No Sex in the City (7 page)

Romantic comedies have a lot to answer for.

It didn’t happen. Well, I did fall for a guy, Seyf, and he wanted to take things to the next level, but it didn’t work out. I met plenty of guys after Seyf, but I soon realised we had little in common, or that they were really interested in my friend, or that they wanted me to be more traditional (like Kamil, who admired the fact that I was studying but thought it was ultimately unnecessary, given my place was in the home), or less religious (like Mohamad, aka ‘Alan’, who preferred it if I drank, went nightclubbing and sneaked away with him to the Central Coast for a long weekend). Other guys I met through the traditional channels. They’d visit me at home and we’ d enjoy a formal-lounge-room date (or garden-pergola date, depending on the time of year). If I felt a click, a connection, and the guy did too, we’ d go out for a coffee or dinner.

That’s when my dad invented the Rule of Six.

When Yusuf (who was the only Brad Pitt lookalike I have been blessed to meet) invited me out for a coffee in Leichhardt (I was eighteen), my father sat me down and introduced me to his new policy on public ‘meetings’ (he refused to use the word ‘date’).

‘You must have a minimum of six people at any meeting with a boy. If it is only you and the boy, and somebody sees you, it looks like a date. That is no good for your reputation. If there is another couple with you, it looks like a double date. That is doubly no good for your reputation. But if it is six people, you, the boy and four other people, it is acceptable because six is a group.’

There were many obvious problems with the Rule of Six. The boy would usually be bewildered by the fact that he was effectively taking five people out on a date. Those five people would very often be my sister and friends, because my father did not approve of the boy bringing somebody for support.

‘He is the boy,’ my father would say. ‘He doesn’t need support. Let him feel uncomfortable. You are the girl. It is all about your needs and your comfort.’

So the boy would usually end up having to get to know me in the presence of five strangers (and shout them all coffee too). If the five chaperones used their brains and left us alone (which almost always happened, not that I told my father that), the damage had usually already been done. Either my chaperones would hang around during the awkward introductions and be so nice that they appeared to have stronger feelings for the guy than I did, or some of them would think they were doing me a kindness by jokingly reminding the guy that they’d arrange a painful death for him if he upset me. This served to scare most of the guys off because it made me look as though I came from a family with connections to Sydney’s underworld – never a good matchmaking look.

My father eventually mellowed and the Rule of Six was, thankfully, forgotten.

Which is why, when Yasir telephones the house on Saturday to ask me out for coffee, my father simply hands the phone to me and leaves me to sort out the details. The Rule of Six has finally given way to the Rule of Two and it’s about bloody time.

Mind you, I have no idea who Yasir is. But the community connection network has led him to me nonetheless. Here’s how it worked:

My dad

Deniz (met my father in the seventies when they were flatmates; works as a teacher at St Clements)

Havin (also works as a teacher at St Clements; is also Yasir’s aunt; spoke to Deniz as follows: ‘Deniz, my sister’s son wants to settle down but can’t find the right girl. Do you know anybody?’)

Deniz (‘Yes. My old friend’s daughter.’)

Havin speaks to Zeynap, Deniz’s wife, and gives her a number for Betul, Yasir’s mum.

Zeynap calls Betul and vouches that I’m a
wonderful
catch.

Havin calls my mum to let her know Betul will call her and that Yasir is a
wonderful
catch.

Betul calls my mum.

My mum gives Betul my mobile telephone number and the house number, just in case.

Yasir calls my mobile. I’m in the shower at the time and don’t pick up and don’t bother returning the call because I don’t recognise the number. Everybody I want to speak to has their number saved in my phone, and anybody not in my contacts is either a telemarketer or our local Blockbuster store chasing the last season of
The Wire
(I swear I can’t find it).