No Sex in the City (23 page)

I realise that the only person who hasn’t spoken is Lisa. She’s been quietly watching and listening, not contributing a word to the exchange. Neela excuses herself to have a smoke outside and Lisa goes with her.

Lisa doesn’t smoke. But I know that’s not why she’s joining Neela. Lisa is a born listener.

When I get home I log on to Facebook and am pleasantly surprised to see an invite from Metin to be his friend. I accept. I have to wait for him to confirm before I can log on to his account and rummage around through his life, checking out his photographs and wall messages.

He called me last night. While he still hogs a lot of the talk time, at least his stories are interesting and he’s trying to be more reciprocal.

Okay, who am I kidding? Sure, the European adventure stories and doctor-saves-the-day-in-Cambodian-camp stories are gripping and entertaining, but the main reason I’m attracted to Metin is because he oozes sex appeal.

But is that such a bad thing?

Even when we’re talking about topics as ordinary as our worst experiences on public transport, my mind wanders: standing on a crowded train ... It comes to a sudden halt as all good CityRail trains do. I’m thrown into Metin’s strong, powerful arms ... Or maybe I faint and then he does CPR on me on the platform of Central Station in front of a cheer squad of winos and kids jigging school ...

It’s ridiculous.

Maybe my overactive imagination has something to do with the fact that I’m twenty-eight years old and I’ve never felt the touch of a man’s lips on mine. Never even held a man’s hand, or leant against a man’s chest, close enough to inhale his scent. I’m intelligent enough to know that because I’ve never experienced physical intimacy with a man, the intensity of sexual tension between me and Metin is clouding my judgement. Because the feelings Metin arouses in me are new and exciting, I’m too distracted to heed the tiny voice in my head that questions whether he’s the right guy for me.

As for Aydin, he called me about half an hour after I’d hung up the phone with Metin.

Guilt has set in.

How can I lead on two guys in the one night? And, worse still, what does it say about me that I’m so good at it?

With Aydin the conversation is different. It’s not just about the easy flirting, which is reciprocal and smart and sassy (with Metin I’m the giggling, blushing schoolgirl too overwhelmed to know how to respond). Aydin and I have an intellectual connection, which sounds wanky but is true. He cares about social justice, and it’s not just lip service – he acts on it too. I love that he motivates and challenges me. We have more in common, too. We both grew up in Sydney. We love the same music. It all just clicks.

So why am I confused?

I feel there’s potential with both of them. But it’s too early to decide who’s right. Or who’s wrong. There’s a big difference: I’d rather make a decision because I feel that one of them is the one, than have to make a decision because one of them isn’t.

This morning Metin sends me a text message while I’m at work, asking me if I’m free for dinner and a movie on Saturday night. I say yes (and then instantly go into overdrive planning what I’m going to wear, how I’ll do my hair; there’s even more pressure to look good when you’re out with someone who looks like a model). And then the fun begins, because Aydin calls me in the afternoon, while I’m driving to a pharmacy for a training session.

I put him on speaker phone and we chat for a while. One thing I’ve already noticed about Aydin: he’s on full speed. He’s a crusader for social justice but with the sense to be self-deprecating about it; he doesn’t strike me as a zealot. There’s nothing worse than being with somebody who tries to make you feel guilty for not living on two dollars a day.

When he asks me out for dinner on Friday night I don’t hesitate to say yes.

Except I feel guilty. I’m two-timing. There’s no way of sugar-coating it.

I need some advice, so I call Ruby. She’s on her way back from court and, miraculously, has a moment to talk (getting her during the day is almost always impossible). I know if I call Nirvana she’ll probably sympathise with Aydin and Metin and give me an answer I don’t want to hear. Ruby’s the kind of girl who can cut through the emotion.

‘Don’t you dare feel guilty,’ she says briskly. ‘You have to look out for yourself. Plus it’s unfair to drop one of them without a good reason. You owe them both a proper chance. It’s not your bloody fault they showed up at the same time. They’re big boys. They can look after themselves. Got it?’

‘If you knew something about somebody I was seeing that you thought was troubling, would you tell me? At the risk of me perhaps not sharing your point of view?’

Lisa, nervously waiting for my response, staples the document she’s holding with even more vigour than usual. We’re at the Sydney Refugee Centre tonight, putting together last-minute asylum applications.

‘You mean as a warning? Careful, by the way. The staples aren’t actually going to hurt Julia and Tony, even if you press down as hard as you can.’

The words go straight over her head. ‘Not necessarily as a warning. Just for the sake of giving me as complete a picture as possible of the man I’m with. Here, pass that pile to me, your stapling is atrocious.’

‘You’ve got standards for stapling too? My God, you have issues.’

‘Just answer the question.’

I shuffle through the papers strewn all over the desk and start to sort them into piles. ‘This pile for torture. This pile for rape as a weapon of war. This pile for religious persecution. Do you think the shock jocks and dog-whistle politicians might shut up for five minutes if we locked them up in a room and got them to read this stuff?’

Lisa nods. ‘Maybe an all-expenses-paid holiday in a detention centre? We won’t even ask for receipts.’

‘I’ve never been good at hypotheticals. Just tell me what this is all about.’

‘Well, what would you do if you knew something disturbing about a guy I was seeing?’ She looks at me beseechingly. ‘Would you tell me?’

‘It would really depend on the gravity of the information. If I’d seen the guy shoplifting – then yes, I’d tell you. But if it was just a personality thing, I probably wouldn’t because that’s so subjective and I wouldn’t want to risk losing you.’

She nods her head once, satisfied with my response.

‘You can’t stop there. Who’s the hypothetical based on?’

She looks at me grimly. ‘I can’t say.’

‘Why not?’

‘Confidential information.’

‘Oh, come on. You can’t use that card. Spill it.’

‘I’m serious. It’s work-related.’

I heave a disappointed sigh to indicate I understand her position but nonetheless disapprove.

Danny sticks his head into my office on Friday afternoon.

‘Are you able to come in tomorrow for a couple of hours? Don’t look at me like that,’ he says, pouting. ‘I know it’s
horrible
, but we’ve got a stack of stuff to do on the business development plans and I’m going to be out of the office for half of next week. Mary’s insisting we spend quality time together.’ He sighs to convey the oppressiveness of such plans. ‘
Please?
’

‘I have boot camp at eight,’ I lie.

‘We can start at ten.’

‘For how long?’

‘Two hours max. If we start at ten, we can be out by twelve. I’m going to ask Kylie and Veronica to come in too.’

It’s not like I have much choice, so I agree and his face lights up.

Then, in a breezy voice, he says, ‘Would you prefer we meet at a café rather than the office?’

‘A
café
?’ I struggle to disguise my contempt at his suggestion.

‘Just to keep things relaxed,’ he says. ‘We can have a business brunch. My shout.’

Fat chance I’m going to say yes to a cosy weekend brunch.

‘I think it’s better if we stay in the office. All the files are here,’ I argue. ‘It makes sense to have them within reach.’

Oh great, now he’s going all wounded on me. Not wanting to provoke him, I say, as sweetly as I can, ‘How about we all bring something to share for the meeting? Muffins sound good?’

He grins and says, ‘Sounds great. I’ll bring in some champagne.’ My jaw almost drops. ‘Just kidding!’ he laughs. ‘It’s a business meeting, after all. I’ve got to remember that, don’t I?’

He laughs and leaves.

It’s funny but sometimes you can get along with somebody, overlooking their sleaziness, or sloppiness, or any other annoying aspect of their personality, and then suddenly, at some random and inexplicable point, you just can’t stand them. You can’t stand the sight of them. You can’t stand to be in the same room as them, and when they talk to you, their voice grates on your nerves. I realise, then, as I reflect on how excited Danny was at my agreement to work at the weekend, that I’ll never go back to liking him as I did when I first started work, or even tolerating him as I have lately. I now can’t stand him. It’s as though the sum of all his interactions with me is now weighing down on my shoulders like a heavy brick. A brick I want to throw at his head.

I still haven’t heard anything from the three recruiting agencies I’ve sent my résumé to, and decide I’ll harass them by phone on my way home (no doubt annoying them as much as some candidates annoy me). But when I call I get a voicemail message for each one. I look at my watch. Five o’ clock.
Slackers
, I think.
I’m going to be working on a Saturday. What’s your excuse for leaving before five on a weekday?

I love getting dressed up in winter. For my date with Aydin tonight I’m wearing a classic double-breasted white coat (a sauce-based pasta is clearly not going to be an option) and dark-blue skinny-leg jeans. I pull my favourite brown stiletto boots over them. I got the boots in Italy and I love them like they’re a part of my family. I pull up half my hair with a clip and let the rest fall softly around my shoulders and down my back.

I meet Aydin at a McDonald’s on Parramatta Road. We’ve agreed I’ll leave my car here and we’ll go into Darlinghurst in his car. I’ve avoided him picking me up from home because although my dad’s relaxed the Rule of Six, he doesn’t need to know I’m out following the Rule of Two.

Aydin’s dressed well and smells amazing; he’s exuding sexy confidence and making me go weak at the knees.

He’s not catwalk good-looking, and although he’s solid, he’s not big and buff like Metin. Oh, and he’s only slightly taller than me (I shouldn’t have worn heels because we have a Tom and Nicole case on our hands).

But when he smiles, it’s magnetic.

He opens the passenger door of his Mazda and I hop in. It’s squeaky clean, with one of those small tissue boxes that fit neatly into the middle console, a DVD case in the door pocket and an Ambi Pur attached to the air vent. The rest of the car is empty. No tissues or empty food wrappers on the seats. No unopened bank letters, junk mail or books strewn across the back seat. No CDs without cases lying on the floor.

‘You got it cleaned, didn’t you?’ I accuse him, a grin plastered on my face.

He laughs as we drive out of the car park. ‘Of course. You think my car normally looks like this? I usually advise passengers to be immunised before they get in.’ He picks up the tissue box. ‘
Floral?
I was in a rush in the shops and didn’t realise!’

I’m sure Aydin must be able to hear my heart hammering away at my rib cage. My hands are folded in my lap, but I’m conscious of how close he is to me, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting casually on his thigh. I know my parents would never approve of me being alone with a guy in his car. Judging from the chemistry between us, I can understand why.

As we drive to Oxford Street the best thing happens while we’re stuck in a traffic jam near Hyde Park. The car beside us is packed with a bunch of young guys and the driver is checking me out, thank you very much. He looks my way and I’m sure I’m not imagining it but he winks, and his mates seem to be egging him on, grinning and pointing. He doesn’t look a day over his driving test, but that doesn’t matter. He’s a hot-blooded male, isn’t he?

Checking. Me. Out.

With Aydin beside me.

That’s right, Aydin. Let your head swell up with pride. You’re taking out one hottie tonight.

I turn to face Aydin, putting on my most nonchalant and innocent face, as though I’m so used to such attention that I don’t even notice it happening any more. Aydin’s oblivious, focused on trying to find a CD (‘I knew exactly where they were when they were lying everywhere, but now they’re organised in this stupid case, I can’t find what I want!’). That’s when I notice the car on the other side of us. A convertible. With the lid down. Five girls. Four practically standing up in their seats. Ten E-cup boobs. One metre of fabric between the lot of them.

I sink down into my chair to give the poor boys a better view.

Once we’re seated at the restaurant we launch straight into the ‘So how’s your week been?’ talk. After covering the usual ground, we momentarily hit a wall.

‘Oh my God, quick!’ he cries, crouching down towards the table and waving at me to do the same.

‘What’s wrong?’ I say, copying him.

‘An awkward silence! Duck for cover!’

I laugh.

‘Quick! Let’s use it as a cue to order. Hopefully the menu will stimulate some conversation.’

‘Do Peking duck and dumplings normally inspire you to talk?’

‘Maybe! Who knows? There are probably a lot of interesting stories about dumplings and sushi.’

Ordering turns into a riot, with Aydin making a joke about every selection I make. Luckily the waiter humours us. We must have ‘first date’ written all over us.

Once we’ve ordered, there’s another silence, then Aydin shifts tone. ‘Okay, Esma, jokes aside, tell me about the
real
you.’

‘Hmm.’ I drum my fingers on the table. ‘What can I say without sounding cheesy?’

‘Cheesy’s fine.’

‘Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ And it does sound cheesy too, when I talk about wanting to make a difference, about the Refugee Centre and all the ambiguous feelings that brings. But he doesn’t sneer, or laugh, or look embarrassed. In fact he looks happy, as if he knows exactly what I’m talking about.