No Sex in the City

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  There are two ways to respond. With dignity. Or without.

  Stay friends? Listen here, you moron, I’m almost thirty, I have all the friends I want in my life.

  Why, oh why, did my parents have to bring me up to be so conscious of self-respect and dignity and integrity? How on earth do those virtues give you any sense of satisfaction?

  ‘I respect your feelings, Yasir,’ I say quietly. ‘If you don’t feel a spark, that’s fine.’ (I hope you develop a nasty rash all over your body.) ‘I wish you all the best.’ (And lose all your teeth, and ...)

  ‘Wow, you’re so ... mature about this,’ he says. Is that frigging doubt in his tone now? ‘I expected you’ d freak—’

  Oh shut up. I cut him off. ‘Bye!’ I cry, then I hang up and burst into tears.

  It’s a tough night. It’s hard to tell myself that this is a lesson to learn from, an experience to make me stronger. That Yasir wasn’t my destiny. It’s all meaningless in the face of the emptiness inside me, the hollowness of feeling so utterly happy one moment, filled with hope and big dreams and gorgeous, joyful optimism, then feeling empty, numb and confused in the next.

  I want to run myself down, wallow in self-pity. Why is this happening to me? Aren’t I smart enough, interesting enough, good-looking enough? I spend most of the night feeling sorry for myself, then finally fall asleep, exhausted.

  Thankfully I wake up angry. Nothing like anger to extinguish self-pity.

  I’m a strong person. I’ve been burned before, in some cruel and rude ways, too – like the guy who told me that he couldn’t be with me because he had an ideal image of what his future wife’s physique would be and mine didn’t match up to it. I know I can get through this. I’ve always had an endless capacity for optimism. I might whine and vent with my girlfriends, but deep down I know that love is waiting for me somewhere.

  What upsets me most is not the rejection but the fact that I was happy getting to know Yasir. And I believed he felt the same way. Now I’m left doubting my own intuition and judgement.

  In the morning I message Senem with the news. She insists on coming over for a debrief, but I tell her not to bother. I’m not going to sit down and analyse every text message, email and conversation. Doing the ‘he said this’, ‘he said that’, and driving myself crazy in the process. So I go for a run around the park, hammering my feet onto the footpath, trying to sweat out the pain, searching hard for some endorphins.

  When I return, I find my mother sitting in the lounge room, feet up on the coffee table, a mug of tea in one hand and a book in the other. I collapse next to her, drawing in some deep breaths. She glances up at me, smiles and then continues reading. We sit in easy silence for several moments, Mum reading, me staring at the swirls of colour on the rug, until I say, ‘Yasir’s not interested. It’s over. Whatever it was.’

  She looks at me and frowns. ‘What happened?’

  ‘He called me last night. He just wants to be friends. Apparently he doesn’t feel that spark.’

  ‘Like the click?’

  ‘Mum, don’t even go there,’ I snap. ‘There’s a difference between not feeling anything towards a guy who can barely string together a few words of English, and Yasir, who has spent three weeks leading me to believe there was something between us.’

  ‘Did he explain himself?’

  ‘No.’ I wrap my arms around a cushion, hugging it close to my chest. ‘What annoys me is there’s no proper closure. I just have to accept the decision and move on.’

  She suddenly utters a spectacularly taboo Turkish expletive, surprising herself and me in the process. We exchange glances and laugh. ‘You’re better off without him. Don’t we always say it’s best for these sorts of things to happen before you’re engaged? Look at Nuray – engaged for a year and then she ends up breaking it off because the guy’s a miser. All that heartache. All those wedding plans in a mess. And still we say she’s better off this way than marrying him and finding out too late. So you got hurt after three weeks? You’re one of the lucky ones.’

  We both know she’s just as upset as I am and that she’s trying to make me feel better. I know that inside she’s probably wondering why I seem to attract such ‘bad kismet’. I know she’s thinking this even as she scoffs at Yasir’s idiocy and congratulates me for avoiding getting further involved with him.

  I go and have a shower. When I later return downstairs to make myself some lunch, I overhear my parents talking. My mum is blowing her nose. Great. As if my own disappointment isn’t enough to deal with, I now have to cope with the fact that my parents are upset too. I hover at the kitchen door, drawn to listen even though I know it’s only going to make me feel worse.

  ‘She’s better off without him,’ my father says. ‘Who does he think he is, rejecting her? What’s there not to like about her? He’s an idiot!’

  ‘He told her he doesn’t feel a spark.’

  ‘Sparks and clicks and lightning bolts! What to do with this stupid generation? They want to go into cardiac arrest just to feel a sign that they’ve made the right decision. It’s because they’re gutless. The men nowadays are gutless! They want to have their fun, but when it comes to deciding about marriage, they’re like kids in a toy shop. They want everything and when you ask them to pick one, they can’t. They’re either greedy or too stupid to know what’s best for them.’

  Wonderful. I’ve been reduced to a catalogue item at Toys R Us.

  ‘Esma is from a good family,’ he cries loudly, no doubt assuming I’m still in the shower and can’t hear his tirade. ‘She’s educated! She’s beautiful! She’s smart! Funny! Successful! Sincere!’ Not that he’s biased or anything. ‘And that gutless idiot rejects her!’

  My mother sighs. ‘What can we do? This is her kismet.’

  ‘I’m going to mow the lawn.’

  ‘Okay. But don’t make a big issue with Esma. Just act normal. She doesn’t need to hear us talk like this.’

  My dad knocks quietly on my door later that night.

  ‘Esma,’ he whispers. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Yes,’ I call out. I’m sprawled on my bed, preparing for some interviews at work tomorrow.

  He takes a step into my bedroom and looks around shyly. ‘Are you busy?’ he asks nervously.

  ‘Just doing some work.’ I smile.

  ‘That’s nice ...’ His voice falters. ‘My shift was cut today. But don’t worry, I’ve got a double shift tomorrow.’ He pauses, scratching his chin. Then, as an afterthought, he says, ‘They’re a good hospital.’

  Dad has always worked long hours, in low-paid jobs. Without any formal qualifications, he’s been a bit of a jack-of-all-trades. But he’s taken pride in what he does. For most of my life I can remember him working erratic hours. He worked in a chocolate factory (Senem and I gorging ourselves sick on all the free bars of chocolate he was allowed to bring home). For a short time he worked in a furniture factory, sanding and assembling timber furniture, until the place went broke and he took up cleaning.

  Mum and Dad pushed Senem and me to excel at school and obtain the education they never received. Because it was apparent that I was the studious type and Senem wasn’t, they encouraged me to attend university, and were overjoyed when I did. My degree is framed and hangs in the formal lounge room. Corny, but still sweet, I guess.

  He clears his throat. ‘The other day your mum mentioned to me that she’ d like to see you save to buy a property ...’ He speaks in a low, hesitant voice.

  I sit up and cross my legs. ‘That’s just Mum talking. We both know that’s not possible.’

  He looks crushed and it suddenly strikes me how much he’s aged. He’s lost weight and there’s far more white in his hair now.

  ‘Every minute of the day I think about how I’m affecting your future.’ He falls silent again and then adds, ‘This business with that stupid boy ... I had hoped so much ...’

  ‘The thing is, Dad, that even if it had worked out with Yasir, it wouldn’t have solved your problem
. You’d still need me. Me getting married would probably only complicate things. I can’t keep something this big from the person I marry.’ My voice is strained and I can feel anger pounding in my ears.

  He winces at my words. ‘I’ve tied myself into a million knots ... you along with me ...’

  I stare at him, suffocated by my sense of duty and respect and love and pity.

  ‘What would you have me do? Tell your mother?’ He says this solicitously, genuinely seeking my opinion rather than asking a rhetorical question.

  But how can you tell your wife that you’ve gambled away her house? I think of all the nights my father must have returned from the club to an evening of deceit and festering secrets. How many times did he greet her with a forced smile after he’d fed their money into the fruit machines? Why wasn’t the image of my mother’s face powerful enough to help him resist the temptation?

  They could never afford to buy back into this suburb, even with the balance of the equity in their home after repossession. House prices here are just stupid compared to when they moved here twenty years ago.

  And what would happen to my parents’ marriage if Dad confessed? Would it survive his betrayal? Would Mum forgive him? What choice would she have? How could she support herself? Would she stay with him because she had no choice, and end what was once a happy marriage in bitterness, hurt and pain?

  I’m suddenly furious with my mother for placing all her trust and reliance in my father. How naive she must be to think that life is so safe and predictable that you can survive without some level of independence and autonomy.

  I go round and round the loop of questions and scenarios as my father waits for my response.

  But I don’t need to respond. My silence is enough of an answer.

  Thirteen

  ‘I hate this case I’m working on,’ Ruby says while I’m multitasking, talking to her on the phone, typing up a report and scanning my emails. ‘It never gets any easier.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, the fact that you haven’t been desensitised is probably a good thing.’

  ‘Misdiagnosis of cancer in a teenager. They cut out most of her stomach and then, oops, discovered that actually she had reflux, not cancer.’

  I wince. ‘Is the insurer denying the claim?’

  ‘No. I’ve advised them to pay up. It’s not a question of liability. We’re just negotiating the settlement.’ She sighs. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to think about it now. How are you holding up?’

  ‘It’s a little hard for me to feel self-pity in the face of that kind of suffering.’

  ‘Stop being a saint. If I judged my life against my medical negligence practice, I’d be a basket case. But I don’t. Because I’m human, and while relativity is great for the soul, too much of it is paralysing. We all have to function and cope with the life we’ve been given. So for God’s sake, enjoy a good rant about that spineless dropkick, will you?’

  ‘You know what kills me the most?’

  ‘The “it’s not you, it’s me” line? That line should attract a jail term.’

  ‘Well, yes, there’s that. But really, what’s killing me is that there’s no closure. I don’t even know why he thinks there was no spark when it was going so well.’

  ‘I know,’ she says, her tone suddenly gentle. ‘That’s the worst part of it. He gave you a pathetic reason and you just have to accept it. I know it’s a cliché, Esma, but you’re better off without him.’

  ‘That’s what makes it all so hard. I’m not moping around, focusing every last atom of energy into finding a man, but I’m so ready for romance ... I hate to admit it, but I have this secret fear that I’ll be that girl ... the girl nobody falls in love with.’

  ‘Maybe the answer is online dating.’

  The lack of irony in her voice makes me laugh.

  ‘Trust me,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard great stories.’

  ‘They’re in the minority.’

  ‘Have you tried it before?’

  ‘No! I have my dignity.’

  ‘Don’t be such a snob.’

  ‘I’ll try it when I’m really, really, really desperate.’

  ‘Don’t be an imbecile. Taliah and Jaydin met online. And what about Julian and Carol? They’re madly in love, thanks to the web. So get over it, will you? I’m creating a profile and logging on tonight. It can’t hurt. In the meantime, do you want to start boot camp with me?’

  ‘Why? I’ve got a gym membership.’

  ‘Last visit was when?’

  ‘Hmm ... I had highlights in my hair – I remember because I drove to the gym after my hair appointment then drove back out of the car park because I didn’t want to waste a good blow-dry.’

  ‘You had highlights last year.’

  ‘Yeah ... I really need to go in to cancel my membership.’

  ‘Jesus, Esma, you need to get fit again.’

  ‘I run all the time. You know I do. And since when do you like exercising? I can barely get you to take a flight of stairs in the shops.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ she laughs. ‘This is boot camp with a difference. The trainer is Greek and, I’m told on good authority, dazzling. Lots of the Greek crowd from our local church go there. It’s become a social thing too. Well, at least according to Pina, who’s been doing it for the last year. So I’m going to sign us up. Maybe we’ll meet someone.’

  ‘How can we meet someone when we’re puffy and red-faced? I don’t care how hot your body is, nobody looks attractive doing star jumps.’

  ‘Good point. But I’m sure it’s not that intense. We’ll just take it easy. We’re not there to actually get fit or anything. You’ve got to learn to be strategic, Esma. Slot yourself into groups and scenes where you’re more likely to meet someone who meets your criteria.’

  ‘That sounds so sad and pathetic.’

  ‘No, it’s about having a proactive attitude. All those movies we’ve seen have given us a warped view of reality. We’re waiting for our destiny to bump into us at Coles, probably in the tampon aisle knowing my bad luck.’

  ‘It’ll be the herbal tea section for me. We’ll both be reaching up for the orange-flavoured laxative tea. Our hands will brush, we’ll gaze into each other’s eyes, and we’ll click over a conversation about which tea produces the best results ... Are they all from your church?’

  ‘Nah. There’s a mix. I’m sure you can meet a Muslim there.’

  ‘Wonderful. So he’ll be Muslim and enjoy a good workout too. We were meant for each other.’

  ‘I’m booking us in, okay? Mondays, six in the morning in Ryde, starting in a fortnight. I’m changing my shift at the legal centre, so you can’t bail on me. Deal?’

  I say yes. Because sometimes you’ve got to seize fate rather than wait for it to seize you.

  ‘How’s the online scene going?’ I ask Ruby the following week.

  ‘An infinite source of laughs. Which is, I know, unfair to those who do meet with success. But clearly my online profile is attracting the nutters.’

  ‘I told you so.’

  She whips out her phone and scrolls through her messages. ‘The other day I got this one,’ she says, and starts to read aloud: ‘I am a healthy, prosperous engineer in the USA for thirty-two years from Greece, sixty years old. I am healthy like a thirty-year-old man. I jog two kilometres a day. I am better than others because a) older men don’t cheat, b) older men have more time and money, and c) I’m fun-loving with still a lot of hair.’

  ‘What a turn-on.’

  I enjoy teasing Ruby about her online disaster, but as adamant as I’ve been about never veering into online dating territory, I’m starting to reconsider. That’s what happens when the offline scene is so woeful – you change strategy and become more flexible. Even if the thought of meeting in person a stranger I first met in cyberspace freaks me out.

  When Dad quit gambling he started to pray the five daily prayers. It was new to us, as we hadn’t grown up with him or Mum praying. Even now Mum only prays on special o
ccasions.

  It wasn’t an overnight conversion for Dad. At first he started praying at the mosque on Fridays, when he could make it. Then he started waking up for the pre-dawn prayer, going straight to work after that. Then, before I knew it, he was maintaining all five prayers. He hasn’t become a zealot. I’ve never heard him ask Mum to join him and he’s never bothered me about it. He just withdraws at prayer times – quietly, humbly. It seems to give him solace and peace.

  I understand prayer before dawn. When I do manage to get my lazy butt out of bed and pray, I get it.

  But humanity is not meant to wake up before sunrise to exercise.

  It’s Monday morning and I wake before dawn (I pray, seeing as I’m up anyway and I’d really appreciate God’s help with push-ups and jumping jacks) and then leave the house. I actually drive as the sun is rising on a MONDAY MORNING! It is not remotely transcendental or inspiring. The drive to the park where boot camp will be held is a struggle. The voice in my head does not relent: Go back, it whispers over and over again. I actually have to put the radio on full volume to drown it out.

  When I arrive at the oval I get butterflies in my stomach. There are about forty people warming up and stretching on the basketball court. Some of them are huddled in groups, laughing and joking as though it were the middle of the day instead of the crack of dawn. I love exercise. But I’m not, and never will be, a morning person.

  I catch sight of Ruby, who looks stunning in her hot-pink and black Nike Lycra outfit. She’s wearing make-up and her curly hair is pulled up in a complicated style more suited to a cocktail function. She’s the perfect example of somebody who has never exercised seriously in their life, labouring under the delusion that what you look like at the start of a session is what you’ll look like afterwards.

  Ruby sees me and waves. ‘Esma! Over here!’ she cries.

  I jog over, hoping her enthusiasm is infectious. She’s standing beside two girls, whom she introduces as Theresa and Pina. They’re both stretching and look almost as eager as Ruby.

  ‘Isn’t this great?’ Ruby exclaims and then leans in closer to me. ‘Did you see the guy over there with the blue hoodie?’ She closes her eyes for a moment and sighs. ‘To die for.’