He does so, laughing, as he asks, ‘What brought you to Dubai?’
‘Why did I move here?’ I repeat, my mind prevaricating between truth and a much more comfortable fiction.I close my eyes and try to arrange the thoughts I have no intention of sharing. ‘Why not?’ I eventually answer. ‘It was time for a change. I have a friend here and...Why not?’
‘There must be a reason,’ he admonishes.
‘I came here for a holiday and ended up staying.’ With a casual shrug, I reach for my glass. Water. He didn’t order drinks with our meal. ‘Do you know, my name—’
His eyes gleam devilishly as he waves away my words. ‘I know that; get to the bits I don’t already know.’
‘I wasgoingto say my name is actually Katherine. With a K. Though I prefer Kate, and that only Niamh calls me Kat or Kitty or other ...variances and that no one has ever called meKittenbefore.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment. You can’t have purred for anyone else.’ I blink slowly, resisting the urge to comment; when you’re right, you’re right but I’m so not going to tellhimthat. ‘Go on. I need more.’
Oh, god. More. About me.
My neck works as I swallow over the lump in my throat, but I quickly get a hold of myself; I don’t have to share more than I’m comfortable with. The bare bones of the life of Kate.
‘Well, I, er, I’m from Palm Beach in Queensland. On the Gold Coast? But usually I tell people I’m from Brisbane, to avoid confusion and that’s where I lived... last.’ I clear my throat. ‘Most people don’t know where... anyway, it’s not as glamorous as the other Palm Beach, or, you know, its namesake, in America?’ I try very hard not to squeak the last word, my voice rendering the words a question. ‘Not that I’ve ever been there, or anything.’Inhale.‘I’m not much of a beach bunny.’Engage brain cells.‘And I’ve never drank as much as I have since moving here. I like cake and I’m probably going to need to detox soon.’
With each rambling word, his smile grows exponentially. ‘That’s it?’ he asks as I finish. ‘That’s all you’re willing to share?’
I shrug but don’t open my mouth.
‘Where are the tales of yearning for adventure, escaping mad boyfriends, unrequited affections and torrid love affairs?’
‘You’ve obviously never been to Palm Beach. The most exciting thing that happens there is when the surf club changes the menu.’
‘Lots of words without information, Kitten.’ The corner of his mouth quirks as he pauses. ‘What about...’ He straightens in his chair. ‘Okay, if you were a car what kind would you be?’
‘What, are we twelve all of a sudden?’
‘It’s just a bit of fun, trying to crack that shell.’ He’s all wide smiles and gorgeous hair and I wouldn’t be surprised to find he beguiles everyone in his path.
Gesturing to the waiter with an almost invisible motion, Kai issues instructions in rapid-fire Arabic.
‘For instance,Iwould be a Bentley Continental,’ he says, still amused. ‘Because I’m a new take on the traditional model, have plenty of staying power, my stylish exterior masking just a couple of unexpected kinks.’ Expansive hands and golden eyes ask, ‘And you would be?’
I stare back, suddenly stumped. What kind of kinks is he talking about here? Euphemistic ones, I hope. And me? A banger? No, that doesn’t sound right. A station wagon because of the junk in my trunk?
‘It’s not a test,’ he adds laughing and startling me into speech.
‘I think I’d probably be like... a bike. A push bike. A bicycle,’ I qualify, digging a larger hole. ‘What I mean is, I’m not very fast or sleek. Slow and steady’s more my style. With just one previous owner.’
Sometimes I even astound myself, I’m just that dumb. D.U.M. dumb, not even bright enough to qualify for the final B. I burn with embarrassment as Kai’s shoulders begin to shake.I guess bike has the same connotations in Dubai.
‘Gently used?’ he splutters.
‘Not particularly.’
Maybe I should just be struck dumb for my own defence.
His laughter slows, smile fading and replaced by confusion. But the waiter, my unwitting saviour again, prevents my death from shame by placing a silver tray on the table. On it stands two ornate tumblers, each containing a little ice, a blue glass bottle with an ornate Arabic label, a small silver jug with a long, ladle-like handle. Oh, and a bottle of water, sourced from Italy, of course, the kind that costs ten bucks a pop.
Dismissing him, Kai pours liquid from the blue bottle into the odd looking jug. Next, he adds water before pouring the clear liquid mixture into the glasses of ice. Strangely, as the liquid touches the ice, it becomes milk.
‘Arak,’ he says, handing me a glass, raising his. ‘It’s an aperitif from Lebanon. If you can handle afternoon martinis’...’
Sniffing tentatively, I inhale the pleasant, liquorice aroma before taking a sip. I come up spluttering, the alcohol burning the back of my throat. It travels my oesophagus, a warming bloom travelling in its wake.
