No Sex in the City

by Randa Abdel-Fattah

  ‘Thanks for such a beautiful start to my morning,’ I say.

  ‘It’s a pleasure,’ he says. ‘Everything still okay for this evening?’

  ‘Yes. I’m looking forward to it.’

  ‘Me too.’

  I park near my office building and grab a box of muffins and a takeaway coffee from a nearby bakery.

  I rarely come in on a weekend and when I do I hate the desolation of the usually bustling city building. It’s enough to wipe off the goofy grin that’s been plastered on my face since Mum woke me up this morning.

  I swipe my card at the entrance to our offices and turn on the lights. I’m the first to arrive. I go to my desk, flop into my chair and turn on my computer.

  The last thing I feel like doing right now is working. All I can think about is how I’m stuck between two potentially great guys, not ready to choose between them and being unfair to both of them in the process. If the tables were turned, I know I’d be furious that a guy I was getting to know was taking out another girl as well.

  I put on my headphones and hope Coldplay can drown out the confusing messages in my head.

  ‘Hi, Esma!’ Danny’s cheery voice cuts through my thoughts.

  ‘Hi, Danny.’ I force myself to go for the small talk. ‘Too quiet, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure is,’ he says. ‘I brought some pastries. How about we set up in the boardroom?’

  ‘Okay.’ I follow him out of my office. ‘I’ve got some muffins.’ I place them on the boardroom table. ‘What time are the others coming?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’m not sure. They should be here soon. How about we make a start? It’s quarter past ten and I promised I wouldn’t keep you long. They can join in the meeting when they arrive.’

  I grab my notes and files from my office and return to the boardroom.

  ‘Did you go to boot camp this morning?’ he asks.

  Oh. I forgot about that lie. ‘Um, no, I slept in.’

  ‘Oh, too bad. Well, it’s obvious from your figure that you work out. Good for you.’

  The muscles in my face tense.

  ‘It’s nice to see you out of a suit,’ he says casually as he gets his papers in order on the table in front of him. ‘You look just as good.’

  I mumble something unintelligible, neither thanks nor rebuke, and make myself look busy with my files.

  ‘So what did you have in mind for today?’ I finally ask.

  He looks at the clock. ‘On second thoughts, maybe we should wait. Give them a bit of time to get here. Maybe they slept in. It’s not ideal to talk about business development when there’s only the two of us here.’

  ‘In that case,’ I say, standing up, ‘I’ll go do some work.’

  ‘Ah, come on,’ he says, motioning for me to sit back down. ‘It’s not even worth logging on to the intranet. We’ll give them another fifteen minutes and we’ll get started. What are you doing for the weekend?’ he asks brightly, taking a pastry. ‘Might as well dig in. Want one?’

  I take a small croissant. ‘I’ve got plans with my friends.’

  ‘God, I miss being single. I know I give you a hard time about it, as a joke of course, but those really were the days. Now I’m stuck. And with Mary pregnant, there’s no way out.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ I say before I can stop myself. I don’t want to be drawn into a conversation about his marriage. I realise, then, that this has always been his tactic. Say something cruel about his wife and provoke a reaction from me. ‘Anyway, it’s your business. You should talk to your wife if you have issues.’

  ‘Well, I am trying,’ he says, grinning at me. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m heading to the shops straight after our meeting to get her a present. She’s been feeling so down about getting fat—’

  ‘She’s pregnant, Danny,’ I snap. ‘She’s pregnant, not fat.’ There I go again, falling straight into the trap.

  He laughs, raising his hands in surrender. ‘Sorry, I know, I know. Well, I want to get her something to cheer her up. Make her feel sexy again, because she’s feeling so depressed about her body that she won’t let me near her.’ He pops a bite of a muffin into his mouth. ‘A man has his needs,’ he says. ‘But you don’t need to hear about that. Especially when you’ve never had a boyfriend.’

  ‘Danny,’ I say in a low growl. ‘Don’t go there.’

  He pulls a face, failing to look contrite. ‘I’m sorry. There’s something about you that makes me forget myself. I’m clearly too comfortable with you. Let’s just start the meeting.’

  ‘I think we should call the girls to see where they are.’

  He gives a firm nod. ‘Of course. I’ll do it right now. Give me a minute and I’ll call them from my office.’

  He leaves and I rest my forehead on the table and close my eyes. This is a nightmare. I’m going to harass the recruiters next week. Night and day until I get a job. Any job. I don’t care any more. I can’t go on like this, repressing every instinct in my body to stand up to him and tell him off. I feel ashamed ... compromised somehow. I’ve always been so assertive. Demanded that people, especially guys, show me respect.

  He returns shortly afterwards, a disappointed look on his face. ‘They’re still asleep,’ he sighs, throwing his hands in the air. ‘There’s not much point in them coming in now. I told them not to bother. They need an hour to get here and we want to be out of here in another hour and a half.’

  My stomach plunges. I’m not going to hang around with this sleazeball all alone in the office. I stand up quickly. I don’t care how I sound. ‘Sorry, Danny, I can’t stay.’

  Disappointment washes over his face. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I just don’t think there’s any point. All of us need to be here.’

  ‘But we can still get started,’ he insists.

  ‘Not without them. They have all the information on the new clients and amendments to the contracts. I’ll meet them on your days off next week and we’ll have something ready to show you when you get back.’ I swipe my papers into a pile, grab them and turn to the door.

  Danny steps towards me and puts a hand on my arm. ‘Wait, please,’ he says.

  I yank my arm away from him. ‘Don’t touch me,’ I say, looking him directly in the eye. ‘I need to leave.’

  I run out of the office without bothering to turn off my computer. It feels like the lift is taking ages and I keep pressing the button. I’m half-expecting Danny to race after me, but he doesn’t. Finally the lift doors open. I practically jump into them and press hard on the close-doors button. And when the lift starts its descent I take a deep breath and struggle not to cry.

  Thirty-Six

  I call Nirvana. It’s been a while. I’ve tried getting in touch with her several times in the past two weeks but she hasn’t called me back. She messaged the other day to say she’s been busy. It’s not like her to let so many days pass between calls, but I give her the benefit of the doubt. I know her family commitments have escalated since her engagement to Anil.

  So I try Ruby next. I start to tell her about what happened with Danny but almost before I can get the words out I suddenly find myself crying.

  ‘Esma! Hon, what’s wrong?’

  Once I catch my breath I feel strong enough to talk without bawling again and I tell her everything. Except I can’t bring myself to tell her about Dad’s debt. It’s not my shame that stops me. It’s his. And there’s something inside me that feels such a tender pity for him that I can’t bear to expose him, especially when he sets such store on being respected by my friends. So of course Ruby’s only getting half the story; she doesn’t know what’s preventing me from acting on what is blindingly obvious: that I need to get away from Danny.

  ‘He can’t get away with that kind of disgusting behaviour. Who does he think he is? Esma, financial security and being employed is never enough of an excuse for suffering through harassment. Report him and move on. Put your welfare first.’

  I feel suffocated, but I don’t say anything. Ruby’s right.
But right and wrong have no place when it comes to family loyalty.

  I have the solution to the problem of renewable energy. Arrange for Metin to stand in front of me then hook me up to a generator.

  Wait a second. Since when am I this superficial? Dinner with Aydin last night was amazing. But there’s no question that I feel more physically attracted to Metin. Metin’s got the wow factor. The ‘I want to jump you’ factor (in a religiously compliant way, of course). His eyes, his skin, his dimple (case closed), his body, his towering, manly height. I’ve always had a thing for tall guys and it’s the kind of thing that goes against every feminist bone in my body. I feel protected in a helpless-heroine-engulfed-in-the-arms-of-a-strong-prince kind of way. Monumentally pathetic.

  Metin and I are eating at a Mexican restaurant in the city. It’s been an hour and the conversation is improving. Admittedly, it doesn’t flow as it does with Aydin, but there’s so much chemistry between us that I find myself forgetting to be annoyed by the fact that the talk is always about Metin. He’s a flirt too. Holds my gaze. Winks a lot. Stirs me up. He has a story for everything, and maybe I’m becoming more tolerant of him dominating our conversations because his stories are so fascinating and I like imagining him rock climbing in Sweden (T-shirt off, of course) and swimming in Bosnia (Speedos? Six pack?). Or maybe I should just admit it’s because he’s so damn hot.

  ‘So did you save anybody’s life today in your boxer shorts?’

  No. I don’t ask him that. I want to, but I resist.

  My phone beeps, alerting me to a message, and Metin urges me to read it. It’s from MyNaseeb.com. At first I’m bewildered, but then I remember that this was one of the matrimonial websites I joined and realise that I must have forgotten to delete my profile. I quickly scan the message. In seconds, my shoulders are convulsing and Metin’s staring at me with a questioning smile.

  ‘What’s the joke?’

  I could make something up. After all, admitting that I’ve gone down this path is potentially humiliating. I don’t care how common online dating is, as far as I’m concerned it’s usually a last-resort option. And the last thing I want Metin to think is that I’m last-resort material.

  But then it strikes me that Metin is easy-going and fun-loving and something like this will probably just make him smile, not think less of me. So I tell him how, in a moment of desperation after yet another failed matchmaking experience, I decided I’d venture into online dating.

  He chuckles. ‘I’ve been there too.’

  ‘You have no idea what a relief it is to hear that,’ I say. Then I read him the message. ‘I’m looking for a Muslim woman who adheres to the tenets of Islam and is able to assist me in all endeavours. She has to be attractive and beautiful with curves that excite my sacred minaret.’

  We both double over in hysterics; the people seated at the table beside us flash disapproving looks in our direction, which only makes us laugh harder.

  When we’ve finally recovered our breath, Metin asks how long ago I was online. I tell him it was only recently and his eyes narrow.

  ‘Something wrong?’ I ask.

  ‘No,’ he hurries to reassure me, but there’s a tightness in his voice. ‘So you deleted all the accounts?’ he asks.

  ‘Yep. Except I forgot to delete the one I just read to you.’

  It takes me by surprise when Metin asks me whether I’ve ever been in love. He must notice me hesitate before I answer. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Why do you sound so surprised?’

  ‘I’m not,’ he says. ‘So tell me about it. Who was he?’ He puts his fork down and gives me his full attention.

  ‘There was a guy in my last year of university,’ I say. ‘His name was Seyf. I met him at a Turkish ball, of all places. We got to know each other over several months, and I honestly thought he was the one. We never spoke openly about it, but it was implied. We both just knew that what we felt for each other was strong enough to last.’ I shrug. ‘And then one day it all came crashing down.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘His ex was pregnant. He didn’t know until she was six months into the pregnancy. She wanted to get back together with him and he felt he owed it to her and the baby to give it a try. And even though I understood and respected his decision, he broke my heart.’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘Did they stay together?’

  ‘Yes. They’re married. The last I heard, they had three children.’

  For a split second, a shadow crosses his face. Even his dark side is sexy, I think to myself. Then he asks whether I’m still in contact with Seyf.

  ‘No. But we have mutual friends on Facebook. You know how it is. Everybody’s life’s on display.’

  ‘Do you still have feelings for him?’

  ‘No!’ I say with a laugh. ‘It’s been five years. He’s got his life now, and I’ve got mine. What about you? Have you been in love before?’

  There’s a long pause. ‘I’ve been engaged,’ he says.

  ‘Really?’ He nods. ‘You never mentioned it,’ I say, a hint of reproach in my tone.

  I hope she was fat and ugly with acne on her back. Yep, I’m as immature as it gets.

  ‘She was German. We met at university, too – she was studying medicine with me. At first my parents didn’t approve, but when they knew I was serious about her, and I’d proposed and she’d accepted, they backed down.’

  ‘They wanted you to marry a Turkish girl?’

  ‘That was their preference. But once we were engaged, they actually became very fond of her. We had a lot in common. She was an enthusiastic rock climber too.’ His eyes darken. ‘And then disaster hit.’

  Oh God, I think. Don’t tell me she fell off a cliff and he’s never really got over her. I can’t compete with that kind of baggage.

  ‘She cheated on me.’

  Whoa. It’s worse than I thought. ‘While you were engaged?’

  ‘She fell in love with my best friend. We often went away together with a group of friends. Apparently they were seeing each other for a couple of months and then, when she’d decided she had stronger feelings for him than me, she dumped me.’

  I exhale. ‘That’s horrible.’

  He clears his throat and then gives me a gentle smile. ‘I’m over it.’ Oh sure, I’ve heard that one before. ‘I’ve learnt my lesson. It was partly my fault, losing Giselle. There was so much that I let pass and in the end I was betrayed.’

  Giselle? A silence settles between us, and the change in mood is dispiriting.

  Metin sets down his glass and smiles at me uncertainly. ‘So,’ he at last manages. ‘I want to say something, but I don’t want you to take it the wrong way.’

  I let out a nervous giggle; clearly acting like a bimbo in such moments is the rational way to go.

  ‘Promise me you won’t be offended or take this badly?’ he says nervously.

  In other words, you are about to be offended and take this badly.

  I frown. ‘I can give you a false promise but there’s no point. I have no idea what you’re going to say.’

  He leans forward and suddenly grabs hold of my hand. I inhale sharply. Is it possible not to melt at the touch of his hand? This is the first physical intimacy we’ve ever had. In fact, I’ve never gone further than holding a guy’s hand. I think I hear the sound of several million bodies falling to the ground in shock.

  ‘Look, I’ve never felt this way about anybody since Giselle,’ he says.

  (While he’s still holding my hand.)

  ‘So I don’t want to blow it by not being honest.’

  (He’s still holding my hand.)

  ‘We’ve got to go into this knowing each other, as much as we can.’

  (Still with the hand.)

  ‘Okay,’ he says solemnly. ‘I noticed ...’ He stalls and then tries again. ‘I noticed you have a lot of male friends on Facebook.’

  HUH?

  I instinctively pull my hand away from his. I hadn’t expected
such a ... weird statement.

  ‘Do I?’ I wonder aloud, frowning as I try to remember my list of friends. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’ I let out a short laugh. ‘Most people don’t even know half of the friends they add. School, university, all the million things in between.’

  He’s clearly disappointed with my response. ‘Do you just add anybody who sends you an invitation?’

  ‘No!’ I say, my voice trembling. ‘That’s not a very nice thing to say.’

  He tries to backtrack. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Esma. It’s just that I’m very particular about who I add.’

  I look at him dumbfounded. ‘Look,’ I say in a sharp tone, ‘why is my Facebook profile suddenly an issue? We’re adults, aren’t we? The last thing I would have expected was to be discussing my list of Facebook friends.’

  He looks at me. ‘To be honest, I don’t believe guys and girls can just be friends.’

  ‘I think that’s a bit of a generalisation,’ I scoff.

  ‘Well, I think my experience justifies the generalisation, Esma.’ His tone is low and gentle. ‘There’s always going to be an element of attraction, so why put yourself in that kind of position? Why allow yourself to be tempted?’

  ‘Tempted to do what? I know guys who I would never think twice about being with.’

  ‘That’s what you think now. But it’s naive—’

  ‘I’m not naive,’ I shoot back.

  ‘Love can come from friendship. It’s often the best kind of love.’

  ‘But if I’m in love with somebody else, I’m not going to allow myself to ever cross the line with a male friend. I wouldn’t even think twice about it.’

  ‘You can’t know that,’ he argues. ‘That’s the point. Everybody is vulnerable at some stage.’

  ‘It comes down to two people being secure in themselves and their relationship.’ I fiddle with my napkin.

  Oh, Metin! Male model from Germany, doctor with potential for good future and gorgeous kids, don’t tell me you have trust issues. Have a wart or hairy birthmark (but not too big), but not trust issues.

  ‘You can always trust your partner,’ he says, ‘but how can you trust others? How do I know those male friends don’t want something more from you? I just believe that if we’re to be together we need to cut ourselves off from our past. From your male friends and from my female friends.’