Pretty Things (The Pretty Trilogy #3)

by Donna Alam

  ‘No, he’s wrong,’ I answer with vehemence. ‘Not them.’

  ‘Then all I’ve got to say is it takes a deviant to recognise a deviant.’

  ‘And which one of us are we talking about here?’ Ha! That shut her trap.

  ‘Kai, obvs,’ she says, undaunted and with a chuckle.

  And no, I’m not touching that.

  ‘Jaysus, I’m like lego this morning.’

  I’m eating my breakfast the next day in the kitchen when Niamh wanders in. ‘You’re colourful plastic bricks?’

  ‘God, I’m in bits.’ She plants her butt on the stool next to mine, reaching for my cuppa. ‘I’m hangin’. Why’d you let me drink all that wine?’ She grimaces at the taste of my cold tea dregs.

  ‘You should ask Santa for a cellar for Christmas. You spent enough time in Kai’s.’

  ‘Like a fat kid in a cake shop. You’d think I’d know my own limits by now.’ Still looking pained, her eyes flick over me, before her phone, left in the kitchen overnight, begins to ring. ‘Ow-ow-owwww! Turn that the fuck off!’

  ‘It’s yours, not mine.’

  By the time she reaches the offending item, it’s stopped ringing but pings immediately with an incoming text.

  ‘ “Sorry I missed you, hun,” ’ she recites, laying the phone flat.

  ‘Rob? That’s cute.’

  ‘Like feckin’ Attila.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Hun.’

  ‘Funnily enough, it suits you this morning.’

  Narrowing her eyes, Niamh gives me a faintly threatening look. ‘So why don’t you look like hard boiled shite, too?’

  ‘I didn’t drink much.’ I shrug. ‘I feel . . . apathetic about food and stuff at the minute.’

  ‘Ah, chick. You’re love sick.’ Hands clasped, she flutters her lashes, stopping when even that small motion seems to hurt her head.

  ‘Nah. It’s the remains of jet-lag, I think. It sucks big hairy balls.’

  ‘Wine might’ve helped you sleep and stuff.’

  ‘Doubt it. Anyway, I didn’t want to get loaded.’

  ‘Didn’t want to, either,’ she mumbles, laying her head against the cool marble bench. I slide over my plate of toast, making her recoil. ‘Get that the fuck away!’

  ‘Let the power of Vegemite compel you!’ It’s like smelling salts!

  Niamh’s got a date with Rob tonight, but she stays until sunset, when she orders a cab. The weather has cooled quite a bit since I’d first arrived in Dubai, with early mornings and evenings starting to feel almost pleasant. It’s with this in mind that we decide to take a stroll to the compound’s gate, rather than have the cab pick her up at the door.

  It only takes a few minutes and her taxi is already waiting when we get there. We’ve already made plans for a catch up soon, so with a quick hug and kiss—none of this European two cheek business—she hops into the back.

  It’s peaceful as I walk back to the house, the last strains of the evening ahdan, or prayer, from the local mosque dissipating in the air. There’s not a soul to be seen, but as a bright yellow Camaro pulls alongside the curb, matching my pace, I begin to wish that there were others about. The windows are blacked out, so I can’t tell who’s inside, but whoever it is, they’re playing games, and I feel very unnerved.

  Keeping my eyes front, I think its best that I get my half-jog on, especially as the house is in sight now. But when the window opens, and a waft of something semi-familiar drifts out, I find myself slowing in pace.

  Is that weed?

  ‘Congratulations, habibti.’

  Bugger, bollix, fuck.

  The person I’ve been least looking forward meeting. Ignoring him, I carry on, planting one foot after another as the house draws closer.

  ‘You don’t speak to your family now, cousin?’ Essam, the sneer evident in his voice. ‘That isn’t very polite.’

  I can’t believe he has the audacity to speak to me. My stomach turns over again and again, my body beginning to shake with a mixture of discomfort and shock. But overriding these emotions is anger, because how fucking dare he. What did I ever do to him to deserve such hurt? Nothing, that’s what. I just happen to love the man he’s intensely jealous of. And happen to have been there when he was caught out.

  My hands are balled into fists as I halt, turning to face him, my molars under enough pressure to crack. Essam slows the car to a complete stop, but the harsh words balanced on the end of my tongue immediately melt. Through the open window, I can see the back seat and I begin to laugh.

  ‘Real smooth,’ I say, still laughing. ‘You’re smoking weed with the baby seat in the car?’ Sans baby, thankfully, but still. ‘I bet you get all the bitches, especially with this . . .’ I make a gesture towards the bright yellow muscle car, aiming for somewhere between dismay and disgust. ‘This . . .’ Over compensation? ‘Dick extension.’

  Self-editing was never one of my strong points.

  ‘Why don’t you get inside,’ he says, one hand on the wheel, the other making to grab his crotch. ‘I’ll show you I don’t need any help.’

  ‘You need psychiatric help, for sure.’ I turn and begin to walk again.

  My heart is in my throat as the engine stills completely. I don’t look back as a car door slams, but suddenly my feet are hitting the pavement faster. At any other time, I’d be worried how daft this motion looks—probably looks like my arse is chewing toffee—but I want to get away from him, without giving him the satisfaction of my fear.

  The house draws nearer, and all I can think is, I’m almost there. Almost home. Surely he wouldn’t—not here?

  I physically start as Essam’s hand grasps my elbow, and I whirl around, ready to lash out.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  ‘That’s simple. I want what Kai has,’ he says, his free hand ghosting my shoulder, causing my whole body to shudder.

  ‘You’ll never have it,’ I spit out in the face of his shock. ‘You could step into his life tomorrow—own his cars, his house. His money, too. But it wouldn’t make one bit of difference because you’d still be you. You’ll never have what he has. Honour. Integrity. Respect. My love.’ With that, I yank my arm free, finally able to breathe as I take the last few steps to the house gate, yanking open the door and throwing myself through.

  This is so fucked up.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Rashid! Rashid, are you down here? Where are you?’

  I haven’t seen him since this morning when he’d appeared in the kitchen, asking if I required his services today. Now I’m in the depths of the basement which was the direction he’d headed when I said I didn’t have any plans.

  As well as the parking garage, I think he must have an office or something down here.

  ‘Madam?’ Rashid appears out of nowhere. Well, out of a door I hadn’t seen, looming massively in the dim hallway: dark trousers, no tie. Rolled pale shirtsleeves.

  Must be mufti day.

  ‘Fuck! I nearly—’ I inhale my words, swallowing them thickly. Telling him I nearly shat myself is maybe a little unbecoming. ‘Geeze, Rashid, I nearly had a heart attack!’

  ‘Asif. Sorry, Madam. You were calling?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I was.’ I lower my hand from my chest, my heart rate beginning to slow. ‘I was wondering how I lock the front gate. Or the front door.’ Come to think of it, I didn’t see a key or any sort of locking mechanism on either.

  ‘Lock, Madam?’ he repeats, the space between his heavy brows narrowing.

  ‘Yes, it doesn’t lock,’ I reply, miming so. ‘Or maybe I don’t know how to do it. I know we live in a walled compound, with security, but I don’t feel—’ safe, especially with Essam prowling ‘—comfortable living and sleeping in a house with unlocked doors.’

  ‘Ah.’ Understanding lightens his countenance. ‘Madam, please.’ He makes a vaguely familiar gesture with his hand; palm down, his fingers curling. ‘Come. I will show you.’

  I follow him into the room. Turn
s out, it’s security HQ. Far out, I feel like I’m on some bloody crime show, except in my shorts and thongs, I’m not quite glamourous, or swishy-haired enough for the CSI role.

  One wall houses monitors, all depicting various views of the house. The front door and gate, inside and out, the pool, the gardens, a door to the outside I haven’t yet seen, and worrying, flashes of the interior.

  Jesus Christ on a bike—Kai and I almost screwed in that hall!

  I feel my lips curl into one and other, almost as though preventing the words from spilling out.

  ‘Madam?’

  ‘I—I—’ I’m on some hard drive somewhere, being driven very hard. I’ll be the Kim Kardashian of Dubai! Okay, with a little less arse.

  ‘Please, watch.’ With a furrowed brow, Rashid utters something guttural and a man in some sort of security uniform appears from the shadows of the room. He begins to flick through the monitors’ views. ‘Nothing, see? Nothing of a personal nature. Only views of the exits and service corridors.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Exactly. I see that Rashid knows exactly what I’m thinking, as though my words and worries were written by sharpie on my forehead. I expect he’s also seen some things he would rather not have during his time working for Kai.

  ‘Also, the doors lock automatically on shutting. The security here—’ he gestures to the uniformed man ‘—is responsible for disabling the automatic locks when either you, or Mr. Kai, require it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘There is also fingerprint technology,’ he adds. ‘But it has not yet been enabled.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I turn, tilting my head to look at him. ‘Thanks, Rashid, for explaining.’ For putting my mind at ease so deftly.

  He inclines his head. ‘Madam has no need to be alarmed.’

  ‘Shoo hada?’

  We both turn at the security guard’s exclamation, peering at the screen to which he points.

  ‘Madam, look.’

  There, on screen, Martha stands at the open front gate, signing a delivery note, a large box at her feet. On-screen-Martha closes the gate, picking up the box and holding it to her ear, where she gives it a firm shake. With a shriek I’m sure I can hear without the aid of the audio feed, she drops it like it’s hot—the box—not the dance. I really can’t see her aged bones doing the slut drop in a muumuu and rubber thongs.

  From the distance of about half a leg length away, she prods the box with her still bandaged foot.

  ‘Do you think someone should go and check that?’ I ask hopefully as I turn to see Rashid’s amused face. I resist the urge to touch my nose as I yell shotty not!

  ‘You should,’ he says, breaking out into a reluctant smile. ‘This is a parcel for you.’

  ‘How do you know?’ How d’you know it’s not a parcel bomb or something, more like.

  ‘Because I was advised,’ he answers in a playful, yet mysterious tone, tapping his nose for good measure. Who is this guy? ‘By sir.’

  ‘Kai sent me a gift?’ Rashid nods. ‘Then I’d best go and rescue it from Martha’s boot.’

  By the time I get to the front door, Martha has the box on the hall table. The hall table Kai bent me over the other day. Not sure I’ll ever be able to pass it without some kind of blush. Pushing the thought to the corners of my mind, I notice Martha peeling back the lid an inch as she peers inside.

  ‘Is that for me, Martha?’

  She jumps like an electrocuted cat, hands clasped to her chest in an expression of guilt. It’s a fleeting look, before she begins airing her grievances, in a language she knows I don’t understand.

  ‘Add it to your dossier, darl. He’ll be back soon.’

  Sliding past her, I grasp the box, and begin climbing the stairs, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of sharing my surprise. At about the fourth stair, the box unbalances in my arms and start to wish I’d let her open it, because this box contains something alive.

  I dread to think what it is.

  The contents meows, and right then, I know I’m going to kill Kai.

  A cat. Confirmed, as I lift the lid, when the thing shoots from the box like a demon fleeing hell. It fires under the sofa—cream coloured, I think, and probably not big enough to be labelled a cat. A kitten, maybe? Fluffy. Tiny paws. Scratchy nails. Teeth like sharp needles.

  I hate cats. They freak me out. I thought I’d already established this point.

  I realise I’ve curled my legs up from the floor, so I lower them again, feeling a bit ridiculous. And still a bit scared.

  Think calm rational thoughts. It’s probably much more frightened of you than you are of it.

  Then why is my heart beating in my ears?

  Dropping to my knees on the thick, shaggy rug, I peer under the sofa.

  ‘Here, puss . . . puss?’

  The thing is all teeth and hissing noises, but I think I would be, too, if I’d been stuck in a box for an undetermined period. And then dropped.

  Sitting back, I contemplate how to get the ick-ball out.

  If I were a cat, what would it take for me to come out from under the sofa, potentially exposing myself to scary things?

  A vodka martini?

  A naked Kai?

  I know . . . food!

  I dash downstairs to the kitchen, to find a mostly empty fridge. Feck. Desperate means call for desperate measures, so I return with a yoghurt pot.

  ‘Here you go, you little fucker—fella—I mean feline.’ Seriously, am I developing Tourette’s or something? ‘Come see what I’ve got for you. Here kitty, kitty.’

  Nope, that sounds wrong.

  ‘Here pussy, pussy.’ Also, more levels of wrongness.

  Getting back on my hands and knees proves a waste of energy as the fur-ball-feck has gone. ‘Where the hell are you?’

  ‘Madam?’

  ‘Ow, fuck!’ I hit my head on the coffee table in shock. Not because Martha has surprised me with her presence, rather this is the first time she’s referred to me with any sense of deference. As I turn, I realise why: she has the furry one nestled in her arms. Like a baby.

  Must’ve left the door open on my yoghurt hunt.

  ‘Labneh no good for the kittah!’ She purses her lips, pointing at my strawberry yoghurt pot. ‘Labneh giving loose motions,’ she continues in a warning tone.

  So what? Yoghurt will loosen the fur-ball’s limbs. No big deal. Might be able to catch it next time if it’s wobbling around, rather than speeding about the place like a demon on speed . . . ohhh wait, those loose “motions”.

  I giggle a little nervously. ‘I, erm, see what you mean. No, we don’t want any little accidents, do we?’ Not on cream carpets.

  At this, Martha clutches the kitten tighter, half turning, as though I’d issued a threat.

  ‘Is from the sir? From Mr. Kai?’

  ‘Yeah.’ And much I have to say about that, though not in current company.

  ‘Such a good boy, the Mr. Kai,’ she says rather wistfully.

  Not so much, I want to tell her, but instead answer unconvincingly, ‘Yes. Isn’t he.’

  An awkward silence falls, our fragile bond wiggling in her arms.

  ‘I will take,’ she says decisively. ‘I will bring again. Bukrah.’ Tomorrow.

  ‘Take your time,’ I answer to her retreating form. ‘I’m in no bloody hurry.’

  ‘Darling!’

  Mishael rises from the pale gold Louis armchair, champagne flute in hand. Feeding her free arm around my shoulders, she kisses my cheek soundly. None of this Dubai-air-kiss-business; it’s a real smacker that’s probably left my skin coated in her plum-coloured lipstick.

  ‘Isn’t your friend accompanying you?’

  ‘Niamh? Yeah, she’s making her own way here.’ Late as usual. ‘She has her own sense of time, I’m afraid.’ Yeah, permanently behind everyone else’s. Maybe I should’ve mentioned there’d be champagne at my dress fitting. Oh, and macaron. Yum.

  The door discreetly tinkles, the immaculately dressed assistant buzzing it open fro
m her gold Rococo desk.

  ‘I’ve driven past the place twice!’ Niamh complains loudly. ‘Wouldn’t have even noticed the door if I hadn’t seen you standing there. The place doesn’t even have proper signage.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mishael answers. ‘There’s discreet and then there’s just plain snobbery. You must be Niamh.’

  ‘Niamh,’ I begin, thinking I should introduce the pair. ‘This is Mishael, my . . . My . . .’

  ‘Just call me Mummy, darling,’ she says with a wide smile. I actually think she’s being serious for a minute, until her shoulders begin to shake. ‘I’m the soon to be dreaded monster-in-law,’ she adds, holding out her hand to Niamh.

  Introductions over, the gorgeous and willowy assistant produces two more crystal flutes of champagne and we step into the belly of the beast.

  My designer—get me—my designer drew up the design based on those I’d liked in her portfolio. Glorious confections in satins, silks and lace. I’ve even had my grubby mitts on the fabric samples! Now we’re here at the atelier for my first try on of the unfinished garment. I’m so bloody excited! I can’t believe it even resembles a dress after only a few days. Mishael has come along for translation. My French doesn’t extend beyond grade six, but also because she’s uber excited. I suppose this is her one chance at playing wedding Barbie, having only one son. And Niamh, well, she’s here for moral support. And out of sheer nosiness, of course.

  I’d googled the word atelier after hearing it bandied around in wedding-talk. I’d been a bit disappointed to find out it meant nothing more than ‘workshop’, so I’m pleasantly surprised by my surrounds. It’s a bit like a movie set from the 1950’s; a sort of fashion house set, where models cat-walked potential purchases for wealthy customers. The place is all swaged fabrics and massive mirrors. There’s even a small dais for the model—that would be me—to stand on, while women—that would be Niamh and Mishael—watch from stylish sofas, dangling champagne flutes from bejewelled hands. Or in this case, sniffle and sob.