No Sex in the City (8 page)

Yasir calls the house phone. My father picks up. He hands me the phone and ...

... we arrange to meet at a café in the Strand on Pitt Street Mall after work next Monday.

We’ve added each other as friends on Facebook so at least I know what he looks like. Yasir’s profile picture is nice. He’s not drop-dead gorgeous or butt ugly. There’s a big spectrum between those two ends and he’s sitting about halfway.

I’m wearing one of my most flattering suits and stunning high heels that have already given me blisters. Senem came over last night to do my hair, giving me some soft curls, which, she insists, suit me more than the dead-straight look. I didn’t bother arguing with her, although today’s been really hot and the roots of my hair are a little frizzy from the humidity, undoing much of her hard work.

My make-up is minimal. Unlike Senem, I’m into natural tones and pale glosses. My skin tone is olive, my eyes and lashes dark brown, like my dad’s, and so I suit earthy colours. Senem, by contrast, takes after my mum and is pale with green eyes, loving to experiment with bright and bold tones. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing red lipstick, whereas Senem looks gorgeous in it.

I enter the Strand, trying to remember all the magazine articles I’ve read about the most flattering and slimming way to walk. Keep my thighs close together, one foot crossing over the other, try to walk sideways (reducing frontal view of body mass), stick boobs out (don’t have much to stick out), keep shoulders back and head up to avoid any double chin ... Those poor models. They really do deserve their million-dollar salaries.

I spot Yasir leaning against the window of the café.

The blisters are worth it.

His profile pic doesn’t do him justice. He’s a trendy dresser (tick!) and has a real presence about him (tick!). Some guys exude confidence and he’s one of them (two ticks!). Our eyes meet as I approach. We smile at each other. Then he invites me to sit down at a table he’s reserved at the back of the café.

‘Have you hurt yourself?’ he asks once we’ve sat down.

‘Pardon?’

‘Just now, you were walking like you’d had a fall or something. Are you okay?’

I stare blankly at him. ‘Um ... yeah, twisted my ankle at the photocopier today.’

‘Apply some Deep Heat tonight. Works wonders.’

‘Ah, yes, sure.’ I’m mortified. ‘Good advice.’

‘Are you hungry?’ he asks as he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. ‘It’s a scorcher today, isn’t it?’ He pours me a glass of water from the jug the waitress brought over to our table as soon as we sat down.

‘I know. I’ve been in the office all day, so I didn’t notice until I made my way here. Thank God for air conditioning.’

‘I’m with you on that,’ he says with a grin. ‘I was planning on wearing my suit jacket and tie. A friend told me I’d look more impressive. But when I left the house I just couldn’t do it. I mean, how much influence is a tie and jacket going to have? Not to mention that I would have arrived here hot and sweaty. Not exactly appealing, right?’

I give him a cheeky smile. ‘Sorry to have to tell you – the tie and jacket would have made a world of difference.’

‘Really?’ He sighs. ‘Is there any way I can redeem myself?’ He has a real sparkle in his eye.

‘I’ll think about it.’

We order some food and spend the next hour talking and flirting easily. There are no rules for first dates, but I’ve been on enough to know there’s a standard repertoire of safe topics: travel, personal interests, friends, taste in music, film and books, and a bit of current affairs (we’re Muslim, so the whole ‘no religion or politics at the dinner table’ is just not going to happen). Then the conversation turns to work and I ask him what he does.

‘I’ve been a builder for about two years,’ he says. ‘Before that I was an accountant.’

‘Ahh,’ I murmur knowingly.

He chuckles.

‘What’s so funny?’ I ask, although I’m smiling too.

‘I think accountancy, up there with law or auditing, is one of those professions you can leave and people don’t even bother to pretend to be surprised. They just give you a sympathetic look.’

I laugh. ‘You’re right. In fact, they don’t wait to hear why, they wait to hear why you didn’t do it sooner.’

‘See, you get it.’

‘Well, some people would argue building is like throwing money into a fire, so it would make sense to have a builder who actually understands that most people don’t have a blank chequebook when they’re building their house.’

Yasir feigns a look of horror. ‘You don’t trust builders?’ I shake my head. ‘Who would have thought? We enjoy such popularity.’

I let out an exaggerated laugh.

‘Burnt, huh?’ he says and I nod.

‘My parents renovated our kitchen and bathroom some years back.’ I shudder. ‘It’s still a painful topic in our family.’ He laughs. ‘Seriously. It was a disaster. The tiler laid the bathroom tiles on a slant. You go cross-eyed looking at them. And then he had the audacity to try to convince us that we needed to get our eyes checked.’

‘Ouch,’ he says, drawing in his breath. ‘Did you take it further?’

‘I wrote a bunch of letters and he came back and supposedly fixed it. But we’re still not very happy with it.’

‘You should have gone straight to the Department of Fair Trading.’

‘I know, I know,’ I say with a shrug. ‘But – this is going to sound silly – I felt sorry for him. He’d just split up with his wife and it was obvious he was distracted and going through a crisis. In the end I thought it just wasn’t worth the fight. Not in the larger scheme of things. There are worse things in life than a less-than-perfect tiling job in your bathroom.’

‘I would have fought it all the way,’ he says. ‘I can’t stand being taken advantage of.’

This is true for me too, partly. I’m not a pushover. I do stand up for myself. Just not all the time. And when I don’t it’s not as simple as a lack of courage. With the tiler I felt crippled by my pity for him. With Danny, I’m crippled by my sense of duty to my parents.

‘So tell me more about the career change,’ I say.

‘I was unhappy working in an office. I know that sounds really pretentious. I mean, there are many people who don’t like working in an office but never get the opportunity to try something else. I lasted six years. While I was working I helped a cousin build his house. I got a taste for building work and loved it. I figured that if I was ever going to make a change, it had to be when I was young. So I did. And now I buy rundown homes, renovate or detonate, and then sell.’

‘That’s really inspiring,’ I say, and then I laugh. ‘That sounded so dorky. But seriously, you walked away from a career you studied hard for, to do what you’re passionate about. Not many people have the courage to do that.’

‘My dad has a different view. He flipped out when I came home and announced I’d quit my job. Me being an accountant was something that gave him immense pride. He’s still struggling to accept my decision to turn my back on it.’

‘Why?’

Yasir pauses before answering. ‘Many reasons,’ he says. ‘He had a lot to do with me getting in to accountancy. So it was a bit of a slap in the face, at least from his point of view.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When I was in high school, Year Ten, I mucked around a lot. Got really bad marks. My sister had just been accepted into pharmacy and my dad was constantly fighting with me to follow her example. One day, before the Year Ten certificate exam, he sat me down and, for the first time in his life, spoke to me man to man. He’s been driving a taxi for years. He told me that if I wanted to get my Year Ten certificate and then leave school to drive a taxi, he’ d support my decision. He said it was a good job, steady income, pick up a client from the airport, drop them off at their destination. He said I had two choices. I could either drive a taxi and pick up the businessman from the airport, or I could
be
that businessman and get picked up by a taxi driver. He didn’t care which path I decided on, so long as I made a decision and stuck with it. Then and there I decided I wanted to be that businessman. A professional. So I studied like mad, did really well in the HSC, and went on to do accountancy.’

‘I guess that explains your dad’s lack of enthusiasm for your career change.’

‘My dad complains that it’s like I was driving a Porsche and now I’ve downgraded to a bicycle. He can’t see that this is what makes me happy.’ Yasir smiles. ‘But he’ll get there,’ he says optimistically. ‘When I build him a house, and the business becomes more successful, he’ll realise life’s too short not to follow your passions.’

It’s seven o’ clock when I call an end to the date, ascribing to my ‘leave them wanting more’ rule. It’s the only rule I’ve agreed with in the relationship books Senem read obsessively before meeting Farouk. Having flipped through one or two, I have to say the bestselling ‘love gurus’ lost me after advising that on the first date a woman shouldn’t overwhelm a man with her career triumphs but instead let him shine.

When we say goodbye Yasir says three of the most beautiful words in the English language: ‘I’ll call you.’

When I check my phone on my way home I see that Lisa, Ruby and Nirvana have all sent me text messages.

Was it fate at first sight? lol
(Lisa)

Well????
(Ruby)

Hey babe, how did it go?
(Nirvana)

I send them all the same reply:
I don’t want to get my hopes up but ARGHHHHHHHH!

Here are some vital stats.

Days since I met Yasir: 4.

Telephone conversations that have lasted over one hour: 7.

Text messages: 1 million.

Butterflies in the stomach: rapidly breeding.

Number of times I have stared into the distance when I should have been conscientiously attending to work demands: countless.

‘Er, sorry, what did you say your work experience was?’ I repeat during a telephone conversation with a candidate applying for a pharmacist manager role.

‘I had two weeks at Target.’

I wonder what Yasir is doing now.
Focus
.

‘Target? What do you mean? Does Target have a pharmacy?’

‘No. I was working in Layby.’

I take a deep breath and unlock my phone, checking if there’s a message. Nope. I sent the last one. The ball’s in his court. Get your hands on that ball, Yasir! Oh God, I’m turning into one of those psychos who want to be stalked on their phone, Facebook wall and email 24/7.

‘But I got an awesome chance to build on my skills.’

Ah, yes, I have a job. ‘How old are you?’

‘Sixteen.’

Good Lord. ‘And you don’t think that’s an issue?’

‘No.’

I take a deep breath. ‘Do you realise that you need a Bachelor of Pharmacy and a minimum of five years’ experience as a practising pharmacist to get this job?’

‘Okay ... but that’s what I want to do when I go to uni, so can’t you still consider me? Trust me, Layby can get pretty busy.’

My phone beeps. A text from Yasir.
Dinner tonight?

‘Of course!’ I cry.

‘Really? You’re the bomb! That’s awesome!’

‘No, sorry!’ I splutter. ‘I didn’t mean you. Call me in fifteen years and we’ll talk then.’

I hang up.

I’ve got it bad.

My mother is hovering at my bedroom door, watching me get ready.

‘How is it going with Yasir?’ she asks hesitantly.

‘So far, so good,’ I say, putting on my earrings.

She takes a step in. I know she doesn’t want to appear to be pressuring me, but as much as she wants to be subtle, she can’t help interfering. My mum’s bright, serious-minded and fiercely dogmatic about the things and people she believes in. Sometimes the force of her convictions is too strong and she can’t let go enough to give us the room to make our own mistakes and choices.

‘Is he serious?’ she asks me. ‘Sometimes parents think their children are ready to settle down but they’re not. Have you asked him?’

I’ve had guys come for the formal-lounge-room date, only to find out that they’re there under pressure from their parents; one guy, Ali, already had a girlfriend he had every intention of marrying.

‘Mum, it’s been a week,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘Relax!’

She raises an eyebrow. ‘I’m just warning you.’

‘Remember that I’ve done this a zillion times. I don’t need the warnings any more.’

She shrugs. ‘No need to get upset. I’m just trying to have a conversation.’

‘You’re trying to force a helmet on me when I’m already in protective gear.’

She clucks her tongue at me. ‘I’ll leave you then, seeing as you know everything.’ She’s about to turn on her heel and walk out when I stop her.

‘Mum, sorry,’ I say, giving her a tight squeeze. ‘I’m just nervous.’ I’m also terrified that if I leave the house with my mum upset with me, I’ll be struck dead on the way home. But I don’t tell her that.

‘I just want you to be as happy as I’ve been with your father,’ she says, giving me a warm smile. A smile filled to the brim with self-sacrifice and love and tenderness and trust. Knowing all I do, it makes me ache.

Dad pulls me aside on my way out and thrusts a hundred dollars into my hand. ‘I want you to buy yourself a present,’ he says softly. ‘I know it’s not much, but you deserve something, darling.’