One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  ‘Beautiful.’ Mum’s misty-eyed smile, brings me back, her gaze following the diamond as I lower my hand. ‘Such exquisite taste.’ She beams at Kai. And well she should. The size of this thing, I’m surprised I don’t have a security detail following me around. I thought Mum might give birth to kittens when I’d flashed my hand, the sun glinting off its central diamond, causing light to dance across the kitchen ceiling, as though cast by a powerful disco ball. Of course, she’d thought we were just engaged.

  ‘And after that, Christmas is just a matter of weeks away,’ Kai adds.

  ‘Christmas?’ I repeat, disconcerted. Surely he’s not inviting them for that. Will his family celebrate Chrissy?

  ‘Though you may need to speak to my mother,’ he continues with a small frown. ‘She may want to claim us for Courchevel, if the weather’s good. Skiing,’ he adds, following my questionable look, and returning his attention to my parents. ‘Of course, you’d both be welcome, too.’

  I smother a snigger as I image the pair of them decked up for the snow. Plaid saloppetes for Geoff and maybe floral ones for Mum.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mum answers uncertainly. ‘Or maybe Kai would enjoy his first Christmas in the sun? We know how to enjoy ourselves at Christmas, don’t we, Geoff.’

  ‘Bloody oath! Stock up on the grog, veg out in the sun.’

  Yes, because that’s how all Australians celebrate the birth of baby J . . . eating prawns and getting drunk in the sunshine. Stereotyping at its best.

  As Kai makes some crack about his liver not being able to withstand Geoff’s hospitality, I add a kind of colourless laugh, my eyes silent pleading, please-don’t-let’s-come-back-for-that.

  ‘The gate will close soon.’

  ‘So lovely to meet you.’ Mum’s hands flutter around Kai’s open jacket, like she’s resisting straighten his clothing, too.

  Taking her hands in his, he leans in and bestows kisses on both her cheeks, which suffuse immediately with colour as she exclaims a soft, ‘Oh.’

  Kai and Geoff do the manly back-slapping goodbye-thing as my mother squeezes the life out of me.

  ‘You’ll call when you get there?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘And you’ve got everything you need?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘You weighed your bags, didn’t you? You know those excess baggage charges are extortionate.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Do you have water for the flight?’

  ‘Mum,’ I reply warningly.

  ‘You’ll end up with cankles, darl. You’ve got to keep up your water intake. It said so on the This Morning show. Maybe you should’ve bought some of those flight socks.’

  Kai’s eyes spark with delight and Geoff holds out his arm. For a moment, I think he wants to shake my hand, but as he tells my mum to stop fussing, he pulls me in for a quick hug.

  ‘I love my parents.’

  ‘I know that.’ Kai’s voice holds a note of compassion as he takes my carry-on bag from my hand.

  ‘I’m not telling you,’ I grumble. ‘I’m reminding myself.’ As we walk away, I don’t look back. Despite not being Mum’s biggest fan, I hate to see her upset. ‘And I’m pretty sure I just heard Geoff tell Mum you’re a top bloke. It’s not bloody fair. Me? He wants to shake my hand, but you, he looks like he’s ready to throw his arms around you and make kissy-face.’

  ‘Too much facial hair for my tastes.’ With another laugh, he slides our passports across the check-in desk, lifting our bags to be weighed. For the first time I notice their disparity: mine’s a stripy Sportsgirl tote, a bit battered around the edges and the handle’s a little frayed. Kai’s is leather, pristine, and expensive looking. A bit like himself.

  ‘Good evening, Mr. Khalfan, Miss Saunders.’

  As the check-in chick opens our passports, she totally gives Kai the eye from under her synthetic lashes. When he smiles in return, I feel a flare of something unpleasant in the pit of my gut. And it isn’t gas. Am I irrationally jealous, or do I have reason to be a bit miffed? As I watch him, I decide it’s the first. He’s not playing games; he isn’t flirting. He’s just being courteous and sort of affable. While I’m being ridiculous. I remind myself that it pays to be nice to the check-in staff; no one wants to travel to Dubai but find their bags have gone on to Dublin, do they?

  I’ve never really been the jealous type or the demanding shrew, but this man brings out all my insecurities. Though a person would have to be blind not to see why, and as he steps in just a little closer, I think they’d also have to have no sense of smell. He smells divine and sort of expensive. Clean and woodsy with just an edge of spice. And standing there in nothing fancier than a pair of dark jeans and a jacket, he still manages to look like he’s misplaced his photography crew. How come he always looks like he’s stepped out from the pages of a glossy magazine, while I look more like I’ve stumbled and slid in some poo?

  Not for the first time, I begin to wonder what it is that he sees in me. I’ll admit to being passably pretty, sort of on the average side of the scale. A bit of a short arse, even in the heeled boots I’ve insisted on wearing, with a bit more flesh than I’d like. I’m all boobs and bum, and let’s face it, it’s not a fashionable look. And I have kind of funky hair. As a little girl, I’d once read somewhere that a woman’s hair is her crowning glory and I’d imagined I’d grow up to possess a coronet of curls. Not so, as it turns out, as more often than not my hair looks like a busted mattress, or something even the crows would avoid making their home.

  My eyes aren’t the brilliant baby-blue I’d always longed for. Instead, they’re a greeny sort of blue. A bit like algae that grows in the pool over winter. And then I’m pale, when I’m not blushing, and when all’s said and done, a bit insignificant.

  Kai’s deep and masculine laugh brings me out of my brooding, finding levity in something the baggage bitch has said. He’s all toothpaste smiles and gorgeous hair and I suddenly feel like crying, until he slips his hand around my waist.

  ‘We didn’t mind the rain on our honeymoon. We get enough heat in Dubai, don’t we, darling?

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak, my smile watery.

  He wants me and he loves me. My insecurities are all my own.

  The lovely, smiley baggage lady tells us she’d love to visit Dubai. Kai recommends that she does as his hand releases my waist, his fingers threading through mine instead.

  ‘Mrs. Khalfan,’ he purrs. His eyes positively ignite as he stares down at me. ‘Shall we go home?’

  Oh god, yes!

  ‘I should come late every flight.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I didn’t see any money change hands for those pricey excess baggage fees.’

  ‘You don’t think we’re travelling light?’

  ‘With all those dresses I bought? Probably no charges as we’re flying business class. You get extra, right?’

  ‘Darling.’ He feigns a shudder, his voice sounding pained. ‘Not business class.’

  That can only mean . . . ‘First!’ I exclaim loudly as we step onto the escalator, adding more quietly, ‘we’re travelling first class?’

  ‘Don’t get too excited, at least not until I’ve had you in the jet. And I do mean that,’ he adds smoothly. ‘In every sense of the word.’

  I stumble a little as the escalator ends.

  We enter the airline lounge hand in hand; dark woods and cream giving it the air of a high-end hotel. Groups of low-slung seats house business men and travellers, while a mother with two small girls help themselves to a gourmet-looking buffet. As we pass, the smaller of the two ankle-biters complains loudly. ‘But Mummy, you know I don’t like edamame beans!’

  Kai leads us to a table by the window, dropping our bags to an empty chair.

  ‘Do—do you own your own jet?’ I ask, unable to contain the words.

  ‘The company has several. I don’t own my own, per se.’

  ‘But for having a stake in the company?’

 
‘I suppose so.’ His head turns, following the noise coming from the tiny blonde now working on a full blown tantrum at the buffet stand. He winces as the noise level crescendos, the child’s mother trying unsuccessfully to reason with her little darling. ‘I do hope they’re not in our cabin.’

  ‘She’s got a good pair of lungs,’ I agree.

  ‘I really don’t know how you teach,’ he says, flinching once more at the continuing noise.

  ‘You don’t like kids?’

  ‘I prefer to view them remotely.’ Which means not at all, I guess. I note the evasion as not really an answer, slotting it away for further enquiry at a later date.

  ‘She needs a smacked bum,’ I say airily and watch as he raises one sardonic brow. ‘What? It’s the best way to stop a kid in the middle of chucking a tanty.’

  ‘The words of a sage,’ he replies, with a secret smile. A smile that isn’t really a secret at all, because I’m pretty sure he’s thinking of spanking me. Which makes me think of him spanking me. Which in turn makes colour rise to my cheeks and sends sparks of heat to my undies. I can almost feel his hot breath on my neck, the soft sheets twisted tightly in my fists. These flashes of the recollection as sharp as his hand on my reddened cheek. A shiver, almost like anticipation, glides down my spine, and I cough slightly, covering my heightened colour with a nonchalant neatening of my hair.

  ‘Do you prescribe the same treatment for adults, too?’

  Not going there, not answering, because I know we’re not talking about his bum being reddened. ‘S-so, if you’ve got your own planes, how come you didn’t fly here in one?’

  ‘It’s not like catching a bus, habibti. I chose the quickest route. Besides, I’d have had to have fought several of the family’s matriarchs who were planning on escorting their numerous daughters on a shopping trip to Rome, I believe. Some wedding or other causing all manner of excitement and an urgent need for haute couture.’ He shakes his head. ‘The other planes were booked already or due for maintenance.’

  ‘They took a plane shopping?’

  Bring the jet around, Jeeves—I’m off to the Westfield Shopping Centre, ta-taa!

  He chuckles but doesn’t answer, asking instead, ‘Can I get you a drink? It looks like there isn’t a waitress service.’

  I eye the bar area and the high-end coffee machine. ‘I’ll have a latte, thanks.’

  ‘Come on and help. Those machines always get the better of me.’

  Placing a cup under the spout, Kai presses a button, the thing whirring as it begins to grind beans.

  ‘Aw, you knew how to work it, you just wanted to hold my hand!’

  His gaze is dispassionate as he hands me my glass cup. ‘Lord save me from the deprivation of self-service.’

  ‘You should try travelling in cattle class.’ I cast my gaze at the luxuries offered: Flash looking food, comfortable seating, and even champagne. It could be so much worse—overcrowded seating areas, fast-food, and coffee in paper cups.

  ‘Believe it or not, this lounge is quite basic. There isn’t even a spa.’

  I burn my lip on my coffee trying to hide my smile. ‘You’re taking the p—winding me up! Don’t tell me, you usually book yourself in for a facial before your flight? A spa? I’d never leave!’

  Chapter Eleven

  Ah, man. I’m never flying anything but freakin’ first class again!

  Sure, the cabin looks a bit like the plane has vomited gold accents, but my seat has its own mini-bar and a snack basket. And I say seat, but suite has to be a better description—it has doors, for fecks sakes! And we were served champagne while still on the ground. With warm nuts. Or coffee and dates, if you’re that way inclined. Which I’m not.

  And there’s a bag with slippers and jammies for the journey, and one full of posh toiletries. And an à la cart dinner menu to be served at my leisure, with proper linen and cutlery. And did I mention champagne? Dom Perignon!

  Yes, please, I’ll have more of that.

  I’m so glad I didn’t fill up with biccies as I tuck into my mezze, which looks like something that would be served in a 5-star hotel. Kai has caviar, which I think is kinda posh fish roe, like something a nana would eat back in the day. Then we eat steak and potato dauphinoise, which I’m disappointed to learn is really just a posh potato bake.

  And I have more champagne.

  And Kai has a cappuccino and asks if I’d like to book a shower, because seriously, there are showers. How awesome is that? I can shower forty thousand feet above the earth!

  I watch as he taps away on his laptop. In fact, I think I stare at him adoringly.

  ‘I’m feeling supremely relaxed.’

  Abandoning my viewing choice, effectively offering decades of viewing pleasure, I stretch out on my chair, which naturally, reclines flat.

  ‘You’ll be supremely comatose if you keep up with that.’

  ‘Keep up with what?’

  ‘Your Dom.’

  For a brief moment, my mind jumps to other explanations, inevitably springing to dominance and sex. Until he gestures to my fourth—fifth?—empty glass.

  ‘I’d switch to water, if I were you. In-flight alcohol isn’t such a good idea.’

  ‘Pssht!’ I gesture dismissively with my hand. As if. I’m flying first class and I’m going to get the most out of it. ‘Whatcha doin’?’ I lean over the lowered divider between our seats, his gaze having returned to the laptop screen, his reply delivered in its general direction.

  ‘Trying to catch up on what I’ve missed.’

  ‘Have you lots to catch up on?’ He doesn’t answer, his brow scrunched in response to a row of figures. ‘Do you blame me very much?’

  He blinks, distracted, as though my words take a beat to reach the cognizant sector of his brain. ‘Why would you ask that?’ he asks softly, his gaze rising slowly to mine. ‘Work is . . . nothing, compared to what you’ve given me.’

  I’m distracted from the sincerity of these sentiments by Nina, according to her name badge, a member of the cabin crew, asking if I’d like my glass of champagne refilled. I nod abstractedly even though, watching her, I suddenly feel I couldn’t ingest another glass. Tall and Nordic looking, Nina’s bright blue eyes smile down at me, the soft overhead lighting catching strands of gold in her pale blonde hair. Her red lips co-ordinate with the accents of her uniform, make-up flawlessly applied to her unblemished skin at a perfect minimum.

  She asks if “Mr. Khalfan” would like another cappuccino, which he declines barely raising his head. Her long, tanned legs move her along the cabin, a lingering note of Marc Jacobs perfume still scenting the air.

  I glance down at my freebie beige, baggy jammies, suddenly not so excited at having found them on my seat, let alone that I’d decided to wear them. I frown at how I’ve folded them at the ankles to prevent tripping on the over-long hem, then stare at my one pink sock and its green companion peeking from beneath.

  ‘What do you see in me?’ My hand shakes as I bring the glass to my lips, instantly cursing my lack of brain-to-mouth filter, hoping the noise of the plane masks my quiet utterance.

  No such luck.

  Kai is the undoubted master of non-expression when he wants to be, but as his gaze rises, then follows mine to Nina and then back, I realise he hadn’t registered her beauty at all.

  ‘She’s the kind of girl who should be sitting here,’ I mumble, plucking at the beige material and swallowing another mouthful, which suddenly tastes like vinegar in my mouth.

  ‘I think she’d get into trouble, being on duty. Besides, then you’d have to sit on my knee.’

  ‘Not a short-arsed Aussie who can’t even manage to wear matching socks,’ I almost cry out.

  His hand grasps mine with a small tug. ‘Look at me.’ As I do so, he asks simply, ‘You don’t see yourself very clearly at all, do you?’

  ‘I bloody do, that’s why I don’t get what you see in me! Girls like Nina—’ I reply, breath tight in my chest and beginning to feel overwhelmed. Distraugh
t, even.

  ‘Who is this Nina who wears matching hosiery?’

  ‘Be serious,’ I reply through a reluctant laugh, even as tears shake on my eyelids.

  ‘No. Tell me, who is this paragon so sensibly clad?’

  ‘The hostie, a member of the cabin crew.’ I point vaguely along the aisle, though she’s no longer in sight. ‘The chick who just filled my glass! Girls like her are the human equivalent of thoroughbreds—women with pedigrees! I’m more—’

  We answer simultaneously.

  ‘A mad poodle?’

  ‘Total mutt!’

  ‘I told you you’d suffer drinking champagne.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Though I’ve never known Dom to induce delirium.’ He takes the glass from my hand, setting it down and taking my hands palm to palm, encircling them in his much larger ones. Just then it occurs to me, just as he is the master of non-expression, he does, when the mood takes him, wear his passions quite clearly on his sleeve as the corner of his mouth curls, an expression of adoration kindling in his gaze.

  ‘If I were to indulge your alcohol induced morbidity, which I’m not, I might tell you women like Nina are much like wine.’

  ‘Because,’ I add haltingly, having heard this joke before and not at all impressed with its current use. ‘They get better with age?’ So not making me feel better, btw.

  ‘No, because they’re available in bars and restaurants everywhere.’

  I laugh, despite myself, his mouth curling further and mirroring mine, before his countenance returns to mockingly stern.

  ‘And by that, I mean commonplace. But if I were to indulge you, I’d tell you you’re a completely unaffected beauty, who somehow never manages to see the gazes of men following her. I’d tell you you’ve a lightness of heart that’s infectious, that when you’ve your colours flying and you’re all deliciously pink and discomforted—yes, just like now—I desire you like nothing else. In fact, you’re quite like no one I’ve ever known. But I’m not saying any of those things simply to make you feel better, even though they’re true, because I’m not going to indulge you, you see. What I will say, sweetheart, is that what I see in you is my future.’