Pretty Hot (The Pretty Trilogy Book 1) (7 page)

And speaking of fat-bummed devils, one of his handmaidens appears. Huda, the school’s administration head-honcho, a rotund woman of middle years, begins by calling the meeting to order. She’s pretty fearsome and by my reckoning can usually be found barking down the phone or at the poor cleaning staff. On more than one occasion, passing by her office, I’ve almost been deafened by her yelling
Khaddama!
Arabic for maid. The roar is quickly followed by scuttling sandals as one or more of the diminutive Indonesian cleaning ladies hurry’s to do as they are bid. It seems much like the children, some of the adults here don’t clean after themselves.

The principal, Miss Arwa, rises to address the room. Tall and attractive, I’d guess she’s in her early forties, and given her accent, probably American, though I could be wrong. Just last week I’d asked one of the grade nine girls which part of the U.S. she was from, when she laughingly answered her accent came from watching too many American sitcoms. So what do I know?

Arwa also wears an
abaya
, but she wears hers loose and over a high-end business suit, her glossy brown hair lightly covered by a scarf
.
A
shayla
, I think it’s called. I may not know much about local fashions, but I can read
Dior
just fine.

Opening the meeting with a few words in Arabic, Arwa reverts to English and begins by bringing the room up to date with births and marriages of staff that have taken place over the long summer vacation. The news doesn’t mean much to me as most of these women are still strangers, but I can appreciate the tone of this very female-centric meeting. A benefit of an all-female staff, I suppose.

‘Ladies, a date and a reminder for your diaries. In the coming weeks, we have the bonus of a long weekend. As you may be aware, we are to have a national holiday soon, date to be announced. This may cause some problems for our annual open evening, which is currently scheduled for the end of the month.’

Attention caught, I look up from my thorough inspection of the goodies on my plate. I knew about the holiday but not the open evening.

‘I know it’s unusually early this year,’ she continues, ‘but we have few other calendar options.’

Eyebrows rise and there follows a muttering of dissent, though nothing anyone is willing to gripe about openly. I guess you can please some of the people some of the time but getting a room full of teachers to spend an extra evening at work unpaid, is a tall order wherever you are.

‘Remember, this evening is more about giving our new parents the opportunity to look around the school and get a sense of who we are, our aims for their daughters. For those parents who know us, it’s an opportunity to meet our new teachers.’ She smiles briefly in my direction. ‘This is
not
an opportunity for parents to discuss individuals or have impromptu parent/teacher conferences. This will be outlined clearly in the invitation.’ Another murmur travels across the room and
this
I understand. Like they’ll be able to resist. ‘This will be a mixed affair, so fathers may attend, and representation from the school owners will be made with a presentation from . . .’ Her eyes scan the notes open on the desk. ‘Abu Kais.’

‘Who’s that?’ I whisper, nudging Sadia.

‘Abu Kais? He is the owner of Al Mishael.’

‘I thought the owner was a woman.’ That’s what I was told during my interview. ‘I didn’t think that was her name.’

‘Oh, Miss Kate, most funny. A lady called Abu Kais.’ Sadia chuckles quietly, entertained. ‘No, my dear, Abu Kais is a man’s name. It is being the owner’s husband’s name.’ She frowns as she summons further explanation. ‘Not his . . . given name, it is her son’s name but his father uses it . . . isn’t it.’
Isn’t it what,
I ask myself as she tries again. ‘It is tradition. Father being known as Abu, meaning father. Father of.’

‘Father of . . . ’ I whisper back, still confused.

‘Father of the firstborn son.’ Mirroring my frown, she continues uncertainly. ‘Abu,
father,
then name of the son.’

This is as confusing as the Holy Trinity.

Someone further along the table asks Arwa a question in Arabic, the conversation shifts language, and effectively, relevance to me. Impromptu conversations spring up around the room.

‘It’s a lot to get your head around, isn’t it?’ This from a woman seated to my left. Dressed in a long grey skirt, she balances a notebook and pen on her crossed knee. ‘When a first son is born, his father is given an honorific title, a
kunya
. The mum gets one, too. I’m Hala, by the way.’

Hala’s accent is English with an inflection that makes me think she’s from London, but it’s almost like her accent has been modulated or ironed out.

‘What if the baby’s a girl?’

‘Nothing,’ she replies with a shrug. ‘It only changes for firstborn sons. In this case, Faris al Khalfan is Abu Kais.’

Nothing for girls? Far out!

‘Thanks.’ I frown, trying to get my mind around the unfathomable, not to mention the blatant inequality. ‘I’m Kate.’

‘Yeah, I know. I’ve been meaning to pop in and say hello. Don’t worry, it takes a while.’ Leaning toward me conspiratorially, she whispers, ‘Pity it wasn’t the son presenting, Kai al Khalfan is
seriously
hot.’ Straightening abruptly, her eyes dart from side to side.

At that moment, the coffee I’ve just brought to my lips is sprayed across the table as I literally choke
. Kais
 . . .
Kai
 . . .
Surely not?
All heads turn to me as I cough and splutter, trying to breathe through the inhaled liquid scalding the back of my throat. Energetic hands clap me on the back and a glass of water appears in front.

‘Sorry, it went down the wrong way,’ I apologize between wheezing breaths, trying to regain my composure. Switching back to English, Arwa continues the meeting, conversations fading away. My thoughts don’t move on much. Just how many hot Kai’s are there in Dubai?
Gorgeous Kai’s with too full lips
 . . . And yet, it would make sense insofar as him being at the school. Just another reason not to do him. Coffee, I mean do coffee! But—

‘Are you hot, Miss Kate?’ I’m pulled sharply from my musings by Sadia’s stage whisper.

‘Hot?’ I sit bolt straight, removing the forefinger from my bottom lip, not quite sure what it’s doing there.

‘You are becoming most red.’ She clucks her tongue in admonishment.

‘I—I’m good, Sadia. Fine, really,’ I whisper back, suddenly aware that the meeting has paused once more and all eyes have returned to me, the fire spreading through my body, accompanied now by a deep blush. I smile benignly and sink into my seat as Arwa clears her throat, regaining the room’s focus. Half listening to the resumed meeting, I attempt to school my thoughts.

I hope lust isn’t a colour you can detect in someone’s blush. And the boss’s son. Now
that
would
be an epically bad move.

Chapter Eight

‘Oh my god, I love this song!’

The music is loud, the base vibrating from through the floor to my feet as they itch with an uncharacteristic urge to dance. Aided by my share of the beer pitchers we’ve been drinking, and not so much by a dubious looking taco, my body sways with the music. But I’m not drunk, just . . . relaxed.

Niamh and I, along with some of her friends, dined earlier in a Mexican style bar at one of Dubai’s less salubrious hotels. A
girl can’t dine five-star every day, at least not on my pay grade. Now in one of Jumeirah’s best clubs, which also happens to be on the same resort as the fabulous brunch hotel, we’re supposed to be starting the weekend in style.

Matt nods encouragingly to my exuberance, his face wearing an odd kind of smile.

So I smile back, though mine is more bemused, eyes drawing away to the dance floor. The place is buzzing and the floor packed, a sea of swaying humanity moving to the rhythms of some global beat.

Hmm. Beer philosophy. Maybe I have had too much to drink.

‘There’s something so appropriately inappropriate about a man in mascara,’ I yell, standing on my tiptoes to better be heard. I have a major crush on the singer, even if he is gay. I quickly realise my mistake, not the crush, but the leaning, as Matt places both hands on my hips.

‘You’re full of surprises, pocket-rocket. What other freaky shit you into?’

His words are slurred, his glassy gaze sliding over my skin. Something flickers in the depths of that gaze—a bad idea, by the looks of things—as he lunges forward, face looming over mine.

‘Blokes who keep their grubby mitts to themselves,’ I call, placing flat palms against his chest and pushing him away.

‘Aw, come on, Katie,’ he shouts as I leave. ‘I’ll let you paint my face!’

‘It’s Kate, arsewipe!’ I call back, grabbing a surprised Niamh as she pushes her way through the crowd.

Face flushed with dancing and drink, she begins, ‘But I’ve just—’

I don’t give her a chance to answer, finally able to laugh as I drag her away by the hand. She casts a last lingering glance at Rob as we disappear into the writhing mass.

Squeezing through the crowd, I’m sober enough to be grateful that it’s busy. Bodies jammed tightly together means there’s less chance I’ll end up looking a bit unco . . . uncord . . . a bit of a klutz. Closing my eyes, I let the music wash over me, seductive words about dirty minds, persuasion and letting go.

‘Hey.’ Niamh pulls my arm. ‘I’m done in. I need to go home.’

‘Home-home or, you know,’ I shout, gesturing back at the bar. She’s been all over Rob like a rash. I doubt she’s even noticed her friends have drifted off over the last hour or so.

Pulling a face, she gestures to her ear as her free hand grasps mine. ‘I can’t feckin’ hear!’

So I reluctantly follow her.

There are a couple of stools at the quiet end of the bar, but we don’t take them as Niamh turns. ‘We’re sharing a cab home, drop you on the way?’

‘
We’re
grabbing a cab? Niamh and Rob sittin’ in a tree, gettin’ it on in a t-ax-i!’

‘Not likely.’ She snorts. ‘Taxi nasty earns you time out here. How much have you had to drink, by the way?’

I giggle and begin a splendidly cheesy version of the Spice Girls
Two Become One
, ignoring both question and death stare. ‘Is this like a regular thing?’ I ask, halting my rendition mid-line. ‘Are you friends who . . . you know, do
that
?

‘Not yet,’ she answers. ‘And not if I’ve anything to do with it. This has been a long time in coming, let’s just hope the same can be said of him!’ Her raucous laugh halts, her face taking on a sudden pensive look. ‘We’ve been dancing around this thing for a while now. I like him.
Really
like him.’

‘Hooley-dooley. Serious, huh?’

Her mouth purses at my daggy expression, but she doesn’t comment. ‘I hope so. Either way, grab a cab home with us.’

‘Nah, I’ll be fine.’ Though I don’t feel fine, I think I feel . . . sad. Maybe lonely, though that’s a cliché, right there, being sad in a crowd. Wistful, maybe? I want to go home with someone, cuddle, climb into bed with a man. But not with Matt. ‘I’m a big girl,’ I add. ‘Besides, I don’t fancy travelling home as your spare wheel. Or a prop for the drunken roommate.’

‘Matt’s harmless.’

‘Matt’s off his face.’

‘Yeah,’ she agrees, laughing. ‘You’re probably right, but don’t stay here alone. Come with us. I promise he won’t yak on your shoes.’

‘Can you guarantee it?’ I glance down at my new, favourite heels.

‘Totally. I’ve never seen him part with his booze yet.

As is often the way with the intoxicated, Matt is obstreperously loud and refuses to leave . . . until he realises I’m coming along, too. And that’s how I find myself outside, with a beer-fumed Matt draped around my shoulder while we wait for a taxi willing to accept our fare.

Matt’s hand inches its way down my back for the third time in as many minutes and I yank it away by his wrist. ‘I swear, if you plant your hand on my arse once more, I’m going to snap it off!’

I don’t want to go home with a man now. I just want to get rid of this one.

Unfolding his arm from my shoulder, I push him hard—harder than I’d intended but,
Christ,
he’s heavy! He does a sort of exaggerated wheeling motion with his arms, teetering on his heels before landing slumped against the wall of a low garden bed. He grumbles incoherently, as is the prerogative of a drunk.

Hot, bothered and breathing like a rodeo bull, I grab the waist of my dress, twisting it straight with a savage tug.

‘Kate?’

My heart stalls. I turn with the waist of my dress still in my hands, his voice stirring my insides and shimmering across my skin. Sure enough, Kai stands behind me looking like he’s just stepped from the pages of a glossy magazine: a midnight coloured suit, white shirt—sans tie—oxfords, and does he have . . . wet hair? My mind flickers unnecessarily with the possibilities of this man and a shower.

Studiously halting that line of thought, my voice raises several octaves above its normal register as I exclaim, ‘What are you doing here?’ Oddly, my hands also seem to take on a life of their own, making an involuntary jazz-hands sort of welcome before I even realise they’re in the air.

‘The same thing as you, I should imagine.’ He leans in for what I think is my European hello, when simultaneously, we speak.

‘Avoiding grabby drunks?’

‘Waiting for a car.’

His body freezes, arm falling away from my shoulder as he slowly pulls back. My eyes follow his to the now muttering form of Matt.

‘A friend of yours?’ His words are clipped and cold as he eyes Matt like he’s something he’d actively avoid having on the sole of his shoe.

‘Nooo-no-no-no. Nothing like that.’
Just a no, then?
‘We’re on our way home.’ I recognise immediately how that sounds, never mind that we might look like some kind of couple, but Kai’s stony expression is a frighteningly good indicator, too. ‘I’m just drunk sitting. For a friend.’ I point my thumb in Rob and Niamh’s direction and their version of
Love’s Young Dream
as they wait for a cab
.