Suite Dubai (Arriving) (3 page)

****

The soothing feeling of the bath was gone at 5:30 when sat on the edge of the bed and looked at herself in the mirror. She had forgotten to pack a cocktail dress, so she wore the first of her three suits, which, to her dismay made her look like an attorney. A very young attorney with a ridiculously earnest smile. She frowned. She raised one eyebrow to look skeptical. Yep, she should’ve brought a cocktail dress.
 

She wanted to believe she’d gotten the job without the sheik's help, that it wasn’t because his horse had won the race.
Of
course
I
remember
you
, he’d written in his reply,
I
tell
everyone
how a girl in a white hat was my good luck charm.
He did know the owner of the hotel, quite well.
I’ll see what I can do.

She walked to the window and began to pace. She needed to relax. She needed a drink. She found a bottle of Chardonnay chilling in the mini fridge at the bar and poured a generous amount into a wineglass. Her hand shook. She took a drink. She knew what could happen if she got too nervous. She took another drink. Her throat would get tight and no sound would come out when she spoke. It had happened before.
 

“You’ll be fine,” she told herself now pacing with the glass of wine. She looked in the mirror again and took the pins out of her hair. That was prettier, but was prettier what she wanted? No, she wanted confident, competent. She put on some red lipstick.
Wow, that’s inappropriate.
She wiped the lipstick off. She put on lip gloss. She whispered a string of curse words. She pinned her hair into a bun again. Was that better? She had no idea. She checked the time. It was now 5:40. She drank another gulp of wine and noticed it helped a little. Her hands weren’t shaking, as much.

Music would be good. There was a small radio on the console. She turned it on. Immediately the whirling sounds of middle eastern music spun through the room and she punched buttons until it stopped and a radio announcer said she was listening to the BBC. She hit the button until she found a pop station, but Shakira’s intense warbling made her more nervous. She turned the radio off. It was 5:45.

She walked to the window again. Cars moved along the road, boats moved across the water, a pink haze settled on the horizon. She imagined herself out on a sailboat, dipping her toe into the water. The salty breeze blowing her hair. Yes, relax. If they didn’t think you could do the job, they wouldn’t have hired you. The prince has to be nice; he works in hospitality.

Wait, do I call him your highness? Or was that something that only happened in the movies? She grabbed her new phone and found the answer. It was “your highness” for a prince and “your majesty” for a king. Like she was going to meet a king. She practiced saying it,
your highness
. “Good evening your highness,” she said out loud.
 

She tried to remind herself she was not the only girl in the world to exaggerate her work experience or get a job based on a chance meeting with a sheik. Yes, and she would also not be the first traveler to find herself in a urine- and blood-stained jail cell for a crime she couldn’t quite pronounce.
Oh, stop being dramatic
, she heard her mom say.

Her phone read 5:55. It was time to go.
 

****

She counted fifteen tables in the Nada restaurant on the second floor. Fabric hung down the walls and draped from the center of the ceiling to the corners, making the room like the inside of a tent.
 
Lanterns, like the one in her room, cast little flecks of light on the couples - all seemingly oblivious of one another.
 
It was that kind of restaurant. She saw no one eating alone. No one looked like the Al Zari she’d found on the internet: a man in his 50s with dark eyebrows, a mustache and a mole on his chin.
 

A waiter approached her. “Miss, eh- Lewis?”
 

“Yes,” she said.
 

“Follow me please.” He led her through the restaurant, between the tables, to a door in the back corner half-hidden by fabric. Inside was an even smaller room draped in grey and persimmon silk. A single small table had been set for two. Through the pounding of her heartbeat she heard the waiter say in a quiet voice. “Missus Eh-Lewis, Prince Al Zari is on his way. Have a seat. Would you like a drink?”

She was already feeling her first glass of wine. Another and she’d begin to say her thoughts out loud. “I’ll just have water,” she told him. Her throat tightened as she spoke and it scared her.
 

****

She waited six minutes, noting each of them on her phone.
 
At 6:03 the waiter brought her water. She took a sip and then clamped her hands together in her lap to keep them steady. She was here. It was real. He was on his way.
 
6:05, according to her phone.
 

She had just put her napkin on her lap, then put it back on her plate, when the door opened and a man walked in. Even in the dim light she could tell he wasn’t the Al Zari from the internet and so she thought he was someone else, a messenger perhaps. This man was around 30 years old. He was tall and thin and moved like a shadow in his dark suit. She almost had to squint to see him.
 

“Miss Lewis,” he said softly.
 

She stood, knocking her napkin to the floor. “Yes.”
 

“I am Prince Khalid Al Zari,” he said nodding once. “Owner of the hotel. I am pleased to meet you.” Like Sayeed’s, his voice was soft and deep. He was all dark eyes and jawline and smooth black hair cut just below his collar, longer than she’d seen on any man since she’d landed.
 
It shocked her how cinematic he looked.
 

“I’m pleased to meet you too,” she told him.
 

She presented her hand, to shake. He looked at it and simply nodded again. “You made it,” he said. Then he walked to the table and sat down.

She took her seat and picked up her napkin from the floor. The waiter raced over and took it. “I’ll bring another,” he said. Her heart thumped away in her chest, in the delicate skin of her temples. Her legs shook and she noticed her foot tapping away.
 

“Your suite is acceptable?” He asked.

“It’s lovely,” she said.

“Good. And your flight?”

“Long, but not too bad. Being in first class helped,” she said. “Thank you.”

The waiter approached the table and set a new napkin on her plate. “Your highness,” he said. “We have a lamb tagine with rice pilaf.” He took a deep breath. He seemed nervous too. “We also have a roasted chicken with vegetables.”

The prince looked at her, then back at the waiter. “I’ll have the lamb,” he said, quietly.

“I’ll try the lamb too,” she said, wondering what exactly a tagine was.

When the waiter disappeared through the door, the Prince rested his forearms on the edge of the table. He gave her a smile so slight she wasn’t sure it had happened at all. “Shall I tell you about the hotel?”

She tried to say yes, but nothing out.
 

“It was finished just last year, in November. It has only been open a few months. We are still training and hiring staff. It is smaller then many of the new hotels. While the Burj is spectacular,” he said, “I wanted this to be more intimate.” His gaze moved from her, to his hands, then back to her. Her lip began to twitch.
 

“It is lovely,” she said again.
 

“Room rates, in dollars, are between $1,000 and $8,000 a night,” he continued. “Your room, for instance, falls somewhere in the middle. It is upscale, yes, but not the most expensive in Dubai.”

She kept careful control of her expression, pretending the price of her room did not shock her. The last bed she'd slept in was the futon in her parent’s spare room, surrounded by metal filing cabinets and plastic bins containing Christmas decorations.

“Our clientele are both business and pleasure travelers. We are close to the banks, close to the best shopping, the beach is across the street.” The next time he glanced down at his hands she took a deep breath. “We have some European and American guests, but most are from the middle east-- Jordan and Lebanon and Saudi Arabia.” She liked the way his tongue tripped through the names of places:
Jor-don. Le-Ban-On
. She found it easier to watch his lips move than look into his eyes. He spoke so quietly she was afraid she might miss something he said. A syllable or a word, something she needed to know. The candle seemed to be making her face warm. She took a sip of water to cool down.
 

He stopped and looked at her as if waiting for a question. In her lap, she balled her hands into fists and then stretched her fingers. “Mostly men or women?” She managed to say. “I mean, who do you think chooses the hotel, for the family?”
   

He smiled and looked down at his plate. “Men, mostly. Though I suspect women are involved in the discussion. There are still many families who believe women should not travel without their husbands' permission. In fact, that is still the law in some places. Not here,” he said, “but elsewhere.”
   

Encouraged by his smile or, perhaps, the way he tilted his head to the side and lifted his chin, she asked. “Your wife? Does she make the arrangements? Or do you?” She asked it without thinking and when she saw his expression, wished she hadn’t.

His eyes narrowed a little. Something shifted in his face. “Your job, Rachel,” he said. “Is to handle media relations, advertising, that sort of thing. We have a web site, but the designer is not a writer. So that’s why we have you.”
 

“We’ve been open a few months,” he continued. “But we haven’t had a grand opening. That will be your immediate challenge. You will organize an event for the media, invite some local business owners, diplomats. That sort of thing. We’ll invite his majesty, of course.”
 

She had just realized he was annoyed with her and had also just said something about inviting “his
majesty” when the waiter came through the door with a large silver tray. He took the clay tops off their dishes and the smell of spices, cinnamon and pepper, and broth filled the room. Her stomach growled. Just
eat, she told herself. After some food and a good night’s sleep this will all seem like less of a tragedy.
 

She took a bite and then another. She kept her focus on her plate and didn’t look up once. Not until she’d finished the whole meal.
 

“You liked the lamb,” he said, breaking the silence.

“It was delicious. I’ve never had anything like it.”

He sat up and put his napkin on his plate. “Do you have any other questions?”

“I, I can’t think of any at the moment.”
 

“Good,” he said. “Samantha Byrne will be in touch in the morning. She’ll go over some of the details. Now,” he said, standing, “if you don’t mind, I have another meeting. And I’m sure you are tired.” He whispered something to the waiter, who had been standing near the door, and walked out of the room.

She sat for another minute, looking at her empty plate. Then she stood, tried to smile at the waiter, and walked back through the restaurant.
 

In her room, she fell back onto her bed, wishing she had the energy to cry.

It occurred to her that she could leave on her own, before she’d made a fool of herself. She could tell them, tell everyone it had all been a mistake. A quick search informed her a ticket home would cost, without advanced notice, several thousand dollars. She didn’t have enough money for a taxi ride to the airport.
 

She kept the lights off and in the darkness poured herself another glass of wine. The sky was a deep inky blue now and the moon never looked more like a massive rock set low on the horizon. Surely there was someone else out there who was as lost as she was.
 

****

It was still dark when she woke up on the chaise. Her shoes were off, but she was still wearing her suit. She sat up and rubbed her eyes. She was still in Dubai, still expected to do a job for which she’d been flown around the globe, for which she’d been given a room costing several thousand dollars a night. It was only 4 a.m. but she was wide awake with all she had to do.
 

She switched on an electric tea kettle and made a cup of tea. She found a pad of paper and pen in the desk drawer. Just under the
Al Zari Hotel
letterhead she wrote
Grand Opening
. It made her feel strangely heroic, like she could make something happen just by writing it down.
 

Under that she wrote
food
and
drink
and
music
and
guests
.
 
As she wrote the words she saw long tables with trays of canapés and crackers topped with caviar.
 
Flutes sparkled with champagne, guests laughed and began to clap when she stepped up to the microphone.
 

Now her throat felt tight. Never mind that.

Yesterday’s newspaper was still on the floor by the door and she flipped through it, noting journalists who might cover a grand opening. Several pages in, on the right hand page she found a feature story about a man who used all his savings to buy a camel, from a lot at the camel souks. Camel lots? She laughed. Camelots?