I Can't Think Straight (2 page)

Zina sat up on her bed, disappointed – with herself, for wanting to escape Tala’s party – but mainly with the cake. Until she had parted her curtains and watched the garish bulk of that cake being brought into the garden, she had been successfully convincing herself that she was glad to be home. Most of her apparent contentment had been achieved at her own expense, through basic psychological trickery. She knew she was adept at evoking a romantic nostalgia for things like the jasmine trees, the scent of smoked aubergines, even the ageing faces of her mother and father. But it was all a fantasy of the mind, an elaborate structure to enable her to get through an evening, a week, a month in this place, without succumbing to a nervous breakdown. Gold icing. Who, in God’s name, ever used gold icing? It looked metallic, the cake, as though it had been sprayed with car paint and it encapsulated everything that irritated her about the Middle East. The gaudy, unnatural look of it, the probably poisonous taste of it.

And then there was the dress. Draped across the foot of the bed was an offensively gold concoction. Pinned to the shoulder of the dress was one of her mother’s stiff, gilt-edged note cards. In Reema’s florid hand were written the words: ‘No black. It’s an engagement party, not a funeral. Mama.’ She could imagine her mother had congratulated herself for an hour after thinking up that hilarious line. Carelessly, Zina pulled the note off and tossed it into the bin.

As she regarded the dress mournfully, it became clear to her (and not for the first time) that her mother obviously hated her. A tear of self-pity touched Zina’s eye, even as she realised something far more serious – that her dress had obviously been chosen to match the cake. A snapshot of a previous engagement cake, an emerald-turreted confection – had it been Tala’s first? – flashed into her mind, and beside it, her mother, somewhat younger, in a brilliant green Yves Saint Laurent dress and matching eyeshadow that had not seemed so inelegant amid the general style overkill of that period.

Drawing in a long breath, she tried to dispel the vague nausea that suddenly touched her, and made a conscious effort not to recall the other cakes, the other parties, the broken engagements, the desperate fiancés, the feuding families. In one short week she would be back at university in New York, and would have a month to recover from this trip before returning for the wedding. In the meantime, she began to list in her mind the things that would help her to get through the evening without resorting to sarcasm or sullen silence.

At the top of that list was the knowledge that she would not be putting any of that cake into her mouth. If it was bad luck, then so be it. Frankly, she had eaten cake three times before, and not one of the engagements had stuck. Although, a moment later, the thought struck her that perhaps that had been the good luck after all. She smiled slightly and headed into the bathroom.

‘Is this seven millimetres?’

Lamia, waiting for mirror space behind the broad shoulders of her husband, stepped forward and peered at the ruler that he used to measure how much of his handkerchief peeked from his tuxedo pocket. She nodded, and Kareem lowered the ruler and turned away, satisfied.

‘I just hope this is the last engagement party your father has to throw for your sister.’

Lamia tried very hard to concentrate only on her own reflection in the polished glass. She adjusted her necklace, pleased with the way it set off the elegant sapphire-blue of her evening dress. But Kareem was fidgeting at his immaculately ordered closets, checking that the edges of his ties were aligned, needling the perfect rows of socks, needling her.

‘Poor man,’ he said, clicking his tongue.

‘He doesn’t mind,’ Lamia offered.

‘Of course he minds. He’s kind enough not to show it. But for a man of his standing to endure the shame…’

Lamia closed her eyes just long enough to block out the sound of her husband’s voice. She opened her eyes, and cast a half-smile at her own reflection before turning to him.

‘How do I look?’ she asked.

Kareem’s long-lashed brown eyes passed over her figure and for a brief, pleasurable moment, Lamia felt conscious of her own beauty.

‘You could cover your shoulders a little more.’

She looked down. ‘It’s not cold.’

He plucked a shawl from the closet and strode across the room, holding it out to her.

‘It’s not proper.’

The music, over which the first guests were chatting, still haunted Tala as she descended into the garden which was transformed for this night with hundreds of lamps and glowing lanterns that created an expansive circle of light around the crisply dressed tables and the open sided marquees. Beyond the lights were swathes of lush lawn (Reema had insisted on installing an impractical and hideously expensive state-of-the-art irrigation system to crush once and for all the relentlessly encroaching desert landscape) and dotted between were fountains, footpaths and the occasional piece of ancient sculpture, dramatically lit for the occasion. Tala paused in the shadows and looked around. There were softly translucent candles, and music that rose in ripples behind the tide of chattering voices.

There were exquisite dresses cut from elegant fabrics, draped over long, slim bodies; there were jewels that gleamed against tanned, olive skin. There were butlers and waitresses, in starched white and rustling black, moving with purpose amongst the colourful women and the suited men. Tala knew that her parents had outdone themselves. She had been surprised that they had even suggested a party this time around, bearing in mind her dubious history, but it had become clear to her quite quickly that her mother was actively planning to use this fourth and final engagement as a way to wipe clean all the lingering shame and embarrassment of the other three.

Reema had organised a party designed to scream her family’s support for their eldest daughter, and to ensure that nobody missed the fact that this final fiancé outshone even the three wealthy heirs she had previously been promised to, because Hani was handsome and articulate, as well as Palestinian, Christian and rich. Tala lingered at the edge of the party, holding back from that first plunge in to people and talk and dancing, and looked around her, narrowing her eyes slightly, so that the deep, liquid blue of the sky, which held a crisp-edged moon and coldly bright stars, was rimmed at the lower edges with the flickering pulse of the candlelight.

Uncle Ramzi spotted Tala first, pulling his niece into a small circle of people. The women kissed her, commenting on the simple, clean lines of her dress in an effusive way that made her understand that they disliked it. The men grinned their congratulations. The young ones had carefully slicked hair and, like their fathers, held glasses of whiskey. Her uncle was already smoking a Montecristo cigar shaped like a small torpedo. Tala hugged him.

‘Ammo Ramzi! You managed to get on a plane!’

Ramzi pulled back in dismay. ‘Plane? You know I’ll never get on a plane. Not after that dream I had.’ His large hand mimed the sudden crash of an aircraft. He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘The crash! The devastation!’

‘Ammo, the dream was in 967.’

‘Right after the Six Day War,’ agreed Ramzi. ‘Israel has a lot to answer for.’ This drew sympathetic murmurs from the people around them even as Ramzi assured her that he would not have missed her party for anything.

‘I wanted to meet the man who made it this far – again.’

There was a flutter of laughter and Tala glanced up at the circle and caught the nervous expectation in the fading sounds they made.

The last time she had broken an engagement, she had done so at the party itself, irritated beyond control by the insulting, chauvinistic bravado her fiancé had adopted in front of his family and friends.

Despite her instinct to brush off their clinging curiousity with a joke, Tala felt lost suddenly. She looked to her father, instinctively, for some quiet support but he had moved away, always unable to stand still, and was directing several tuxedo-clad waiters to reposition the heat lamps around the immaculately laid tables. The night was cool, after a day that had been harshly hot, and the persistent breezes would only become colder as the night wore on. Then, at the far edges of the informal circle surrounding her, she caught sight of her youngest sister. Zina’s eyes were fixed on her own with a serious look under which amusement lay bubbling. The touch of that glance restored her and she turned back to her uncle.

‘I love him, Ammo.’

‘Of course you love him. He’s Christian and he’s rich.’

‘He’s kind and honest and forward-thinking. And handsome,’ she added, to soften the insolence that they would have perceived in her tone. Her uncle smiled, but leaned in to her as he accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter. Tala noticed Ramzi’s eyes lingered appreciatively on the young man’s form as he took the glass from him.

‘Handsome is good, my dear. But ask your aunty why she married me. Looks and character come and go. Only large sums of money last forever.’

He was rewarded with guffaws from the men, and faux-disapproval from the women, most of whom, Tala noted, had married for money rather than love.

‘Apparently so,’ she replied, and they were uncertain of the meaning of this reply, and because they were uncertain they read it, correctly, as an insult, though none of them showed it. They only laughed outwardly and congratulated themselves inwardly that their own children were not as overeducated and smart-assed as Reema and Omar’s.

Her duty done with her uncle, Tala extricated herself and found Zina.

‘You look amazing, habibti,’ her youngest sister told her.

‘Thanks. I wish I could say the same,’ Tala replied, taking in her sister’s gold dress. Ruefully, Zina glanced down at herself.

‘You know, I think I found those weapons of mass destruction the Americans were looking for. How clever to disguise them as Mama and Lamia. I wish you’d come from London earlier,’ Zina added. ‘Who shows up the night before their engagement?’

‘I was working, Zina.’ Tala’s tone held the air of a confession.

Zina squeezed her hand, a touch of encouragement and understanding. She felt better, calmer, reassured by the familiar exchanges with Tala. There were times when Zina regretted that for the past fifteen years she and Tala had lived in different countries. While Tala had finished boarding school in Switzerland, Zina had remained at home in Amman with her parents. By the time she followed Tala and Lamia to school, the two older girls were already at university.

Perhaps she had been focusing on the wrong type of nostalgia this week.

‘Are you excited about the wedding?’ Zina asked. Tala shot her a sarcastic look.

‘Flower arrangements, menus and napkin rings? I can’t wait.’

Zina smiled. ‘Then why are you getting married?’ There was only a small hint of amusement in her eyes and in the tone of her question.

‘What should Hani and I do?’ Tala asked. ‘Live together?’

‘It’s modern times.’

‘Not in Amman. You’ve been in the States too long. These six months dating Hani are the longest I’ve ever gotten away with, without a ring.’

Zina considered. ‘I think you should blaze a trail.’

‘So it’s easier for you and Lamia?’ Tala laughed.

‘Lamia?’ Zina snorted. ‘She’s set us all back by a century.’

Instinctively, they both looked over at their sister, who caught their eyes upon her and made her way to them. She looked at Tala.

‘Mama says you should be entertaining your guests.’

Zina laughed. ‘Yeah, Tala, you really should be familiar with engagement party etiquette by now.’

‘That’s not funny,’ Lamia noted.

Zina regarded Lamia with all the irritation that had built up since she had coerced her into putting on the heinous dress. ‘It is if you possess a sense of humour.’

Tala sighed. Before them, the swimming pool glowed with submerged lighting and the interior walls displayed a delicate, intricate mosaic. The white-clothed tables radiated out from the pool over the lawns, while beyond, the wild profusion of jasmine trees and flowers stood sentinel, scenting the air with their perfume.

‘Hani’s here!’ Lamia exclaimed.

They followed Lamia’s gaze. At this distance, Hani was hard to pick out amongst the group of relatives who accompanied him, for he wore a similar tuxedo and hairstyle, and he seemed very much at ease amongst the back-slapping, shoulder-squeezing, loud congratulations that the men conferred on him as he arrived. But Tala noticed that he glanced up at every opportunity and she knew that he was looking for her; and when his eyes did find her own, their calm, even gaze reassured her.

‘God, you’re lucky, Tala,’ Zina said.

‘I know.’

She went forward to meet him, exulting in the familiar smell of his skin and clothes, clinging to him for a long hug. Only the smattering of applause from guests watching them brought her back to herself, to self-consciousness.

‘Have you had a drink?’ Hani asked her, holding her hand. Tala shook her head and he picked up two glasses from a passing tray.

‘Here,’ he said, smiling. ‘To you and me. To us, Tala.’

She touched his glass with her own ‘To us, Hani.’ Tala grasped his hand and turned to listen to the girl who was singing. She was raised high on a special dais on the other side of the pool, far enough removed from the partygoers to appear like a lone angel spreading her message in vain. Tala listened, aware of only the music and the throb of her own rushing pulse in her ears, from a heart that she felt now as a physical presence in her chest, swelled with emotion; a spilling of feeling that she could not recognise as either happiness or sorrow.

Chapter Two

London

It was half-past four on a Friday afternoon – those revered and sacred minutes in a quiet, British suburban office, when the weekend had finally crept so close that the anticipation of it was pleasurable rather than agonising. Leyla looked forward to these two days hungrily, more excited by the prospect of release from her office, with its rain-flecked window and the grim brightness of its three fluorescent tubes, than by any particular plans. The low pall of the Surrey sky matched the relentlessly beige paint on the walls, which were not noticeably helped by the photographs and pictures that she had long ago hung on them. She took a sip of cooling tea and flicked open her notebook. A sentence had occurred to her as she had looked from the buzzing light tubes to the steely sky, and she wanted to get it down before she lost it. She did so, then carefully busied herself for a moment by closing the computer spread-sheet she had been working on, before she allowed herself to re-read the line. She nodded slightly, pleased. There was one good thing to be said for working with numbers all day – she could hardly keep up with the words that fought to spill out of her in the evenings.