The Cult of Romance, page 17
The gifts are cute and kitsch – presented to her with comments like ‘it’s only something small’ or ‘something to remember us by in your new house’ – but it’s the absence of Michael from the circle that gets my attention.
I crane my neck, searching for him, and spot him talking to George a few metres away, a pained look on his face. George, on the other hand, appears totally indifferent.
‘So,’ Noha says, peering at Janet. ‘Have you had a good time?’
Janet hugs her knees to her chest and nods her head. ‘The best,’ she says. ‘Honestly, the best last birthday as a single girl.’
The words hit me hard. It didn’t occur to me, even as we boarded the plane, even yesterday as we trudged along on the walk to this mountain, even as this group sang happy birthday, that this would be her last single-girl birthday. It didn’t feel like we even did it right. With drinks and seafood and dancing and Mark.
Janet’s birthdays from now on would be totally different. She’ll arrive and leave with Michael, maybe less intoxicated, maybe at a more reasonable hour. There will be no more hugging of strangers afterwards, no flirting at parties, no girly catch-ups that make us feel young and alive. I will never get the chance to have a drink with her at a bar in New York or Paris or Dubai as two single women. I look at her across the fire and don’t even recognise my friend. It makes me feel ripped off.
‘What did Michael get you?’ another person asks.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘We’ll probably go get something together, I think.’
The way she’s looking at Michael, I can practically hear her brain ticking. This is not good. But also, kind of good. I mean, this would surely demonstrate how little he knows her, right?
She doesn’t even sit there for a full minute before going up to him and dragging him away from George by the sleeve of his shirt.
* * *
The rest of the morning passes by quietly. No, literally, because Janet gives Michael the silent treatment and everyone else stays silent because they don’t know how to behave.
Slowly, the large group starts leaving in lots, and by the time the four of us are alone again, she’s ready to let it all out.
‘How long till we get there?’ I whisper to George. We’re fifty metres ahead of them, but I can tell that they’re having it out behind us. Janet isn’t the type of person to hide her emotions, and she has the gestures to go with her moods.
‘Another twenty-five minutes or so. This is the last village we’ll walk through,’ George says.
‘Thank the Lord,’ I mutter. ‘I can’t wait to have a shower. You know, if the power’s not out.’
He laughs. ‘The power never goes out in Australia?’ he asks.
‘As if,’ I tell him. ‘Maybe twice a year, if there’s been a severe storm or something. Sorry, but Australia is superior in every way.’
He smiles. ‘I was making fun.’
‘Oh,’ I say quietly. ‘So, what’s with you and Noha? You guys looked incredibly friendly.’
‘Well, she is my friend,’ he says, brows furrowing. ‘And Michael’s cousin.’
‘Wouldn’t that make her your cousin?’ I ask.
‘Nope,’ he says, not elaborating, eyes straight ahead. Stuff this, I’m not going to dig for information.
‘Was that your idea?’ I ask quietly. ‘Him not getting a present?’
‘Hmm?’ he asks, playing dumb.
I look pointedly at him, but he doesn’t say anything.
‘You are very persistent,’ he says eventually.
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’
‘I know.’
I continue walking, wondering how much time has passed. I feel so out of my element, not knowing where anything is. There are no street signs up here in the north, I don’t know where I am, and I can’t tell much of anything location-wise unless we enter or exit a village. I can’t believe I thought I was going to be able to catch a cab here on my first day.
We must have slowed down, because Michael and Janet are now close enough for us to hear their conversation.
‘Is this how it’s going to be in our marriage?’ Michael is asking. ‘You’re going to tell me I didn’t get you a present, so I’m going to break up with you?’
George’s jaw is set, I notice.
‘No, it’s not about the gift, it’s about the gesture!’ Janet yells.
‘The gesture?! The gesture?! What about the gesture of organising a party for you?’
I can hear the frustration in Michael’s voice. As far as he’s concerned, that was the gift. He did his part. And right now, he’s probably thinking that Janet is behaving like a spoiled brat.
‘Oh, a party!’ she exclaims sarcastically. ‘Some party! Sleeping on grass and walking for two hours and making our own food.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Michael says. ‘I don’t remember seeing you touch the food except to eat it. My friends were the ones who barbecued the meat and made the garlic bread and chopped up the vegetables for salad. You sat down like a sit.’
Ooh. He basically just called her precious.
‘Back where I come from, you don’t do anything on your birthday,’ I hear her say. ‘Other people look after you.’
I try to turn around, but George elbows me and I continue forward, only slightly picking up my pace.
‘You don’t think I’m looking after you? I didn’t get you a present because we have a lot of masarif right now,’ he says. ‘I don’t want your parents to have to pay more than their share of the wedding. I don’t want them to think I can’t provide for my family. Because you’re my family now, Janet. And sometimes that’s going to mean making sacrifices for the sake of our future. Am I not moving to the other side of the world for you? I don’t have to pay for a house here. But if you want to live there, I have to pick and choose what I can spend my money on. I have the rest of my life to spoil you. Now I thought I did a good thing, giving you an experience, but if you’re too precious to see that, then maybe we should finish whatever this is and go our separate ways.’
I hear George’s sharp intake of breath, but I don’t look at him. This isn’t what we wanted, is it? Not a breakup, right? Just more time.
I wait for the old Janet to speak. The one who did want to be spoiled on her birthday, who wanted to finish her degree and start her masters, who wanted to travel the world with nothing tying her down. But that Janet stays silent. The one who does speak tells me that maybe, just maybe, she’s a bit more mature than I thought.
‘I don’t know what got into me, I’m sorry,’ she wails. ‘Please forgive me, habibi.’
I glance back at them and they’re holding hands again, walking together silently.
‘I didn’t tell him not to get her a present,’ George says finally. ‘But when he didn’t know what to get, we thought it would be a better surprise if we let her believe she got nothing. Her present is at home. Which means he’s currently more in love with her than ever.’
CHAPTER 19
‘Where have you been?’ Janet demands, when I walk into the kitchen the next morning.
I yawn, and only realise afterwards how big of a mistake it is. The look on Janet’s face is pure bridezilla.
‘I was in the bathroom,’ I say, running my hands through my curls. ‘Sorry – did we have plans today?’
‘Natalie, I’m begging you,’ she says. ‘I’m super stressed and it feels like you have no idea. Can you please stop thinking about feminism and refugees or whatever you think about and be a little more present for me?’
I look down at the floor, so she won’t see my reaction. ‘I don’t just think about feminism and refugees,’ I tell her. ‘Yesterday, I was thinking about how everyone here believes I eat a lot and how I clearly need a pedicure.’
I yawn again and her eyes narrow at me.
‘What? I’m tired!’ I exclaim. ‘I was up till one in the morning watching zaffe videos with you. And you’ve been telling me for days that we’ll ask someone to take us into town so I can see the city a bit more, but it hasn’t happened. You told me we’d be travelling together, but we’ve done like, one touristy thing.’
‘Arggghhh,’ she says, breathing deeply, then sits on a chair I’ve just pulled out, so I shrug and grab a piece of fruit out of the fruit bowl.
‘I’m just so stressed about the zaffe because I know it’s Michael’s favourite part,’ she says, groaning. ‘And I started that stupid fight about a present, so now I have to do better.’
‘Then let him pick it,’ I say, my tone implying how obvious it is.
She looks at me the way Tayta used to when I’d talk about what I wanted from Santa (Dad) for Christmas.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘He’s not gonna do it,’ she says. ‘He always says it’s the girl’s job to plan the wedding because it’s her day.’
‘Are you marrying yourself and I had no idea?’ I ask. ‘If he’s the one so concerned with the bloody zaffe, he can book it himself.’
She sighs. ‘He’s busy today,’ she says. ‘Playing soccer with George or some crap. So please, will you go with me?’
I make a face. ‘That George is a stage-one clinger,’ I tell her. ‘Is he going to hide in Michael’s suitcase when he comes back to Australia?’
Her eyes are big, pleading saucers.
I sigh. ‘Fine. I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.’
* * *
I think of how much of a pushover I’ve been in an attempt to be supportive on the drive to wherever it is we’re going (seriously it’s got to the point where I don’t even ask anymore). My relief at having found dresses and organised the seating chart and finished planning the joint bucks’ and hens’ party has been short-lived, and Janet’s checklist is growing longer by the minute. Did I really think we were making headway with the whole thing?
I steal a look at her, sitting in the front seat of the car next to her uncle, and feel desperate to hurl myself out of the car for a bit. Planning this wedding is just as complicated as planning the opening ceremony of an Olympic Games, not that I have any personal experience in that department. And at least people want to watch the Olympics.
‘So, what kind of zaffe are you after?’ I ask. ‘I mean, I know we watched all those videos yesterday, but I still have no effing idea.’
‘Nat,’ she says in a sing-song voice, putting her finger to her lips and using her eyes to gesture to her uncle.
‘What?’ I reply. ‘He’s oblivious.’
‘Zaffet Al-sharq is a good one,’ he says in Arabic. ‘Betjanin.’
‘It wows you,’ I say, repeating his words in English. ‘Now that’s an endorsement.’
‘Yeah, but I still want to check out a few.’
The zaffe is probably my favourite part of a Lebanese wedding, and it has changed a lot over the years. The fact that I didn’t have anyone to look after me when Dad’s family had a function meant that, unlike other children, I was often at family weddings and have seen firsthand how social media has altered this age-old tradition.
Traditionally, a zaffe is a welcome dance for the bride and groom, a sort of procession that takes place when they leave their respective homes on the big day or as they enter the venue where their reception is taking place. I’ve always liked it, the beat of a traditional tubbel (Lebanese drum) and zamoor (similar to a flute), striking a beautiful change in atmosphere as the newlyweds arrive, really making the celebration come alive. Sometimes there are belly dancers bearing sticks, or men in traditional garments sword dancing, but mostly it’s about the magic of the two instruments heralding the party’s kick-off as bride and groom are hoisted onto the shoulders of loved ones as their family and friends dance around them.
Lately, however, the zaffe has become a bit . . . extra. Violinists and fire-breathers and saxophone players – all very cool in their own right – have compromised the traditional Middle Eastern feel of the celebration, and where one or two drums were once considered sufficient, a wedding zaffe these days could host up to twelve drummers, not just distancing the guests from the people they are meant to be circling and celebrating, but causing potential life-long hearing damage. These days, it’s all about what’s going to be shared online, and even when you’re in the crowd, your vision of something that is supposed to be moving and traditional is blocked by a hundred iPhones in the air.
‘Do you want a conventional one or something more modern?’ I ask.
She shrugs without looking around. ‘I guess I’ll just see what their strengths are,’ she says.
I sigh and stare out the window, resigning myself to the fact that this is going to be another day down the drain. How many days left again?
* * *
‘God, I am so, so hot,’ I say, pressing a cold bottle of Pepsi to my forehead. It’s the day after our zaffe-group-scouting excursion, and we’re sitting on Janet’s grandma’s veranda, eating cherries and apricots, taking up two plastic chairs each. ‘I thought the village was supposed to be cooler than this.’
‘This summer is a very hot one,’ Janet says, waving her hands in front of her face. ‘Trust me, it would be worse in Beirut. You’d die.’
‘Well, then thank Christ I’m here,’ I say, moving the Pepsi bottle towards my chest. I close my eyes and slip further along the chair, so that I’m practically lying down, my legs stretched before me on the second chair.
‘Hmm,’ she says, looking at her phone. ‘Michael wants to go to the beach.’
Just great. She’ll go gallivanting around and I’ll remain stuck here. This isn’t a holiday; this is a hostage situation that sees me shuffled between wedding duties and Janet’s grandmother’s house with not a moment of fun in between.
‘What time are you going?’ I ask sullenly.
‘I told him I wanted to stay with you,’ she says.
‘I’ll go to the beach,’ I say, shrugging. ‘Unless three’s a crowd.’
‘Nah, no way,’ she says. ‘Plus, the clinger is coming. You can hang out with him.’
Joy.
CHAPTER 20
The clinger sticks to me instead of Michael today, which is incredibly frustrating considering I’m well into a particularly thrilling suspense novel and don’t want any distractions.
‘Are you just going to lie there and read the whole time?’ George asks, pushing his sunglasses on top of his head.
‘No, at one point I might sit up and read,’ I say, not looking away from my phone.
I see him smile out of the corner of my eye and move to a sitting position. ‘What does it matter, anyway?’ I ask, putting the phone down beside me.
He motions his hands at the beach club around us. ‘Because you’re at the beach,’ he says.
I signal for him to lean in. ‘My brain still works at the beach, you know,’ I whisper.
He laughs. ‘Well, do you at least want to go out on a jet ski or something?’ he asks.
I peer ahead at the people on jet skis, zooming around on the ocean, and make a face at him. ‘Looks a little scary.’
‘Come on, Aussie,’ he says. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be a “beach babe”?’
He uses air quotes around ‘beach babe’, but for some reason I cringe at the way he says ‘Aussie’.
‘What?’ George asks. ‘What did I do now?’
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry about it.’
‘Is it because I said “babe”?’ He chuckles.
‘What? No, no way,’ I reply. ‘Well, it’s just that everyone thinks we’re beach babes. Australia is more desert than sea, you know.’
‘So, you’ll feel more at home in the UAE, then?’ he teases.
I chuckle, shaking my head at him.
He lies down beside me and puts his sunnies back on. ‘Guess I’ll go to sleep, then,’ he says.
‘Oh, come on, are you trying to make me feel guilty?’ I ask.
He doesn’t move when he replies, ‘I don’t think anyone can make you feel anything. Bala ehses.’
I narrow my eyes at him. ‘I’m not without feeling!’ I protest. ‘I’m just not sure about a jet ski.’
‘Because of the jet ski or because of me?’ he asks, sitting up once more.
I bite my lip. ‘Both, I guess. I’ve never been on a jet ski. How do I know you’re not going to hurl me into the water?’
‘Wouldn’t be a bad thing.’
I push him and he actually says, ‘Ow.’
‘And how do I know your licence hasn’t expired?’
He laughs. ‘Licence? Natalie, you do know what country you’re in, right?’
I tilt my head in agreement, like I have somehow forgotten. ‘Fine. One go.’
‘I’m not doing it for me, you know,’ he says, as we walk over to the jet-ski hire stand. ‘You look like you could use some fun.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You guys always think you’re saving us from ourselves,’ I mutter.
‘What? Are you scared?’ he asks.
I laugh. ‘Mostly, I’m scared of breaking that girl’s heart.’ I gesture to a girl sitting by the bar.
‘What, why?’
‘She’s had her eye on you this entire time,’ I explain. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.’
He looks at her and back at me. ‘I actually hadn’t.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Hmm, what?’
‘Nothing, nothing,’ I say. ‘She’s a bit hard to miss, that’s all.’
George starts talking to the guy manning the jet skis and I turn towards the girl one more time, taking advantage of her talking to her friend to ogle her properly. She’s petite and very pretty, with a golden tan that offsets her tiny fluoro swimsuit so well, and long, wavy hair that falls into a perfect ‘V’ just above her peach-emoji butt. She’s wearing mules – the heeled kind – and one of those body chains that starts off as a choker then runs down to the belly, and sunglasses that cover half her face. Well, except the very glossy lips. Girls who look like that always make me feel like I’m doing something wrong.
She stops mid-sentence to glance at us and I guiltily avert my gaze.
