No Sex in the City

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  ‘People can be very particular about their choice of pizza toppings. I’ve known friendships to hang in the balance over a disagreement about pineapples and anchovies.’

  ‘No anchovies,’ I say. ‘And pineapples are a must.’

  ‘And what are your feelings on the subject of mushrooms and chilli peppers?’

  ‘What’s a pizza without them?’

  ‘Seafood or chicken?’

  I tap a finger on the corner of my mouth. ‘Now let’s see,’ I say in a voice that suggests I am pondering some important spiritual proposition. ‘I like both,’ I eventually declare.

  He nods slowly, his face serious and contemplative as he pretends to be deep in thought. Then he flashes me a smile. ‘You’ve passed the test. Thank God you’re not an anchovy person.’

  We order a chicken pizza with extra pineapple and Metin talks to me about his first impressions of Australia when he moved here from Germany. Unfortunately, he wasn’t immune to stereotypes about deadly spiders and cuddly koalas.

  ‘Please don’t tell me you expected to see kangaroos waiting at traffic lights and koalas on every street corner?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t that bad,’ he insists.

  He laughs. There’s a bit of a silence then. I’m resisting asking him another question to keep the conversation going. I can’t keep rescuing us, especially when he still hasn’t asked me anything about my life. I feel like I know him quite well. I know about where he went to school in Germany, his relationship with his family, his travel experience, his motivation for studying medicine. But I’m still a closed book to him. So I just take the plunge. There is absolutely no point in being shy or disingenuous.

  ‘Metin, don’t you want to know about me?’

  He looks up from his cup, surprise crossing his face. ‘What do you mean?’

  I clear my throat, speak kindly. ‘It’s just that you haven’t asked me anything about my life. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? To get to know each other?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he fumbles. ‘So tell me about yourself.’

  I bite my lip. ‘How about you ask me what you want to know and I’ll answer.’

  He looks bewildered. I wonder if I’ve blown it. Am I being completely high maintenance? Overanalytical? Have I turned him off?

  My panicked thoughts are interrupted by the waiter delivering our pizza. The smell of basil makes my stomach rumble, which is evidence that I’m being plain greedy given that I ate a bowl of pasta only two hours ago.

  ‘Yum.’ Metin cuts me a large slice and puts it on my plate. ‘So what do you do?’ he asks. He takes a bite, cheese dangling down his chin until he realises and breaks it off.

  I cut him some slack. When I resolved to start afresh, I meant it. So I’m going to pretend I haven’t already told him what I do and explain all over again.

  ‘That’s interesting ... Oh, is that what you meant when you said a girl was stealing from the pharmacy? You’d recruited her?’

  So he had no idea what I meant before and didn’t bother to ask me to clarify? I take a bite of my pizza to delay responding. I’m a bit annoyed. But, in the spirit of BEING POSITIVE, I’m going to let that go too.

  ‘Yes,’ I say after I’ve finished chewing. ‘I’d recruited her for one of my clients and then she ended up being a thief. Needless to say, the client wasn’t too happy. Nor was my boss.’

  ‘I once hired a receptionist I thought was honest and conscientious. Until I found out she’ d been stealing patients’ credit card details to buy things online.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I say, my voice tapering off as I fix my eyes on the couple at the table next to us.

  He puts down his glass. ‘Did I say something wrong?’ he asks warily.

  I lock eyes with him and smile gently. ‘I just get a sense ...’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I feel that when I talk, you’re not interested.’

  ‘But I am!’

  How, then, do I tell him that he’s clearly hopeless at the rules of conversation? ‘I don’t know how to explain myself ...’

  ‘Try me,’ he says. There’s genuine concern in his eyes, a boyish willingness to make it right. Maybe he really just doesn’t get it.

  ‘Okay, so I’m telling you I basically had a bad day with my client and boss. Instead of asking me what happened, you cut through with your own story. Either you don’t care what happened to me or you weren’t paying attention. It’s just that a conversation ... well, it’s give and take. You talk, I ask you questions. I talk, you ask me questions. With you it’s feeling ... kind of one-sided.’ I sit back in my chair. There, I’ve said it. Let’s get the bill and get out of here. The night is clearly over.

  ‘I was paying attention,’ he declares. ‘I was telling you that story because I didn’t want you to feel bad.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Bad about your judgement. See, I hired somebody who turned out to be a lying thief too!’ He grins at me. ‘I was trying to reassure you that everybody makes mistakes.’

  A smile slowly spreads to my eyes. ‘Maybe we need some basic guidelines about communication, then,’ I say.

  He folds his arms across his broad chest. I notice the ripple of muscle against shirt, the contours of his forearms. Not allowing myself to get too distracted, I say, ‘Okay, Metin, some basic rules! Ask me questions. What’s my job? Where did I grow up? Where have I travelled? Have I ever been arrested? What’s my highest score on Tetris? What’s the weirdest food I’ve ever eaten? Do I believe in conspiracy theories? Anything, I don’t care. Hit me with your most ridiculous question, but at least ask me something!’

  He laughs, fixing his eyes on me.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I say, although I’m laughing too.

  ‘You know, you’re quite cute when you’re crazy,’ he says and my heart kind of explodes. Then he leans in closer to me. ‘Now do you believe that I’m interested in you?’

  Twenty-Nine

  Senem is over at our place tonight. She’s started packing up her things in preparation for moving back home and arrived with some boxes and bags for storage. Dad’s in the garage trying to find space for them.

  Mum, Senem and I are hanging around in the family room when Mum starts to quiz me about Metin. Once again, she’s trying to assuage her own anxiety by reminding me of what I should be looking out for.

  ‘Esma, you need to think about whether he can provide for you. Whether he’s trustworthy and dependable. Isn’t that right, Senem?’ she says in Turkish, turning to my sister for a show of solidarity. Senem gives me a sympathetic look.

  ‘Mum,’ I say calmly, ‘I don’t need to be provided for, and I can depend on myself.’

  ‘I know you’re a hard worker, Esma. I raised you and Senem to be educated and to stand on your own feet. I’ve been so lucky with your father – he has never denied me anything. But not all men are so good or so responsible.’

  I cringe. Is it really possible to share a lifetime with someone and still not know them, understand what they’re capable of? The idea frightens me. How am I supposed to know whether a man I’ve met twice is trustworthy when my mother’s trust in my father is so misplaced?

  I don’t say anything. I’ve always appeased my parents, protected them from the truth of my feelings. I can’t bear to shatter my mother’s good faith in my father, so I listen obediently. Senem, happily married and oblivious to the burden Dad’s placed on my shoulders, is off the hook, blissfully immune to Mum’s lectures. So I continue the pretence, continue to keep the peace, even though a war rages within me.

  Today’s boot-camp session is torturous. I’m close to exhausted tears at one point. But when Alex blows the whistle, a feeling of euphoria floods through me. I did it! I finished. I feel fantastic and we all clap (well, those of us who have enough energy left to clap) and limp back to our bags.

  Ruby and I hover around, chatting to Pina and Theresa. We’re waiting for everybody to disperse so that Ruby can have some time with Alex when he’s no
t distracted by people asking him for diet plans and exercise advice.

  It’s not as though Ruby and I are hidden from view. And yet, as the crowd gets thinner, Alex appears to be avoiding us. He’s not looking our way and is focused on packing up while talking to Mikey, the trainer who helps him out.

  ‘Let’s leave,’ I eventually say through gritted teeth. ‘We look desperate.’

  ‘Gotcha,’ Ruby says.

  I can tell she’s hurt but she doesn’t say anything until we get in the car.

  ‘That’s the first time we’ve seen each other since the wedding,’ she says, looking puzzled. Then she half-laughs. ‘He probably wants to keep things professional here.’ Her cheerful tone is forced. ‘It’s understandable. This is his workplace. I forget that sometimes.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say, although I can’t shake the uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘I wasn’t imagining what happened that night,’ she says firmly.

  ‘I believe you, Ruby.’

  Somehow, though, I don’t think I’m the one she’s trying to convince.

  Nirvana and I are at the fish market in Pyrmont for Sunday lunch. We’ve ordered a big platter of mixed seafood and are sitting outside, trying to avoid eye contact with the seagulls or making any gesture that could be interpreted as an offer of food. The seagulls are bold enough to glide onto the table, snatch an oyster or mussel, and soar off. We’re trying to eat quickly because the sky is grey and the clouds that have been forming all morning are threatening to burst.

  Nirvana’s phone rings. It’s Anil. She takes the call, leaving me to defend our lunch against the marauding seagulls.

  I’m in a stand-off with a one-legged seagull that seems to have staked a claim on my food. It’s watching me. I’m watching it. I am perfectly aware of how insane I must look, but I swear to God it’s taunting me, moving its wing to make me think it’s about to launch, and then standing still, watching me wrap my arms around the food in a panic.

  I notice Nirvana’s voice is going all tense and wobbly. When she ends the call I ask her what’s wrong.

  She runs her fingers through her hair and closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, she frowns. ‘This is getting so frustrating.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘My uncle has invited us for dinner tonight. He’s doing our engagement invitations for free, so I can’t exactly say no. And tomorrow night is my dad’s birthday, so we’re going to my parents’ for dinner. It’s a crazy weekend but it’s just worked out that way. Anil’s mum is upset that we’re not seeing them this weekend and that we’re spending the whole weekend with my family. So to keep the peace, I suggested to Anil that we have breakfast with his family tomorrow morning. But he said his parents have something on tomorrow morning and wanted us over for dinner. So I asked him if he seriously expects us not to do something for Dad’s birthday. And he asked if we could have breakfast with my parents instead. I said no because Mum’s gone to a lot of effort to organise a big dinner party. Anil said he doesn’t mind, but he senses his mum is feeling jealous.’

  ‘So he’s admitting to it at least?’

  She nods. ‘But he’s also defending her. He thinks that she’s feeling left out, and apparently his sister told him she’s worried my family is drawing him closer to them when it should be the other way round. His sister told him his mum is worried he’ll end up looking after my parents instead of her, the way sons should.’

  ‘He actually admitted this to you?’

  ‘He admitted it because he thinks it’s all a big joke. He just laughs and brushes the whole thing off. He thinks that’s the best way to deal with her. But if it gets out of hand, then it’s going to be like this all the time. A competition between the families, with her constantly keeping tabs on how many times we see my family compared to Anil’s. I don’t want things to be like that.’

  Suddenly there’s a crack of thunder, and before we have time to gather our food and bags the rain starts in big drops, getting faster and more intense with each passing moment. We jump up and race in the direction of the car park, laughing as we run.

  It’s pouring down so hard, and we’re parked so far away, that I call out to Nirvana to run for cover. We head for the main entrance of the market and duck under the shelter, negotiating our way through the crowd of people who have the same idea. That’s when I see him. Standing a metre away from me, with his arms wrapped around a tall brunette – long giraffe legs, big green eyes. Before I can turn round and pretend not to have noticed him, he looks up. It’s too late. First surprise crosses his face, then unease, then resignation that we’re going to have to acknowledge each other in this awkward moment.

  ‘Hi, Yasir,’ I say as casually as possible.

  Nirvana looks up sharply and takes a step closer to me.

  Yasir mumbles a ‘Hi’ back. The woman in his arms is staring at us. She doesn’t look threatened or insecure. She smiles and then just looks away, uninterested.

  There’s nothing to say, really. The thought does cross my mind that I could open with a line like, So Yasir, how soon after you rejected me did you hook up with Miss Universe here? But there’s no way I’m going to appear bitter, so I laugh, do a subtle hair toss (my strong point) and say (rather perceptively), ‘What a downpour, hey?’

  ‘Shocking!’ Nirvana agrees, with affected enthusiasm.

  Yasir, who looks as uncomfortable as I feel, nods. ‘We’re just waiting undercover.’

  Thank God I’m not the only one making banally obvious comments.

  ‘We’re going to take our chances,’ I say, grabbing Nirvana’s hand. ‘Take care! Bye!’

  I drag Nirvana behind me through the downpour. When we’re finally inside the car, panting, water dripping from our hair into our eyes, we look at each other and double over in hysterics.

  ‘Screw them all!’ Nirvana yells, stamping her feet on the floor of the car like a child.

  ‘Nirvana!’ I cry, shocked. ‘What’s come over you?’

  ‘Screw them all!’ she repeats with a maniacal laugh. ‘Do you think Elizabeth Bennet didn’t swear into her pillow when Mr Darcy pissed her off?’

  I laugh louder.

  ‘I hope she treats him badly,’ she says.

  ‘Nirvana!’ I scold. ‘That’s an awful thing to say ... He’s actually a great guy. Objectively speaking. I mean, clearly I hate his guts.’

  ‘There’s only one thing for it then. How about some retail therapy?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m in.’

  Thirty

  When I first started working at RecruitRight I made the stupid mistake of accepting Danny’s invitation to be his friend on Facebook. For someone in recruitment – who knows all about the problems that can blow up when the line between work and personal life blurs – it was a monumentally dumb thing to do. Looking back now, I can only explain my lapse of judgement by the fact that Danny seemed like such a nice, normal guy, with no airs or pretensions about him. He seemed to consciously make an effort not to act like the boss. At the time I thought this was a sign of a progressive workplace that didn’t insist on outdated hierarchies and power structures. There could be no glass ceiling in a place where the boss was so determined to be ‘one of us’. He ate lunch with us in the boardroom and forwarded us funny emails.

  I’m not a diehard Facebook user, posting every thought that enters my mind, but I regularly check in and post my photos. Danny’s occasionally made some comments on my photos, but nothing to make me think twice.

  Which is why, when I open my Facebook account this Sunday evening, I’m alarmed to find that Danny has posted a message on my wall.

  I’m really sorry, Esma. I accept I betrayed your trust and I hope you can forgive me and our relationship can go back to the way it was before.

  My stomach sinks. Four stupid comments have been posted in response, one from somebody I can’t even remember adding. The other three are from old friends I haven’t seen for ages.

  As for
my inbox, I’ve got five messages, all asking who Danny is.

  One thing’s for sure. He knows what he’s doing.

  Fury floods through me. And a niggling feeling that maybe I’m somehow to blame. Good Lord, even though I’m an OHS guru (I run seminars on this sort of thing, for goodness’ sake!), I’m still stupid enough to wonder if maybe I failed to maintain a strict professional relationship. Whether it’s my fault for allowing the lines to blur.

  Here I am in a situation that is spiralling out of control, feeling utterly disempowered. How do I respond without opening a Pandora’s box?

  Reading Danny’s message has brought on a headache and I pop two aspirin. I go to bed but spend all night tossing and turning. I’m not sure whether to deliver a withering line back to Danny on my Facebook wall to put an end to any speculation. But if I do that, won’t I effectively be taking Danny on?

  You bastard, I think as I get into work on Monday. I can’t afford to lose this job, but how can I ignore what’s happening?

  Okay, here’s the plan: confront Danny calmly and rationally. Try to resolve, not attack. Find a solution, not a machete.

  I log on to my computer, put my bag away, try to muster up nerves of steel, take a deep breath and walk into his office. Danny is sitting at his desk, drinking a coffee while he types. He looks up and smiles brightly.

  ‘Hey, there,’ he says cheerfully. ‘How’s it all going?’

  My eyes search his. What game is he playing?

  ‘Good ...’ I say warily. I’m about to sit down on the chair in front of his desk but change my mind. I’ll feel more confident if I’m standing, looking down at him.

  ‘Well, actually,’ I say, treading carefully, ‘I wanted to talk to you about your Facebook message ... and about that email you sent to Marco and just, things in general, between us, some of the comments you make ...’

  He presses a hand to his forehead and looks flustered. ‘Like I said, I’m really sorry. Emailing Marco was a dumb thing to do. Totally out of line.’

  ‘Putting aside the fact that you sent that email, the message you posted on my Facebook wall was ...’ For a moment, I waver, knowing that I’m about to cross a threshold. ‘The way it was worded was suggestive. I’ve had people contacting me thinking there’s something between us.’