The Cult of Romance, page 1
Dedication
To James, who called me One from the start, and
who taught me so much about love and romance
(with only a little bit of mansplaining)
Contents
Dedication
2014
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Praise
Copyright
2014
‘Oh God, I can’t look,’ Janet says, turning her head away from the screen. We’re on the floor of the living room at my place, eating popcorn and working on an English assignment with my grandmother snoring loudly on the couch behind us.
‘What?’ I exclaim, tugging at her shirt. ‘If I have to, you have to!’
We cringe at the scene on the screen before us. Sleeping Beauty is batting her eyelashes and smiling at the man who has just kissed her without her consent, and all around the world girls think it’s romantic, instead of the violation that it is.
‘Why did we choose this movie for our assignment?’ Janet asks. ‘It’s gross. I can’t believe we used to love it.’
‘Because it’s the perfect example of how the indoctrination starts,’ I say. ‘It’s fed to us from childhood: boys get to play with trucks and girls play with dolls and mini kitchenettes, boys watch superhero flicks and girls watch princesses live happily ever after with men they just met. I mean, the guy literally kisses her back to life. Like, as if.’
‘Imagine if it’s like Ms Awad’s favourite movie,’ she says, making a face. ‘And we’re writing a thousand-word essay completely trashing it.’
‘No way,’ I say. ‘You can’t possibly be a happy single woman in your thirties like she is – a happy single Lebanese woman in your thirties – without knowing that these movies set the most unrealistic expectations for girls.’
‘And women,’ she adds.
‘Women, women,’ my tayta mutters mockingly behind us, barely awake from her evening nap. ‘Why you women watching cartoon? Go make a samboosik or sumting.’
Janet snorts. ‘If I marry a guy who likes homemade samboosik, I’ll die,’ she whispers.
‘Dying seems like, a bit extreme,’ I tell her. ‘You can just buy them frozen at the lahme bi agine shop in Greenacre. Handmade by some old-fashioned lady like her.’ I point to Tayta behind us, who is dozing off again, gold chains around her neck all tangled.
‘Speaking of handmade, we need to start perfecting our recipes from now, I reckon,’ Janet says.
I nod in agreement, grabbing the remote and muting the closing credits of Sleeping Beauty so we can work on the business idea we recently had, born out of our weekend baking experiments and our desire to see the world.
‘Let’s practise in the Christmas holidays before Year Ten starts,’ I suggest, turning to my laptop. ‘If we nail, like two dessert-cup recipes, everything else will fall into place.’
‘Yeah, but we’ve also gotta practise our piping,’ she points out. ‘We’re both bad at it.’
I shrug. ‘We have time. We have at least six years to save up before we’ll take our first trip overseas together, right?’
‘One hundred percent,’ she says. ‘It’s not like we’re gonna take a gap year. Gotta get that degree so I can work on becoming an uber-successful CEO.’
She says that last part with so much sass that I can’t help but laugh.
In front of me, the DVD jumps back to the main menu and I stare at the screen.
‘I still can’t believe how much we loved this movie when we were little,’ I say eventually.
The look on Janet’s face is one of pity. ‘We didn’t know any better,’ she says. ‘We just knew they were in love.’
‘Pfft,’ I scoff. ‘Like that’s a freakin’ excuse.’
CHAPTER 1
Five years later
‘How was she?’ my cousin Layal asks as she walks up the hall of her townhouse, picking up a stray truck from underneath the stairs and tossing it into the large wicker toy basket.
I’ve been watching her daughter, Grace, so that she and her husband, Charlie, could go to one of his work functions. I’m spent. Three hours watching Peppa Pig on repeat, baking a dozen cupcakes and drawing has left me completely depleted, and reaffirms how much I love giving kids back to their parents at the end of a babysitting shift.
Layal drops her handbag to the floor and falls onto the couch, slipping off her shoes.
‘Good, I guess,’ I tell her. ‘Ate when she was supposed to, peed on the potty with no accidents, asked for three bedtime stories, but—’
Charlie chuckles. ‘That’s just standard Grace,’ he says. ‘Goes through a wheel of excuses before bed.’
‘That’s all children, Charlie,’ Layal says, glaring at him like he ought to know better.
He sighs before opening the fridge and staring blankly at it.
‘Hey, how’s Janet going?’ Layal asks me. ‘She put some photos up today. She’s looking really well.’
‘Photos?’ I echo, grabbing my phone. ‘Damn algorithm, I missed them.’
She laughs. ‘Relax, you’ll see them,’ she says. ‘Sheesh. You kids these days.’
‘No, it’s not me being childish,’ I say. ‘She hardly posts anymore, and I’m petrified that she’s like . . . eloped with an old rich man or something.’
Layal rolls her eyes. ‘Paranoid much? It’s Janet. The same girl who badgered the principal about holding an International Women’s Day fundraiser at school with you.’
Charlie snorts behind us.
Layal narrows her eyes at him, but I don’t bother turning around.
‘Don’t start with me, Charlie,’ I call out. ‘I’ll give you one of my patriarchy speeches.’
‘Please don’t,’ he begs me. ‘I’m tired.’
‘Oh, sorry, I forgot I babysit children for a living because it’s so relaxing,’ I say sarcastically.
Layal chuckles. ‘Still going with those speeches, hey? I just love how you’ve done one Gender Studies subject at uni and you suddenly think you’re Simone de Beauvoir.’
‘Who?’ Charlie asks, sitting next to us as he places a six-pack on the coffee table.
Layal and I exchange an amused glance, but he doesn’t notice.
‘Want one?’ he asks, gesturing to the beers.
‘No, thanks, Charlie.’
‘How can you ask her that?’ Layal frowns at him as she takes the beer he hands to her. ‘She’s on her Ps.’
He looks exasperated. ‘We just walked in,’ he complains. ‘You can’t wait till the company leaves before picking a fight with me? I was just being polite.’
‘She’s not company, she’s Nat,’ Layal says. ‘She hears us argue all the time.’
‘And it’s not fun,’ I point out, even though they’re not listening and I might as well not be in the room.
‘It will help her adapt to marriage,’ Layal continues to Charlie, reaching for the TV remote. ‘No point sugar-coating it.’
Charlie puts his drink down and loosens his tie. ‘She’s not gonna need to adapt to it if we turn her off the thing completely.’
‘Um, guys, I already don’t believe in the institution of marriage, so really, it’s all good,’ I interject.
‘You say that now,’ Layal responds. ‘But one day you could be sitting by yourself at a bar, keeping sober so your friend, Adriana, won’t make a fool of herself like last time, only to realise that the guy sitting next to you—’
‘Who is so drunk he tells you he loves you when you give him a napkin,’ Charlie chimes in, smiling.
‘—is actually quite cute,’ she continues. ‘So, you give him your number and he drunk-dials you at three in the morning when he gets home to say he’s going to marry you.’
‘And it’s the best move he ever made,’ he says, giving her a wink.
‘You guys are awful.’ I stand up and put on my jacket. ‘I seriously liked it better when you were arguing.’
‘Oh, we argue a lot.’ Layal gives me a mischievous smile. ‘But we always make up.’
I look at them making googly eyes at each other and feel the urge to get out of there as fast as I can.
Gag.
* * *
I don’t go home after leaving Layal’s place. I ring my friend Mark, who agrees to meet me for frozen yoghurt at Dairee on Waterloo Road. He sounds keen on the phone, and I’m thankful that his Friday night is so dull that the prospect of frozen yoghurt in our home suburb (famous for falafel sandwiches and sick manicures from Vietnamese ladies who never speak to you) is considered exciting.
Because there are not many places to go out around where we live, the fro-yo place and chocolate café next door are filled with teens, spilling out onto the communal
Groups of boys in bright Nike sneakers and monogram Gucci caps are chatting to friends parked illegally across the road, or ogling girls with flawless eyeliner who are fidgeting with their hijabs and trying not to make eye contact.
I stand in the queue, trying to decide why anyone would choose a mini over a small cup when there was virtually no difference in price.
While I wait, I recognise two priests from the local Lebanese Maronite church standing with three older teens wearing the shirts of the church youth group. The teens are explaining the merits of frozen-yoghurt whip (available in a multitude of flavours) in broken Arabic.
The two priests are visiting from Lebanon, a fact that Tayta has shared with my father about fifty-two times in seventeen days, probably hoping he’d encourage her to host them for dinner.
The young man behind the counter clarifies that the whip is only available for the larger servings, and I watch one priest’s face contort with the burden of choosing the sin of gluttony or else forsake the pavlova flavour.
Finally, it’s my turn to order, and after what seems like an age, I’m sitting at a small table outside as the clock hits 10.25 and the venue, just recently bustling with people, quietens down for the night. Mark arrives a moment later with his dog, Roger, in tow, his face lined with accusation.
‘Oh, you started without me?’ he asks, unimpressed. ‘Standard Nat.’
I swallow a mouthful of yoghurt and look apologetically at him.
‘Sorry,’ I say, shrugging. ‘But also, not. I eat so much slower than you. I need a head start.’
‘Yeah, that’s the reason,’ he says sarcastically, peering down at my bowl. ‘Ohhh, no gummi bears today. Diet?’
‘As if,’ I say, my mouth full. ‘They ran out.’
‘Of course,’ he says knowingly.
He peers through the window at the board advertising this week’s four flavours. ‘Ooh, Nutella and knafeh in the same week,’ he says. ‘How am I gonna choose?’
‘Just get both,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not like there’s a choice between the two.’
‘Don’t get me started.’ He hands me the leash. ‘Here, look after this guy, will you?’
I take the leash in my left hand and tell Roger to sit, which he does dutifully, although his eyes are fixed on Mark, who is ordering inside. When Mark emerges, Roger’s tail begins wagging and the dog quickly adjusts his seating position to face Mark when he takes a seat opposite me.
‘So, what’s with the late-night meet-up?’ Mark asks, spooning some yoghurt into his mouth.
‘Nothing.’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘I just don’t feel like going home yet. Maybe by the time I get there, Tayta will be asleep and I won’t cop a lecture about how no Lebanese boy will marry me if I go out too much. Even though I was babysitting a cousin’s kid. What’d you do tonight?’
‘Date,’ he says, swallowing. ‘Bad date.’
‘That girl from uni?’ I ask.
He shakes his head. ‘Nah, Tinder.’
‘I told you, bro, you’re wasting your time,’ I say. ‘You’re too young for Tinder. Tinder is for older people who can’t meet anyone in real life.’
‘I can’t meet anyone in real life.’
‘You’re nineteen,’ I point out. ‘Don’t be so desperate.’
‘Not for much longer.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You’re being so ridiculous. Can’t you just be normal and meet someone at a function or something?’
‘What function? And what’s normal?’ he asks, giving me a look. ‘A wedding? We still have a few years before any of our friends get married.’
‘Yeah, or like, I don’t know . . . a night out with your friends?’
‘Like who, you and Janet?’ he asks. ‘You spend your weekends baking cakes for your grandmother’s prayer circle, and Janet’s either always studying or on a holiday in Lebanon.’
I narrow my eyes at him. ‘That’s way too slack-urate! You need a better life.’
‘No, I need better friends,’ he says, not missing a beat.
We laugh and discuss his Tinder matches.
‘You need to do it like they did in the old days,’ I tell him, handing him back his phone.
‘What, you think our parents did it better?’ He smirks.
‘Well, not my parents, obviously,’ I say. ‘With their practically arranged marriage and my grandfather’s desperation to see his spinster daughter wed before she turned thirty. Even though it was 1998 by then, and the word “spinster” was another thing dying with the twentieth century.’
He laughs. ‘I’m pretty sure the girl from tonight actually used the word “spinster” in our conversation,’ he says, as he stirs his fro-yo. ‘You know, in that I-don’t-want-a-guy-to-waste-my-time kind of way.’
I slap my palms onto the table. ‘You’re kidding me, right?’
He chuckles, pointing a spoon in my direction. ‘Yeah, I’m kidding, because I knew it would piss you off. You thrive on this shit, always ready to judge.’
‘We all judge,’ I point out. ‘I’m just, like . . . a bit more obvious about it.’
‘I know,’ he says, nodding with enthusiasm. ‘You’re like one of those people who has a problem with everything. I can’t decide if that’s annoying or exciting.’
I fold my arms and look pointedly at him.
‘Relax,’ he says. ‘God, I can’t wait for Janet to get back. Being your only friend is tough.’
‘You and me both,’ I say. ‘You know she hasn’t spoken to me in ages?’
He shrugs. ‘She’s on a holiday, what do you expect?’
‘No, I mean at all,’ I sigh. ‘Not just about the business. I don’t know what she’s doing, she’s hardly posting on Instagram, she’s never on Snapchat anymore . . .’
‘Um, maybe she’s out there, just enjoying her holiday,’ he says. ‘Socials are hard work.’
‘I hope so,’ I say sullenly.
‘But also . . . it’s Lebanon, so it’s probably a Wi-Fi thing,’ he says. ‘Or an electricity thing.’
‘Ah, yes,’ I concede. ‘Good ol’ Lebanon and its daily blackouts.’
He slides his empty cup over to me. ‘Still beat you.’
I smile at him in defeat. ‘And you made me feel so guilty for starting without you,’ I say, finishing my last spoonful and standing up.
‘Pfft,’ he says. ‘You didn’t feel a thing.’
I grab the empty yoghurt cups and toss them in the garbage bin near the door, waving a thank you to the guy behind the counter.
A couple of guys walk past and shuffle closer to the road when they see Roger.
I gesture to them and smile at Mark. ‘Don’t you love it that the boys around here act like the biggest heroes, but they’re scared of a little dog?’ I ask.
Mark frowns at the boys and then turns back to me with a funny look on his face. ‘Roger’s not that small,’ he says, like it’s the most devastating thing he’s ever heard and I’ve just insulted his manhood.
‘OK, he’s not,’ I admit. ‘But he is the cutest dog.’ I bend down and give Roger a pat then straighten up again.
‘Your grandma will kill you for touching that dog and not washing your hands with bleach after,’ Mark says, smirking.
I nod in agreement and pull my keys out of my bag, sandwiching them between my fingers – the tip emerging like a makeshift weapon between my knuckles. Because, you know, #girllife.
‘My car’s this way,’ I tell him, pointing.
‘I’ll walk you,’ he says.
‘Nah, relax, I’ll be fine.’
He raises his eyebrows at me, and I smile.
‘OK,’ I concede. ‘You can tell me more about your bad date.’
He chuckles. ‘Ha, where do I start?’
‘That bad?’
‘That bad. When do you think I should stop trying to date only girls and finally admit that I might be bi?’
‘Dude, there’s no way I’m telling you when to come out,’ I say. ‘I’m not that dumb.’
‘Jokes, I wouldn’t ask you for any relationship advice, anyway,’ he says. ‘You’re the coldest-hearted person I know.’
‘That’s a bit mean,’ I say indignantly. ‘Just because I don’t believe in the fairy tale.’
‘You don’t believe in any of it.’ He stops to look over at me. ‘Crushes, romance, love, marriage . . . You don’t even believe in Valentine’s Day, and that’s the kind of commercial crap literally created for women.’
‘Yeah, well it all leads to heartache,’ I say. ‘I’m living proof.’
