No Sex in the City (14 page)

We’re listening to Senem tell us another one of her funny work stories. Working at a check-in counter for a domestic airline provides a never-ending supply of anecdotes. Tonight it’s about a woman who went a teeny weeny bit crazy because Senem refused to allow her to bring her kitten on board. We’re laughing along with Senem (who at this point is standing up and mimicking the woman) when my phone beeps, notifying me of a message on one of the Muslim online dating sites I joined in a fit of insanity. I open the message and giggle.

We live in a time when oceans are turbulent and tsunamis are very frequent due to global warming and plate tectonics. So it’s unsafe to sail (in ships). But the sky is clearer and safer than the seas. That’s why I offer you a friendplane, instead of friendship. So be my friend. I guarantee, you’ll find me SAFER than expected.

‘What’s so funny?’ everybody asks.

‘Oh nothing. It’s just that I think I’ve found the man of my dreams.’

I hand my phone over to Senem and show her the message. She explodes into a fit of laughter.

Farouk leans over to look and I snatch the phone from Senem.

‘I don’t think so, Farouk!’ I tease. ‘There are some things for sisters’ eyes only.’

He grins. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it out of Senem on our way home.’

Senem snorts. ‘Keep dreaming.’

‘Ah, Farouk,’ I say, ‘don’t make the mistake of thinking Senem would ever betray me. You may be her husband, but you just can’t compete with me. We’re from the same womb, remember? That trumps a marriage certificate any day.’

One of the things I’ve always admired about Farouk is his geniality. Rather than taking offence, he’s clearly enjoying the banter and plays along. I think his good nature has made his transition from Turkey to Australia smoother than normal – although that’s not to say it hasn’t been a challenge. Farouk secured a job at an IT company towards the end of his first year in Australia. Senem confided in me that there were moments during his year of job-hunting when he felt disillusioned and bored, and he spoke about them possibly moving to Turkey, where he owned an apartment in the coastal city of Antalya. The job rejections seemed to compound his homesickness, and Farouk often lamented that life in Australia was so quiet and boring compared to Antalya, with its long summers and bustling Mediterranean lifestyle. It took Farouk some time to adjust to the reality that life here was pretty much focused around long work days. He never tired of singing Turkey’s praises, pulling out the old ‘we work to live rather than live to work’ line.

He was right, of course. Having spent most of my summer holidays in Turkey during university, I’d recognised the difference in lifestyles, at least among my family and their friends, who were relatively affluent and lived in the heart of Antalya, fitting work around their social life rather than the other way around. I sympathised with Farouk’s culture shock, especially once he started working long hours. But rather than get depressed about it all, he proved to have the capacity to enjoy life irrespective of where he is. And so despite the long hours, Farouk and Senem have a vibrant and busy social life and treat weekdays like the weekend – in comparison to the rest of us who often just eat dinner, watch some television, set the alarm clock and collapse into bed.

After dinner we take advantage of the balmy weather and sit under the pergola. Dad’s smoking and absorbed in deep conversation with Farouk about the latest events in Turkish politics – their mutual pet topic. Mum’s nursing a hot cup of Turkish coffee, while I sip on instant coffee and Senem drinks a herbal tea. Senem begins to share another funny work anecdote with Mum. I watch them all interacting so easily and happily, and feel a pang of love for my family. It’s in these simple moments that I understand the virtue in helping Dad to pay off the loan, because to refuse to do so would probably mean these moments would be forever lost.

And as long as I can help it, I won’t allow anything to threaten my family.

‘Anil proposed!’ Nirvana screams into the phone.

‘OH MY GOD!’ I cry.

We meet at a local café within half an hour.

‘Okay, details! When, where, how?’

‘He told me he’d booked dinner but when he picked me up he said he needed to stop by his place to get something. I went in to say hi to his parents. He led me to the lounge room and—’

‘Nirvana!’ I holler. ‘Backtrack, backtrack! We cannot have this conversation without the set-up!’

‘The set-up? Oh yes, of course. Emerald-green Charlie Brown dress. Jimmy Choo heels – best eBay purchase of the year. Make-up: got it done at a MAC counter because I needed to buy some products anyway and it was redeemable.’

‘Ooh! I love makeovers!’

‘Hair: half pinned back, kicked out. Enough detail?’

‘Yep.’ I nod once firmly. ‘Bollywood starlet.’

‘Oh yes,
very
,’ she jokes.

‘So tell me about the proposal.’

‘Our parents were there, which was a surprise. Neela and Sunil too.’

‘A group affair,
naturally
.’

‘Oh, and a group of his mum’s friends too, which, now that I think about it, is a little weird but anyway! He led me to the front of the room, and I was giggling and blushing – thank God for Studio Fix Extra Coverage – and then—’

‘Were you nervous?’

‘Very! All those grinning faces looking at me, clearly in on it.’

‘Lucky you said yes.’ The words come out before I can stop myself.

Luckily Nirvana takes the joke and, laughing, says, ‘Yes, lucky I did.’

‘Did he get down on one knee?’

Nodding, she bursts out laughing. ‘The thing is, he knocked one of the ornaments off the table when he did!’

‘Oh no! Don’t tell me it was a religious statue?’ My eyes widen with the possibilities. ‘An urn containing the ashes of a family member?’

She clutches her stomach, laughing. ‘No. It was a large, hideous statue of a koala. But with the fuss his mum made, you would have thought it
was
the ashes of her ancestors. She leapt out of her chair and quickly swept up the pieces. Then, all flustered, she reassured everybody this
wasn’t
a sign and that nobody should
dare
think it was a bad omen.’

I half-laugh, not believing what I’m hearing.

Nirvana snorts. ‘It was fine. Really. Anil made a joke and everybody laughed it off. What can I say? Indians can be very superstitious. Like Anil said, she was pre-empting the gossipers. Want to see the ring?’

‘Yes!’

She proudly extends her arm and shows off her ring. I grab her hand and hold it closer to me.

‘WOW! It’s enormous! I’m so happy for you.’

Her voice wobbles. ‘I’m so happy for me too!’

We laugh loudly and the owner of the café comes around to see if we want to order another coffee. He’s an old Armenian man and has had the café ever since we started coming here in our university days.

‘Ooh,’ he says, spotting the rock weighing down Nirvana’s hand. ‘What a beautiful ring for a beautiful girl!’ Nirvana smiles shyly back at him. ‘Just engaged?’

She nods and he congratulates her and insists on a free coffee to celebrate.

It’s funny how weddings almost always make people gush and go all warm and fuzzy. No matter your background, almost everybody seems to get it: the idealism, the joyous optimism, the wholehearted belief that your love is indestructible.

The next day Ruby, Lisa and I pay Nirvana a quick visit after work. Ruby’s still got to head off to Redfern Legal Centre for her monthly roster, and Lisa needs to go home to pack for a trip to the coast to give a three-day workshop on domestic violence awareness as part of a regional campaign she’s involved in.

Ruby and Lisa gush and squeal over Nirvana’s ring; having already seen it, I stand proudly to the side, adding in my own comments and details (‘It’s three carat, white gold!’). When Nirvana gets to the koala part, Lisa and Ruby guffaw loudly.

‘I’m under no illusions that Anil’s mother is going to be anything but hard work,’ Nirvana groans.

‘What about Anil’s dad?’ I ask. ‘You hardly ever mention him. Has he had any involvement in Anil’s life since the divorce?’

‘No, not really. He lives in Brisbane. He remarried years ago and has his own family now. That’s why Anil’s mother is so gossip-conscious, I think. He remarried within a year of the divorce. It took her ages to get over the stigma. She was a single mum for about eight years before Anil’s step-dad came along. It was a fairy-tale ending for her, anyway.’

‘Depends on your definition of fairy-tale,’ I say under my breath.

‘What’s going on between Neela and Anil?’ Lisa asks. ‘There seemed to be some tension at the birthday party.’

Nirvana shrugs. ‘Not between Anil and Neela. They’re great with each other,
when
I’ve seen them together, despite the mum’s obvious favouritism. I think the issues are between Neela and her mum. There’s a lot of baggage from the divorce, I think. We don’t see Neela that much anyway. She lives an hour away from her mother’s place and she’s almost never there whenever I’ve been visiting. She lives near her in-laws and apparently she’s always hanging out with them.’

‘Voluntarily?’ Ruby scoffs.

Nirvana makes a face. ‘Not sure. Anil doesn’t know much about Neela’s life. I’ve asked him but he says Neela doesn’t say much. There’s something going on between her and Sunil. I don’t think they’re very happy. I’ve never seen the slightest bit of affection between them. Never a kiss or hug. But you never really know what’s going on inside a marriage, do you?’

‘Anyway,’ Ruby says, quickly losing interest in the topic of Neela’s marriage, ‘we’re thrilled for you! There’s plenty of time later for you to dissect your in-laws. For now let’s focus on
you
and your engagement plans. What kind of party do you have in mind? Obscenely lavish and therefore perfect? Or boring and intimate?’

‘No prizes for guessing which you’d prefer, Ruby,’ I say.

Ruby grins. ‘Well?’ she demands, turning to Nirvana. ‘If you need a project manager, I’m up to the task!’

Nirvana laughs. ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’ve seen enough of your project management skills from our birthday parties.’

‘What do you mean?’ Ruby says, batting her eyelashes as she feigns surprise.

‘Oh come on, Ruby,’ Lisa says. ‘You’re a born dictator. I’m sure there are committee members from your Greek Club university days who are still in therapy after organising events with you.’

Ruby laughs loudly, demonstrating that she is taking all of this as a compliment, and we all laugh along with her.

We spend the rest of the visit discussing Nirvana’s ideas for the engagement party. It seems, from the little time she’s had so far to discuss such details with Anil, that she’s more interested in something classy and intimate: just close family and friends in a small reception or garden party. Nirvana prefers to leave the extravagant celebrations for the wedding, where she has every intention of celebrating her Indian culture to its fullest.

The four of us are excited and animated and lively, intoxicated by Nirvana’s happiness. Yet on the drive home later that evening I wonder if things will change between us now that Nirvana’s engaged. You often hear about friends drifting apart when a guy steps into the picture, how people can forget their friends as they ‘move on with their life’. The thought that this might happen terrifies me. But something deep within me knows our friendship isn’t just filling up a temporary space, waiting to be replaced by our respective Mr Rights. None of us thinks that we’re living some kind of transient existence before love and marriage come along and our so-called ‘real life’ begins.

My grandmother has often said to me, ‘Hurry up and get married and start your life!’

Really?
So my existence until now has been a figment of my imagination, has it? I’ll take my first
real
breath, laugh my first
real
laugh, cry my first
real
tear when there’s a man at my side?

My God, I need a bucket.

The life I’m living now is real and enriching and full, and my friendships form a part of it, whether we’re in relationships or not. I’m not naive. I know life can take people in different directions, but the closest of friends can remain so despite the tyranny of distance. Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, if a friendship is threatened when you start to share your heart with somebody else, it was never anything special in the first place.

And what the four of us have is special. That much I know.

Nirvana, Lisa, Ruby and I are holding our No Sex in the City get-together at a nail salon, where we’re getting pedicures thanks to the vouchers Ruby won at a work raffle.

Nirvana’s telling us the latest labour horror story from work (we’re all suckers for stories about episiotomies and crazy birth plans) when her phone rings. We instantly know it’s Anil because her voice becomes all fluttery and sweet. Since the engagement she’s upgraded (or downgraded, depending on your perspective) Anil to ‘baby’, ‘sweetie’ or ‘honey’. As the rest of us are not in the throes of new love, we have no tolerance for these gushing displays of affection. We make gagging noises and she waves her hands at us to shut up.

‘Ohh, baby, I miss you too,’ she coos. ‘Sure, we’ll talk tonight. Yep, I’m out with my girls. They say hi too. Pardon? Oh, yes, sure, say hi back to your mum ... Okay, honey, bye ...’ She hangs up and turns to us and, her voice back to its normal, less nauseating tone, says with a sigh, ‘Oh God, Anil’s mum is
killing
me.’

It becomes apparent very quickly that Nirvana is living a Bollywood movie and that a producer would snap up the rights to her story in a second. This would be the pitch:

Nirvana, the beautiful heroine, has finally met The One. Anil is suave, kind, educated and successful. He dotes on Nirvana and is not even afraid to use the C word. There have been weekend trips ‘just for fun’ to furniture and white-goods stores, and the couple have found, to their delight, that they both share a preference for neutral shades and agree that leather is a more sensible choice than fabric (leather being far more suited to a home with children, which, of course, is part of ‘their future’). And when the subject of children is raised in aisle five, near the black leather ensemble with matching chaise, they giggle like schoolkids, their minds filled with images of a baby that will represent a fifty per cent contribution from each of them (with the sum total constituting only the best parts of their looks and personalities).