Pretty Things (The Pretty Trilogy #3)

by Donna Alam

  ‘Well, you’ve got to be the most chilled out bride I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘That’s because I’m marrying my prince!’

  Paula mouths, ‘Cute’, while laughing, and Niamh mimes vomit-inducing fingers.

  ‘Ah, go away. You’ll make us all puke!’

  ‘You’d better not puke anywhere near this dress.’ And that’s my cue for the three of us to take a moment to appreciate the perfection of my gown: Lace, handmade, figure-hugging with a gentle flare as it draws to the floor—didn’t want to tempt fate there—a small train and long sleeves to counteract my bare collar-bones, and scattered with hundreds of tiny seed-pearls. Well, Kai does like me covered in pearls . . .

  ‘You look beaut, darl,’ says Geoff from behind us.

  The parentals have descended on the suite; mine, and Kai’s mum, that is. Still no Faris. I’m guessing his is a silent protest. I’m pleased Mishael has tagged along, as it seems to help Mum hang onto her sense of decorum. She doesn’t shed too many tears, and she doesn’t touch my hair and dress more than she can help it, though she clutches Geoff’s arm an awful lot.

  Before long, it’s time to leave.

  ‘By the time you come back into the room, you’ll be Mrs. Khalfan,’ says Mum, all teary eyed. There’s no point telling her I already am; she wouldn’t understand. ‘My baby, a married woman.’

  ‘Ah, don’t worry, Mrs. S, she’ll still be the same daft stumbling, bumbling Kate.’

  Yes, because my life is a series of graceless moments.

  We must make a bit of a sight, the group of us all dolled up. Mum seems to have been shopping because the navy evening dress she wears isn’t what she’d planned to wear in Aus. Mishael looks gorgeous, as usual, and has opted for another gown of plum. Even Geoff seems to have splashed some cash, ‘cos I don’t think you can to hire a tux of that quality anywhere in the world.

  Phillippe meets us at the ground floor; his assistant handing me my bouquet of ivory roses. These, at least I chose. He directs us around the corner to a door; a nearby silver plaque declaring it The Courtyard. To my dismay, Faris stands just inside the door. Fuck a duck. My heart contracts at the sight of him standing there as cool as all get out. I almost stumble; my palm catching the wall.

  ‘Steady on, Katie.’ Geoff grasps my elbow, while Mum tells me I should’ve chosen more sensible shoes.

  Faris takes Mishael in his arms, grazing his lips against her cheek, causing my expression to twist. I can’t help it—can’t hide how it makes me feel. Why would such a lovely, genuine woman—a very beautiful and desirable woman—tie herself to such a man? A man who would take another wife and manipulate his only son. Like acid, the thoughts burn me from within, my cheeks heating with indignation . . . and turning instantly to shame. Wasn’t this the very reason I left Dubai? Mistaken or not, I left to protect myself from hurt, knowing if I stayed, I risked losing myself along with my heart.

  I physically rouse myself from these thoughts as Mishael pulls away and facilitates introductions while Faris tries his damndest to not catch my eye.

  The last time we met, Faris tried to buy me off, determined to break us apart, to decide who Kai married, and yet here I stand. Ironic, really. Every inch the model of propriety, he takes Mishael’s hand into the crook of his arm.

  Phillippe hands out instructions on who’s going when, and then the double doors open to the oncoming dusk, allowing the melodic notes of a string orchestra playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D major to drift in. Kai’s parents lead the procession, arm in arm, followed a beat later by my misty-eyed olds. Niamh gives me a quick thumbs up, and grabbing her own bouquet, makes her progress through the door.

  ‘Remember, my little koala bear, step-together-step-together.’ Phillippe’s directions come with a short two-step demo and complaints at our lack of a rehearsal. ‘Now, none of this galloping down the aisle to get to your man. I know it’ll be tempting. Especially when you clap eyes on that handsome devil at the end of this bit of shag-pile.’ With a suggestively raised brow, he shoots me a grin. ‘That man’s sexy and he knows it.’

  LMFAO. Not. Just what I need to have playing in my head right now.

  ‘Ready, my little Australasian chicken?’

  ‘Wigglewigglewigglewiggle.’ I inhale, letting the breath out slowly. ‘Yeah.’

  Phillippe presses a finger to his ear, tapping an intercom fastened to his waistband. ‘Shanaz. We have a code red.’ He looks a little panic-stricken. ‘I repeat, a code red. Bring me the hipflask—she’s gone into shock.’

  ‘Ready.’ Without waiting for his reply, I step through the open door.

  Beyond, the courtyard is secluded and intimate by virtue of high, pale stone walls. A large wooden arbour stands at the end of a length of ivory carpet, its edges sprinkled with pink-tinged rose petals. Glass hurricane lanterns light the way through the lowering daylight. And beneath the heavy canopy of deep green vines and candlelight, stands my husband.

  My Kai.

  As my toes touch the carpet, my eyes feast on his appearance and devour his lean angles and casual grace. Clean shaven, his dark tousled hair is brushed back from his face throwing his high cheekbones into sharp relief. As I draw near, his eyes reflect my devotion, shining in their amber lustre, and with each of my measured steps, I feel the weight of his love shining in that gaze.

  This is the moment.

  And this is forever.

  Niamh takes my bouquet as I reach the arbour. Our small party of five closes behind me and the priest steps into place. Is he a priest? A minister? A parson? I’m not sure of the correct address, though he could be an actor, resplendent in vestments stolen from a fancy dress shop, for all I know.

  Kai holds out his hand, guiding my body and lips into his. His lips touch mine, gossamer light and my eyes fall closed as his touch steals the breath from my lungs.

  Distantly, someone masculine clears their throat.

  ‘We haven’t gotten to that part yet, I’m afraid.’

  The smattering of soft laughter causes my cheeks to heat as our lips separate.

  Words are then spoken. Words of faith, without affiliation; pronouncements of the sanctity of marriage, without deference to religion or creed. One God. One love. And as Kai glides a delicate band of diamonds onto my finger, we are decreed joined.

  A brief ceremony but more than I could ever have imagined. Though if asked to recall my favourite part, I doubt I’d be able to repeat one word until, that is, my head is cupped in Kai’s palms, his gaze intent on my own.

  ‘I’ll call you my wife, not because we are married, but because you are everything to me. You know me better than you imagine, better than anyone in this world, in fact, and yet somehow you’ve still decided to love me. I will remain true and by your side because you are my everything.’

  I don’t have a prepared declaration—no carefully worded vows, but he might’ve plucked those words from my mind. So I repeat to him the one thing that matters most.

  ‘I love you, Kais Al Khalfan.’

  He kisses me then, thoroughly, and in that moment I know souls do meet on lovers’ lips.

  Arm in arm and wreathed in smiles, we leave the courtyard, our guests following behind.

  A perfect ceremony, and I’d’ve been happy for it to have ended right there; maybe an intimate dinner with our family before escaping off alone somewhere. But that’s not the Khalfan way. The adan is called from nearby mosques, the melodic tenor as fitting a backdrop as any. We traverse a maze of bay trees, entering into a clearing festooned by fairy lights. Circular tables sit at one end of a larger courtyard. A raised stage housing a band sits at the other, the pale sandstone flooring in between designated as a dance floor. White linen, white flowers, candles and green vines; the whole effect is understated and utterly gorgeous.

  Our guests stand as we enter, clapping and cheering, some scattering petals as we pass. It seems the Dubai glitterati are out in full force tonight, only this time, I feel like I’m one of them, rather than the o
dd one out.

  The evening passes in a blur—the sun setting on the horizon blazing gold and apricot, making way for twilight and the oncoming night. A magical night filled with the scents of jasmine and illuminated by twinkling lights and a million stars beyond.

  ‘Darlings, I’m so incredibly happy for you both.’ Wreathed in wide smiles, Mishael kisses us in turn. ‘Can I steal your bride for a little while? We should show our faces in the banqueting hall.’

  ‘What’s going on in there?’ I ask, slightly panic-stricken at the thoughts of having to ingest more food.

  ‘In deference to the more conservative of the guests, we’ve reserved areas for segregated gatherings, for those who felt unable to attend the mixed event,’ Mishael adds.

  ‘Separate for women and men?’

  ‘Yes. We ought to pop in and show the ladies how beautiful you are. Kai will come and join you in a little while. Right, darling?’

  Kai’s smile is a little sad. ‘I don’t relish giving her up.’

  ‘Me either. Last time Geoff stood on my toes!’

  ‘That’s because you both have two left feet,’ he teases. ‘But if I must, I must. I’ll follow you in very—’ twining our held hands behind my back, he kisses me. ‘—very shortly.’

  Mishael gathers my mother and Niamh and the four of us take a private elevator to some distant floor. As the doors slide open, the cool air is a welcome respite; although the weather is lots more gentle this time of year, especially the evenings, it still is pretty warm.

  As we step out, a dull thud of bass vibrates under my toes. Somehow, this wasn’t what I’d’ve expected, if I’d thought to expect anything at all. Loud Arabic pop music blares and arrhythmic lighting bounces from the walls of the high ceilinged hall. I also couldn’t have anticipated our reception as some of the women turn to greet us with a vocal sort of high-pitched trilling. Ululating, I think it’s called. It’s shocking for a moment or two, but also deeply primal, as the music—being played by a female DJ—dissipates in the room. We’re sprinkled with more petals and I’m passed almost from hand to hand, greeted, while being told how beautiful I look, marsha’allah, as I’m blessed and kissed. Some faces I recognise—Sadia and Hala, and some of Kai’s female cousins from my henna night—while others are unfamiliar, but they’re all happy faces, all the same. Wedding fever must be infectious! They’re also dressed to kill; the room is overflowing with evening gowns of all colours and designs. And there’s more flesh flashing than is appropriate on Oscar night!

  Eventually, we reach a raised dais where a silver cushioned love-seat sits under a canopy of white flowers. Candelabra, at least eight-feet tall, stand on each step leading to the platform and the whole stage area is bathed by a soft glow. Mum seems in awe of the, no doubt, tens of thousands of dollars’ worth of flowers, gowns, and richly adorned women, as the music begins again. Niamh is cajoled into joining the dance floor, and she’s surprisingly good, too. She’s all sinuous hips and graceful arms. She even drags me into the fray, and though entertained, judging by their giggles, I doubt anyone was impressed by my whip and nae nae.

  We’re fed cake and served exotic fruit juices, when the DJ announces something in Arabic and a sense of urgency sets in.

  ‘Watch, my dear, you don’t want to miss this.’

  Mishael’s expression is serene as the women stop dancing—those on the dance floor hurrying, those dancing near tables already pulling on their dark cloaking abayaat, and hastily fastening shayla scarves over their hair, until it’s hard to recognise anyone.

  ‘Is that it? Is it over?’ As much as I long to be back in Kai’s arms, it does seem a bit abrupt.

  ‘No, dear. We’re about to be raided.’

  ‘What? Not the police!’

  Mishael covers her laugh with her hand as the grand entrance doors swing open, and the slow beat of a drum sounds. Drawing closer, the beat begins resonating somewhere in my chest. In the crowd, a woman ululates, the sharp noise gathering in pace and volume as others join in. The drum beats louder, nearer, as a group of traditionally dressed men step inside of the room. Some carry ornate sticks with which they accompany the beat, some sing and chant as the drummers enter. Then, two men with large, Arabic-style drums strapped to their waists join the others in a sort of musical guard of honour, when in steps Kai.

  Cheers break out as he stalks the path I’d earlier taken, the women calling out in their obvious delight, his musical entourage falling in behind. His gaze is locked to where I’m sitting, his mouth curved in that half-amused expression he wears so bloody well. I find myself clapping in time to the beat, my heart thumping more rapidly than any drummer could play.

  Reaching the stage, Kai holds out his hand for me and pulls me into his chest.

  ‘That was some entrance,’ I whisper, as he kisses my cheek rather chastely.

  ‘That was the sedate version. Left up to them, I would’ve come dancing in.’ He moves his shoulders, and for a minute, I think he’s going to break out into some Bollywood moves, when he just laughs. He leads me to the dance floor, where we’re surrounded by such happiness and clapping hands as he whirls me around and around. I’m giddy, in both the physical and mental sense, especially as Kai pulls me close, whispering in my ear and telling me how beautiful I look. How he can’t stop looking at me, how he can’t wait until we’re alone, when he can get me naked, and watch me come undone. Crushed to his chest, lost in the fugue of his unique scent—the delicious combination of Kai and cologne—I can almost feel myself there, naked, pressed close and panting breathlessly into his damp chest.

  ‘Kai.’ I tilt my head back and stare into his face, and I’m pretty sure it’s with a lust-glazed gaze. ‘Today has been awesome—’

  ‘We’ve my mother to thank for that. The whole thing is her doing.’

  I slide my hands under his jacket, my fingers spanning his back, my nails meaningfully sharp.

  ‘It’s been fantastic, but when can we leave?’

  I’m so close to him I can feel the hitch in his breath. The stirring in the vicinity of my stomach. The muscles in his neck move as he swallows; an invitation for my lips, but for our conservative audience. We’re pressed so close, we’re probably already on risqué ground.

  ‘Make your goodbyes, and I’ll meet you outside. I’m afraid we’ll have to make our way to the function downstairs—’

  ‘For quick goodbyes?’

  ‘The quickest.’ With a knowing smile, Kai leads me from the dance floor as the song ends and he leaves.

  Mishael, Mum and Niamh are set to return to the mixed function, and after our goodbyes, we make for the door. The evening is still warm, the band distant but audible as we reach the ground floor and step outside once more. This whole day has been like a fairy tale, equal parts enchanting and exotic. A day I’ll remember forever, that’s for sure.

  As we walk, we’re discussing the merits of throwing my bouquet from the stairs versus the stage, when the sound of an argument drowns out the distant strains of the band.

  Like a fairy tale. Just magical.

  Arabic. It’s such a strange dichotomy to me; whispered words of love, and harsh demands. I suppose it’s all in the delivery. I suppose most languages are the same.

  My musing is halted, my footsteps just the same, as I realise I recognise the voices, more particularly, I recognise a derisive Kai.

  One moment I’m living in a fairy tale, the next, the nightmare is back.

  ‘Thank you, Father. Thank you for choosing tonight of all nights to give me such unwelcome advice.’

  Faris’ response is in Arabic and devoid of Kai’s tone. Backwards and forwards more unfamiliar words and sentiments are exchanged as, confused and worried, I look to Mishael.

  ‘What is it?’ I whisper-hiss. ‘What’s going on?’

  Mishael’s feet appear to be frozen to the flagstones, her face drained of colour, leaving her quite grey. She doesn’t seem to register my tugging on her arm; she doesn’t even shake my hand away.


  ‘I’m well aware of the jurisprudence,’ Kai says, louder now. ‘I won’t allow you to do this—my marriage was by the book, whatever you think.’

  I begin to walk, no half jog, my dress gathered in my arms, as Faris speaks again.

  Kai cuts him off. ‘You just don’t get it, do you?’ He expels an angry laugh. ‘I fucking love her, and apart from that monumental announcement—love, Father; you recall the concept, in theory, at least?—she also happens to be carrying my child.’

  Christ on a bike. Christ on a feckin’ great Harley! What have I done? Niamh’s hand grips my arm, but I won’t be held, rounding the corner and almost smacking into the back of Faris. Faris, who seems to be holding his face.

  ‘You will never—never speak of her that way again.’ I thought I’d seen Kai angry before, but it seems he has hidden depths. Eerily calm, scary hidden depths. ‘If you so much as look at her the wrong way, I will cut you out of my life—our lives. I’m going to be a father; do you even know what that means? I do. It means I take every fatherly example you’ve set me and do exactly the opposite.’ Hands by his side, his whole body heaves with restraint. And then he notices us—Niamh and myself, Mum and Mishael, coming up from behind.

  Like a whirlwind, I’m suddenly up in his arms.

  ‘Kai. It’s not—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, kissing my face and hair. ‘I was waiting for you to tell me, I swear.’

  ‘How? I—’

  ‘Martha found the tests in the bathroom. Habibti, I wished I’d been there. You must’ve been so worried and confused. Confused enough to use a half dozen tests.’ This he says on the breath of a laugh. An almost nervous laugh.

  I purse my lips against the notion of correcting him; there were only four. Bloody Martha. No wonder she’s been so nice. The nosy bitch must’ve thought I was responsible for delivery of the second coming.

  ‘And you’ve gone off wine.’

  Jesus! Why does that sound like an accusation? I do not drink too much! I screw my eyes tight, hating that we have an audience, not sure if I’m doing the right thing, but if not this, then what? ‘Kai, listen.’