No Sex in the City

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  This morning Metin sends me a text message while I’m at work, asking me if I’m free for dinner and a movie on Saturday night. I say yes (and then instantly go into overdrive planning what I’m going to wear, how I’ll do my hair; there’s even more pressure to look good when you’re out with someone who looks like a model). And then the fun begins, because Aydin calls me in the afternoon, while I’m driving to a pharmacy for a training session.

  I put him on speaker phone and we chat for a while. One thing I’ve already noticed about Aydin: he’s on full speed. He’s a crusader for social justice but with the sense to be self-deprecating about it; he doesn’t strike me as a zealot. There’s nothing worse than being with somebody who tries to make you feel guilty for not living on two dollars a day.

  When he asks me out for dinner on Friday night I don’t hesitate to say yes.

  Except I feel guilty. I’m two-timing. There’s no way of sugar-coating it.

  I need some advice, so I call Ruby. She’s on her way back from court and, miraculously, has a moment to talk (getting her during the day is almost always impossible). I know if I call Nirvana she’ll probably sympathise with Aydin and Metin and give me an answer I don’t want to hear. Ruby’s the kind of girl who can cut through the emotion.

  ‘Don’t you dare feel guilty,’ she says briskly. ‘You have to look out for yourself. Plus it’s unfair to drop one of them without a good reason. You owe them both a proper chance. It’s not your bloody fault they showed up at the same time. They’re big boys. They can look after themselves. Got it?’

  Thirty-Three

  ‘If you knew something about somebody I was seeing that you thought was troubling, would you tell me? At the risk of me perhaps not sharing your point of view?’

  Lisa, nervously waiting for my response, staples the document she’s holding with even more vigour than usual. We’re at the Sydney Refugee Centre tonight, putting together last-minute asylum applications.

  ‘You mean as a warning? Careful, by the way. The staples aren’t actually going to hurt Julia and Tony, even if you press down as hard as you can.’

  The words go straight over her head. ‘Not necessarily as a warning. Just for the sake of giving me as complete a picture as possible of the man I’m with. Here, pass that pile to me, your stapling is atrocious.’

  ‘You’ve got standards for stapling too? My God, you have issues.’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  I shuffle through the papers strewn all over the desk and start to sort them into piles. ‘This pile for torture. This pile for rape as a weapon of war. This pile for religious persecution. Do you think the shock jocks and dog-whistle politicians might shut up for five minutes if we locked them up in a room and got them to read this stuff?’

  Lisa nods. ‘Maybe an all-expenses-paid holiday in a detention centre? We won’t even ask for receipts.’

  ‘I’ve never been good at hypotheticals. Just tell me what this is all about.’

  ‘Well, what would you do if you knew something disturbing about a guy I was seeing?’ She looks at me beseechingly. ‘Would you tell me?’

  ‘It would really depend on the gravity of the information. If I’d seen the guy shoplifting – then yes, I’d tell you. But if it was just a personality thing, I probably wouldn’t because that’s so subjective and I wouldn’t want to risk losing you.’

  She nods her head once, satisfied with my response.

  ‘You can’t stop there. Who’s the hypothetical based on?’

  She looks at me grimly. ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Confidential information.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You can’t use that card. Spill it.’

  ‘I’m serious. It’s work-related.’

  I heave a disappointed sigh to indicate I understand her position but nonetheless disapprove.

  Danny sticks his head into my office on Friday afternoon.

  ‘Are you able to come in tomorrow for a couple of hours? Don’t look at me like that,’ he says, pouting. ‘I know it’s horrible, but we’ve got a stack of stuff to do on the business development plans and I’m going to be out of the office for half of next week. Mary’s insisting we spend quality time together.’ He sighs to convey the oppressiveness of such plans. ‘Please?’

  ‘I have boot camp at eight,’ I lie.

  ‘We can start at ten.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Two hours max. If we start at ten, we can be out by twelve. I’m going to ask Kylie and Veronica to come in too.’

  It’s not like I have much choice, so I agree and his face lights up.

  Then, in a breezy voice, he says, ‘Would you prefer we meet at a café rather than the office?’

  ‘A café?’ I struggle to disguise my contempt at his suggestion.

  ‘Just to keep things relaxed,’ he says. ‘We can have a business brunch. My shout.’

  Fat chance I’m going to say yes to a cosy weekend brunch.

  ‘I think it’s better if we stay in the office. All the files are here,’ I argue. ‘It makes sense to have them within reach.’

  Oh great, now he’s going all wounded on me. Not wanting to provoke him, I say, as sweetly as I can, ‘How about we all bring something to share for the meeting? Muffins sound good?’

  He grins and says, ‘Sounds great. I’ll bring in some champagne.’ My jaw almost drops. ‘Just kidding!’ he laughs. ‘It’s a business meeting, after all. I’ve got to remember that, don’t I?’

  He laughs and leaves.

  It’s funny but sometimes you can get along with somebody, overlooking their sleaziness, or sloppiness, or any other annoying aspect of their personality, and then suddenly, at some random and inexplicable point, you just can’t stand them. You can’t stand the sight of them. You can’t stand to be in the same room as them, and when they talk to you, their voice grates on your nerves. I realise, then, as I reflect on how excited Danny was at my agreement to work at the weekend, that I’ll never go back to liking him as I did when I first started work, or even tolerating him as I have lately. I now can’t stand him. It’s as though the sum of all his interactions with me is now weighing down on my shoulders like a heavy brick. A brick I want to throw at his head.

  I still haven’t heard anything from the three recruiting agencies I’ve sent my résumé to, and decide I’ll harass them by phone on my way home (no doubt annoying them as much as some candidates annoy me). But when I call I get a voicemail message for each one. I look at my watch. Five o’ clock. Slackers, I think. I’m going to be working on a Saturday. What’s your excuse for leaving before five on a weekday?

  Thirty-Four

  I love getting dressed up in winter. For my date with Aydin tonight I’m wearing a classic double-breasted white coat (a sauce-based pasta is clearly not going to be an option) and dark-blue skinny-leg jeans. I pull my favourite brown stiletto boots over them. I got the boots in Italy and I love them like they’re a part of my family. I pull up half my hair with a clip and let the rest fall softly around my shoulders and down my back.

  I meet Aydin at a McDonald’s on Parramatta Road. We’ve agreed I’ll leave my car here and we’ll go into Darlinghurst in his car. I’ve avoided him picking me up from home because although my dad’s relaxed the Rule of Six, he doesn’t need to know I’m out following the Rule of Two.

  Aydin’s dressed well and smells amazing; he’s exuding sexy confidence and making me go weak at the knees.

  He’s not catwalk good-looking, and although he’s solid, he’s not big and buff like Metin. Oh, and he’s only slightly taller than me (I shouldn’t have worn heels because we have a Tom and Nicole case on our hands).

  But when he smiles, it’s magnetic.

  He opens the passenger door of his Mazda and I hop in. It’s squeaky clean, with one of those small tissue boxes that fit neatly into the middle console, a DVD case in the door pocket and an Ambi Pur attached to the air vent. The rest of the car is empty. No tissues or empty
food wrappers on the seats. No unopened bank letters, junk mail or books strewn across the back seat. No CDs without cases lying on the floor.

  ‘You got it cleaned, didn’t you?’ I accuse him, a grin plastered on my face.

  He laughs as we drive out of the car park. ‘Of course. You think my car normally looks like this? I usually advise passengers to be immunised before they get in.’ He picks up the tissue box. ‘Floral? I was in a rush in the shops and didn’t realise!’

  I’m sure Aydin must be able to hear my heart hammering away at my rib cage. My hands are folded in my lap, but I’m conscious of how close he is to me, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. I know my parents would never approve of me being alone with a guy in his car. Judging from the chemistry between us, I can understand why.

  As we drive to Oxford Street the best thing happens while we’re stuck in a traffic jam near Hyde Park. The car beside us is packed with a bunch of young guys and the driver is checking me out, thank you very much. He looks my way and I’m sure I’m not imagining it but he winks, and his mates seem to be egging him on, grinning and pointing. He doesn’t look a day over his driving test, but that doesn’t matter. He’s a hot-blooded male, isn’t he?

  Checking. Me. Out.

  With Aydin beside me.

  That’s right, Aydin. Let your head swell up with pride. You’re taking out one hottie tonight.

  I turn to face Aydin, putting on my most nonchalant and innocent face, as though I’m so used to such attention that I don’t even notice it happening any more. Aydin’s oblivious, focused on trying to find a CD (‘I knew exactly where they were when they were lying everywhere, but now they’re organised in this stupid case, I can’t find what I want!’). That’s when I notice the car on the other side of us. A convertible. With the lid down. Five girls. Four practically standing up in their seats. Ten E-cup boobs. One metre of fabric between the lot of them.

  I sink down into my chair to give the poor boys a better view.

  Once we’re seated at the restaurant we launch straight into the ‘So how’s your week been?’ talk. After covering the usual ground, we momentarily hit a wall.

  ‘Oh my God, quick!’ he cries, crouching down towards the table and waving at me to do the same.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I say, copying him.

  ‘An awkward silence! Duck for cover!’

  I laugh.

  ‘Quick! Let’s use it as a cue to order. Hopefully the menu will stimulate some conversation.’

  ‘Do Peking duck and dumplings normally inspire you to talk?’

  ‘Maybe! Who knows? There are probably a lot of interesting stories about dumplings and sushi.’

  Ordering turns into a riot, with Aydin making a joke about every selection I make. Luckily the waiter humours us. We must have ‘first date’ written all over us.

  Once we’ve ordered, there’s another silence, then Aydin shifts tone. ‘Okay, Esma, jokes aside, tell me about the real you.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I drum my fingers on the table. ‘What can I say without sounding cheesy?’

  ‘Cheesy’s fine.’

  ‘Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ And it does sound cheesy too, when I talk about wanting to make a difference, about the Refugee Centre and all the ambiguous feelings that brings. But he doesn’t sneer, or laugh, or look embarrassed. In fact he looks happy, as if he knows exactly what I’m talking about.

  That gets us going again until the waiter brings out our food and Aydin raises his glass (sparkling water) to a toast. I raise mine (sparkling Coke), we clink glasses and he says, ‘To sounding cheesy.’

  I go to the bathroom and when I return I venture into the more personal. ‘So what do you want in a woman?’

  ‘That’s easy. It starts with similar values and goals.’

  I smile. ‘Me too ... although ...’

  He gives me a cautious look. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you sometimes think that you’re not sure what your values and goals are? I mean, they’d have to be fluid, wouldn’t they? I don’t mean your moral code, or core beliefs. But it’s hard to predict what kind of person you’re going to be.’

  ‘I guess it’s all about trusting the laws of probability that the other person won’t turn out to be a complete jerk.’

  I smile in agreement. ‘We sound so cynical.’

  ‘It’s a healthy dose. What about religion? Are you religious?’

  ‘I’m pretty lax with the praying and fasting. But my faith is important to me. I think it’d be nice if the guy I ended up with woke me up at dawn to pray with him.’

  ‘I’m not the most religious guy. I try to pray but I’m not very regular. I do fast in Ramadan, though.’

  ‘Do you drink?’ I ask.

  He shakes his head. ‘I used to. Gave it up last year. Would it make a difference if I did?’

  I pause. ‘Yes,’ I say eventually. ‘Having an alcohol-free house is a big deal to me. But I’m not going to impose that on anybody, it needs to come from them. I know I might not look like the religious type, but there are some things I try to maintain.’

  ‘No such thing as looking religious. If a person’s religious, they don’t need to show it off, or prove it to anybody.’

  I love how much we think alike.

  ‘I think growing in faith as a couple is really important. It’s definitely something I want too. God knows, I’ve mucked around and got up to my fair share of trouble. Gave my parents a lot of grey hairs.’ He chuckles.

  ‘Have you got a past?’

  He laughs. ‘I’ve been into the clubbing and bar scene,’ he says. ‘Does that answer your “how far did he stray?” curiosity?’ The grin on his face tells me he’s having fun teasing me.

  ‘For now.’ I grin back. ‘There’s a lot of hypocrisy in our community, though,’ I add.

  ‘Wholeheartedly agree with you on that.’

  ‘It’s more acceptable for guys to go out and fool around. But if a girl does it, it’s another story altogether.’

  ‘Us guys get away with a hell of a lot more. Depends on the family, of course. I’m just as answerable to my parents as my sister is.’

  I cock an eyebrow. ‘You can’t expect me to believe they’d be okay with her getting up to the stuff you have?’

  He shrugs. ‘That’s probably true, but in our culture there are some mistakes parents don’t want their children to make because they have such a stigma attached to them. Especially for girls. There’s no room for learning from your mistakes if that mistake happens to involve sex before marriage. That’s just the way it is.’

  ‘For girls. Not for guys.’

  ‘Yeah, well, there’s the double standard.’

  ‘If I ever have a son and a daughter, I’m going to give them the same rules. The same curfew. The same limits. And that includes no fooling around before marriage. For either!’

  ‘And how would you enforce that rule?’

  ‘My parents don’t enforce their rules with me. I can do whatever I want – they’re not with me every moment of the day. Ultimately, I’m the one who makes the choices about my life. They just raised me a certain way. I’ve embraced my traditions because I believe in them. That’s how I would hope to raise my kids too. It’s about trust.’

  ‘I like that. And it’s very true. My parents raised my sister and me like that. Only I broke their trust – I was always a sucker for a pretty girl. Still am actually.’

  I smile shyly. His comment hangs in the air and it’s like a warm glow over us.

  The conversation eventually shifts away from serious talk to the more light-hearted, and it’s that shift that I love the most about tonight. It’s as though we’re catching up on each other’s lives, working out whether we have what it takes to be friends – best friends.

  We talk for hours, through dinner, dessert and two rounds of coffee. And when I eventually get home and jump into bed, I spend the night tossing and turning, my brain about to explode, because something tell
s me Aydin is The One!

  Thirty-Five

  Or is he?

  Because the next morning I wake to my mum jumping on my bed, shouting, ‘Esma! Wake up! He sent you flowers!’

  I leap out of bed. ‘What?’ I cry, still half-asleep. ‘Who sent flowers?’

  ‘The doctor. The tall one.’

  Just in case I get him confused with the nonexistent short one.

  She grabs a bouquet box of mixed flowers from the floor and presents them to me, grinning proudly. I know exactly what’s going through her mind. She has I told you so written all over her face.

  Sure enough, she says, ‘I told you so. I told you to give him another chance. And look. He sends you flowers.’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ I mutter. ‘He’s clearly perfect.’

  Of course, I’m only playing the cynical card to stir her. Deep down I’m thrilled. Who isn’t a sucker for flowers?

  I grab the card and read it.

  Dear Esma,

  Looking forward to seeing you tonight. And asking you lots of questions.

  Metin

  ‘Why did he type it?’ my mum asks. ‘Ahh, he’s a doctor. Their handwriting is always so messy. Well, isn’t that thoughtful of him.’

  I give my mum an affectionate squeeze. ‘Oh Mum, you’ really are adorable.’

  I jump into the shower and then get ready for work, which is utterly depressing given it’s a Saturday. My mum’s standing outside the bathroom.

  ‘Make sure you call him to say thank you. Or send him a textual.’

  ‘A what?’ I yell out.

  ‘A textual. Whatever that thing is called. You know what I mean,’ she ends in a huff.

  ‘Of course I do, Mum. I just wanted to hear you say it again.’

  I call Metin on my way to the office. He answers on the second ring.

  ‘Good morning,’ he says cheerfully, in a deep voice that sends shivers down ... I’ve got to get a grip.