Read Online No Sex in the City by Randa Abdel-Fattah - Free Book Online
Authors: Randa Abdel-Fattah
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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).
Yasir calls the house phone. My father picks up. He hands me the phone and ...
... we arrange to meet at a café in the Strand on Pitt Street Mall after work next Monday.
We’ve added each other as friends on Facebook so at least I know what he looks like. Yasir’s profile picture is nice. He’s not drop-dead gorgeous or butt ugly. There’s a big spectrum between those two ends and he’s sitting about halfway.
I’m wearing one of my most flattering suits and stunning high heels that have already given me blisters. Senem came over last night to do my hair, giving me some soft curls, which, she insists, suit me more than the dead-straight look. I didn’t bother arguing with her, although today’s been really hot and the roots of my hair are a little frizzy from the humidity, undoing much of her hard work.
My make-up is minimal. Unlike Senem, I’m into natural tones and pale glosses. My skin tone is olive, my eyes and lashes dark brown, like my dad’s, and so I suit earthy colours. Senem, by contrast, takes after my mum and is pale with green eyes, loving to experiment with bright and bold tones. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing red lipstick, whereas Senem looks gorgeous in it.
I enter the Strand, trying to remember all the magazine articles I’ve read about the most flattering and slimming way to walk. Keep my thighs close together, one foot crossing over the other, try to walk sideways (reducing frontal view of body mass), stick boobs out (don’t have much to stick out), keep shoulders back and head up to avoid any double chin ... Those poor models. They really do deserve their million-dollar salaries.
I spot Yasir leaning against the window of the café.
The blisters are worth it.
His profile pic doesn’t do him justice. He’s a trendy dresser (tick!) and has a real presence about him (tick!). Some guys exude confidence and he’s one of them (two ticks!). Our eyes meet as I approach. We smile at each
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).
Yasir calls the house phone. My father picks up. He hands me the phone and ...
... we arrange to meet at a café in the Strand on Pitt Street Mall after work next Monday.
We’ve added each other as friends on Facebook so at least I know what he looks like. Yasir’s profile picture is nice. He’s not drop-dead gorgeous or butt ugly. There’s a big spectrum between those two ends and he’s sitting about halfway.
I’m wearing one of my most flattering suits and stunning high heels that have already given me blisters. Senem came over last night to do my hair, giving me some soft curls, which, she insists, suit me more than the dead-straight look. I didn’t bother arguing with her, although today’s been really hot and the roots of my hair are a little frizzy from the humidity, undoing much of her hard work.
My make-up is minimal. Unlike Senem, I’m into natural tones and pale glosses. My skin tone is olive, my eyes and lashes dark brown, like my dad’s, and so I suit earthy colours. Senem, by contrast, takes after my mum and is pale with green eyes, loving to experiment with bright and bold tones. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing red lipstick, whereas Senem looks gorgeous in it.
I enter the Strand, trying to remember all the magazine articles I’ve read about the most flattering and slimming way to walk. Keep my thighs close together, one foot crossing over the other, try to walk sideways (reducing frontal view of body mass), stick boobs out (don’t have much to stick out), keep shoulders back and head up to avoid any double chin ... Those poor models. They really do deserve their million-dollar salaries.
I spot Yasir leaning against the window of the café.
The blisters are worth it.
His profile pic doesn’t do him justice. He’s a trendy dresser (tick!) and has a real presence about him (tick!). Some guys exude confidence and he’s one of them (two ticks!). Our eyes meet as I approach. We smile at each
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