No Sex in the City (6 page)

‘That was brilliant, Miriam,’ I say and she beams at me. I turn to the others. ‘Anybody else?’

For the next hour I help the others work on their scripts. It’s mainly about helping them find the right words; words that mean something to them, rather than me speaking for them.

When we’re done we hang out for a bit, drinking tea and eating some biscuits. As usual, Sonny is making us all laugh. He lives in a small flat in Auburn with five other refugees and always has a story to share.

‘There is one man in the flat who loves the farting!’ he says gleefully, his sharp eyes bright and alive. ‘He is
loving
to fart.’ We burst into hysterics. ‘Yesterday I am screaming at him that the smoke alarm will be complaining soon.’

When it’s time to go home, I hover in the main office area, waiting for Lisa, who’s still in the interview room. She notices me and quickly ducks her head out the door. ‘Hiya,’ she says breezily. ‘I need another hour. Don’t wait for me. Call me tomorrow, yeah?’

‘Okay, sure.’

I drive home exhilarated, humbled and overwhelmed by a sense that it’s here, at the centre, that I am really starting to find my own identity and place in the world. My parents have always told me how lucky I am to have grown up in Australia, but it wasn’t until I started working at the centre that I really understood my blessings. Not in any material sense, but simply because I enjoy the freedom and dignities living in peace brings. I never appreciated that properly until I met people like Sonny and Faraj and Miriam and Ahmed and Christina, who have had the most basic human rights denied them. And so, each time I meet them, they refocus the lens through which I view my life.

I’m not one of those girls who needs a man to complete her. If that was the case I would have settled for the first, fifth or tenth guy I’ve met or been set up with.

I want to settle down. But I don’t want to settle. Ha! I should get that made up into a bumper sticker. That way, at every family event, when the aunties and uncles interrogate me about why I’m not married yet, I won’t have to squirm in my seat any more. I’ll just say, ‘Let’s take this discussion to the garage. Meet my bumper bar.’

I’m not bitter about the fact that I attend more engagement parties and baby showers than girls’ nights out, and that most of my friends and relatives are either recently married or having their first babies (I know all there is to know about pelvic floor exercises and midwives with farmers’ hands). In fact, I am genuinely happy for my friends, and the interior decorator in me secretly loves seeing coordinated crockery and linen strewn around a room filled with wrapping paper and the sound of friends laughing. As for baby showers: who doesn’t love a newborn’s singlet or a pretty basket of baby shampoo and rattles?

And I can even handle the married girls – the ones who used to moan and groan about never finding Mr Right – jostling me and joking about how they miss the days when they were ‘free of responsibility’ and how they’re jealous of my single status – wink, nudge, giggle.

I can definitely handle all that with grace and good humour. But for the love of God, I can’t handle these three things:

1. being forced to watch the unedited version of a wedding

2. being subjected to endless hours of baby talk (eg: he pooped five times today; she got out of bed at one, then two, then two-twelve, then three, then three-fifteen, then four; I mashed the potato, pumpkin and peas and added organic stock, and then I forgot myself and added salt and so I started all over again, because according to page twelve of
How to Cook Organic Food for Your Baby
, if you add salt you might as well add gin, that’s how bad it is)

3. being told I haven’t found love because I’m too fussy

So you can imagine the torture I’m enduring tonight. My parents and I are visiting old family friends. One daughter, Sevil, has just returned from her honeymoon, and another, Arzu, has just had a baby. We’ve been invited to watch the wedding video (three hours long, plus the highlights DVD).

It’s been forty minutes, although we’re only thirty minutes into it because Sevil’s father insists on rewinding any scenes we appear in and then pausing so that we can relive the moment and drink in a shot of ourselves yawning or taking a massive bite out of the entrée, sauce dribbling down our chin.

‘Penang and Langkawi were perfect,’ Sevil gushes.

‘Did you do any water sports?’ I ask.

‘Esma, look at Sevil in this scene!’ Sevil’s dad cries. ‘Look at how well she dances!’

‘Yes, she looks great!’ I cry, then turn back to Sevil. ‘I heard the jetskiing is awesome there.’

‘It was fantastic, although there were jellyfish and—’

‘I’m not sure if I should be demand feeding or feeding every three hours,’ Arzu interrupts as she burps her baby. ‘But my nipples are seriously aching,’ she whispers, leaning closer to Sevil and me. ‘They’re all cracked, and honestly, when she latches on it’s like a million knives being stabbed into the tips of my—’

‘Esma! You’re not watching,’ Sevil’s mum says. ‘You have to watch this part. You remember when they lifted Sevil up onto the chair and she nearly slipped?’

‘Satin dress on the satin chair covers,’ my mum says, clucking her tongue in disapproval.

‘You’re right, Ozlem,’ Sevil’s mum says. ‘She nearly slipped!’

‘So you were saying about the jellyfish?’ I try again.

‘Oh yeah, there were jellyfish in Penang, so we were warned not to go in the water, but the jetskis looked so tempting and then—’

‘Did everybody hear that burp?’ Arzu exclaims.

Sevil’s mum claps her hands and my mum beams.

Arzu, sounding like a cross between a character from
Sesame Street
and a recovering alcoholic, says, ‘Did my baby princess do a burpy burp? Did she now? Did she do a fuzzy wozzy burpy burp and vomit all her milky milk onto her mummy’s new Prada top? We don’t care now, do we, baby?’

Vomit? Did somebody say vomit?

Sevil leaps up to get the tool kit (wash cloth, baby wipes and air freshener); Sevil’s mum goes into the kitchen to get a tea and coffee refill – ordering Sevil’s dad to pause the DVD so she doesn’t miss a minute – and I resign myself to the fact that I have no choice but to endure the next three hours. So I sink back into the couch and do what everybody does when they have a spare moment: play with my smartphone.

I notice a text message from Ruby:
Call me! Help!

I look at the time. It’s only seven-thirty. We’ d agreed she’ d message me at eight-thirty.

Ruby is on a date with a guy she met at a thirtieth. We’d agreed that she’ d text me if she needed to get out of the date. That would be my cue to call her and provide an exit strategy.

The only problem is that she texted me at seven-thirty and the date started at seven.

I get up, excuse myself and lock myself in the bathroom.

Ruby answers on the first ring. ‘Hi, Esma, how are you?’

‘Are you on your way?’ I say, reciting our script.

‘On my way where, hon?’ she answers, feigning cheerfulness. ‘I’m out at the moment.’

‘You’ve got a dress fitting and you’re an hour late!’

‘Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry, Esma. Could we reschedule?’

‘No. If we don’t do the bridesmaids’ fitting today, I’m going to call off the wedding, kill the bridal party and hold you responsible. How bad is it?’

‘Terrible! That’s absolutely terrible. I’m so sorry, Esma, I’ll be there as quickly as I can.’

She hangs up. I wait five minutes, during which time my mum knocks on the door to ask if I’m okay as they’re waiting for me before putting on the DVD.

‘Bad kebab for lunch,’ I groan from behind the door. ‘I’m sorry from the
bottom
of my heart, but they’ll just have to continue without me. Nature calls.’

‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I’ll have a lemon tea waiting for you when you get out.’

‘Sure thing, Mum.’

Ruby calls and I answer.

‘What is wrong with me that I attract these idiots?’ she wails. ‘I’ve gone out and bought nicotine gum because I’m honestly close to smoking again.’

‘Don’t you dare!’ I scold.

She pops her gum. ‘I’ve already thrown four into my mouth. I’m going to kill somebody! It starts out normal. We order coffee, enjoy some general chitchat. Then he suddenly says, “I have a series of questions I’m going to ask you so I can determine your personality.”’

‘
What?
’ I sit on the edge of the bath.

‘Then the nob asks me whether I’m a climate change sceptic, whether I believe marijuana should be legalised and my opinion on the privatisation of prisons.’

‘He sounds like a repressed
Q&A
audience member.’

‘I tell him I believe carbon should be taxed and he has a tantrum, throws down his napkin and asks me why I feel the need to send Australia back to the Dark Ages. Then suddenly he stops and says, “You have greedy eyes.”’

‘Has he escaped a mental institution?’

‘
Then
he asks me to confess to the most I’ve ever paid for a pair of shoes and I say I don’t want to, but then I tell him just for a laugh and he pushes his coffee cup into the middle of the table and says, “That is ridiculous and superficial.”’

‘He said all this with a straight face?’

‘He didn’t smile once. And then when you called and saved me and I got up to leave, he was genuinely disappointed because, according to him, “it was going so well and he felt such a connection”. Then he tried to kiss me goodbye and arrange another time to meet!’

‘What did you say?’

‘I told him I’d check my calendar but I had a colonoscopy scheduled next week.’

‘Yeah right.’

‘He said he’ d call the week after and wished me luck as he’ d developed haemorrhoids after his last colonoscopy.’

‘Do we have signs painted on our foreheads, Ruby?’

‘Yes.
Only Losers May Apply
.’

Although it’s true that I love my married friends, and their babies are the sweetest things (even if they can turn their mothers’ brains to mush), it’s Ruby, Lisa and Nirvana that I can really be open and honest with and know they’ll understand.

We’re meeting up for another No Sex in the City get-together. Tonight it’s Thai in Surry Hills. The food is fantastic, the atmosphere infectiously buoyant, and we’re all celebrating because Nirvana has met somebody who:

1. has, thus far, displayed no psychotic tendencies

2. owns his own business (financial independence: always on the list)

3. is also Gujarati

4. is good-looking and very funny

5. matches Nirvana’s star sign (important in Hindu tradition)

6. is into her (evidence: called her the day after they met and spoke for an hour)

‘I have it on good authority that Anil’s family’s not into joint families,’ Nirvana says happily. ‘His sister’s married and she doesn’t live with her in-laws.’

Nirvana’s father’s mother has lived with Nirvana’s parents since they first married. For Nirvana’s mother, that’s thirty-six years with a full-time mother-in-law. Nirvana’s seen first-hand how challenging such domestic arrangements can be and is consequently paranoid about the joint family thing. She tends to throw the question into her standard first-date conversation opener: ‘So have you travelled much? Do you like your job? Do you plan on living with your parents when you get married? Are you into sports?’

‘So how did you meet?’ Ruby demands. ‘Rewind a bit.’

‘At Sunita’s wedding last Saturday. We were at the token singles’ table. I’m sure Sunita and her family set the whole thing up.’

We quizzed Nirvana, throwing a hundred questions at her.

‘We clicked, the conversation flowed, there were no awkward silences. We were laughing and joking and it was very relaxed. Obviously we were both putting forward the best versions of ourselves – that’s what everybody does, right? – but at the same time I didn’t feel it was one big con job. And he was normal.’ She sighs hopefully. ‘Such a welcome change. Remember Arshpreet?’

We all screech with laughter. Arshpreet was Nirvana’s most recent failed arranged meeting. He had a habit of referring to himself in the third person, for example: ‘Arshpreet has to make a decision about whether he’s going to open his own business or remain an employee. And Arshpreet is finding it very difficult to decide.’

Funnily enough, Nirvana had no problem deciding Arshpreet was not the guy for her.

‘Anil asked for my number,’ Nirvana goes on, ‘and he called me the next day. We spoke for an hour. And we’ve been talking or texting all week. He’s taking me out for dinner tomorrow.’

‘You’re gushing!’ Lisa says with a laugh.

‘And glowing,’ Ruby adds.

‘And a little gaunt?’ I tease. ‘Have you been too busy on the phone to fit a meal in?’

‘Gushing, glowing, gaunt,’ says Lisa, popping a cashew into her mouth. ‘Ah, the signs of love.’

‘I’ve been eating fine,’ Nirvana says defensively.

I snort. ‘South Beach, Dukan or North Korean prison rations today?’

‘Dukan,’ she says.

‘Animals only?’ Lisa asks.

Nirvana nods. ‘It doesn’t give you very nice breath,’ she says, scrunching up her nose. ‘I’m always chewing gum. But it’s worth it.’

I give her a dubious look. ‘Whatever you say, Nirvana.’

‘Don’t you want to know what he does?’ she says, ignoring me.

‘Of course.’

‘Fire away.’

‘He used to be a financial planner. Now he runs his own business. Two petrol stations!’

‘So he’s Indian and he owns petrol stations,’ I say with a loud laugh. ‘Not at all a cliché.’

Nirvana giggles. ‘I’ve been running from clichés for so long, but they always track me down.’

My parents were deadset against me getting married before I graduated from university because they wanted me to focus on my studies. Engaged was fine. Married would have to wait. I agreed. I didn’t want to settle down before I graduated. I wanted to start working, enjoy financial independence, travel. Work out who I was and what I wanted in life.

I had no objection to meeting someone and getting engaged. I had it all planned out: fall hopelessly in love with someone at university – maybe through the Islamic or Turkish Society, or with somebody in the same faculty as me – and then enjoy a couple of years of engaged bliss (everybody I know who’s married says engagement is like an extended honeymoon). In other words, I’d have a fiancé who took me out, spoilt me rotten with chocolates and flowers (I had fantasies of flowers being delivered to me during class on Valentine’s Day) and with whom I could build a collection of memories to share as we grew old together.