Chapter Four
I’ve had brunch before; the meal in the place of breakfast and lunch, don’t you know. A pavement café, cool wine, bread and olives. Sophisticated. Get me, woman of the world, or so I thought until the following day finds me in the atrium of a very swanky hotel in Jumeirah Beach. Brunch Dubai style is something entirely else.
Unsure of the dress code, I’d opted for a cute tea dress with a cherry print and capped sleeves. Short but cutesy in a kind of 1940’s way, I pair it with a messy up-do and, of course, my current favourite killer heels. Other than a little leg, I’m dressed modestly enough for most occasions, neither under or overdressed in vintage chic. It’s a look Shane would hate, which is another good reason he isn’t here, I remind myself.
A liveried member of the concierge team helps me from my cab and into the cool expanse of a rather grand foyer, and I’m pleased to have made the effort. Marble floors and glass chandeliers; it’s so very ...posh.
Once inside the restaurant, I spot my table pretty much immediately. It’s the loud one.
‘Kate, glad you made it!’ Pool-Matt, as I’ve labelled him, gathers me into an awkward hug, introducing me to our tablemates, his arm draped across my shoulders.Familiarity via wine, I think it’s called. A waiter hands me a glass of bubbles and nerves necessitate I drink it faster than is strictly decorous, but what the hell. Dutch courage is definitely the order of the day given that I’m sitting with a tableful of virtual strangers, including two guys who made me extremely wet yesterday. Wait, that sounds much worse than it actually is.
It turns out therearesome teachers living in the building, though not from Al Mishael. Two guys in construction include me in their conversation, along with three girls around my age; office staff of some kind. Niamh hasn’t yet deigned to arrive, which doesn’t surprise me. She’s a perpetual latecomer, usually armed with a pithy or pissy quote, depending on how her tardiness is questioned. Braver souls than I have tried and failed.
‘Jesus, Mary, Joseph and their little grey donkey, the traffic’s afeckin’ nightmare.It might’ve been quicker to travel by Bethlehembus!’ Niamh’s sudden entrance finds her dashing around the table kissing cheeks and touching arms, but it’s a self-imposed lateness. She doesn’t fool me, it’s all about the entrance, I know.
‘I’m that hungry I could eat the hind leg off the lamb o’God,’ she says, planting her butt into the chair next to mine. ‘So, the roommate.’ Lowering her voice, she leans closer. ‘Would ‘ya?’
‘Would I what?’
‘Shag, snog? Hump out his brains?’ She gestures to Matt sitting next to me, deep in conversation with one of the office girls.
‘I think you’ll find itspush off a cliff, which is exactly what I’m gonna do to you. What the hell did you say to them yesterday?’
‘Nothing,’ she answers all wide-eyed. ‘Why?’
‘I thought you’d promised them a wristy or something.’
Her brow furrows. ‘A what?’
‘You know...’ On my lap and under the table, I flick my wrist as though shaking a bottle of sauce. ‘A wristy; they kept looking at me funny.’
‘It’s probably,’ she says through a snigger, ‘all those rebound pheromones. New bucks and all that. Nice gloss, by the way.’
‘I don’t want...bucking,’ I whisper-hiss, tentatively touching my lips.
‘Really? Lips must be for someone’s benefit,’ she says with another glance at Matt. ‘You know what men think of when they see a girl with pink, wet lips?’
I open my mouth but don’t get to answer as a sneering voice cuts in.
‘So you’re the girl working at Al Mishael? And good luck to you; I’ve heard the kids don’t even speak feckin’ English.Christ, I bet the parents are a pain.’
This from a girl opposite. Another Irish accent, only this one accompanied by a nasty tone.
‘So far so good,’ I answer brightly.
‘Really? The way I heard, the parents don’t even like their kids picking up after themselves and stuff, like it’s demeaning or something. Especially as they’ve an army of maids at home, spoon feeding them, wiping their noses and arses.’ She laughs and gestures indelicately, carrying on as though I haven’t spoken. ‘I even heard of one kid who refused to travel to an excursion on the school bus. She went in her own swanky Merc, ‘cosdaddysaid riding on the school bus was beneath her.’ Her incredulous gaze does a sweep if the table. ‘Can you believe it? Your man said that, in an actual conversation, like? The conceited shite.’
Murmurs break out amongst the group, and I decide it’s probably not the place to quip I’m no fan of the peasant wagon myself. As it is, I don’t need to respond as Niamh interrupts.
‘We’ve the same problems in the international schools, Jen. There are always people who think they deserve preferential treatment. It’s nothing new.’
As I’ve nothing sensible to add, I keep quiet, grateful when the conversation turns to someone else.
‘Hey, did you hear Sarah resigned?’ Jen tugs at the sleeve of a girl to the far left, leaning across the PR girls sat in between. ‘She up and quit her job to spend more time with that fecker Khalid, can you believe it? She’s only known him a month!’ Both girls’ eyebrows pucker, neither offering a response beyond a vaguehmm. ‘Why do they do it? Sure, it’s all hearts and flowers one minute. Then it’s,babe, I’ll get you an apartment and you won’t have to work. But then the bastards have you. You’d be better off whoring in one of the hotels.’
Confusion must be written across my face as Matt leans in with an explanation.
‘Rich Gulf Arabs dating Western girls, a culture clash. Nice guys turning into control freaks, Mr Hyde, that sort of stuff.’ I know from personal experience there are men all over the planet hiding ugly alter-egos. It isn’t unique to Dubai. ‘Unfortunately, it doesn’t happen the other way around. No wealthy Arab women trying to make me a kept man,’ he says, laughing.
