Chapter Ninety-One
The days that follow are almost Halycon-esque; glorious days filled with hanging out together, silliness, and sex. It seems an age since we’ve had the opportunity to just be together, and we’re both so much happier for the experience, even if it does only add up to a scant few days.
Kai works from home in the week leading up to the big day, leaving my side only to work from the home office occasionally. Oh, and when he goes for his morning run. On those early mornings he does manage to rouse me—in the most imaginative ways—he heads to the gym instead. I hang out there with him, messing about on the machines while he lifts. Yeah, okay, more like I cop a squat on the stationery bike and perve. After we shower, together usually, Martha prepares breakfast, and I’m pretty sure she’s not spitting in mine while Kai’s home. Just to be sure, I swapped our plates on that first day, and she didn’t look at all perturbed, so that says it all.Actually, it’s all a little freaky as she’s taken to being nice to me. I don’t trust her motives, not really, and expect hostilities and ruined laundry to resume once Kai has to travel again. Up until then, I’m enjoying French toast and a divine fruit salad daily, sans saliva while it lasts.
The ‘rents also seem to be having a blast, tucked in their little love nest across the pool. Most days Rashid drops them somewhere for them to do the touristy thing; souks—gold, spices and anything in between—museums and malls. I’ve gone with them once or twice, but once they got over their fear of the unknown and the worry that “no one would speak English”, they’ve been content to go it alone, which suits me.
The odd lunch or dinner spent in their company is enough, believe me.
It’s such a beautiful house, Katherine. You want to make it into a home, add some feminine touches. Soft furnishings, candles, that sort of thing.
I made your cleaning lady a nice cuppa this morning. Told her to go and put up her feet. If this was Australia, she’d be getting a government pension, not vacuuming someone else’s floors.
No point telling Mum I’d gladlypayMartha a pension if she’d bugger off back to India. Anyway, I mostly manage to tune out her badly veiled criticisms.
The weekend finds us all moving from the house into a pretty swish hotel on The Palm. That’sThe Palm, as in the man-made island made to look like a tree sat inside a goldfish bowl.
Only in Dubai.
All of us in the hotel, but Kai. He’s staying home until tomorrow—the big day. I’m instigatingthe bride and groom shall not set eyes on each other until the day of the wedding rule, and despite Kai’s protestations that the idea is archaic, I’m sticking to my guns. I haven’t had a lot of involvement in our wedding plans—yes, my own fault—but there are certain things I do want, and one of those is to see Kai’s face as I enter the room... or wherever we’re having the ceremony... if that’s what we’re having.
Honestly? I haven’t a clue.
Anyway, I want him to be struck by this vision in ivory—that would be me—though I wouldn’t put it past Phillippe to turn up in an ivory suit, too. I don’t want Kai to see me until that very moment. I just want to see his expression, that’s all. As I’ve said before, I haven’t a clue what he’s thinking when he looks at me, except when he looks at me like I’m a chocolate éclair. One he’s about to slip his thumbs inside to break in two. Like he’s considering drawing his tongue from end to end, before devouring the pastry...
Fun times!
Those times, it’s easier, but mostly he has such a way of restraining what’s going on inside that head of his. The master of non-expression. But it’s the fleeting glimpses of what he’s thinking when he’s free and open that I just love, and those moments aren’t often.
Plus, if he’s hanging around the room, he’ll probably hinder my dressing, probably persuading me the opposite is needed, instead.
Traditions are relative, according to Kai, and as a culturally mixed marriage, he thinks we should make our own. Starting by not having the night before apart, strangely enough. He’d cajoled and promised faithfully to leave the room at the first inkling of daylight, though I note he didn’t say a night apart was pointless as we’re already married, and that we’ve already shagged. But yes, we are married, and this blessing or wedding ceremony, or whatever it is, felt sort of unnecessary until recently. It’s true thewaywe married wasn’t of my choosing, and I’d thought the fact we’d wed was enough. But there’s just something about slipping into a wedding gown and a pair of sparkly heels, something about watching those that love you—and those that you love—get all teary-eyed, that sort of changes everything.
So I’d insisted upon the eve of our wedding apart, though I’d almost caved, but managed to be resolute by insisting the anticipation of a night spent apart would most definitely make certain things harder. Which would make for more fun on the wedding night.
Like I said, sticking to my guns, and a Kai weeping at the vision of ivory floating down the aisle. Or stumbling. Which, let’s face it, is likely.
In the meantime, I’m not alone in the penthouse tonight. Niamh’s here keeping me company.
‘Where’d these come from?’
Sat on the floor next to the sofa I’m sprawled across, she reaches up, swiping a chocolate from the pile of daintily wrapped confections by my side, this time not quite grasping one.
‘Ow! That feckin’ hurt.’
‘Good. There’ll be none left at the rate you’re ploughing through them. And they were in the room when I arrived.’
‘Odd. It’s not a little tray of chocs to go with your fruit basket, is it?’
Both of our gazes move to the full size dining table where the large pyramid of white and golden wrapped handmade morsels tower. Minus the ones we’ve swiped from one corner.
‘I hope they weren’t for anything in particular.’
‘Shite.’ Twisting to face me, Niamh looks ashen. ‘You’re going to hate me, but you were anyway. I mean, I would hate me, at any rate. Doesn’t sound like a fun pastime, for a start. I’m not even sure—you see, the thing is—’
‘Niamh. Spit it out, for gods’ sakes. It’s just a few chocolates.’
‘No. You don’t understand. I’m a shit Matron of Honour. I didn’t throw you an awesome hens, or bachelorette—’
