Pretty Things (The Pretty Trilogy #3) Page 12

  ‘Don’t,’ he pleads half laugh, half groan. ‘I don’t think I’ve the energy to lift an electric brush, let alone pleasure you with one.’

  ‘Pleasure me!’ And I snort. Naked and snorting. Some things never change.

  His head angles slowly to one side and he stares at me through those thick, black lashes. ‘But I could watch.’

  ‘Kai, you must’ve gone to sleep already. You’re dreaming. Night-night.’ I slip between the sheets and rising on the pillows, kiss his forehead before then snuggling in.

  Then, I go out like a light.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Christ on a bike—spanking hands!

  Eating cheese causes bad dreams, right?

  That’s what I’ll blame; seared halloumi, served on a bed of sesame greens. Yes, let’s blame the delicious inflight entrée, and maybe jet-lag, for making me wake in a blind panic. Though not blind to the images scorched onto my retinas, unfortunately.

  I come awake, bolt upright in Kai’s bed, maybe five minutes ago, my heartrate so erratic I’m sure I’d short-circuit an electrocardiogram, and my mind in major need of some kind of brain bleach.

  I’ll bloody kill Kai.

  He’s to blame for the thought to worm at all into my head, especially after I’d managed during waking hours, at least, to keep it at bay. But in my subconscious, the spank—No, I won’t say it. The scenario rather, must’ve festered and fermented under the effects of cheese, champagne and interrupted sleep, releasing itself in lurid technicolour as I’d dreamed.

  I was home. Home home, in Australia, and Mum answered the front door in her apron with the most serene smile on her face. The apron is one she doesn’t use often. The one I’d bought her last Christmas, in fact; the one with pink begonias on the front. But it wasn’t the blooms that disturbed me. It was when she’d turned around to walk back into the kitchen . . . and I saw she was wearing a red G-string.

  Just an apron and a lot of colour . . .

  Holding a hand to my mouth I try not to gag, remembering the more disturbing detail of the distinctly begonia-pink hand prints on each cheek of her bum. Her laughing voice as she’d informed me I was to call her Mama Cyn from now on.

  Then I’d woken in an empty bed, slicked with a sheen of cold sweat. Though it’s probably just as well I’m alone. I think the way I’d woken screaming might’ve frightened him.

  With a still bleary-eyed glance around the room, I can see neither sign of Kai nor our bags. I wiggle my legs from the enormous bed, determined to find one or the other. Or maybe go to the bathroom and retch.

  My purse lies on the dresser, my phone along with it. Flat, of course. Kai’s phone lies on the opposite nightstand. I imagine he can’t have gone far, as it’s usually glued to his hand. I consider taking a peek, wondering if it contains any new images in the collection I’ve christened Kate Catches Z’s, when the central air turns over, flooding the room with a frigid burst of air. Shivering, I catch a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror, abstractly recalling the last time I’d visited the mall with Niamh. We were sitting in some corporate coffee emporium when a woman walked past in a skin tight T-shirt. The waiter, delivering warmed muffins to accompany our coffee, had frozen to the spot; mouth open, the only sign of animation was his head as it slowly turned to follow her progress. Though I imagine there were other signs of animation, namely the in-the-pants kind, not that I looked. Some men are just easily pleased, I guess, because Niamh’s assertion was right. The girl was a total butter-face.

  ‘Banging body, but ‘er face . . .’ Let’s just say it looked banged. ‘But, Jaysus, y’could dial a phone with them nipples!’

  Getting back to my reflection in the dresser mirror, it agrees. My nipples are huge. Maybe it’s the pallor of my skin which makes them appear so, because as well as having the unfortunate appearance of the last chicken on the supermarket shelf, my skin seems much more pale this morning, hence the, er, enhancement of stiff, rosy and pink.

  I could probably hang a towel from them.

  Crossing my arms across my body, I rub chicken-flesh from my arms before heading into the closet in search of something to wear.

  My, my. Someone’s a bit obsessed.

  With a snigger, I consider messing with the colour-coded rows. Despite the thought, I’m too bloody cold to fart-arse about and just lift a lilac one—a shade I’ve never seen him wear, thank God—from the shelf.

  Lilac shirts hanging before the blue ones, but after the grey. It’s like a Ralph Lauren showroom.

  Slipping it from the hanger, I’m relieved that it’s not one of the more expensive brands, neither Armani nor custom Saville Row, but Boss Orange.

  Oh, the deprivation! How does he not hang his head in shame?

  Chuckling, I fasten the buttons then begin pulling open drawers in search of something that resembles, well, drawers.

  Man, who colour co-ordinates their socks?

  Pulling out a pair, I’m not exactly thrilled to find Kai’s Armani boxer briefs don’t exactly hang from my hips. Or need to be knotted at my waist. Fat bitch. I resolve to cut out carbs, from one meal a day, at least.

  Grabbing mine and Kai’s discarded and dirty clothes, but not seeing a laundry basket in the room, I open the door to the upstairs-living-room-snug-space and make my way down the very grand staircase, thinking there’s bound to be a washing machine somewhere down there.

  At the foot of the stairs, the front of the house is bathed in bright sunshine so I don’t quite notice the floor is wet until my foot slides on the marble and I skid, nearly falling flat on my arse.

  Not a great start to the start of the day.

  A mop and bucket stands nearby, causing me to smile as I imagine an insomniac Kai with a touch of OCD, waking in the early hours with a desperate need to clean. It’s a silly thought but preferable to the conclusion I jump to as I turn the corner, finding myself in the reception room. Majlis, I think Kai called it. A huge stone fireplace dominates one wall. Black and white leather sofas are the second things I see, almost not noticing the woman bent over the arm of one of them. A woman with jet black hair pulled tight in a bun. An improbable shade, I notice, as she turns to face me, the bright yellow duster forgotten in her hand and falling to the floor. Her craggy eyebrows lower once she’s martialled her surprise and dark, heavily wrinkled eyes sweep from my own, down my bra-less chest and mostly bare legs. Reaching the tips of my toes, her eyes sweep up my body again. Then she opens her mouth.

  ‘Aeeeiiii!’

  At least that’s what it sounds like, as she claps her hands to her cheeks with some force. I don’t hang around for confirmation, or translation, as she grabs a large sweeping brush leaning against the back of a chair, heading for me in a rush.

  ‘Hell anni!’ And again, I can’t quite be sure that’s what she says—yells—as she charges at me, determined to sweep me away like something unsavoury trodden into her carpet. ‘Chi-chi-chi! Haram! Haram!’

  ‘Hey! Ow!’ I jump to avoid a violent sweep to the shins. I’ve heard of jumping brooms after marriage, but not like this. I make to run for the sanctuary of upstairs, when she spits at me—fricken spits at me!—on her own clean floors, because I assume the mop and bucket is hers. ‘Eww . . . that’s feral, you fucking nutter! Let me past!’

  ‘La, haram, haram!’

  My armful of clothes are flung around the hall like a tornado as she lunges for me again. I squeal as I chuck them at her, partly in the hopes of creating a diversion and partly from shock.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m Mrs. Kai! Ismi Mrs. Kai, you geriatric git!’ I shout over my shoulder as she chases me around the lovely art deco table. ‘You’re going to make him very cross!’ Not to mention my jet-lagged legs very sore.

  This is ridiculous and I’m bloody knackered and it’s way too early in the day to be having a domestic, with the domestic . . . staff. I immediately stop, obviously on the opposite side of the table, and well out of reach. She may be getting on a bit, but she’s bloody fast.


  ‘Listen here.’ I point a finger at her, filling my voice with all the authority of a primary school teacher. ‘Listen here, you . . . you, person you! I’m Mrs. Khalfan.’ And that just sounds wrong.

  Muttering, she points her thumb to her wiry neck, and under a pugnacious, jutting chin she viciously draws it across her heavily jowled flesh. A death threat from a woman who’s clearly pushing seventy? I’m not gonna take it lightly. Just as well.

  ‘Aiieee!’ She yells, leaping around the table and charging at me again.

  I stumble backward to the door—it’s still unlocked. Grabbing the handle on the other side, I shove my foot flat against the adjoining one, holding on tight as she yanks and pulls from inside, still yelling and cursing in whatever language that is. The handle stills, but I hold it for a minute, not to be fooled, before beginning to worry that she may be seeking another exit.

  I’ve read a few weird newspaper stories in my short time in the UAE, including one that made the front page of the local paper where a maid was arrested for threatening her boss with a knife. That her boss had chased her around the kitchen table, wearing nothing but a smile on his face and a naked hard-on jutting from between his legs, wasn’t enough to prevent her arrest and eventual deportation, apparently. The police had accepted his trousers had just “fallen down”. Wonder what the headline would read if this maid manages to catch me? I don’t wait around to find out, slipping my feet into a very worn pair of yellow rubber thongs that I find by the front door. Looks like she’d been wearing them while watering the bamboo plants. They’re not exactly stylish, but they’re clean. Wet. And will prevent my feet from blistering against the extremely hot pavement.

  The sun is blinding as I reach and open the gate, stepping out from the shade of the canopy of greenery. Without my sunglasses, my eyes begin to stream as I consider my choices. As I see it, I could go back into the front yard and hide in wait for Kai, but I’d be running the risk of being found by this geriatric nutter, of course. My second choice is to see if his mum is home.

  I turn right and head for Mishael’s.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The wrought iron entrance gate to Mishael’s palace, I mean house, is locked, so I ring the large bell. I ring it again. And again. And panic a bit, as well, when at the top of the steps, one half of the heavy front door opens, and a woman dressed in black and white appears. She’s not French, despite her uniform. A very proper looking housemaid, probably from the Philippines.

  ‘Is . . . could I speak to Mishael, please?’

  She doesn’t answer and I could chuck table tennis balls into her open gob. Easily. Straightening Kai’s shirt across my shoulders, I pull the hem as low as I can. ‘It’s Regina, isn’t it?’ I seem to have retained this from my visit. In any event, it appears to return her to her wits.

  ‘Y-yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Is Mishael at home? Mrs. Khalfan?’ God, that sounds weird. Is that me now?

  ‘Madam bathing, ma’am.’ Her expression is immediately disconcerted. ‘N-not to be disturbed.’

  ‘I’m a . . . a friend of her son. A friend of Kai’s?’

  This earns me a doubtful look, then the appalled utterance of “Mr. Kai,” followed by a slight tutting and an almost infinitesimal shake of her head. They’re all signs of her disapproval, and a profound misunderstanding, as she begins to close the door.

  ‘No, please! I came for lunch—a couple of weeks ago. With Mr. Kai?’

  The door halts as I hear the unmistakable voice of Mishael from inside.

  ‘Is that you, Kate?’ The door opens under her instruction. ‘Quickly!’

  Mishael’s startled look lasts exactly one beat before she voices some harsh sentiment in Arabic over my head with an imperious glare. I turn around in response and realise I’ve gathered a following in my bare-legged trek to her house: Half a dozen men in green overalls stand on the other side of the road, one minute agog, the next as busy as all fuck, clipping shrubs indiscriminately and sweeping sand from the road.

  ‘Come inside.’ She meets me at the bottom of the steps, encouraging a quick ascent into the cool, dark entrance hall. ‘What on earth—’

  ‘We had trouble at the airport. I don’t have my bags. Then this morning—Kai wasn’t there. I slipped in the hall, nearly fell, then this woman—black hair, scary brows?’ She nods her understanding and my torrent of knotted and tangled sentences starts again. ‘My phone went flat and she wouldn’t listen and I chucked my laundry at her when she chased me with a bloody brush!’

  ‘Did Kai collect you from the airport, is that what you’re telling me?’ My hand in hers, she speaks slowly, each word heavy with meaning. It’s then I realise I have an audience. Not just Regina but a younger girl in a similar uniform and another in chefs whites, which aren’t really white at all, are standing about. ‘Your bags got lost?’

  ‘No—’ Her hand tightens on mine, her gaze intense. ‘Yes, that is . . . the house is empty. Maybe she thought I was a thief?’

  ‘Kai must have gone to collect your bags. Come and sit down, what a shock you must’ve had. He’ll be so annoyed to find his guest treated this way.’ She feigns a soft chuckle, instructing someone behind me to bring tea and another to bring me a dressing gown.

  Alone in her lovely drawing room, divested of my rubber footwear and swathed in a floor length silk robe, I begin to feel a little like I’ve stepped back in time. I must look like some delicate Regency miss, draped across the sofa. A thought reinforced as Mishael thanks me, a little circumspectly, I feel, presumably for not making a scene in front of the staff.

  ‘Now, tell me. What on earth has happened?’ Placing a cup and saucer on a side table, she leans forward, a little too eagerly. ‘Out with it. What has my darling son done?’

  ‘You’re not angry?’ Clearly, that would be a no as she releases a peal of soft laughter. ‘Kai has never had anyone to stay over, not in his house, at least. Nothing is secret on this compound, so no . . . sleepovers. And I know he doesn’t have the proclivities of a monk. Silly goose, don’t look so shocked. I’m not a fool. Someone of his age, not to mention as handsome as he is, would never be short of company. But I told you he loved you, didn’t I?’ Leaning back at once, she smiles, almost with satisfaction, her expression pink and pleased. ‘Am I about to gain a daughter-in-law?’

  ‘You know, she almost clocked me with the brush!’ Distraction. That’s what’s needed because I’m not answering that. How can I?

  ‘Martha? Yes, she is an odd creature, but very loyal. She’s been with Faris’ family for years. All her own children in India are married now, her financial responsibilities at an end, but still she remains. Kai has personally sent her back to India twice, and each time she comes back saying her daughters-in-law cause her headaches and that she’s too young and healthy to retire!’

  Young? Nah. But healthy enough to chase me around a table? For sure.

  ‘I’m sure she thinks Kai’s house would fall down without her presence.’

  ‘So she’s Kai’s maid?’ Seems almost cruel having someone that elderly cleaning your house.

  ‘Well, she was more like an ayah. Like a sort of nursemaid. She’s been with the family as long as we’ve been in Dubai. She’s very attached to Kais.’

  ‘Explains a lot, I suppose. She didn’t understand what I was saying, not speaking English, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, her English is fine. She just displays a decided lack of understanding whenever it suits. Like her cleaning. She’s not supposed to do anything other than a little light dusting and the like. There’s a maid service rostered to clean the house thoroughly. So she’s not supposed to do anything too strenuous. You’re surprised?’

  ‘No, I . . . I suppose I’m still getting used to the concept of not having to wash your own floors.’

  ‘Ah, I thought perhaps you were surprised that she isn’t worked to the bone.’ The humorous gleam in her eye is decidedly like Kai’s, or maybe that should be the other way around. Whatever, I recognise sh
e’s winding me up.

  ‘I don’t believe everything I read.’ Tales of domestic staff sleeping on kitchen floors, working seven days a week for sporadic pay. Newspaper articles recounting tragic stories of maids being beaten. Once or twice, to death. ‘I’m sure for every heartbreaking story of abuse, there’s another of—’

  ‘Yes, yes, but has he proposed?’

  Subtle. Like a sledgehammer. My mouth works soundlessly. Should I tell her the truth? Turns out, thankfully, there’s no need as Kai strides into the room, looking deliciously sweaty in black running shorts and a muscle shirt.

  ‘My two favourite girls.’ Leaning over the sofa, he kisses my cheek, moving to his mother to do the same as she stands.

  ‘Well, child?’ She clasps his forearm as he turns to move away.

  ‘Parent?’ One eyebrow arches, and though his tone is almost bland, I can see he’s struggling to keep a straight face.

  ‘Have you something to say?’

  ‘That Martha is sorry?’ He glances at me, his smile threatening to escape a little more.

  ‘Sod Martha. Out with it, Kais, or I won’t be held responsible!’

  ‘Driven to profanity?’ he says, now half laughing. ‘We can’t have that.’ Pulling back, his hands curl around her shoulders and he asks, ‘Have you met my wife?’

  ‘Wife?’ she repeats, almost dazed. Blinking rapidly, she stares up into his face, struggling to keep hurt from her voice and face. ‘You’ve . . . you’re already married?’ Her head turns to mine, seeking a denial, perhaps, or confirmation of a joke.

  My heart aches at the mixture of hurt and confusion that threatens her tone. I know it’s not that she doesn’t want us to be married, but rather that she’d prefer us not to have already done so.

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak for a beat before adding another tangle of words. ‘But we’ve come back to do it properly. Here.’