No Sex in the City Read online

‘I know,’ Lisa says, grinning. ‘But it’s true. I’m intense and I need meaning and connection, and casual sex just isn’t going to deliver that to me.’

  ‘Would you be with Alex if you had the chance?’ I ask Ruby.

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know ... Well, no, not if it was just casual, although God knows I’d love to. But that’s not me either. I know this confident exterior is deceiving, but deep down I’m old-fashioned too. Not as prehistoric as you, Esma. The sky won’t fall on me if I’m not married first.’

  ‘Thanks for putting it that way,’ I say dryly.

  She winks. ‘But I need commitment, and given it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find a guy who doesn’t expect sex after one or two dates, I’m beginning to think I might die a virgin.’

  ‘But you’re not a virgin,’ I say.

  Ruby sighs. ‘It’s been so long, my hymen has probably grafted back together.’

  Fifteen

  Monday morning

  ‘I have issues,’ Nirvana says flatly as soon as I answer her call. ‘Not with Anil, or his stepdad. With his mum. She’s clearly suffering from mummy’s boy syndrome.’ (You don’t say!) ‘She gets up in the morning as he’s leaving for work to iron his work shirts for him. He laughs it off. He thinks it’s sweet. This is not good.’

  Wednesday morning

  ‘At dinner last night she asked me if I could cook Indian food. I told her the truth. I don’t particularly like cooking. She coughed into her vindaloo. Anil laughed and gave me a hug. I could have sworn she muttered a prayer under her breath.’

  Sunday evening

  ‘I think she’s stingy. She doesn’t look that way when you meet her with the two-carat ring and Mercedes-Benz, but I caught her washing used foil. It was all greasy from the butter chicken. Esma, I think this is going to be a problem.’ At today’s Teenzone session we’re working on a new project. Using donated suitcases, the class are painting their personal stories into the suitcases. When they’ve finished, we’re going to take photographs of the painted suitcases and create an exhibition space at our next fundraising event.

  Sonny and Faraj are mucking around with the paintbrushes, while Miriam and Ahmed, who hate being separated and are working beside one another, are bent low over the table, mixing colours. I walk over to Christina, who’s tracing the image of a church onto her suitcase, and ask her what it means.

  ‘It is the church we used to visiting in Iraq,’ she says without looking up. She’s focused on the pattern, and her features – small blue eyes, ginger eyelashes, thin light eyebrows and a dusting of freckles on her nose – are all scrunched up in concentration. ‘It was burnt down. I do not remembering every detail of it. But I remembering there was one window. My parents liking to sit in the chairs near this window. Hanging next to this window was a picture of Jesus. He was bending and holding the cross. I wanting to painting that on my suitcase.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask gently, crouching down beside her.

  She shrugs. ‘I do not know. I just remembering that picture. Staring at it when I was more little. Sometimes I feeling I left Jesus behind in my country,’ she says matter-of-factly.

  ‘But don’t you take faith with you wherever you are?’

  She smiles. ‘Yes. We going to the Iraqi church here. But it is not being the same for me. I have many more things in my mind and I forgetting faith sometimes. Maybe if I paint it, I will not forget.’

  ‘I met an extraordinary woman today,’ Lisa declares as we drive home together in my car. ‘Twenty-one, from Somalia. She lost a lot of her family in the famine.’ She shakes her head slowly. ‘Do you think some people are just born with a bigger capacity to cope with death and grief? I mean, how the hell do you live day in and day out watching loved ones die of starvation?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know. But how can we know? We’ve never really been challenged in life. Sometimes I feel embarrassed in class. Like I should be apologising for having it so good.’

  She throws me a sidelong glance. ‘You know what bugs me? Sometimes I catch myself feeling good about my work. Congratulating myself for being so caring.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Then I go home and do my best to forget about all the tragic stories I’ve heard.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. It reminds me about what that guy, I can’t remember his name, wrote: We’re victims of weapons of mass distraction.’

  ‘I like that,’ she says, nodding thoughtfully.

  I know I’m not a superficial person – I care and I do a bit more than the average person on the street – but I also know that I’m capable of switching off. When I think about the students I work with, my worries seem meaningless in comparison. But does that mean I’m supposed to accept everything that happens to me – Dad’s debt, being unhappy at work – just because I’m grateful that I don’t live in a war zone, or that there’s always food on our table? Do I sit back and accept that I don’t need to strive for things to be better because, when measured against those less fortunate, I’ve been blessed with the best out of life?

  When I talk to Lisa about this, she tells me not to beat myself up because I’m fortunate enough to have been born in a peaceful, affluent country. ‘Sometimes that kind of guilt can stop us acting, and that’s no good to anyone. At least you’re doing something, and all you can do is hope that it makes a small difference to people’s lives.’

  I nod slowly, musing over her words, and then say, ‘To be honest, sometimes I also feel that my focus on finding Mr Bloody Right feels trivial in comparison to the things we struggle with at the centre. At the same time, I guess that while finding a partner might not be as essential to life as being safe and secure, it’s at the heart of life.’

  ‘Of course it is,’ Lisa says. ‘It’s not at the heart of mine, I have to say, but for most people it is – including people who’ve been on leaky boats and locked up in detention! We’ve seen some happy endings here, haven’t we? Mohamed and Fariha met through the centre last year and ended up getting married. There’s nothing selfish or frivolous about wanting to find love.’

  ‘I wonder if I’ll meet a guy who feels the same way as we do.’ I laugh. ‘I just need to meet the male equivalent of you. Somebody who’s interested in ideas and life and social justice – all the complicated, messy stuff.’

  She giggles. ‘Did I tell you what happened with my mum last night? She suggested I go to a Jewish singles party with my cousin. You pay the lady organising it and then you attend a dinner party with about fifteen other single Jews. I refused.’

  ‘I’m sure you did better than that.’

  ‘Okay, so I told her I’d rather kill myself than go. Figuratively speaking of course. So in true form she carried on and vowed to kill herself first if I don’t go. Trust my mum to match me on a suicide vow. You can’t win with that woman.’

  Sixteen

  My fingers hover over the keyboard as I stare at my computer screen. I hesitate before pressing enter, then squeeze my eyes shut and let out a yelp. I toss my MacBook to the side and lie on my bed, staring up at the ceiling fan as it turns round and round.

  I’ve

  created

  an

  online

  dating

  profile.

  The gravity, the sheer enormity of this decision, strikes me when I consider that I’ve boycotted the entire online dating scene for the past ten years. At university it was very popular among my Turkish friends to meet guys in Turkey through ICQ. Some of them even met up with the guys when they visited on family holidays. Most of the guys turned out to be total losers and the complete opposite of their profiles (‘uni student’ was actually a middle-aged kebab-stand owner; ‘entrepreneur’ in fact sold cheap trinkets to tourists in the bazaar; ‘good-looking guy’ was fat and balding). Two friends did find their husband through the net, though. One of them now lives in Turkey and the other brought her man here. They are both, as far as I am aware, very happy, and therefore form part of the fairy-tale circle one pretends to disdain but secretly hopes to join one day
.

  On this site I can ‘purchase’ contacts (presumably the payment requirement filters out people who aren’t serious), and ‘kisses’ are for free.

  I have lost all dignity and have made myself available on the open market. I am commercial merchandise now, selling my heart through the online shopping mall, albeit with certain conditions (my usual checklist).

  I call Lisa and confess the loss of my RSVP virginity to her.

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ she happily chides me. ‘There’s nothing wrong with it.’

  Ruby is delighted. ‘It’s about bloody time.’

  There is a flurry of activity overnight. A new product on the market. Instant interest.

  Dear Esma

  I’d like to catch up for a coffee to discuss my résumé. It needs work and seeing as you’re in the industry, it’d be great to get some insider feedback.

  Damn. I shouldn’t have put my job as part of my profile.

  Hi, I’m interested in getting to know you better. I’m also a Muslim. I’ve tried the Muslim online dating site but didn’t have much luck there, so I bit the bullet and gave this site a try. Look forward to you contacting me.

  Hmm. I’m not sure. Why should I pay for the contact when he’s initiating? Ruby warned me about this. Lots of tight-arses out there, she said, who will expect you to pay for the first contact (an email). I send a message back:

  Hi, it’d be nice to get in touch. Send me an email telling me more about yourself

  I thought I’d be inundated by contacts through RSVP. But I haven’t heard back from the guy who was interested in getting to know me more. I can only assume one thing: just like Ruby warned me, he’s a tight-arse. Asking me to make the contact (and therefore pay) and giving me the flick when I didn’t.

  I’ve had some other messages, the combined effect of which has convinced me that the majority of guys are pathetic, sad, idiotic losers who are socially dysfunctional.

  Sample of evidence to support my sweeping generalisation:

  Are you attractive? You MUST be attractive. Intelligence is a bonus but not a necessity. Look forward to your reply.

  Me: Intelligence is a MUST for me. So goodbye.

  So when you say you’re a Muslim, do you wear that tea towel on your head? Cos I really hate that. It’s oppressive. Have you assimilated since you moved here?

  Me: I occasionally wear a tea towel on my head. I’ve been known to wear a tablecloth and nappy too. I am very oppressed and degraded and in need of rescue. I would say I am assimilated given I was born here.

  Hi.

  Me: Have you developed early-onset arthritis in your fingers? Even so, two letters masquerading as a message is inexcusable. Not to mention you can still hold a pen in your mouth and type with that.

  Seventeen

  Senem and Farouk are at our place for dinner tonight. Dad’s shift has changed again and it’s a rare treat for us all to have dinner together. Mum is cheerful and upbeat, hovering around us like a flight attendant in first class, serving more food onto our plates, refilling our glasses and ignoring our appeals to stop fussing and just sit down. But Mum’s never really known how to sit still. If the house is her workplace, then hosting dinner is where she earns her KPIs, and this is one woman who won’t accept anything less than a glowing performance appraisal.

  Dad’s just as excited to be home having dinner with us and is also fussing, in his own way. Tugging at Mum’s sleeve every time she nears him and pleading with her to sit down beside him, coaxing Senem to eat more (‘You’re too thin’), edging the plates of food closer to Farouk (who is, of course, the ‘son he never had’, but still the Son-In-Law and must therefore be pampered and impressed, even though Farouk is so easy-going that he wouldn’t care if Mum and Dad served him a TV dinner) and periodically patting me on the hand and smiling at me with sadness and affection.

  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.

  Eighteen

  ‘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.’