Chapter Seventy-Three
I don’t ask where we’re going or where home will be from now on. One thing I am certain of is that it won’t be in the hotel.Better not be, anyway.
It’s the early hours of the morning and yet the roads in Dubai aren’t quiet at all. We pass through the city, that oasis of chrome and glass, and I watch as familiar landmarks pass by: Burj Khalifa towering in the sky, the Marina, familiar shopping malls, the metro, and still we drive. The passing landscape becomes less lofty, the residential districts less green and more spread out, rather than statuesque. Then we pull up at a familiar set of gates. Wall mounted cameras swing in the cars direction and then the gates to the Khalfan estate open slowly.
We’re going to Kai’s house. His home. The place I’ve never visited, but long wondered about.
Though there may be a number of houses situated here, as I recall Kai once mentioning, you’d be hard pushed to tell. Each residence is set back from the sand-coloured road and obscured by palms and other greenery. I think we drive past Mishael’s house, but in the dark it’s hard to tell.
‘Is that where your mum lives?’ I lay my finger against the cool glass, pointing to the vague suggestion of a building, shrouded by the darkness though somehow still familiar.
Kai lifts his head from the headrest with a jerk. He shakes it as though he could shake off his tiredness by sheer will. A tall order, considering every time I lifted my sleepy lids during our flight, he was awake.
‘Yes. She’s just over from me. Us, I mean.’
Us. The newlyweds.
‘How many houses are there here?’
‘Never counted them,’ he answers through a stifled yawn. ‘A few, I suppose.’
‘I thought they were all family?’
‘They are, but it keeps expanding. Marriages, you know?’
I nod that I do, even though I don’t.Multiple marriages?I’ll never understand the need for more than one wife. When we’d argued about our wedding contract, I recall the overwhelming desire to deck him, to land him one square on the jaw. He’d pointed out he’d included a clause forbidding him from taking subsequent wives on the pain of instant divorce.Pain of losing his balls, more like, because that’s what I’d’ve done.It had been the final straw, but now that we’re here, in the land of such rights, I feel reassured.Almost. Will there be a lot of that going on amongst Kai’s family? Feck, how do you keep up with multiple wives on a social side? Hope there won’t be a lot of strange women and theirsister wivespopping in to borrow sugar anytime soon.
The car begins to slow alongside a stone-coloured wall, and I realise there’s not really an architectural theme running through the estate. Mishael’s house is what I’d call Moorish-Mediterranean as far as style is concerned, though I’m not sure you’d find the term in theArchitectural Digest. Surrounded by an intricate and handsome wrought iron fence, the house is complete with colonnades and arches, yet somehow still appears welcoming.
Kai’s house is über modern, from what I can see beyond the white, high wall surrounding it; thick, solid and impenetrable. It says stay away, keep out. Visitors are unwelcome here.
We pull up in front of an opaque glass gate, Kai telling Rashid we’ll go in through the front.
The car pulls away as Kai pushes on a steel coloured handle, the gate, which seems more like a door now we’re in front of it, opening slowly. He turns swiftly, swooping down and putting one hand behind my knees, then I’m in his arms.
‘I’m too heavy, you arse! I’ll break your back!’
‘Nonsense. And it’s customary to carry the bride over the threshold.’
‘I’d prefer you to retain the use of your spine.’
Beyond the open gate is a timber walkway over a trough of water, floodlit from beneath the waterline. A large urn, almost as tall as me, stands in front of a screen of bamboo. The front yard has a tropical feel, but is very structured. Antique looking doors, the type you’d expect to find in a temple or the home of some Indian Raj, are seemingly unlocked, as Kai carries me inside.
The entrance hall is dark, illuminated only by a light from somewhere in the depths of the house. There’s an art-deco inlaid table in the centre of the square, marbled floor and a very grand staircase leading to the next floor.
Kai bends and my feet touch the floor.
‘Do you mind if we do the grand tour tomorrow?’
‘S’fine,’ I say, yawning. ‘Lead the way to your boudoir, milord, but can I have a bottle of water, please?’ One never drinks it from the taps; you can almost taste the salt in it out here.
His face in response is half smile, half disconcerted frown. ‘You can have whatever you want. This is as much your home as it is mine now. Come on.’ He takes my hand and leads me to the staircase, stopping on the bottom step, sensing my reluctance. ‘There’s a wet-bar upstairs.’
Of course there is.
The wet-bar turns out to be part of a snug upstairs living area. Squishy sofas that look like they’ve never felt the pressure of a bum sit in front of a cream shaggy rug with a massive TV hanging from the wall. Behind the lounge area, there’s a tiny round basin set in granite, a small stainless steel fridge and accompanying wine cooler underneath.
Kai hands me a bottle of water, and taking my hand, leads me further along the corridor.
