No Sex in the City

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  I tell myself to take each day as it comes, and try to ignore the voice in my head that says that’s just a cop-out.

  Eleven-forty-five. Snug in bed. Coaxing myself into sleep with a fantasy involving Colin Firth (who, in my fantasy, has converted to Islam after meeting a Muslim extra on the set of Pride and Prejudice and therefore now ticks every conceivable box in my checklist), his proposal of marriage to me (during an Oscar acceptance speech), Turkey consequently being accepted into the European Union (even the EU has a thing for Mr Darcy), and Colin and me becoming national heroes (in Turkey, the UK and Australia) and a text message ... Huh?

  Who’ d be texting at this time? I roll over to face my bedside table and check my phone. It’s from Ruby.

  Can you bring your Mink headband to boot camp tomorrow? I want to wear it. See you then!

  I try to recall my fantasy but the moment has gone. I’m left thinking about push-ups and sprints and fall asleep exhausted.

  ‘GIVE ME AS MANY SQUATS AS YOUSE CAN IN THIRTY SECONDS, STARTING NOW!’

  My legs are burning from the half-hour of kickboxing we’ve just done but I throw myself into my squats, trying to lower my butt as far down to the ground as I can. If my muscles could talk they’d be shouting filthy curses at me right now. I look over at Ruby. The mink headband is a bit lopsided now and she’s struggling with the squats, stopping every time Alex turns his back. As soon as he turns around and is looking in our direction, she’s trying her best, scrunching up her face in a look of intense concentration. I’m too tired to laugh.

  Later that day I’m on my way to an appointment with a client when Ruby calls me.

  ‘What would you say if I told you that Alex went to the same Greek weekend school as me when we were kids?’

  ‘I’d say, “Wow, what a coincidence, and did he do push-ups for fun during recess?”’

  ‘I wouldn’t have a clue. Probably. But he was two years above me. So while we may have crossed paths, I can’t remember him and he can’t remember me.’

  ‘You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?’ I say with a laugh.

  ‘I stayed back after you left class and talked to him,’ she tells me. ‘Then a few of us went for a coffee. His – how can I say this ... his vocabulary, is deceiving.’

  ‘What do you mean? Did youse have fun?’

  She laughs, but not as heartily as she would have done a few weeks ago. ‘He’s not some dumb-arse. I know the way he speaks is unpolished and, dare I say it, a little westie—’

  ‘Not everybody can – or wants to – live in the eastern suburbs or over the bridge, you snob.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, which is why I’m qualifying what I’m saying. I had my preconceptions. I’ve been fed a diet of them growing up.’

  I pretend to yawn and she yells at me.

  ‘You know what I mean!’ she barks. ‘Give me a break.’

  ‘Luckily you’re my best friend, otherwise I’d suspect you actually thought the educated classes only lived in your suburb.’

  Ruby, being Ruby, ignores me and goes on. ‘Alex is a high school drop-out. Okay, I accept that. But he’s turned himself into a businessman. He’s running these classes all over Sydney and doing corporate sessions too. His dad didn’t have much of an education either, but he’s built up an investment property portfolio. Apparently his dad isn’t happy with his decision to build a personal training business as opposed to taking on the family business. Alex says it’s been a struggle to get his family to approve, but now that he’s doing so well, they’re starting to accept his decision.’

  ‘Sounds to me like you’re struggling to come to terms with the fact that you’re interested in a guy who comes from a completely different background to you.’

  She lets out a short laugh. ‘I’m attracted to him. And there’s chemistry. Lots of science-lab, Bunsen-burners-exploding chemistry.’

  ‘Okay. That’s good.’

  ‘The problem is that, like it or not, I’ve been raised to believe the only kind of relationship that will work for me – and for my family – is one in which the guy is Greek, educated, successful and moves in the same social class as we do. My family defines itself by its status in the community. Alex’s family might be from the same island in Greece, but they move in a different crowd, attend a different church ...’ Her voice trails off.

  ‘In a nutshell, you move in different socio-economic circles?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re worried about how he’ll fit into your family and with your colleagues and church community?’

  ‘Yes ...’

  ‘Ruby, has Alex asked you out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then quit being a lawyer who has to conduct a hypothetical risk assessment about everything and just see what happens! You do this all the time. Leave the analytical Ruby at work and let your love life take its course naturally. Okay?’

  She agrees. She’ll restrain herself. Boot camp will be about getting fit. And if something develops with Alex, it will be a bonus and she can worry about snobby parents and compatibility then. This is what she promises me.

  Not for a second do I believe her.

  Twenty-One

  It’s survival of the fittest. There are tears and blood and soft-tissue injuries. There’s rivalry, bullying and misappropriation of goods. The adults have weary, haggard faces, as though they’ve been in battle and are waiting for their sleep and food rations. I’ve never experienced anything like it.

  Arzu has persuaded me to join her at her local play centre. We haven’t had a chance to catch up properly since she became a mother, and she called me this morning and suggested I join her at Lollipop Land. Naively, I agreed, assuming we’ d be able to enjoy a coffee and a long chat while adorable cooing babies sat quietly and contentedly in their prams or crawled in the baby corner.

  Except it’s half-price Saturday and every baby, toddler and child in the north-western region seems to be here, fighting for control of every toy and inch of territory. This place is probably the best form of contraception around, I think to myself.

  Arzu and I are trying to talk, but Malek has just started crawling and is not stupid enough to restrict herself to the baby corner when there are rides and toys in enticing primary colours across the room. So I’m walking around with Arzu, coffee mug in my hand, trying to have a conversation.

  ‘We never used to argue,’ Arzu says. ‘Before we had Malek we were the perfect couple – that’s for the big kids, sweetie – but now we’re both so exhausted that we’re almost always at each other’s throats. Yasin is just such an involved dad.’

  ‘Isn’t that a good thing? I mean, lots of women complain that they do everything.’

  ‘Look, he’s great with helping out in the house, and honestly, with Malek, I’d be lucky to have the time to boil an egg – over here, sweetie. What I mean is, he fusses over how I feed her and wrap her and how I put her to sleep and what brand of dummy to use. She came out of me. You’d think I’d know how to heat a bottle! DON’T eat food off the floor!’

  My phone rings. It’s Mum.

  ‘What’s all that noise in the background? Where are you?’

  ‘A children’s play centre with Arzu.’

  ‘I can’t really hear you.’

  I walk to the toilets where it’s relatively quiet. ‘Can you hear me now?’

  ‘Yes, that’s better. I got a call today from Aunt Gulcin.’

  I know where this is going.

  ‘There’s a Turkish guy, originally from Germany. He’s been in Australia for seven years. He speaks fluent English. He’s tall.’

  I burst out laughing. Mum always does this. She knows I have a thing for tall guys and thinks just mentioning height will be enough to hook me.

  ‘So what does this tall guy do?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s a doctor!’ she answers breathlessly.

  ‘Hmm ... What else do you know about him?’

  ‘He’s thirty-three. According to Gulcin he’s very sociable and ha
ndsome. And tall.’

  I never, ever take the aunties’ word for it when it comes to looks and personality. I’m sure they heard ‘doctor’ and blanked out everything else.

  ‘Does he live here with his family?’

  ‘No, his family is in Germany. He was born there. His parents are here on holiday for a couple of months.’

  My imagination immediately plunges into a ridiculous fantasy: stunningly good-looking (and tall) doctor with wonderful sense of humour sets up a local practice in suburb with harbour views. I have no in-law issues given my in-laws live on the other side of the world. Yearly visits to Germany, with detours to Turkey, Paris, London, Rome and Spain. I’m spoilt rotten by my in-laws who, seeing me once a year, are only exposed to my charming side.

  My fantasy is interrupted by a little boy who walks in, opens the door to the cubicle, stands next to the toilet, looks intently at me and then says, ‘I’m doing a poop.’

  ‘Invite him over,’ I say to my mum. And then I silently remind myself to be careful what I wish for.

  I open my email account at work, take a sip of my cappuccino and follow it with a bite of my peanut butter on toast. I’m scanning through my inbox, deleting all the junk industry news and notifications (‘How to Tell a Candidate Their Résumé is Rubbish without Lowering Their Self-Esteem’ etc), when I nearly choke on my toast. There’s an email from Marco.

  Hi Esma,

  It’s good to hear from you. I’ve got tickets to the Latin-American Film Festival this Saturday if you’re interested?

  It’s good to hear from you ...

  I repeat the phrase over and over in my head. What is he on about? Have I accidentally sent him a text message? I reach for my phone but then stop. That’s impossible. I don’t even have his number. I drum my fingernails on the desk. It’s good to hear from you ...

  I scroll down Marco’s email. To my horror he’s replying to an email. From me.

  Hi Marco,

  How are you? I’ve got no plans this weekend if you’re free?

  Esma

  I feel physically sick. Somebody has obviously hacked into my account. It takes less than a second for me to realise it must have been Danny.

  I’m livid. I storm through the corridor and throw his office door open. ‘How dare you?’

  He’s sitting at his desk and looks up, a bewildered expression on his face. ‘Excuse me?’

  It takes all my willpower to contain myself. ‘Danny,’ I say calmly, ‘did you use my computer to send Marco an email from me?’

  ‘No.’ What a hopeless liar. An infuriating grin erupts on his stupid face. He stands and throws up his hands as if to apologise. ‘Okay, yeah, I did. I’m sorry.’ He giggles. ‘No, look,’ he says, noticing I am unmoved, ‘it was a little joke. You hadn’t locked your computer. It was completely harmless. Marco knows it was me. Almost as soon as I sent it I told him.’

  ‘A joke?’ I say furiously. I pause, and take a deep breath. ‘You used my computer. You sent a guy an email from me basically asking him out on a date.’

  ‘Yeah, but he knows it was me. I told him.’

  ‘But that’s besides the point. And if you told him, why has he just sent me an email inviting me out on Saturday?’

  Danny puts his hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh. He’s behaving like a schoolkid, not the director of a company. There is no remorse. He’s actually acting like it’s the funniest prank he’s ever played.

  The stony expression on my face must make him realise I’m not impressed by his apology. So he tries again.

  ‘I’m really, really sorry. You have no idea. I’ve just been under so much stress at home and things between us were so tense. I just wanted it to go back to normal. Fun and games, mucking around.’

  Good Lord, he thinks there’s an ‘us’. And what fun and games is he on about? So we’ve cracked some jokes. I do that with everybody in the office.

  ‘That wasn’t mucking around,’ I say through clenched teeth. ‘That was an invasion of my privacy.’

  He sits back down at his desk. ‘I suppose this isn’t the best time to tell you that you’re up for a promotion in June? I’m making you team leader.’

  Of all the scheming, manipulative things he could do! Deflect attention away from his atrocious behaviour with this news. How am I supposed to believe it’s even true, not just some decoy he’s thought of on the spur of the moment to calm me down?

  ‘A promotion with a pay rise,’ he says carefully, clearly measuring my reaction with each word.

  ‘How about we talk about it tomorrow?’ I say curtly. ‘I need to go clean up this mess you made with Marco.’

  I spin on my heels, not daring to stay another minute longer.

  Twenty-Two

  Nirvana is in panic mode. It’s ten-thirty at night and she’s driving home from her future in-laws’.

  ‘Mum and Dad are organising and paying for the engagement party. That’s the tradition: the girl’s side pays. But his mum is insisting on preparing all the food. She won’t accept Mum doing anything.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? She wants all the credit to go to her! Plus she’s a control freak. Anil’s side of the family is bigger than ours, so her argument is that she knows what kind of food will appeal to her family. It’s like our family doesn’t exist. It’s like my mum’s going to serve up dog food! For fuck’s sake!’

  Nirvana is usually pretty mild-mannered and not prone to outbursts. Her use of the F word tells me things are bad.

  ‘What does Anil think?’ I ask.

  ‘When it comes to his mum, he doesn’t think. He can’t see anything negative. According to him, she’s trying to ease the load for Mum. But tell that to my mum. She’s so angry. She feels like Anil’s mum doesn’t trust her judgement. She doesn’t feel it’s a burden. She wants to do it! – Yes, I’ll have a Whopper with fries, thanks. – Oh, and check this out—’

  ‘Did you just order a Whopper and fries?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My God, there will be world peace yet. Are you feeling okay?’

  ‘Of course I’m not feeling okay! Anil and I agreed we wanted something classy and intimate. A small reception. But the next thing I hear, Anil’s mum wants to invite practically the entire community, which means we have to hire a big hall.’

  ‘Did Anil talk to her?’

  ‘He thinks that because he’s her only son, she just wants to celebrate with everybody and show me off. He says she’s trying hard to prove herself in front of all her friends and family. I get that, but it’s not fair on my parents. They’re not as wealthy as Anil’s family – my God, these fries taste unbelievable! I miss salt!’

  ‘Yes, hon, it’s hard to find in frozen water.’

  ‘What can I say to him? “Anil, your mum’s a control freak”? “She’s too selfish to think about how my parents are supposed to afford putting on a show just for the sake of her image”?’ She’s on a roll now. ‘Sure, I’ll just tell Anil that my parents now have to pay for a massive engagement party just because his mum wants to impress Sydney’s Indian community using somebody else’s money!’

  I try to calm Nirvana down, but it’s futile. It seems her parents made the foolish decision to invite Anil’s mother along to the reception centre as a courtesy when they were booking the place. But Anil’s mum promptly took over, putting a higher tab on the bar, ordering the biggest cake and demanding Nirvana only order designer saris from the most expensive shops in India. Of course, Nirvana’s parents couldn’t exactly refuse or they’d look cheap. So now the engagement party is going to cost them a fortune.

  ‘What did Anil’s parents do for his sister’s engagement party?’ I ask. ‘They would have paid for it, wouldn’t they? Did she organise the food? ... Nirvana? You there?’

  ‘Yeah, sorry, just had a bite of a Whopper. I’ve died and gone to heaven.’ She groans loudly. ‘Can you imagine Neela’s mother-in-law taking charge? Like that could happen! There are so many double standards,�
�� she says angrily. ‘She treats Neela’s husband like a king. I don’t know why when he’s so moody. You can barely get a word out of him. He just grunts hello and watches TV. Sunil and Neela had a fight the other day and Neela’s staying at her parents’ for a couple of nights. Not that I saw much of her. She excused herself and went to bed early. But I overheard Anil’s mum arguing with Neela – she wants Neela to go back to her own house. She thinks it’s wrong for her to leave her husband over a misunderstanding.’

  ‘She took her son-in-law’s side?’

  ‘She thinks Neela should save face in front of her in-laws and sort out her problems quietly. She thinks that because Sunil’s out of work, Neela needs to be more patient with him.’

  ‘That’s bullshit.’

  ‘I know. I’m sure she’s just scared of what people would say if Neela’s marriage broke up too ... But can you see how frustrating it is for me? Am I being self-centred and spoilt, Esma? I just feel that she bends over backwards to make Sunil feel adored, as though she’s glad Sunil married her daughter so she can tick that burden off, but with me I sense it’s forced. Because I’m stealing Anil.’

  I wonder about Anil’s mother’s motivations. Is she just a control freak who’s trying to sabotage the engagement? Or does she genuinely want the biggest and best for Anil and Nirvana, no matter how much she’s going to resent Anil getting married?

  I ask Nirvana if Anil’s mum treats her badly, but she says she doesn’t. She’s always overly sweet to her, especially in front of Anil. Insists on serving her food first at meals, refuses to let her wash the dishes or clean up. Even the control-freak act with the engagement party was delivered in such a way that it made Anil’s mum look like she was just the overexcited mother of the groom.

  According to Nirvana, what’s going on between them is subtle and manipulative. Like Anil’s mum commenting that girls nowadays don’t have time to be proper wives, not bothering to learn how to cook the traditional foods. Apparently she said this as a playful jab at Neela, but Nirvana insists it was meant for her because everybody knows Neela’s an excellent cook and Nirvana’s samosas make a Happy Meal look like a fine dining experience.