair. She’s intolerant of anybody she views as politically conservative, and when it comes to issues such as climate change, asylum seekers, women’s rights and the Israel-Palestine conflict, her convictions are absolute and nonnegotiable.

  Although Lisa’s Jewish and identifies herself as such, she’s not religious. In fact, she’s agnostic. That’s not for lack of effort on her mother’s part. Ever since Lisa was little, her mum has been dragging her to Hebrew classes and Jewish functions. Her parents keep kosher and observe the high holy days, although they’re not so religious as to observe Shabbat. When Lisa finished high school, her mum took her to Israel. She thought it would help Lisa embrace her Jewish identity, but the plan backfired. Lisa got involved with a human rights group and ended up spending her time in front of bulldozers in the West Bank.

  So Lisa’s the odd one out in her family, disagreeing with them on Israel, religion and, most importantly for her mother, marrying a Jewish guy. Lisa has no interest whatsoever in finding Mr Right, Jewish (as her mother so desperately hopes) or otherwise. She thinks marriage is stifling.

  While Nirvana and I are definitely not having sex in the city, Lisa and Ruby are no longer virgins. However, they’re still quite conservative by today’s standards and have only been with one guy each. I know this because this is the stuff best friends know, up there with menstrual cycles, embarrassing fantasies and family problems (well, okay, maybe not all problems, given the skeleton in Dad’s closet).

  ‘So are you going to call this meeting to order?’ Lisa asks.

  ‘The No Sex in the City Club idea was really just an excuse to catch up,’ I say, smiling. ‘I needed something to entice us out of our crazy work schedules.’

  ‘Speaking of crazy work schedules, how’s work going for you?’ Nirvana asks Lisa.

  Lisa scrunches up her face and lets out a sigh. ‘You know what it’s like. See a kid you’ve known since she was on the streets graduate from high school one day, help out a woman whose husband’s used a cricket bat on her the next. The good, the bad and the ugly.’


  Ruby pulls a face. ‘Did the bastard get charged?’

  ‘Yes. Sentencing won’t be for a while though. Unfortunately, the woman isn’t pressing charges. The good news is that the DPP has decided to prosecute him anyway.’

  Ruby’s eyes narrow. ‘Lisa, do you ever meet guys who redeem your view of men?’

  Lisa lets out an exasperated laugh. ‘Of course I do. I’m not so cynical that I walk down the street suspecting every male of being a sex offender or wife beater. But I’m not going to start waving the banner for the marriage institution.’

  ‘You’re quite sure that nobody could persuade you?’ I ask.

  ‘The idea of marriage makes me feel claustrophobic.’ Lisa squirms in her seat. ‘I’m moving out of home next year. That’s the plan anyway. It’s bad enough living with my parents; I don’t want to live with someone else who’s going to be asking where I’m going and what I’m doing. When I move out of home next year I want to be free to make my own decisions.’

  I regard her with wry amusement. ‘Your mum is going to flip out.’

  ‘That’s why it’s taken me this long – if I had my choice I would have moved years ago. But she needs to come to terms with the fact that I’m not going to stay at home until I marry one of her hand-picked Jewish bachelors.’

  Ruby cocks her head. ‘Are you a self-hating Jew?’ she says, wagging her finger.

  ‘No, you idiot. I couldn’t care less what a guy’s background is. If he’s the right person and Jewish, fine. It’ll satisfy my mum. But unlike you lot, it’s not part of my obligatory selection criteria.’

  Ruby knocks the end of a sugar sachet against her chin and then, in a tone that suggests she’s reading a list aloud, says, ‘I want Greek Orthodox background, family from the same island if possible. A Sydney Uni graduate, although UNSW will do. Eastern suburbs.’ She pauses. ‘I like things to be complicated, as you can tell.’

  I snort. ‘No, complicated is the wrong word. You’re just a snob.’

  Ruby pokes her tongue out at me.

  ‘I want a Gujarati and a Hindu,’ Nirvana says, ‘because culture and religion are big parts of my life. Especially when it comes to raising children.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s easy because I don’t want children,’ Lisa says, taking a sip of her juice and then setting down her glass.

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ Nirvana says.

  ‘Yes I do,’ Lisa says. ‘I have no desire to marry or be a mother. I might entertain the idea of a serious relationship if I met someone special enough to accept that the thing I’m most passionate about in life is my work, but I have no intention of having children.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Ruby says. ‘The marrying thing I understand. You’ve always been against it. But you’re fantastic with kids. I’ve seen you in action.’

  ‘You’re a natural,’ I add.

  ‘So what?’ Lisa says. ‘Why can’t I be a natural with other people’s kids? Why does the fact that I have no desire to have children mean I’m somehow going to fail to fulfil my real destiny?’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ I say. ‘It’s just surprising.’

  ‘I totally respect where you’re coming from,’ Ruby says. ‘It’s your choice. I just hope you don’t regret it one day.’

  ‘I think I can be the judge of what I might or might not regret,’ Lisa says.

  ‘My uterus practically contracts every time I see a baby,’ Nirvana says with a laugh.

  ‘That would be a bit of an occupational hazard in your line of work, wouldn’t it?’ Lisa says.

  ‘How is your work?’ I ask Nirvana.

  ‘Wonderful, actually,’ Nirvana says. ‘But I don’t want to talk about work. I want to vent about home.’

  ‘Vent!’ I cry. ‘That’s why we’re here.’

  ‘You know how my dad’s sister and her husband have been staying with us from India for the last four months? Well, I’m slowly losing my mind. My dad wants to appear all strict and in control in front of them. Thank God they’re leaving in a week.’

  ‘Your dad’s always been strict, though,’ Ruby says.

  ‘Yeah, but he’s going overboard. And what makes it so frustrating is that my aunt and uncle left my cousin, who’s a year younger than me, back home in India, where I know for a fact she’s partying hard and having the time of her life while my dad’s imposing curfews on me simply because my aunt and uncle are here.’

  I pat her hand in solidarity. ‘Don’t worry, Nirvana. You’re not the only one old enough to own her own property and conceive a baby but who still has to argue with her parents about late nights out.’

  ‘Your parents have mellowed a lot,’ Nirvana says. ‘Remember uni?’

  Lisa grins. ‘She had to be home before midnight.’

  ‘Ahh, yes. The Cinderella rule.’ I laugh. ‘Please don’t remind me. Although, when I think about it now, Dad was such a softie. I’ll always be in pigtails with plasters on my knees as far as he’s concerned. If I ever do get married and have kids, he’ll put it down to an immaculate conception. Do you know he came along with me to orientation day because he was so worried I’d get lost on campus?’

  ‘I’ll make enquiries into a counsellor for you tomorrow,’ Lisa quips.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Ruby cries, animated. ‘I have a horror story of my own!’

  We turn our attention to Ruby.

  ‘Two weeks ago I’m at church, dressed to kill of course, and sure enough I catch the attention of a guy whose looks can only be described as close to perfect. He gets my number through the usual grapevine and gives me a call. Given the horrors of my past blind-date experiences, I invite my cousin and her husband and make it a double date.’

  I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘This is going to end badly, right?’

  ‘In flames,’ she says. ‘So we agree to meet at a café in the Rocks. Balmy night, postcard Sydney, with the Harbour Bridge and Opera House close by. Sets the mood nicely. Of course, Kat being Kat insists on leaving two hours early because she can’t handle the stress of parallel parking and wants to find a spot in the car park. So we get to the restaurant early. At about five minutes to eight, the time we agreed to meet, Kat suggests I wait in the toilets: that way when he arrives I can walk in.’

  Nirvana interrupts then to summarise what is obvious to all of us given our collective expertise in blind dates. ‘Walking in’ serves the dual purpose of a) showing off one’s figure, and b) avoiding the uncool situation of a girl waiting for a guy. There are some things the feminist movement just can’t change.

  Ruby becomes more animated as she speaks. ‘So Kat sends me a text message at five past eight. It says: They’re here. Jesus Christ. Now what the hell am I supposed to think about that? I’m standing in the middle of the bathroom wondering who they are and why Kat is cursing. Is it Jesus Christ he’s hot? or Jesus Christ he’s wearing suspenders and lipstick?’

  ‘So what happened?’ Lisa cries.

  ‘Married?’

  ‘With children?’

  ‘Gay?’

  ‘With puppies?’

  ‘Mum,’ she answers.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘He brought his mum along.’

  We look at her blankly and then collectively scream. The people at the surrounding tables look at us as though we’re uncivilised toddlers.

  Ruby sits back and flashes us a triumphant look. ‘Can anybody beat that? I don’t think so.’

  ‘He brought his mum?’ I repeat.

  ‘Yes. Hot Stuff’s mum had fluffed her short curly hair out and was clearly wearing her best outfit. She ordered a herbal tea, as it was too late for caffeine, and a banana and walnut crépe which she shared with her son. She asked me all sorts of highly relevant questions such as what law I practised, whether I liked children, what car I drove and how often I attended church. Then she patted Hot Stuff on the arm and invited Kat and John outside for some air so “the couple could get to know each other without the oldies”, which was an interesting twist on things given she
’s in her early sixties and Kat and John are twenty-seven.’

  We all exhale loudly, exchanging incredulous glances.

  ‘Look on the bright side,’ Lisa says. ‘Any guy who can’t eat an entire pancake by himself is better off single.’

  Our waiter suddenly descends on us, delivering our coffees and dessert orders. When he leaves we raise our drinks to a toast.

  ‘To No Sex in the City,’ I say. ‘May you be a temporary phase in our lives.’

  Five

  ‘You’re looking particularly good today,’ Danny remarks as he pops his head into my office on Monday morning.

  ‘The appointment at CV Chemist in Chatswood got cancelled,’ I say, ignoring his compliment.

  The thing that annoys me most about Danny’s flirting is that it comes across as him just being good-natured, not sleazy. Danny is one of those guys who is overfriendly with all women, edging into flirting territory all too often. ‘What a beautiful outfit you’ve got on today, Mrs Kennedy!’ ‘Love that perfume, Veronica!’ So if I kick up a fuss about his random compliments on my looks, as I’ve done in the past, he turns it back on me and acts like I’m paranoid and oversensitive. It’s not that I can’t handle him. It’s the fact that I have to. I just want to come in, do my work and enjoy a pleasant but professional relationship with my boss. I don’t want to get dressed wondering whether he’s going to have an opinion about my outfit accentuating my eye colour.

  ‘The furniture shopping didn’t go too badly, after all,’ Danny says, entering my office and sitting on the chair in front of my desk. ‘Did I tell you Mary and I are starting counselling next week?’

  Here we go again. This is another thing that totally freaks me out. The incessant D&Ms about his marriage. Dial a friend, I want to scream. The last time I checked, the employer/employee handbook didn’t include a chapter on how bosses should seek marriage advice from their employees. But I can’t exactly tell him to piss off. I have to put on an act.

  ‘It’s great you’re going to work through your issues,’ I say, trying to muster a sympathetic tone while I continue typing, hoping he’ll get the message and leave me to do my work.