Chapter Six
Sunday morning I roll out of bed, quite literally, hitting the floor with a resoundingthunk!I’m calling it days-of-the-weekdisorientation, because how Sunday can be the first official day of the working week blows my mind.
So this is the day previously known as Monday? I have the Monday morning blues... on a Sunday.
God, my brain doesn’t function this early.
With a last lingering glance at the sleep-disturbed covers, I pull myself upright from my position splayed on the floor. Oh well, when in Rome the start of the week is the end of the week, sort of, because while the rest of the world enjoys a lazy Sunday morning, in the UAE we’re off to work.Yay.
The school day begins like any other and I’m eager to get back into the swing of things. It does feel strange to be back in the classroom after the weekend, possibly the same can be said for the students as my little angels seem to have grown horns over the weekend. I now have a class full of absolute ratbags, maybe now comfortable in the knowledge that their new teacher isn’t an ogre or maybe sensing my distracted mood, who knows? Whatever the reason it’s not fun, especially as I spend my morning break explaining to eight-year-old Muneera why five-fingered discounts aren’t acceptable in any classroom. Why it’s never a wise move to borrow your teacher’s favourite pen. Then use it in class. And swear blind it’s your own.
I’m beginning to think last week could’ve been a fluke. Discipline might well be a brand spanking new word for my little Princesses’ vocabularies, and I do mean Princesses with a capital P, as I have an actual member of royalty in my class. Or Sheikha as is the correct title. According to Niamh, ruling families in the Gulf can be quite extensive, so I’ll save my curtsies.She has a couple of royal children in her class, too. One of her royal charges is actually called Sheikha Mayassa.
I’m guessing someone didn’t Googlethat.
As the day progresses, it becomes clear that most of the class have never had to lift a finger to look after themselves in their short lives, which makes my job interesting, to say the least. Despite not agreeing completely with what Jen had said at brunch, I’m beginning to think she might’ve had a point. Watching the army of domestic-uniformed nannies carrying little pink backpacks into the classroom last week should’ve been a sign, a pink flag, that the kids weren’t carrying their own bags. Still, my little Dubai divas aren’t all that different from their classmates in Australia, and if you ignore the obvious differences, Al Mishael isn’t all that different, either.
Who am I kidding? It’s like living on another planet.
The week passes in a blur. I’m wiped out by the early mornings, so much so that I fall into bed uncharacteristically early, asleep before my head hits the pillow. I’m even beginning to sleep through the dawn call to prayer. No small achievement given that its minaret—and loudspeaker system—seem to be located somewhere next to my head. The faithful are called to pray five times a day and the sound is already becoming a background noise. I’ve been told the dawn prayer includes the wordsprayer is better than sleep. After these early mornings, I can’t say I feel the sentiment, no matter how melodious the words sound.
Wednesday ends on a particularly heinous note. What should have been a simple afternoon craft session turned into something else entirely, and for a short while at least, anyone entering the classroom could have easily mistaken it for raining glitter indoors. Glue, glitter and little girlsdo notmix. I’m half expecting a mob of angry mothers tomorrow, wielding handbags and demanding to know why their little darlings returned home looking like disco balls. I’ll possibly have to explain why said darlings undertook a spot of cleaning, too. Not that it was an effective punishment by any means.
The day can’t end quickly enough as I hurriedly pack away my things, eagerly anticipating a medicinal glass ofvin rouge,when I notice a number bonds poster I’d tacked to the wall has come loose. I use one of the tiny chairs as a step because I can’t be arsed to get out the ladder again.
‘I see you’re still flouting health and safety protocols.’
The teasing cadence of his now familiar voice reverberates around the empty room. This time I manage to stay upright.Just.Leaning against the doorjamb, his hands are folded into his pockets, very nonchalant, but there’s something about his gaze that absolutely belies his stance.
‘You scared the sh—life out of me!’ I say, hand on my chest. ‘The only thing endangering my safety is you.’
‘How so?’
His eyes shine gold in the afternoon sun, and I can’t help draw parallels between him and a hawk. Which would make me the mouthful of tasty mouse he’s considering.
I hop down from the chair, swallowing a squeak.
‘You, creeping up on me.’ I turn my attention back to my desk and bag, a sudden warmth rising in my stomach.Who knew chemistry was an actual physical thing?
‘Creeping suggests some kind of furtiveness and I’m nothing if not candid. Sensible footwear today, I see. Ballet flats?’
‘Kitten heels.’ I hold out my foot behind me, the pointed toe of my shoe against the floor. ‘Flats are much lower,’ I say, examining the heel before raising my eyes to his face.
An upper incisor is fastened to his bottom lip, flesh paling under the pressure. A small noise stems from the back of his throat, appreciation, I think, before turning to a tenor of enquiry or consideration. But his expression is so...sexual. The heat flares further south, colour simultaneously spreading north to my face as I notice his smile. Why do I feel like a sheep that’s been maneuvered into a pen? Forcing my gaze away, I clear my throat and return to my bag packing exercise.
‘Yes, well. Shoe lesson over.’ I don’t need to see his face to know he’s smiling, even though I feel I ought not to.
‘They’re certainly an appropriate pedestal.’
‘When eight-year-olds make you feel small, heels are the only answer,’ I retort. ‘And I like nice shoes.’
Lazily pushing himself from the door surround, he saunters to my desk set at the front of the room. Almost lounging against it, he stretches his long legs out in front. Each facing the opposite direction, we’re shoulder to shoulder and almost touching as an electrical force dances in the air. I’ve never been more grateful for the curtain of my hair as he leans in, leans closer, then peers exaggeratedly down at my feet.
‘Exquisite.’
His voice seems to have dropped a full octave as I grab papers from my desk, continuing to shove them into my bag in an effort to avoid acknowledging the large, hot presence at my side.
‘Is this a social call?’ I ask in a tone that might best be described asarsey. ‘Or are you actually here for a reason. Business, maybe?’
