‘Well, he, I mean I—’ more women begin to gather around me, teachers from the school, and others Mishael seems to want to introduce me to.
‘Give me a buzz, yeah?’ says Hala. ‘We’ll catch up later. Do that lunch?’
‘Sure.’
It’s gone two a.m. when the room finally clears out, and I collapse onto the bed. Niamh lies next to me, not yet willing to leave. I think she’s waiting for the intricate henna design banding her ankle to dry.
‘Funny how not many of the younger ones wanted henna,’ she says, sort of dreamily, probably nearing a food coma. There was just so much to try; silver platters piled high withmachboos,the local favoured rice dish. Pastas and seafood. The most divine savoury pastries that sort of melted on the tongue. And the desserts—I had to move away from the table for fear of not fitting into my dress! Truffles and tarts, tinykhanfaroushcookies and something that was described to me in English as “floaters”. Round balls coated in syrup, which were much more delicious than their name would suggest. And a million and one fruit juices—strawberry and kiwi was my favourite—qawha; cardamom flavoured Arabic coffee, sweet mint tea. The choices seemed never ending.Other than booze, of course, out of deference to tradition and our guests.
‘Christ, my stomach hurts. No wonder they celebrate weddings for days out here. They probably can’t move for half that time.’
‘Mishael says the henna night is still massively popular, but that a lot of the tradition is being lost. Apparently, years ago I’d have had my hair and body anointed in oils by the attendees and my eyes ringed with kohl. Then I’d have to sit on the floor, veiled and eyes downcast through the whole thing.’
‘What? You’d not even get to dance at your own party?’ Because, yes, there’d been a fair bit of that tonight. Jeeze, the women out here can dance; none of this tapping your feet business. They were all hips and sinuous movement—like Shakira having a really good night out. Talk about hips not lying, though I kept mine mostly glued to the chair.
‘Nope. Eyes downcast so no one could put the evil eye on me.’
‘Didn’t see any evil eyes. The woman who did my ankle design had two blue eyes.
‘Did she? That’s unusual.’
‘Yep, one blew east and the other blew west.’ I chuckle, despite the lameness of her joke. ‘Anyway, what did you get?’ Sitting up, she looks at my hands and feet. ‘You didn’t go for the usual stuff.’
‘That’d look lovely with my beautiful dress, wouldn’t it? I wasn’t expected to as that’s one of the dying traditions. Modern Emirati brides are all about the white dress these days. I did get a little something,’ I add casually. ‘I didn’t want to look ungrateful.’
Truthfully, I have gone alittletraditional after one of the elderly henna artists told me that it was good luck to have your intended’s name hidden somewhere in a design. She’d sort of winked and said in halting English, though no less meaningfully, that it could be fun to let him try and find it on your wedding night.
‘Well, I had a grand time, but I’m shagged, so I’m gonna head off to bed. Need anything before tomorrow? Knotted sheets to scale the building? A drop of Valium to get you through the night?’
‘We’re heading to the spa, aren’t we?’
‘Breakfast by the pool first. Then a day full of pampering before you get sold on for a bushel of camels or some such shite.’ Niamh pushes herself upright, making her way to the bedroom door.
‘It’s called a caravan.’
‘Well, Geoff is a bit of a cheapskate, and you are a bit of an auld bag, so I suppose it serves him right. I expect you’re only worth the same as a ten-year old caravan on the marriage market, anyway.’
‘Love you, Niamh.’
‘I suppose you’re all right.’
‘Night.’
