No Sex in the City (3 page)

‘I’ve begged God’s forgiveness,’ he continued. ‘And I beg yours too. But I don’t wish to beg forgiveness from your mother. We have to spare her that.’

I couldn’t sleep much that night. I thought long and hard. Cried. Wallowed in self-pity, anger and hurt. I remember I woke up numb. I left the house for work before Mum was up, glad I didn’t have to look her in the eye and pretend that the security she took for granted rested squarely on my shoulders. Dad had already left. He was working longer hours now.

When I arrived at work I sent an email to the accounts department instructing them to direct debit more than a third of my wages to my dad’s loan account.

So that explains why I’m tied to a job I love but a boss I hate. Every time Danny edges into sleaze territory I have to bite my tongue, because my parents’ house, and maybe their marriage, depends on me keeping this job.

My sister, Senem, is one year younger than me and is so happily married it’s sickening. Of course, I love her to bits and I wish her all the happiness in the world. Hers is one of those ‘you wouldn’t believe it ...’ stories.

It started like this. When Senem finished her beauty therapy course at TAFE, she worked at a salon that shared the same floor as a Chinese massage parlour in a shop along a prominent road in the eastern suburbs. There was nothing dodgy about it, and yet the fact that the salon was next to a remedial massage parlour meant that a lot of men would arrive for a spray tan or back wax and expect to be offered something more as part of the price. Senem got sick and tired of having to call security. It turned her off the whole industry altogether. Well, that and the Brazilian waxes.

After Senem quit her job, she got a job with Virgin Blue, working at the check-in counter at Sydney Airport’s domestic terminal. She was lucky enough to get a long break before starting and went on a holiday to Turkey with Mum. Within four days of arriving, Senem met her soulmate, The One, at our grandmother’s house.

Our grandmother was hosting a massive feast for all the family and friends in honour of Mum and Senem visiting. Farouk, the son of my grandmother’s cousin’s friend’s brother’s daughter (or something like that), was invited. It was all arranged. We know this because my grandmother has never shied away from reminding us that the only reason she’s hanging onto life is because she wants to see us married.

It was arranged that Senem and Farouk would be seated next to each other at the table. Apparently one of our younger second (or was it third?) cousins attempted to sit next to Senem and my grandmother rapped her knuckles with her walking stick. She’s a charmer, my grandmother.

Senem called me later that night to announce she’ d fallen in love. I told her she was an idiot and should stop watching movies starring Drew Barrymore. She insisted she’d experienced love at first family-get-together sight. This was inconceivable to me as Senem has always been the rebel of the family and, unlike me, had absolutely no tolerance for family set-ups.

I demanded proof. She explained that she’ d been so mesmerised by Farouk that she’d drunk a glass of Coke.

Enough said.

Senem is gorgeous and works hard to maintain her beautiful hair, beautiful skin and beautiful white teeth. She is scrupulous about what she eats (organic mainly), sips on herbal tea and warm water between meals, and even now still maintains her Friday-night ritual of a face mask, nail kit and rom-com DVD. So basically she would rather touch a used syringe than drink Coke. She practically uses gloves when she plays her ‘look at the coin in the Coke’ party trick.

Within three weeks of Senem drinking Coke, Farouk’s family and my extended family got together to celebrate at my grandmother’s house. My dad and I were still in Australia and attended the prayer ceremony via Skype. Everybody recited a prayer and Senem and Farouk’s intention to marry was officially recognised by the family. One month later, Dad and I flew to Turkey to attend a lavish engagement party. I rejected every guy my grandmother tried to set me up with (because of her myopia she had no clue that she was, for the most part, recommending balding, overweight, cross-eyed guys) and spent most of my free time sightseeing and having the time of my single life, much to my grandmother’s consternation.

A year later and Senem and Farouk were married. Which means my grandmother’s very life, as she constantly reminds me, now depends on me finding Mr Right.

When I arrive home from Mrs Goldman’s pharmacy at six-thirty I find Senem sitting on the kitchen bench helping Farouk with the cooking. I completely forgot they were coming over for dinner tonight.

‘I’ve got to love you and leave you,’ I say apologetically, giving Senem a kiss hello.

‘Why?’ Senem pouts. ‘I haven’t seen you all week.’

‘Yeah, I know, I’m sorry but I’ve got plans.’

‘I’m making my famous lasagne,’ Farouk says, dangling a lasagne sheet in front of my face. ‘Tempting?’

I laugh. ‘Is it that wholemeal crap Senem used to make Mum buy?’

He grins. ‘No. Senem insists on having only a salad tonight.’ He pulls a face. Senem takes a sip of her water.

I punch my fist in the air and cheer. ‘Save me a piece.’

‘Why can’t you stay?’ Senem moans. ‘You’re so mean. I’ve got so much to tell you.’

‘Yes, but I can’t get out of this. It’s ... er ... kind of a business meeting.’

‘On a Friday night?’ Senem isn’t convinced.

‘Come upstairs and help me pick out an outfit and I’ll tell you.’

She hops off the bench and gives Farouk a peck on the cheek. ‘See you soon!’

‘I’ll miss you, hon!’

I stick my finger in my mouth and make barfing noises.

Upstairs in my room I take out two tops and lay them on the bed. I kick off my work pants and put on my jeans.

Senem inspects the tops, chooses the black one and passes it to me. ‘So?’ she says. ‘What meeting are you going to? Amnesty? Human rights lecture? Peace protest?’

‘Prefer it if I spent my free time shopping and getting my hair done?’ I ask cheerily.

‘You do get your hair done and you love to shop.’

I smile ironically. ‘Yes, I’m the activist with good hair and style.’

‘I wish I could be like you,’ she says with a sigh. ‘But work is so draining. Not to mention life is
so
much busier since I got married.’

‘Oh Senem, that’s pathetic. I’ll take
any
excuse but that.’

I pick up my eyeliner and apply a thin line. Senem flops down onto my bed and examines her nails.

‘Do you remember how we used to talk about finding Mr Right?’ I say.

‘How could I forget? What he’ d look like. His job. How we’d know if he was The One. Whether people’s teeth bump when they kiss.’

I burst out laughing. ‘Oh my God, yes, I remember that. Anyway, you went and betrayed me by finding Farouk and leaving me at the mercy of matchmakers who’ll throw any Turk my way so long as he’s single and wants to get married.’

‘You have a point. Thank God I never went through that.’

‘Yes, you’ve always been spared a lot of things ...’ The words hang in the air but she’s flipping through one of my magazines and is oblivious to my meaning.

Senem and I have very different personalities. I’m the dependable one. The one my parents can rely on. The one to cover up for Senem, who always bent the rules more than I did.

‘I’m over it,’ I say, pulling on the black top. ‘Since Seyf, I haven’t met a guy who’s shared my obsession with Pearl Jam and Tool.’

‘No more contact with the scumbag, hey?’

‘Nope.’

I’ve never told her about the last time I saw him. It was at Big Day Out in 2006. I’ve been listening to Tool for fifteen years, so when they started playing I couldn’t help but go a tiny bit mental and run into the mosh pit. The crowd was going nuts and it was so packed that I was being lifted off the ground. The crowd moved and swayed, and before I knew it I was in an empty area, shouting out, ‘Yay! Dance space!’ I looked around and realised I’d actually been sucked into the fight circle. I panicked, and was knocked around a bit before I managed to get out of there (I lasted four songs, though, and was quite proud of myself). And as I walked away, rubbing my sore arms, a big goofy smile on my face, I saw Seyf standing in the crowd, staring at me, jaw almost to the floor, his wife hanging off his arm.

That knocked the smile off my face.

‘How’s work?’ Senem asks. ‘Is your boss still a pig?’

‘Yes, unfortunately I’m still working for a Neanderthal who wants to flirt with me
and
set me up with his best friend.’

‘No cute single guys who are just as intent as you on saving the world?’

I groan. ‘There is nobody eligible at work. Or around work. Or through work. I’m
not
bitter, though,’ I say, laughing bitterly.

Senem starts prattling on about how she and Farouk have found their dream apartment and are a couple of months away from saving enough for the deposit.

I’d love to tell her about the predicament I’m in. To tell her that I don’ t know how I’m ever going to be able to buy a place of my own when I’m managing Dad’s debt. I want to vent about the fact that all the pressure is on me to save our parents’ marriage. Dad seems to think I have less to lose because I’m single.

But I hold back. I won’t betray my dad.

‘I want my own place,’ I say when she’s done talking. ‘What if I’m thirty-five and still living at home? That’s just tragic. If you’ve got any suggestions, help me out, because the other night was the last straw.’

‘You mean Hassan?’

‘Mum told you, huh?’

‘She’s spewing about your bad Turkish. I told her to get over it, so don’t stress.’

‘That’s easy for you to say.’

‘Hey, don’t take it out on me. This is my
kismet –
your destiny will come when you least expect it.’

‘I swear to God, Senem, if I hear that statement one more time I’m going to stab myself with my nail file.’

‘Okay, okay.’ She flips over onto her stomach and rests on her elbows. ‘So what does all this have to do with your meeting?’

‘I’ve created an excuse to get together with my girlfriends, to vent about the drought of eligible men. The No Sex in the City Club.’

She bursts out laughing. ‘Oh come on, it can’t be that bad.’

I sit down next to her. ‘Don’t be so smug. I just want to wallow in some self-pity without being judged, okay?’

She smiles. ‘Okay.’

We squeal for five minutes.

‘It’s been ages!’

‘Your hair looks gorgeous red!’

‘You’ve lost weight!’

‘I love your shoes!’

When the waiter is fed up waiting for us to move out of the entrance of the restaurant, he takes a step into our huddle and politely but firmly asks us to move to our seats.

‘I’ve been doing step classes all week in preparation for tonight,’ Nirvana boasts, ‘and I’m hanging for a skim iced chocolate. Apparently the colder the drink, the more calories your body expends trying to heat the liquid.’

‘Nirvana,’ I groan, ‘I said no
skim
. And a drink is
not
emotional eating.’

‘Oh, for crying out loud, Esma,’ Lisa says, ‘there’s nothing to be emotional
about
.’

We pore over the menu, the waiter standing over us, daring us to lose the plot again. We place our orders, proudly totalling about five million calories between us. In the end we succeed in convincing Nirvana to break her diet because it’s Friday and she’s always vulnerable on a Friday. It’s Monday to Thursday when you can’t prise her jaws open for anything with an energy value higher than a carrot.

Nirvana’s of Indian background, Gujarati to be precise. We call her Miss Bollywood because she has typically beautiful Indian hair (silky black and flowing down her back), luminous hazel eyes and layers of lashes. She’s the most mild-mannered in our group, all class and refinement and measured words (there’s no swearing or outbursts of irrational name-calling for her). She’s a size twelve to fourteen (manufacturers can be so evil that way) and is always on a different fad diet because she’s under the illusion that she resembles a heifer. But Nirvana’s tall, and even though we’re always trying to convince her that she’s a head-turner, she still insists that she won’t be content until her thighs stop rubbing.

Out of the four of us, Nirvana and I come from the more conservative backgrounds. We’re both still virgins, and although Nirvana had a couple of boyfriends during university and was in a long-term relationship for three years, it’s always been behind her parents’ back. She’s ready to settle down, and in the past couple of years has, out of desperation, agreed to be more open to traditional matchmaking attempts. Like me, she’s had her fair share of over-my-dead-body ‘suitors’. Only last week she met somebody who insisted that he was a ‘very modern Indian boy’. Here’s how the scene went:

Guy: I was born in Australia, I’ve got properties, earn good money and I’m very independent. Don’t worry, I won’t be following the old ways.

Nirvana: Great, that’s how I was brought up too. So where do you live?

Guy: At home.

Nirvana: Didn’t you say you have properties?

Guy: Yes, investment properties.

Nirvana: So will you move into one when you get married?

Guy: Of course not. My parents have extended the house for when my wife moves in. It’s fully equipped with plasma TV and surround sound. But no kitchen, obviously. Dinner is always with the family.

Ruby is Greek Orthodox, and I only introduce her by her religious and ethnic background because it means a lot to her. She’s fiercely proud of her Greek heritage, speaks the language fluently, observes all the traditions and has always been an active member of her local Greek youth organisations. Throughout university, she made sure she was on every executive committee and generally bossed everybody around, whether it came to organising the annual Greek Ball (which we all went along to) or running youth camps. She’s since relinquished control to the younger crowd but still helps out with the occasional community event. Ruby comes from a very educated and successful family. Her dad is an aeronautical research scientist, her mother is a psychologist, one brother is a doctor and the other is a pharmacist. Lisa, Nirvana and I refer to Ruby’s family as ‘the Nobel Laureates’.