Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  The latter is muttered in an undertone and I pretend not to hear. Banging, as if. And dummies, even worse. Best not build my hopes too high, for intelligent conversation, I mean. Yes, that’s what I mean, because the image of Kai hammering me into my headboard did not just flash through my mind.

  ‘It’s called a break-up not a break-down.’ I flop into a chair. ‘My conversational skills remain unaffected.’ Libido not so much, but I won’t tell her about what happened in the classroom. The less she knows, the better. She’d probably take an ad out in the local paper. Desperate in Dubai Seeks a Second Saving?

  ‘Look, Dubai isn’t some po-dunk woop-woop town out near bush.’

  ‘It’s the bush,’ I correct, in reference to outback Australia. ‘Not near one and before you say it, I know it makes it sound like we’ve only got one.’

  ‘Yeah, well, the bush is out and the Hollywood is in, and I’ve seen the spider-legs hanging out your knicker legs.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a statement.’

  ‘Maybe you need to cop on.’

  ‘All right, I get the point! Dubai’s sophisticated, and I’m not.’

  ‘You’re totally missing the point.’ With a sudden gleam, she grabs my hands, pulling me up from the chair. ‘Alls I’m saying is you need to prepare yourself for a bit of fun.’

  And with that, she leaves me standing in my very plain apartment, the sticky imprint of her lips plastered against my cheek.

  I spend the next twenty minutes unpacking my case, trying to ignore the fact that I’m officially alone and destined to be so from now on. I’ve never lived by myself and as much as I hate to admit it, I feel lonely, which is ridiculous, considering I have enough fingers and toes to count the minutes since Niamh left. As sadness creeps into my throat, I can’t help but feel sorry for myself, sad for the loss of my relationship, filed now under what could’ve been. For a mad moment I think about calling Shane, even going as far as pulling out my phone, the chasm between us suddenly filled with nostalgia and memories. Well, at least those not involving his gland-to-gland contact with someone whose work uniform covers as much as a couple of Band-Aids and a bit of string. I don’t call, of course, because that would be mad. Instead, I wander around the small rooms, heavy with a sense of loss and feeling absolutely bereft. Eventually, I give into a cathartic sob on the bed.

  Self-indulgence over, I take a good look at myself in the dresser mirror, trying to ignore my swollen and blood-shot eyes. My complexion is pale and kind of dull, and my hair darker than its usual honey blonde. I suppose a bit of sun-baking won’t do either any harm. Spotting my swim-togs in the haphazard pile on the bed, I pull them on and wrap myself in a huge towel. Stepping into the elevator clutching my sunnies, I immediately push them over my eyes, hopefully channelling Kim Kardashian rather than the puffy-eyed Kim Jong Un staring out at me from the mirrored walls.

  On the rooftop, I snag a bed with a little shade and unfurl my towel, finding myself appreciative of the early end to school days for the first time since my arrival. I don’t think I’ll ever appreciate the early starts. Only masochists roll out of bed at 5 a.m. with a smile.

  The pool is quiet, just a couple of women lounging on the far side and no sign of the guys Niamh mentioned. I plug in my earphones and pick up my trashy novel. There’s nothing like indulging yourself in a bit of chick-lit to while away the hours. Though as this is a book I’ve borrowed from Niamh, clit-lit might be a better match, especially judging by the buff-bloke-hint-of-butt-crack cover.

  Damp heat tingles against my skin almost immediately and my last conscious thought is that my iPod is playing Nickelback again.

  It’s dark in the classroom, the metal ladder cold at my back. He’s pressed tightly against me, the length of him hard against my thigh. Like a villain about to seduce the damsel, he arches a brow, the hot drag of his fingers suddenly between my legs.

  My breath hitches and I begin to mewl, but not at all in distress.

  ‘Shh.’ His breath brushes my neck. ‘You must stay quiet . . . if you want to come.’

  I bite my lip, the words curling and exploding in pure sensation inside. My body begins to bow and shift as I grind against him, seeking satisfaction, an ease to the aching as I’m . . .

  Awake. Jerked upright. On the edge of the bed.

  Flushed, panting and . . .

  I’m wet.

  Soaked through.

  Yes, I’m wet there but I’m also soaked to my skin externally.

  A sheet of wet hair lies across my face, ear-buds dangling from my shoulder as my book lies limp in a puddle on the tiles. I shake my head in an attempt to dislodge the lustful miasma, to calm the pounding inside as whispers and images barely linger, unlike the throb between my thighs.

  ‘Hey, sorry,’ splutters an amused voice.

  ‘No worries,’ I answer half to myself, peeling away the wet blanket of hair. Through the heavy strands, a guy in board-shorts smiles down. I don’t really take in his appearance other than the tan and the blond, but I get the fleeting impression he’s not sorry at all.

  ‘Rob, you idiot,’ he shouts in the direction of the pool, which now seems to be filled with bodies. Not dead ones, thankfully, but bodies messing about and generally having fun.

  ‘No worries,’ I repeat almost by rote as my equilibrium continues to teeter, still coming down from, well, coming. I touch my lip, finding I’ve actually bitten it.

  ‘You’re Kate, right? From 3E?’ Board-shorts casts a sidelong look at the pool.

  ‘What? Sorry. Yeah, I am.’ I shake my nebulous head once more as his hand extends through the haze.

  ‘Matt Jarrow,’ he announces, mouth twitching and threatening a smile. ‘And the ass responsible for the soaking is my roommate, Rob. We’re on the same floor, friends of Niamh?’

  ‘Niamh’s friends,’ I repeat in a mumble, blood still pooling in my groin, starving my brain of its conversational skills.

  ‘She said to come say hi.’ His gaze flicks from my head to my toes and back again. ‘Wanna join us in the pool?’ Evidently a game of something is taking place, involving a ball and a lot of noise.

  ‘I’m good, that is . . . no thanks.’

  As far as first impressions go, I’m making a poor one. I’m also the master of the understatement as I continue wringing water from my hair. I doubt my legs even work right now.

  ‘So, Kate from 3E, you’re a teacher, like Niamh?’ Matt flops down on the adjacent bed not waiting for a response or an invitation. Linking his fingers behind his head, he stretches out. ‘You new to Dubai or just this part of town?’

  Flexing his biceps, he reminds me of a bird fluffing plumage, but he may as well be a dodo in light of my recent remote detonation. I bet Kai wasn’t even in the same postcode. Wait. Maybe the school uses this building for all its expat staff? He could be here, assuming he does actually work at the boys’ school, and not that it would mean anything but . . .

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’

  Bugger. He’s still here. ‘More like the sun frazzled my brain. Sorry, I’m new. Just moved from Brisbane. Are you a teacher here, too?’

  ‘Nah, I work in engineering. Project management for one of the sites off Sheikh Zayed Road. Another mall, more office buildings, you know?’ I don’t, but I pretend I do, nodding where it seems appropriate. ‘Brisbane, Australia? I’ve never been, but I hear the country is truly beautiful.’

  I cut him off from the usual barrage of kangaroo and koala questions with a vague gesture toward the pool. ‘Are any of your friends teachers?’ I’m eager to explore this avenue some more, and I’m nothing if not persistent. Some would say like a dog with a bone.

  ‘Nope, don’t think so. IT and engineering, maybe HR?’

  ‘Oh.’ My shoulders deflate. ‘I’d hoped some of the teachers from my school would be living here. I haven’t had a chance to meet many of the staff yet.’

  ‘I can ask.’ He accompanies this with a shrug, turning his gaze to the far side of the pool. Two fingers hoo
ked into his mouth, his resulting whistle is ear-splittingly loud. All eyes turn toward us, one massively muscled guy climbing from the ladder at the edge. As the newcomer draws near, Matt tips his chin to the building behind. ‘Any teachers live here?’

  ‘Why? You finally admit you need special-ed?’ The taunting newcomer’s teeth gleam against his deep tan.

  ‘Funny,’ Matt deadpans. ‘Rob, this is Niamh’s friend, Kate. She’s looking for teachers from her school. What was the name of it again?’

  The newcomer smile widens, staring down at me as I answer.

  ‘Teachers? I think there’s a couple from ASD.’ Rob frowns in deep thought or from stressing his brain cells. It’s hard to tell. Call me cynical, but men with builds like his are usually overcompensating for something. ‘You coming to brunch tomorrow? You could ask around.’

  I nod a small response, my mind returning to Kai. I’m listening, kind of, while noticing—in a purely abstract way, you understand—the effects of gravity against the rivulets of water on Rob’s dark and toned abs. What was it Niamh said; fit and dumb? Definitely plenty of the former, the latter is a bit harder to tell. Wonder what Kai’s torso looks like; skin like caramel, a smattering of hair by way of a treasure trail? Aware now of a lull in conversation, I look up realising my companions are silent, smiling down at my off tangent stare-fest.

  Yep, that’d be me. D-U-M, not even deserving of the final B.

  ‘B—brunch, yeah. Niamh mentioned something about it,’ I stammer as I begin to gather my things.

  ‘The weekend starts here!’ Rob says quite suddenly, sliding a hand through his hair. ‘Cool accent, B-T-dubs.’ Ugh, a man who speaks in acronyms. Definitely dumb. ‘I love Australians, if you were any more relaxed you’d be horizontal!’ Hah! You wished, mate. ‘Hey, tell me, do you guys really ride kangaroos?’

  ‘It’s a national past-time,’ I answer, meeting his tone. ‘Roo’s are a doddle, getting them to carry your groceries is a bit tough, though.’

  Talk turns to my homeland and its weird and wonderful creatures, and how to order a beer in an Australian pub: do you ask for a pot, a middie, a schooner? It’s very important to know. The atmosphere between us is relaxed and our conversation very tongue-in-cheek as I learn that for Dubai singles, the weekend is potentially one big party. I’m beginning to realise this place may not be the oasis of seclusion I’d imagined. Apparently, Friday brunch can be a bit of a raucous affair amongst the expat community. Fine foods and wine flowing, even dancing in some hotels. I like the idea of food and wine, but the thought of dancing in public is likely to bring me out in hives. I am looking forward to tomorrow, though. It all sounds very luxurious and a bit over the top.

  Excusing myself from the offer of sundowners, I promise to see the pair at brunch.

  Back in my new home, the setting sun has washed the blandness out of the room, christening it in a golden haze. As the muezzin in a nearby mosque begins calling the faithful to prayer, I close my eyes, absorbing his melodic tenor. My chest fills with warmth and I exhale my loneliness away.

  Dubai. Not as I’d imagined, but it’s going to be interesting, for sure.

  Chapter Four

  I’ve had brunch before, the meal in the place of breakfast and lunch, sat on the front of Brisbane’s eponymous murky depths: a pavement café, cool wine, bread and olives. Sophisticated. Get me, woman of the world, or so I thought until the following day finds me in the atrium of a very swanky hotel in Jumeirah Beach. Brunch Dubai style is something entirely else.

  Unsure of the dress code, I’d opted for a cute tea dress with a cherry print and capped sleeves. Short but cutesy in a kind of 1940’s way, I pair it with a messy up-do and, of course, my current favourite killer heels. Other than a little leg, I’m dressed modestly enough for most occasions, neither under or overdressed in vintage chic. It’s a look Shane would hate, which is another good reason he isn’t here, I remind myself.

  A liveried member of the concierge team helps me from my cab and into the cool expanse of a rather grand foyer, and I’m pleased to have made the effort. All marble floors and glass chandeliers, it’s so very . . . posh.

  Once inside the restaurant, I spot my table pretty much immediately. It’s the loud one.

  ‘Kate, glad you made it!’ Pool-Matt, as I’ve labelled him, gathers me into an awkward hug, introducing me to our tablemates, his arm draped across my shoulders. Familiarity via wine, I think it’s called. A waiter hands me a glass of bubbles and nerves necessitate I drink it faster than is strictly decorous, but what the hell. Dutch courage is definitely the order of the day given that I’m sitting with a tableful of virtual strangers, including two guys who made me extremely wet yesterday. Wait, that sounds much worse than it actually is.

  It turns out there are some teachers living in the building, though not from Al Mishael. Two guys in construction include me in their conversation, along with three girls around my age, office staff of some kind. Niamh hasn’t yet deigned to arrive, which doesn’t surprise me. She’s a perpetual latecomer, usually armed with a pithy or pissy quote, depending on how her tardiness is questioned. Braver souls than I have tried and failed.

  ‘Jesus, Mary, Joseph and their little grey donkey, the traffic’s a feckin’ nightmare. It might’ve been quicker to travel by Bethlehem bus!’ Niamh’s sudden grand entrance finds her dashing around the table kissing cheeks and touching arms, but it’s a self-imposed lateness. She doesn’t fool me, it’s all about the entrance, I know.

  ‘I’m that hungry I could eat the hind leg off the lamb o’ God,’ she says, planting her butt into the chair next to mine. ‘So, the roommate.’ Lowering her voice, she leans across the arm of my chair. ‘Would ‘ya?’

  ‘Would I what?’

  ‘Shag, snog? Hump out his brains?’ She gestures to Matt sitting next to me, deep in conversation with one of the office girls.

  ‘I think you’ll find its push off a cliff, which is exactly what I’m gonna do to you. What the hell did you say to them yesterday?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she answers all wide-eyed. ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought you’d promised them a wristy or something.’

  Her brow furrows. ‘A what?’

  ‘You know . . .’ On my lap and under the table, I flick my wrist as though shaking a bottle of sauce. ‘A wristy; they kept looking at me funny.’

  ‘It’s probably,’ she says through a snigger, ‘all those rebound pheromones you’re throwing out. New bucks and all that. Nice gloss, by the way.’

  ‘I don’t want . . . bucking,’ I whisper-hiss, tentatively touching my lips.

  ‘Really? Lips must be for someone’s benefit,’ she says with another glance at Matt. ‘You know what men think of when they see a girl with pink, wet lips?’

  I open my mouth but don’t get to answer as a sneering voice cuts in.

  ‘So you’re the girl working at Al Mishael? And good luck to you; I’ve heard the kids don’t even speak feckin’ English. Christ, I bet the parents are a pain.’

  This from a girl opposite. Another Irish accent, only this one accompanied by a nasty tone.

  ‘So far so good,’ I answer brightly.

  ‘Really? The way I heard, the parents don’t even like their kids picking up after themselves and stuff, like it’s demeaning or something. Especially as they’ve an army of maids at home, spoon feeding them, wiping their noses and arses.’ She laughs and gestures indelicately, carrying on as though I haven’t spoken. ‘I even heard of one kid who refused to travel to an excursion on the school bus. She went in her own swanky Merc, ‘cos daddy said riding on the school bus was beneath her.’ Her incredulous gaze does a sweep if the table. ‘Can you believe it? Your man said that, in an actual conversation, like? The conceited shite.’

  Murmurs break out amongst the group, and I decide it’s probably not the place to quip I’m no fan of the peasant wagon myself. As it is, I don’t need to respond as Niamh interrupts.

  ‘We’ve the same problems in the internationa
l schools, Jen. There are always people who think they deserve preferential treatment. It’s nothing new.’

  As I’ve nothing sensible to add, I keep quiet, grateful when the conversation turns to someone else.

  ‘Hey, did you hear Sarah resigned?’ Jen tugs at the sleeve of a girl to the far left, leaning across the PR girls sat in between. ‘She up and quit her job to spend more time with that fecker Khalid, can you believe it? She’s only known him a month!’ Both girls’ eyebrows pucker, neither offering a response beyond a vague hmm. ‘Why do they do it? Sure, it’s all hearts and flowers one minute. Then it’s, babe, I’ll get you an apartment and you won’t have to work. But then the bastards have you. You’d be better off whoring in one of the hotels.’

  Confusion must be written across my face as Matt leans in with an explanation.

  ‘Rich Gulf Arabs dating Western girls, a culture clash. Nice guys turning into control freaks, Mr Hyde, that sort of stuff.’ I know from personal experience there are men all over the planet hiding ugly alter-egos. It isn’t unique to Dubai. ‘Unfortunately, it doesn’t happen the other way around. No wealthy Arab women trying to make me a kept man,’ he says, laughing.

  Catching this, Jen turns her attention back. ‘Avoid them like the plague, y’ hear? Sure they know how to woo a girl out of her knickers, and they smell great, but they’re trouble, girl. Fun but trouble,’ she says, sniggering still.

  ‘I’ll . . . bear that in . . . mind?’

  ‘You hungry?’ Matt interrupts.

  I am. I’d also jump at any chance to escape this conversation. I turn to ask Niamh if she’s ready for food, quickly turning back again. She’s not ready to eat. Well, not actual food. Left leg off the Lamb of God? More like a leg of Rob. The poor guy probably doesn’t realise he’s her dish of the day. But I have the major munchies and could do with something to soak up the booze.

  ‘Sushi?’

  Rising, I nod enthusiastically. ‘Sounds yum.’

  Brunch is served at various points through the restaurant: Arabic, Italian, huge roasts and jeweled salads; the choice is astounding. But the dessert station is out of this world: delicate pastries, truffles and chocolate dipped fruits, exquisite petit fours, flambéing crepes, tiny puddings and gold-dusted chocolates; I’m in heaven! Wonder how acceptable it’d be to just eat dessert? As we reach the sushi station, I change my mind on sight; it’s an artistic production on a grand scale. Sushi and sashimi are displayed on frosted glass platters, brimming with colour and looking like edible works of art. I’ll never feel the same again about my favourite sushi joint back home, those coloured plastic plates, revolving train-style.