No Sex in the City (36 page)

‘We can never split up,’ I say as we walk to our cars, arms linked. ‘I won’t let it happen. Because if we do we’ll lose one of the best things about us – our punchline!’

‘What are you talking about, Esma?’ Ruby asks.

I grin at them. ‘A Christian, a Muslim, a Jew and a Hindu walk into a café ...’

Ruby and Alex are seeing each other, despite her family initially resisting the idea that Ruby, first-class honours in law, rising star at her law firm, should fall for a guy who, in her dad’s words, ‘runs around a playground screaming at people to do push-ups’. Ruby gave them one week to grieve the loss of their rich Greek lawyer/pharmacist/brain surgeon fantasy, and after that it was zero tolerance.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ruby so happy. Not every relationship has to make sense from the outside. Sometimes the most seemingly incompatible couples are the ones who, years on, still giggle under the sheets, read each other’s moods from across a crowded room, effortlessly manage small acts of kindness.

Nirvana, got the fairy-tale ending because she had the sense to realise Anil wasn’t going to give it to her. While there are nights she calls me in the middle of an emotional eating binge, begging me for an honest answer as to whether she’s made the right decision, by morning she’s back to her senses, relieved that she had the courage to end it when she did.

As for Lisa, well, she’s still happily single and isn’t the slightest bit interested in changing that unless somebody truly amazing comes along. Until that happens, she’ll continue resisting her mother’s matchmaking attempts and enjoy the life she’s making for herself.

What about me?

My parents put our house on the market and received an offer that’s allowed them to pay off the loan to the bank and buy a two-bedroom town house in a cheaper suburb on the other side of Sydney. They move in a month and are in the process of packing now.

It’s not going to be easy adjusting to a new neighbourhood and community. Moving into a place that’s half the size of our house. Leaving the home in which they’ve spent most of their married life. But on the bright side, it means Dad can work less and my parents can spend more time together. Everything that’s happened to them has taught me that marriages can fail over and over again, but it’s not so much the failing as the trying that counts.

Danny paid me out. And I have it on good authority from Veronica that he doesn’t so much as make sustained eye contact with female staff any more. Danny and his wife separated. Oh, and apparently the baby isn’t his. It’s Marco’s.

I have a new job in a large recruiting firm and my boss is everything a boss should be: professional and courteous – and he only comes undone when it’s budget time, not when I’m wearing a skirt or high heels.

And what happened with Aydin?

Oh, nothing much. It’s not like I’m happy almost every moment I’m with him.

It’s not like he proposed to me.

Well, okay, he did. And I am.

But hang on. Don’t get too excited. There was no sparkling sapphire buried in a baked pudding. No getting down on one knee on a twilight ferry on the harbour. No ring presented in a hot-air balloon.

For one thing, how would my parents fit in the hot-air balloon with us? Not to mention that my mother is terrified of heights and not that fond of ferries either.

So Aydin’s options were a little limited. He ended up coming to my house (with his parents) to officially propose to me (and my parents).

Also present were Senem and Farouk. And Aydin’s sister, maternal aunt and uncle. And their two sons. And Aydin’s best friend. And his business partner, who is also his cousin. And my cousin who, although three times removed on my father’s side, had to be invited if my parents were to avoid a massive family feud. Plus my grandmother in Turkey, who watched (and commented loudly) via Skype (‘It’s about time! I thought I was going to die before seeing Esma engaged! Hurry up and set a wedding date. I’ve got one foot in the grave!’).

And that small party was simply in honour of Aydin making an official promise to marry me. With such a big audience to propose to, Dad’s Rule of Six seemed quite modest in comparison.

Before he proposed, and in deference to the stock-standard ‘you marry a family’ kind of talk, I thought I should warn my parents about Aydin’s brother. I wanted to get their objections over and done with as quickly as possible. Once again, I misjudged them. As it turns out, the friend who had recommended Aydin to my parents had already told my mother.

The wedding is in six months. That’s because Aydin’s sick of taking a cold shower after every date given we’re
both
sticking to our ‘No Sex in the City’ rule until we’re married (oh, and to be really cruel, I haven’t let him kiss me again. I don’t trust myself if he does).

The wedding plans are enormous fun – if you enjoy family arguments over seating arrangements and the propriety of a bridal registry. But Aydin and I grin and bear it. It’s not so bad because, to Aydin’s relief, most of the work has already been done, seeing as I’ve been planning this for years.

My class at the Refugee Centre are all excited too – so much so that the documentary they’re working on with Aydin is in danger of becoming a film about weddings.

All the failed matches and arranged dates have been for a reason. Because waiting for me at the end of that long line was Aydin. The One. Mr Right. My soulmate.

And the wait was worth it.

I’d like to first confess that I probably had too much fun using the horror matchmaking stories of family and friends when writing this book. To protect their dignity, I will avoid surnames and thank them for sharing their humiliations with me by using their first name only: Nada, Abear, Jenny, Heba, Nahla, Reham, Vanessa, Gada, Omima, Monica and Sally. Having access to their experiences and anecdotes made this book even more fun to write. I’d also like to thank Heba’s dad for inventing the Rule of Six, because the comedic potential in that rule far outweighs any humiliation Heba suffered as a result of it being imposed on her.

Thanks also to Maha for the Tool/mosh-pit story.

I’d also like to take this opportunity to confirm that no, this is
not
my autobiography, and no, there is absolutely nothing about Esma’s life or family that is remotely close to mine. Or Nirvana’s, Lisa’s or Ruby’s lives for that matter. Or Esma’s married friends. Okay, scandal averted.

Sincere thanks are due to my family for their unending support.

Thank you to my agent, Sheila Drummond, for being so caring and for
always
looking after me. And thank you to my publisher, Claire Craig, and editor Julia Stiles, both of whose intelligence, wisdom and piercing insight always help me in doing justice to my early drafts. Thanks also to Catherine Day and Clara Finlay.

Published 2013 by Saqi Books

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© Randa Abdel-Fattah 2013

ISBN 978 0 86356 711 7
eISBN 978 0 86356 716 2

Randa Abdel-Fattah has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A full CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

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