One Dirty Scot

by Donna Alam

  I think I have wedding fatigue. After all, I’ve already planned one wedding this year. The one that didn’t go ahead. Mishael is being an absolute darling, though she was pretty bummed when she discovered she and I wouldn’t be heading to Paris to order my dress because of my visa issues. It would’ve been couture, too. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel the same. But in true Mishael fashion, she’s decided the mountain can travel to Mohammed as long as I’m on lockdown. I’ve already had my first appointment with a designer who’s been flown in from Milan. Just for me.

  I feel a bit like Beyoncé.

  Less booty, but just as glam.

  Bitch, after this taxi ride, you’d better have wine.

  I’m stoked because Niamh is coming to see me today. Apparently, she’s having a shitty cab ride.

  When the doorbell rings shortly afterwards, I barely get half way down the stairs before my ever—never?—friendly helper beats me to it. She leaves Niamh on the wrong side of the half-open front door as she shuffles away.

  ‘Who the hell was that?’ Stepping into the hall, Niamh closes the door behind her as I reach the bottom stair.

  ‘That was the delightful Martha,’ I reply, crossing the hallway.

  ‘Arthur?’

  ‘Martha,’ I repeat, as the said delight slams a door somewhere distantly.

  ‘Nah, too many chin hairs. She’s got an awful puss on her.’

  I halt in my tracks. ‘She got a what?’ I shake off the madness that made me just hear Niamh mention that woman’s wrinkly old nether regions.

  ‘She’s got a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle.’

  ‘A-ha-ha. Miserable, yes. You don’t know the half of it.’

  Miserable? Try murderous. Christ knows what the cow has against me. In front of Kai, she’s been nothing but sweetness. Though I did notice she doesn’t answer in English, even when Kai addresses her so. For some reason he hasn’t noticed the mode of her reply. It seems petty to point it out, even if it gets my goat.

  It’s the same reason I haven’t told him that she’s become the biggest pain in my arse now that he’s not around. Or that she goes out of her way to make my time in the house generally difficult.

  First, there was the TV remote from the snug. It seems to go walk-about continually. None of the others have the same issue, just the one from the place I’ve taken to prefer. Next she chased me out of the laundry room, snatching the basket out of my hands with a hiss, before she washed all of my new undies with a pair of jeans. Seriously expensive lingerie now floor-cloth-grey. Very derro chic. When I tried to tell her not to wash my clothes from now on, that I’d take care of my own laundry, she feigned not to understand. Funny that.

  I especially thought so when she ruined my new silk blouse.

  Next, the sushi I’d ordered in found its way from the fridge to the bin. Though to be fair, this time when I’d asked if she’s thrown it out while I’d showered—as opposed to who, Casper, the friendly Djinn?—she’d answered in English. Sort of.

  Holding her nose, she’d disdainfully muttered, ‘Too much pish.’

  My sentiments exactly, darl.

  By this time Niamh has followed me into what Kai calls the majlis, and I call that big room, because as well as being epically posh, it’s way too large to use for anything other than, say, a party or game of netball. And the reason I prefer the snug.

  ‘You found the place okay?’

  ‘Cab driver did. The cab driver from hell, by the way. He kept horning his honk all the way—his words, not mine. But I brought wine ‘cos—’ A long whistle stops me in my tracks. ‘Would ya . . . check this place out.’

  Still looking over my shoulder at her, I try to see it from her eyes. I suppose I’ve become inured to the place, especially having lived here for all of ten days. But she’s right, it is mega posh. From the gleaming black and white marble floors to the multiple and matching leather sofas placed around the edge of the vast room, easily able to seat twenty-five arses. The huge modern chandelier hanging in the hall is matched by two more raindrop-like ones in this room. Stone archways lead into further rooms, parlour palms and more art deco tables housing pale coloured lamps finish the effect. Other than the massive stone fireplace dominating one wall, it could be the foyer of some hip hotel.

  ‘Where’s your telly?’

  Yeah, because that’s what’s missing here. A TV and another twenty-three backsides to fill the seats.

  ‘There’s one upstairs in the snug, three in the basement gym and a cinema downstairs in the—’

  ‘How big is it?’

  ‘The cinema or gym?’

  ‘Pfft. I don’t know anyone called Jim,’ she says disdainfully. ‘And if I did, I wouldn’t speak to the fecker. Don’t be an eejit. How many does it seat?’

  ‘You aren’t meant to sit in it, you’re meant to exercise.’

  ‘Sure, like your arse has seen the right side of a sit-up bench.’

  It’s definitely going to see the wrong side of it, according to last night’s phone call with Kai. He’s begun making a list of all the places we’re going to root like bunnies when he gets back. That’s Australian for screw, don’t you know. Apparently, he has several gym scenarios, and I’m so freakin’ excited at the prospect, but I don’t overshare.

  ‘No need to get flushed, chick. I’m no fan of the places meself. No, the movies,’ she asserts.’

  ‘It’s not the Cineplex!’

  ‘Savage,’ she says, her eyes gleaming. ‘I’m thinking the Oscars, the Aria’s.’ Her eyes glaze, one hand painting an invisible rainbow in the air. ‘The Eurovision-feckin’-Song contest.’

  ‘Calm your farm. I might go for an Origin night.’

  ‘Rugby?’ she says, coming back to the earth with a bump.

  ‘The State of Origin isn’t just a footy game, Niamh.’

  ‘It’s not footy, either. You don’t kick ‘em and your balls are the wrong shape.’

  ‘ ‘Scuse me, and I suppose Gaelic football’s the shit, is it? Men with their balls in their hands?’

  ‘Bite the back of mine, would ya? You’ve got your own pictures, and I’m havin’ some of that!’

  ‘You mean Kai has. He’s also got a cellar, so next time, leave the wine for when I visit you.’

  ‘I’m gutted, so I am. The man should have brothers, for feck’s sakes! It’s so unfair,’ she complains. ‘Anyway, cinema, cellar and contents are yours, too, you know. He endowed you with his worldly goods, along with endowing you with the rest!’ Her shoulders move with her bawdy laugh. ‘You know what they say. What’s his is now yours, and what’s yours is still your own.’

  ‘Doubt he wants any of my stuff.’ Endowing him with all my worldly goods, I’d be sharing my butter-box of a car, my Uggs, my two-year old iPhone, and my questionable literature collection.

  ‘Where did you say the incompetent scrotal component has gone?’

  ‘South America somewhere. To start with, anyway.’ I make a vague gesture with my hand. ‘Africa, then Europe, I think. I would’ve gone with him, if I could.’ But for my visa issues. All those places I’ve never seen. I could’ve wandered around and done the tourist thing while Kai worked. Then, in the evenings, we might’ve rooted like bunnies, maybe even made a comparison chart; sex in tropical heat, desert climes, and European winters. It’s bloody unfair. ‘And just for the record, his scrotal components are more than fine.’

  ‘I just bet they are.’

  In the kitchen now, she twists the cap from the wine as she glances at the gleaming granite surfaces and untouched stove.

  ‘Does anyone ever cook in this gaff? Glasses?’

  I pull a couple from a cupboard. ‘It’s supposed to be the family kitchen. So far, it’s just for show.’ I gesture to the door. ‘Out there there’s another kitchen. A commercial one.’

  ‘Two kitchens?’

  Setting two glasses down, I answer with an apathetic shrug, my gaze sliding back to the door again. That kitchen is Martha’s domain,
though Kai says when we’re settled, we’ll get a chef. Seeing as how I live on cheese on toast and take-out while he’s away, and we’ll mostly eat out when he’s home, I don’t see the need.

  Niamh fills our glasses, raising hers to her nose and inhaling deeply. ‘Beautiful bouquet. Just a sousant of blackberries.’ She sips, looking thoughtful as she rolls the liquid over her tongue. ‘Notes of possible bad decisions. A hint of regret and . . . if I’m not mistaken, a tiny taste of memory loss.’

  ‘Big night, is it?’

  She shakes her head with a laugh. ‘Any news on your visa?’

  ‘Nope. Not a thing.’ I’d told her about Kai’s explanation; the supposed error in administration orchestrated, though not the bit about his dad. I repeat the notion that this was complicated, or eased, depending on your perspective, by our marriage. Without being married, you’ve have been on the first flight back.

  ‘And your job?’

  ‘Had to find someone else, didn’t they? Couldn’t wait for me.’

  ‘That sucks.’ We’re each silent for a moment, before Niamh speaks again. ‘Hey, but at least you’re not skint!’

  ‘There is that,’ I say sighing.

  ‘What?’ Her expression twists. ‘You’re not still moaning about it, are you?’

  ‘I haven’t complained!’

  ‘Hmph. I can read between the lines of any email. It’s what you didn’t say that concerns me.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘You’re not happy being wealthy.’ She picks up her glass, tipping the rim towards me. ‘Do you know how mental that sounds?’

  Swallowing a mouthful of my own drink, I give an apathetic shrug.

  ‘And the second wedding plans?’

  ‘All under control.’

  ‘Is that so?’ she asks sceptically. ‘And something else, while we’re on the subject of secrets, what the hell did you go back to Aus for?’

  ‘I haven’t got any—’

  ‘Don’t even,’ she says, cutting me off. ‘He turned up on my doorstep, banging on my door like the Garda—the feckin’ police! Distraught, so he was.’ I’m momentarily taken back by her faintly dirty stare. ‘Something made you run away again, didn’t it? ‘Cos I don’t for one minute believe your “family emergency” shite.’

  Hell. I’d forgotten about that, not that it stops me from biting. ‘When did I last run away?’

  ‘When Shane tripped, dipping his dick in someone else. You ran to me, so why didn’t you trust me this time?’

  God, she’s right. I’ve kept her out of so much of this, worried she wouldn’t understand. That she’d blame Kai. That I’d lose my friend.

  ‘What’s so awful that you can’t bring yourself to say it? Why did that man turn up on my doorstep in bits?’

  ‘What did he say?’ I ask quietly.

  ‘He told me he’d offered you an apartment.’

  My head jerks up, her expression less than impressed.

  ‘I nearly kneed him in the nuts, but gave him a chance to explain. He didn’t mean it like that, like Sarah, I mean.’ The girl Kai’s cousin, Essam, dated. Or more like he screwed. He set her up in a flat, persuaded her to give up her job, told her that he loved her and wanted to look after her . . . forgetting to mention his wife and child. ‘Then he told me about his dad.’ Her eyes meet mine and it’s all written there: the hurt that I didn’t tell her myself. ‘Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Tears quietly escape as she throws her arm around me in a one shouldered hug.

  ‘The poor fella was lost, begged me to help. Said he loved you. So I told him about your text, and off he went.’

  ‘It wasn’t the flat,’ I answer quietly.

  ‘I didn’t think so, given that you’ve married him.’

  I raise my gaze from her shoulder. ‘Do you think I’m mad?’

  ‘I’m reserving judgement,’ she says staring at me with a sort of sad half-smile. ‘You aren’t often impulsive without reason, but I’d like to hear the full story first.’

  The air con whirls to life as I wonder where to start. Sat in the pristine kitchen, in a home that feels not like my own, I start from the beginning, and it all pours out. I confirm the man in the club, my attacker, was Essam; the man she knows fucked her friend about.

  ‘You know, I’ve wondered about that. You said at the time, the fecker they pulled off you was rich, you know, when you didn’t want to involve the police? I thought maybe he’d offered you money for a shag, not taking no as an answer and mauling your arse. But something didn’t seem right. The cousin,’ she adds, shaking her head. ‘No wonder you didn’t want the police involved. What did Kai do to him?’

  My throat is tight, so I shake my head. ‘Didn’t get the chance to tell him, not ‘til he followed me home. To Australia, I mean.’

  I swallow a mouthful of wine and grimace, then inhaling a deep breath, I dive in at the deep end.

  I tell her about Kai’s dad and his offer to buy me off, another dirty cash transaction, to keep me away from Kai. I tell her about Sofia and her husband, their open marriage. Halting and stumbling, I tell her about Kai’s involvement with the pair; that he’d screwed the wife. And then, over the lump of solid emotion lodged in my throat, I tell her what I saw at Kai’s hotel suite.

  All the while she says nothing, her expression unchanging, though as I ramble, she does pull away to fill her glass.

  ‘Days of Our Lives, the Dubai edition,’ she says once I’m done. ‘I take it the fact that you got married so quickly was that you thought his dad would pull something like this? The visa? It’s his fault, I take it?’

  ‘I don’t think Kai anticipated it. Not exactly. The one thing I do know is he arrived in Australia with a ring. He didn’t know the whole story at that point. He didn’t propose just to keep me. Keep me sweet, I mean.’

  ‘For the love of God—‘course he didn’t. That bloke loves the arse offa you! I’d say it’s a good job he anticipated something, though.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Firstly, you’re in heaps of shit for hiding all this from me. Second, for fecks sakes, Kate, I could’ve helped!’

  I laugh. It sounds more like a painful cough. ‘How? It’s such a clusterfuck.’

  ‘I dunno.’ Hands momentarily in the air, she adds, ‘A problem shared and all that.’

  I laugh again. Humourlessly.

  ‘I could’ve saved you the price of a flight, at least.’ She shakes her head. ‘Y’daft fecker. Good job you got married, though. I’d’ve missed you if you couldn’t come back.’

  This is a big admission from Niamh. The nearest I’ll ever get to I love you.

  ‘Aw, I’d have missed you, too.’

  ‘And who would I have had to borrow from before my next paycheck comes in?’

  ‘Cupboard love.’

  ‘No, babe. Money love. Share the love!’ She snorts, tipping the bottle above her glass, but the wine is long gone.

  ‘I didn’t want it, you know. The money. I signed the wedding contract without even knowing.’

  ‘And that,’ she says, covering her hand following a small burp, ‘tells me that love makes people daft.’

  ‘So you do think I’m mad for marrying him.’

  ‘No, I think you’re an eejit for not reading something before you signed on the dotted line.’ She inhales deeply, looking at her glass as she begins twirling the stem. ‘Love isn’t something you have any choice in, Kate. It’s not about thinking.’

  ‘You don’t understand—I signed the thing without even realising what it was.’

  ‘Whose fault was that? Did he tell you not to read it?’

  ‘Of course not.’ My words are tinged with anger as I jump from my seat. ‘He maybe counted on it. He deceived me.’

  Niamh gives an unconcerned shrug, and I can’t believe she isn’t stamping her feminist heels. I also can’t believe I’m labouring over this point, but her reaction is so unreal. It’s unnatural. And as successful as goading a sloth.

&nbs
p; ‘Divorce his arse if you’re unhappy.’ Humour and challenge glitter in her gaze. ‘But can you have the wedding party first? I’ve got a killer dress to wear. Don’t want it to go to waste.’

  I exhale an exaggerated huff.

  ‘What do you want me to say, Kate? That he did a bad thing? Sure he did. But did he do you wrong?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Sit down, babe. Those diamond shoes must be killing your feet.’

  ‘Why don’t you get fucked?’

  ‘I will. Tomorrow. I’ve got a date with Rob. And, language, Katherine! I’m glad to see you haven’t gone all posh.’

  ‘Not much,’ I mumble, pulling a loose thread from the knee of my jeans. Designer jeans with the knee purposely frayed.

  ‘Come on, drink up.’ She gestures to my barely touched glass. ‘I want to visit this cellar of yours when you’re done.’

  I take a sip. ‘I think I must be coming down with something.’ I screw up my nose. ‘It doesn’t taste right.’

  ‘Just your tastebuds have gone posh, then?’ she says, examining the empty bottle. ‘Cost me seventy dirhams, this.’

  ‘I’ll maybe have green tea.’

  ‘My arse!’

  ‘What? I think my stomach’s a bit off.’

  ‘You need whiskey, then.’

  I shudder, because I so don’t.

  ‘Suit yer’ self.’ She looks around. ‘Where’s the kettle?’

  ‘In the other kitchen.’

  ‘Go and ask Arthur to put it on, then.’

  ‘I prefer my tea without chunks, thanks. Phlegm,’ I qualify.

  ‘Jeysus, she can’t be that bad!’

  ‘She hates my guts. Seriously, I’ve taking to hiding my toothbrush from her in case she decides to clean the toilet with it.’

  ‘Really, Kate,’ she says laughing. ‘You can’t let the woman employed to wash your jacks get the better of you.’

  ‘That’s not it. She’s been with Kai since he was a littlie—she’s almost part of the family.’

  ‘Chick, get a grip. You need taking in hand, my girl.’

  Bleurgh. Just bleurgh.

  If my stomach felt a bit iffy before, now it definitely does, my head filled once again with those bleach-worthy images: the begonia apron, the luridly pink handprints. I can physically sense the smile slipping from my face, replaced by a look, no doubt, that resembles spoiled milk. Why? Because right now, I could almost blow chunks.