No Sex in the City

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  ‘Isn’t there?’ he asks blankly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’re friends. That’s nothing to be ashamed about.’

  Is he for real?

  ‘That wasn’t what your message implied,’ I say tersely.

  ‘Well, it’s what I meant. I’m married, for God’s sake.’

  I can’t believe he’s turning this around. Pulling out the ‘I’m married’ line when all he does is bag out his wife and whine about how unhappy he is.

  ‘The comments you make ... Sometimes I feel you can overstep the line.’

  ‘What kind of comments?’

  I fiddle with the zipper on my jacket. ‘Like the way you talk about my personal life, meeting a guy and all that.’

  ‘Really?’ He looks flabbergasted. ‘You really get offended by that?’ He shakes his head as though he’s trying to work out some calculus equation. ‘Hmm, okay, my lips are sealed. It’s just ...’

  I look up sharply. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s just that you were the one who wanted to talk about it, that night we all went for drinks. You wanted to have it out, get your theory on love all out in the open for debate.’

  That’s just so twisted. I don’t even know how to respond. It’s as though I’m the one who made it an agenda item.

  ‘But I appreciate your concern and you can consider the topic closed. As for the comments I make, well, people will read into things what they want to. It just suits them not to own up to it.’ He pauses, swivelling on his chair.

  There’s that dark undertone again. You see a flash of it and then suddenly it’s gone, leaving you doubting it was there in the first place.

  ‘Your friends on Facebook got it wrong,’ he says, resuming his cheerful tone. ‘I’m sorry if it caused a problem, but my intentions were completely innocent, I assure you!’

  I’m horrified. Is he implying that somehow I’m misinterpreting his comments and behaviour because I secretly fancy him? This is not going to plan.

  ‘How about we put it all behind us, hey?’ he says, cocking his head to the side. ‘Start anew? You’re one of the best people here. I don’t want there to be any bad blood between us.’ He pats a manilla folder on his desk. ‘I’ve got your promotion paperwork here. Thanks for all the effort you put into it. We’re going to be working even more closely together. We have to learn to understand each other.’

  Even though I don’t trust him, I nod in agreement. I walk out of his office, feeling sick.

  Thirty-One

  It’s ten past six in the morning and we’re boxing. Not a friendly hit of the boxing pad, but intense, crazy think-of-Danny’s-face kind of boxing. I’m partnered with Ruby, who is holding the boxing pads as I hit them with all the force and energy I can muster. She’s struggling to hold the pads firmly, and once or twice I’ve nearly hit her face because she hasn’t been able to give me enough resistance. Finally she lets out a strangled cry, throws the pads on the floor and says, ‘Esma! I didn’t come here to have my nose broken!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I cry back, ‘but you need to give me more resistance.’

  That would usually be a cue for Alex to rush over, pick up the pads and demonstrate the correct technique to us. Except this morning he sends Mikey over instead.

  When class is over, Alex announces that he’s hosting a party. A chance for everybody to get to know each other outside of class and to celebrate all our hard work.

  Ruby turns to me and grins. Then she heads over to Alex, who notices her and gives her an awkward smile before making a beeline for a huddle of guys.

  ‘What was that all about?’ she asks me later, throwing her hands in the air in frustration. ‘He’s avoiding me! I mean, am I going mental? Am I imagining it?’

  ‘No,’ I admit reluctantly.

  We sit in silence for some moments. Then she unleashes her fury.

  ‘When will guys get we are not idiots? It’s one thing to pretend something hasn’t happened. It’s another to act as though we’re the delusional ones. Making up moments from thin air! I’m not a fuckwit! WE HAD A SPECIAL NIGHT! He can’t just—’ She stops herself, takes a deep calming breath. Puts her hands out as though balancing herself. ‘No. I won’t do this. Fuck him.’

  When it rains, it pours. I am living proof that there is climate change. A complete drought of eligible guys and then suddenly a downpour. Well, two anyway.

  First there’s Metin. And then, only a couple of weeks later, a guy called Aydin, who’s also of Turkish background. His parents are good friends with a mutual family friend – aka backstage matchmaker – who suggested Aydin and his family visit us.

  When Mum mentions this to me, I go ballistic. How can she possibly expect me to give Metin a proper chance if I’m meeting other people at the same time?

  ‘But, darling,’ she says over breakfast, ‘that’s life. Things don’t turn out how we plan. You just never know. What if Aydin is the right guy? Or what if meeting Aydin will convince you Metin is the right guy? None of us knows what kismet waits for us.’

  ‘Mum,’ I groan, ‘it’s just too confusing. Why does Aydin have to arrive now? Can’t you delay it?’

  ‘I can’t exactly tell them to come back another time because you’re trying out somebody else first.’

  She refills my cup of tea and adds a heaped teaspoon of sugar. My dad is out in the garden, tending to his precious plants. I catch a glimpse of him out the window. He’s wearing a baseball cap that has a picture of some Disney character on it. Must be an old one that belonged to me or Senem. He looks cute, watering his birds of paradise with a Mickey Mouse cap on, oblivious to the conversation Mum and I are having inside.

  I can see Mum’s logic. Unfortunately, if I say no to meeting Aydin, I might never know if I turned away the right guy. So, I agree, and a smile spreads across Mum’s face.

  Aydin and his parents visit the next night. They’re punctual, thank goodness. I remember one guy who arrived an hour and a half late and didn’t even bother calling or providing any explanation when he eventually did arrive. I couldn’t help it, but his rudeness turned me off completely, and so I spent the night talking about how I was hanging out for marriage so I could let myself go and never worry about my figure again. Oddly enough, we never heard back from him.

  My parents open the door and Aydin’s parents walk in first. They’re the kind of people who smile with their eyes and are pleased with everything they see (‘Ooh, what a lovely house! Your garden is so beautiful!’).

  They’re followed by Aydin.

  He’s not what you would call a looker, not like Metin. Rephrase that: he doesn’t have the making-me-melt-give-me-a-cold-shower effect that Metin does. But Aydin is attractive (his head is shaved – a look I love on guys who can carry it off, which he can) and he oozes charm, with that affable smile and laidback vibe. Within about fifty seconds of meeting him I like him enough to be thankful I agreed to him coming over.

  We all head to the family room and throw ourselves into the usual small talk. At first we play it safe, both talking directly to each other’s parents, going with the obvious topics for Sydney residents (weather, traffic congestion and property prices). After what seems like a lifetime (but is about fifteen minutes), Aydin’s dad asks if he can go outside for a cigarette, which is the perfect cue for the parents to withdraw to the garden and leave Aydin and me alone.

  ‘Dad doesn’t normally smoke,’ Aydin says with a grin.

  And what a grin.

  I must be the unluckiest girl in the world. I meet two guys at the same time who both have irresistible grins. Had one looked like Mr Bean, I might have been safe, but Metin makes my heart race, and Aydin’s already making me jittery.

  ‘So he’s taking up smoking to leave us alone together?’

  ‘He has a smoke on the odd occasion, but he’s doing it now as an excuse to give us some time on our own.’

  ‘The poor guy. He could be outside sucking in nicotine, thinking you’ve met the girl of your dreams, when r
eally you’re trying to think of an exit strategy.’

  ‘Are you fishing for a compliment?’ he teases. ‘Because I’m not looking for an exit strategy. Not just yet. So his smoke is worth it.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Confident.’

  There’s a twinkle in his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How do you know I’m not looking for an exit strategy?’

  He folds his arms across his chest and leans back, getting comfortable. ‘Are you?’

  I shrug. ‘You’re safe ... for now.’

  He grins again and my body temperature increases.

  ‘So what do you do?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m a graphic designer and filmmaker.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say, leaning back in my chair. Then I quickly sit upright, remembering it’s more flattering. ‘What kind of films?’

  ‘The ones that don’t make money.’

  ‘Struggling artist, huh?’

  ‘Something like that.’ His smile widens.

  ‘So tell me about some of the films you’ve made.’

  ‘My first film was a horror flick. Very low budget. About an MP who goes around killing vocal constituents. Funnily enough, not blockbuster material.’

  I laugh. ‘Not a very subtle message.’

  ‘No.’ He grins. ‘I’ve learnt a lot since then, though. It doesn’t pay the bills, but that’s what the graphic design work is for.’

  I cock an eyebrow. ‘Are you being modest and I’m actually talking to a indie film sensation?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ he chuckles. ‘But hey, I’ve had some death threats. I’ve got my critics. That’s got to be some kind of claim to fame.’

  As he talks I realise I can’t wipe the grin off my face. ‘Critics, hey? Why?’

  ‘Some Muslims and Turks only want films that depict us in the best light. They don’t like it when I make films about the Armenians, or homosexuality, for example. They’re taboo subjects but, on the other hand, the middle classes in the West love them. They see me as some kind of insider who speaks with authority about my own culture. So fundraising for a film on the gay scene in Turkey was relatively easy and the critics loved it. But then when I tried to raise money for a film that explores the centre of power in Australia’s corporate world, suddenly the wallets snapped shut. There was immediate hostility and suspicion.’

  ‘You’re seen as useful as long as you only expose your own culture, right?’

  ‘Yes!’ he says excitedly. ‘Exactly! And that, Esma, pisses me off.’ He grins at me. ‘But I’m the kind of person who channels my anger into something positive. Instead of getting pissed off, I set out to piss off others. Because that’s when you know you’re shoving people out of their comfort zone and getting them to think.’

  I regard him with wry amusement. ‘Wouldn’t it be less confronting if you nudged people out of their comfort zone? If you’re aggressive with your message, won’t you lose more people than you gain?’

  There’s a permanent smile on Aydin’s face, an exuberance and energy that radiates from him, even as we’re disagreeing. There’s something sensual and exciting about his energy and passion.

  ‘I’m not the kind of person to hint and imply,’ he goes on. ‘There’s enough hypocrisy and stonewalling and politeness and I don’t want a part of that. I want people to walk out of my films with a headache.’

  I laugh hard. ‘A headache? You’re a sadist.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says, laughing along. ‘Instead of popcorn, bring in some paracetamol. No, seriously, I mean it literally: I want their minds to ache with a longing to change things. We need more mind explosions. How else are people going to feel compelled to act?’

  My mum walks in then, offering us some drinks and cake. When she leaves, the conversation has turned to my job, hobbies, favourite movies and books. There are so many moments when we cry ‘That’s exactly how I feel!’ or ‘I know what you mean!’ When our parents return, we’re surprised that an hour and a half has passed without us noticing.

  When they call it a night, and we’re walking them to the front door, Aydin turns and, in a low voice, asks me if I’d mind giving him my number. I don’t hesitate.

  Thirty-Two

  Our No Sex in the City catch-up has morphed into a dinner with Anil, his sister, Neela, and her husband, Sunil. Ruby, Lisa and I aren’t terribly happy about this, but when I rang Nirvana to check her availability she said she was booked out with family stuff for the next three weekends. She and Anil were taking Neela out for her birthday so she suggested we join them for dinner. We agreed because we didn’t want to miss out on seeing Nirvana.

  Almost as soon as we’ve ordered entrées, I start to regret our decision. Sunil and Neela are clearly not on speaking terms, which is made all the more awkward because it’s Neela’s birthday. Sunil doesn’t even try to create the illusion of a happy couple.

  Anil is compensating by being animated and talkative, trying his best to draw Neela out, which puts added pressure on us to focus all our attention on her. It’s a little strange, given that the tense atmosphere has been created by the sullen idiot beside her, and the fact that we don’t really know her. But we’re there for Nirvana’s sake and that’s enough to motivate us.

  ‘So what do you do, Neela?’ Ruby asks.

  Neela hesitates for a moment, her eyes flicking to the side quickly as if she’s assessing the impact of her words on Sunil. ‘I’m a network administrator,’ she says almost shamefully.

  Sunil squirms in his seat as Neela answers.

  ‘And what do you do, Sunil?’ Ruby asks, a hint of self-satisfaction in her tone. I know she’s trying really hard and is pleased with her effort to be inclusive of the hostile lump sitting beside us.

  Anil clears his throat and starts fiddling with his phone. Nirvana distracts herself by refilling our water glasses.

  ‘I don’t have a job,’ Sunil spits. ‘Neela stole my job.’ Then he laughs cheerlessly.

  There’s a pause, and an ominous silence descends over the table. Neela looks down at her lap. ‘Don’t be silly, Sunil,’ she fumbles.

  Sunil’s lips curl up into a sarcastic half-smile. He gives her a quick squeeze of the shoulders and she seems to collapse into herself, trying hard to smile at us all and defuse what is clearly a difficult situation. ‘Come on, Neela, I was only joking. You shouldn’t take things so seriously.’

  ‘Not a very funny joke,’ Anil says. But he must regret his tone because he then lets out an awkward chuckle. ‘Companies can be so brutal, hey?’

  Sunil ignores him, turning to us instead. ‘Neela and I worked for the same accounting firm – that’s how we met. Six months ago I was made redundant and Neela had my duties added to hers. Cost cutting.’

  ‘Happens every day,’ Ruby says authoritatively. ‘The employment law group at work act in those sorts of reshuffles all the time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sunil says through gritted teeth.

  ‘I never asked for it ...’

  ‘Sure you didn’t, honey,’ Sunil says cheerily, patting her on the hand like a parent trying to placate a child.

  Anil and Nirvana change the topic and Sunil tunes out.

  I realise that the only person who hasn’t spoken is Lisa. She’s been quietly watching and listening, not contributing a word to the exchange. Neela excuses herself to have a smoke outside and Lisa goes with her.

  Lisa doesn’t smoke. But I know that’s not why she’s joining Neela. Lisa is a born listener.

  When I get home I log on to Facebook and am pleasantly surprised to see an invite from Metin to be his friend. I accept. I have to wait for him to confirm before I can log on to his account and rummage around through his life, checking out his photographs and wall messages.

  He called me last night. While he still hogs a lot of the talk time, at least his stories are interesting and he’s trying to be more reciprocal.

  Okay, who am I kidding? Sure, the European adventure stories and doctor-saves-the-day-in-Cambodian-camp stories are gripping and entertain
ing, but the main reason I’m attracted to Metin is because he oozes sex appeal.

  But is that such a bad thing?

  Even when we’re talking about topics as ordinary as our worst experiences on public transport, my mind wanders: standing on a crowded train ... It comes to a sudden halt as all good CityRail trains do. I’m thrown into Metin’s strong, powerful arms ... Or maybe I faint and then he does CPR on me on the platform of Central Station in front of a cheer squad of winos and kids jigging school ...

  It’s ridiculous.

  Maybe my overactive imagination has something to do with the fact that I’m twenty-eight years old and I’ve never felt the touch of a man’s lips on mine. Never even held a man’s hand, or leant against a man’s chest, close enough to inhale his scent. I’m intelligent enough to know that because I’ve never experienced physical intimacy with a man, the intensity of sexual tension between me and Metin is clouding my judgement. Because the feelings Metin arouses in me are new and exciting, I’m too distracted to heed the tiny voice in my head that questions whether he’s the right guy for me.

  As for Aydin, he called me about half an hour after I’d hung up the phone with Metin.

  Guilt has set in.

  How can I lead on two guys in the one night? And, worse still, what does it say about me that I’m so good at it?

  With Aydin the conversation is different. It’s not just about the easy flirting, which is reciprocal and smart and sassy (with Metin I’m the giggling, blushing schoolgirl too overwhelmed to know how to respond). Aydin and I have an intellectual connection, which sounds wanky but is true. He cares about social justice, and it’s not just lip service – he acts on it too. I love that he motivates and challenges me. We have more in common, too. We both grew up in Sydney. We love the same music. It all just clicks.

  So why am I confused?

  I feel there’s potential with both of them. But it’s too early to decide who’s right. Or who’s wrong. There’s a big difference: I’d rather make a decision because I feel that one of them is the one, than have to make a decision because one of them isn’t.