No Sex in the City

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  I half-laugh, not believing what I’m hearing.

  Nirvana snorts. ‘It was fine. Really. Anil made a joke and everybody laughed it off. What can I say? Indians can be very superstitious. Like Anil said, she was pre-empting the gossipers. Want to see the ring?’

  ‘Yes!’

  She proudly extends her arm and shows off her ring. I grab her hand and hold it closer to me.

  ‘WOW! It’s enormous! I’m so happy for you.’

  Her voice wobbles. ‘I’m so happy for me too!’

  We laugh loudly and the owner of the café comes around to see if we want to order another coffee. He’s an old Armenian man and has had the café ever since we started coming here in our university days.

  ‘Ooh,’ he says, spotting the rock weighing down Nirvana’s hand. ‘What a beautiful ring for a beautiful girl!’ Nirvana smiles shyly back at him. ‘Just engaged?’

  She nods and he congratulates her and insists on a free coffee to celebrate.

  It’s funny how weddings almost always make people gush and go all warm and fuzzy. No matter your background, almost everybody seems to get it: the idealism, the joyous optimism, the wholehearted belief that your love is indestructible.

  The next day Ruby, Lisa and I pay Nirvana a quick visit after work. Ruby’s still got to head off to Redfern Legal Centre for her monthly roster, and Lisa needs to go home to pack for a trip to the coast to give a three-day workshop on domestic violence awareness as part of a regional campaign she’s involved in.

  Ruby and Lisa gush and squeal over Nirvana’s ring; having already seen it, I stand proudly to the side, adding in my own comments and details (‘It’s three carat, white gold!’). When Nirvana gets to the koala part, Lisa and Ruby guffaw loudly.

  ‘I’m under no illusions that Anil’s mother is going to be anything but hard work,’ Nirvana groans.

  ‘What about Anil’s dad?’ I ask. ‘You hardly ever mention him. Has he had any involvement in Anil’s life since the divorce?’

  ‘No, not really. He lives in Brisbane. He remarried years ago and has his own family now. That’s why Anil’s mother is so gossip-conscious, I think. He remarried within a year of the divorce. It took her ages to get over the stigma. She was a single mum for about eight years before Anil’s step-dad came along. It was a fairy-tale ending for her, anyway.’

  ‘Depends on your definition of fairy-tale,’ I say under my breath.

  ‘What’s going on between Neela and Anil?’ Lisa asks. ‘There seemed to be some tension at the birthday party.’

  Nirvana shrugs. ‘Not between Anil and Neela. They’re great with each other, when I’ve seen them together, despite the mum’s obvious favouritism. I think the issues are between Neela and her mum. There’s a lot of baggage from the divorce, I think. We don’t see Neela that much anyway. She lives an hour away from her mother’s place and she’s almost never there whenever I’ve been visiting. She lives near her in-laws and apparently she’s always hanging out with them.’

  ‘Voluntarily?’ Ruby scoffs.

  Nirvana makes a face. ‘Not sure. Anil doesn’t know much about Neela’s life. I’ve asked him but he says Neela doesn’t say much. There’s something going on between her and Sunil. I don’t think they’re very happy. I’ve never seen the slightest bit of affection between them. Never a kiss or hug. But you never really know what’s going on inside a marriage, do you?’

  ‘Anyway,’ Ruby says, quickly losing interest in the topic of Neela’s marriage, ‘we’re thrilled for you! There’s plenty of time later for you to dissect your in-laws. For now let’s focus on you and your engagement plans. What kind of party do you have in mind? Obscenely lavish and therefore perfect? Or boring and intimate?’

  ‘No prizes for guessing which you’d prefer, Ruby,’ I say.

  Ruby grins. ‘Well?’ she demands, turning to Nirvana. ‘If you need a project manager, I’m up to the task!’

  Nirvana laughs. ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’ve seen enough of your project management skills from our birthday parties.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ruby says, batting her eyelashes as she feigns surprise.

  ‘Oh come on, Ruby,’ Lisa says. ‘You’re a born dictator. I’m sure there are committee members from your Greek Club university days who are still in therapy after organising events with you.’

  Ruby laughs loudly, demonstrating that she is taking all of this as a compliment, and we all laugh along with her.

  We spend the rest of the visit discussing Nirvana’s ideas for the engagement party. It seems, from the little time she’s had so far to discuss such details with Anil, that she’s more interested in something classy and intimate: just close family and friends in a small reception or garden party. Nirvana prefers to leave the extravagant celebrations for the wedding, where she has every intention of celebrating her Indian culture to its fullest.

  The four of us are excited and animated and lively, intoxicated by Nirvana’s happiness. Yet on the drive home later that evening I wonder if things will change between us now that Nirvana’s engaged. You often hear about friends drifting apart when a guy steps into the picture, how people can forget their friends as they ‘move on with their life’. The thought that this might happen terrifies me. But something deep within me knows our friendship isn’t just filling up a temporary space, waiting to be replaced by our respective Mr Rights. None of us thinks that we’re living some kind of transient existence before love and marriage come along and our so-called ‘real life’ begins.

  My grandmother has often said to me, ‘Hurry up and get married and start your life!’

  Really? So my existence until now has been a figment of my imagination, has it? I’ll take my first real breath, laugh my first real laugh, cry my first real tear when there’s a man at my side?

  My God, I need a bucket.

  The life I’m living now is real and enriching and full, and my friendships form a part of it, whether we’re in relationships or not. I’m not naive. I know life can take people in different directions, but the closest of friends can remain so despite the tyranny of distance. Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, if a friendship is threatened when you start to share your heart with somebody else, it was never anything special in the first place.

  And what the four of us have is special. That much I know.

  Nineteen

  Nirvana, Lisa, Ruby and I are holding our No Sex in the City get-together at a nail salon, where we’re getting pedicures thanks to the vouchers Ruby won at a work raffle.

  Nirvana’s telling us the latest labour horror story from work (we’re all suckers for stories about episiotomies and crazy birth plans) when her phone rings. We instantly know it’s Anil because her voice becomes all fluttery and sweet. Since the engagement she’s upgraded (or downgraded, depending on your perspective) Anil to ‘baby’, ‘sweetie’ or ‘honey’. As the rest of us are not in the throes of new love, we have no tolerance for these gushing displays of affection. We make gagging noises and she waves her hands at us to shut up.

  ‘Ohh, baby, I miss you too,’ she coos. ‘Sure, we’ll talk tonight. Yep, I’m out with my girls. They say hi too. Pardon? Oh, yes, sure, say hi back to your mum ... Okay, honey, bye ...’ She hangs up and turns to us and, her voice back to its normal, less nauseating tone, says with a sigh, ‘Oh God, Anil’s mum is killing me.’

  It becomes apparent very quickly that Nirvana is living a Bollywood movie and that a producer would snap up the rights to her story in a second. This would be the pitch:

  Nirvana, the beautiful heroine, has finally met The One. Anil is suave, kind, educated and successful. He dotes on Nirvana and is not even afraid to use the C word. There have been weekend trips ‘just for fun’ to furniture and white-goods stores, and the couple have found, to their delight, that they both share a preference for neutral shades and agree that leather is a more sensible choice than fabric (leather being far more suited to a home with children, which, of course, is part of ‘their future’). And when the
subject of children is raised in aisle five, near the black leather ensemble with matching chaise, they giggle like schoolkids, their minds filled with images of a baby that will represent a fifty per cent contribution from each of them (with the sum total constituting only the best parts of their looks and personalities).

  However, despite their perfect relationship (they only argue about Anil’s unfortunate habit of forgetting to apply the handbrake, which has, so far, not resulted in any loss or injury to life or property), a dark force hovers at the edge of it, threatening to send them plunging into relationship oblivion.

  Anil’s mother.

  Cue theme music to Jaws.

  (Description: regal and menacing looks, albeit with a tyre of fat around her stomach that sits proudly above her sari.)

  Anil’s mother, Preedi, has nothing personal against Nirvana. It’s just that she has something against any girl who is going to take her son away from her. The eldest and only son, Anil, is the golden child, who stood beside her in her dark days as a single mother. Preedi has struggled to accept any girl Anil has brought home. And now Anil is engaged to be married, and Preedi must pretend to be happy when really all she wants to do is banish Nirvana from their lives. Because now she will lose her firstborn forever. Not to mention that Nirvana doesn’t seem to want a big traditional engagement party. She wants something ‘intimate’ and ‘classy’. Fifty people! Not the two hundred people that should be there. What would the community think??? This formerly struggling divorced mother is now the proud wife of a rich man and more than capable of sending off her son in STYLE, thank you very much!

  ‘She’s a witch!’ I cry, scaring the girl who is buffing my toenails (she doesn’t speak much English, so she can only smile and nod at me).

  ‘Your mother-in-law is just such a cliché,’ Ruby says.

  ‘Can’t she do the whole evil mother-in-law thing with a bit more of a twist?’ I say. ‘I mean, it’s so old.’

  ‘Playing devil’s advocate for just a moment,’ Lisa says calmly, ‘try to see things from her point of view. It might help you work out how to deal with her. If she feels she was ostracised because of the divorce, then that clearly affected her relationship with her kids. And she seems to want to get back at everybody in the community who gave her a hard time.’

  ‘I know,’ Nirvana says ruefully. ‘But it would be so much easier to appreciate her point of view if she wasn’t so manipulative. For example, at dinner the other night, Anil and I were talking with his stepdad—’

  ‘Master Splinter,’ we simultaneously correct her.

  Nirvana giggles. ‘Oh, that is so mean. He’s the nicest guy.’

  ‘We know,’ I say matter-of-factly. ‘But he’s a dead ringer for Master Splinter.’

  She pauses, thinks for a second, and then grins. ‘You’re right. So, Anil and I were talking with Master Splinter,’ she looks at us and we nod approval, ‘about the engagement plans, and Anil’s mum was quiet. When Master Splinter left the room she looked at us sadly and said, “I’m so happy for you both.”’

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ Lisa says.

  ‘Wait! Then she said, in this pitiful voice, “But it’s hard for me ...” She patted Anil on the hand. “You will always be the best man in my life, darling. Husbands come and go, but not sons. As happy as I am for you, I’m sad to lose you.”’

  Ruby, who has just taken a sip of soft drink, coughs. The Coke comes out through her nose, sending us into a hysterical fit.

  ‘I couldn’t help myself,’ Nirvana continues once we’ve calmed down. ‘I told her I felt hurt by her comment and shouldn’t she feel instead that she was gaining a daughter? And Anil, who by then had given his mum a big reassuring hug – BARF – laughs and says, “That’s right, Mum, I’m not going anywhere. You’re not losing me. You’re gaining Nirvana.”’

  ‘How did you not puke on all the clichés?’ Lisa cries.

  Nirvana bristles. ‘Believe me, it took all my self-control. She was supposedly fighting back tears and forced herself to reassure us she was very happy and not to worry, she’ d be fine.’

  I suddenly let out a giggle. My pedicurist has started with the pumice on the balls of my feet. This is not a good thing – I am ticklish and I wriggle around in my seat. I can’t exclude the possibility that I might kick her in the mouth. She is looking at me and smiling while she scrubs my feet raw.

  ‘Can’t Anil see through it all?’ I ask when the torture session has finished and we’re on to the more soothing task of applying nail polish.

  ‘Of course not,’ Nirvana says wearily. ‘I love him to bits, but he’s a mummy’s boy through and through.’ She puts her face in her hands. ‘It’s going to take all my fortitude not to commit a homicide before the engagement party.’ She looks up sharply. ‘Not to mention she is so intolerant of my dieting.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

  ‘You know how I always carry a small cooler around? For my ice cubes. She thinks I’m mad.’

  A couple of months ago Nirvana read that eating cold food burns calories as the body has to heat up the food to body temperature for it to be absorbed into the bloodstream. Ever since then, she’s insisted on the majority of her meals being served cold (it always throws waiters). Then she came across the bright idea of munching on ice cubes all day. So it’s not unusual to see her carrying a small cooler in her oversized handbag and popping ice cubes like chewing gum.

  ‘Nirvana!’ I thunder. ‘I’m on your mother-in-law’s side with this one.’

  Nirvana opens her handbag, takes out the cooler, lifts the lid and throws an ice cube into her mouth.

  ‘You’re mental,’ I mutter at her.

  ‘I’m burning calories just sitting here getting a pedicure. That’s not mental. It’s smart.’

  Lisa rolls her eyes. ‘Please extend my sympathies to Anil.’

  When we finish and I’m at the counter paying, my pedicurist hands me a receipt and says, ‘If mother-in-law dog, give her bone.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, startled. Then I flash a charming smile. ‘Is that a Thai saying?’

  ‘No,’ she says gruffly. ‘Experience.’

  Senem sends me an instant message at work.

  Senem: Guess what? Me and Farouk might be moving in with you guys for six months while we save for the deposit!!!! It’ll be like old times!!!

  My jaw drops.

  Me: Really? When?

  Senem: The lease ends in five months. But we can’t afford to renew it and save. We’ll only be staying for six months. I know it’s a burden on Mum and Dad but Farouk and I will insist we help with the bills.

  Me: You know Mum and Dad will have a fit if you suggest paying the bills. They’ve never taken a cent from us.

  It’s not a lie. Before the debt, Dad had refused any offer from us to contribute to the shopping or bills. If I wanted to help out, I bought groceries without asking anybody and just put them in the cupboard. But to actually give my parents money would send them, especially my dad, into a fit of anger. Which is why I’m sure that asking me for financial help has deeply wounded Dad’s pride.

  Senem: Well, Farouk will try anyway. And I promise I won’t hog the bathroom. And you and Farouk get along so well, so it won’t be like all those other horror stories you hear about. Mum’s so excited. Are you?

  Me: OF COURSE.

  My use of capital letters is the equivalent of a forced smile. There are many words I can use to express my feelings, and excited is not one of them. If the situation were different – if I wasn’t basically spending most of my salary trying to save Mum and Dad’s house from being repossessed – then I would have welcomed Senem and Farouk back home. But the fact is that they’re moving back to Mum and Dad’s so that they can save to buy their own place. And I can’t save to buy my own place because I’m paying off a loan that I never asked for. The cruel irony of the situation isn’t lost on me. Nor is it lost on my dad, who calls me within the hour, Senem presumably having spoken to him about the plan.

/>   ‘Esma, have you heard?’

  ‘Yes,’ I mutter.

  ‘I don’t know what to do. Your mother is so excited. There’s no question of refusing. She’s my daughter, of course we can’t refuse.’

  And what about me, Dad? I want to scream.

  ‘I’m sorry, Esma. I really am. It will only be six months. They’ve promised that. And I have good news. I’m getting a pay rise. That will be forty more dollars a week into the loan. Everything makes a difference, yes?’

  ‘Yeah, of course ...’ My voice falters.

  ‘I’m taking on an extra shift at work, too. With Senem and Farouk moving in, the bills will be higher, and I don’t want that to affect you.’

  ‘Okay, Dad.’

  ‘God will reward you for being so kind to your parents,’ he says. ‘He won’t ignore that I don’t have an atom’s weight of disappointment in you, Esma. Only pride and love.’

  I bite down on my lip to stop myself from crying.

  Twenty

  Danny pops his head into my office as I’m about to leave for the day.

  ‘Any plans this weekend?’ he asks.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of so far,’ I say cautiously.

  His face breaks into a grin. I have no idea what’s going on with him. Ever since Sara’s visit, and the subsequent tense work meeting in which he basically took it upon himself to exercise control of our reproductive rights, he’s been relaxed, pleasant, jovial even. The random compliments have even returned (apparently I’m ‘dressed to kill’ today; this was offered at the same time as Danny complimented Shae on her new bag, so I couldn’t exactly take offence).

  It’s as though our little spat never happened. Once again, I’m left confused. Every instinct in my body tells me that Danny has crossed the professional line one too many times and that his antics are unacceptable.

  Maybe the best thing is to try to find another job. I’d probably have a case for constructive dismissal, but to sue Danny would mean witness statements and rallying staff to stand by me. It would all be so messy and stressful that I don’t think it would be worth it.