Secret Skin (20 page)

I realized for the first time that I didn’t even know where she lived. Some fucking journalist: name, address, age – the first thing they teach you. I had a story but where was my subject?

Well it was still early in the day; she should be sleeping I reasoned. Yeah, yeah, me too, I mumbled to myself, unable to keep my eyes open any longer.

***

When I woke second time round my growling stomach made so much noise I couldn’t stay in bed.

As I had cards and no cash if I wanted to eat I actually had to step outside and face the world this time. I dressed without enthusiasm, grabbed my car keys and headed for the door.

Hang on; I didn’t even have a car. It was still parked outside the British Embassy 30 kilometers away. I sat down again. Normally I loved to walk, even in Dubai’s hellish climate but....

The little brown pot with the white lid sat on the dressing table.

Half an hour later, walking through the pleasant streets of palm lined suburbia, my muscles twitched and my skin exploded with moisture as the amphetamines forced my metabolism up through the gears.

A taxi beeped asking: do you want a ride?

Please, an ATM and then the Media Rooms.

I was feeling good, in fact I felt great. Speed high. Even though I’d lost my appetite I forced myself to eat. I ordered a mini-hamburger mezze, Arabian Americana, the perfect comfort food.

I’d slept for nearly three whole days and desperately needed to be outside and around other people. The first beer went down well with the food. So did the next two.

Near the equator the sun sets early evening no matter what the season. No four o’clock darkness but then no ten o’clock sunlight either. As the light faded the bar began to fill with the after work crowd.

All too conspicuous in my neck brace my adventures in the car with Martin quickly became a popular topic around the cocktail campfire. Just crazy Dubai drivers I told them, which unleashed a wave of horrific accident stories. If everyone in LA had a gun and a gang story, everyone in Dubai had a death on the road story. Friends and strangers smeared their heads on windscreens, bodies burst under truck wheels, children flew without seatbelts, families became infernos, limbs detached, and corpses were impaled. The bony and bloody detritus of Dubai’s roads left scars both inside and out.

Stay out of the fast lane, everyone said.

Too fucking right, I agreed for the umpteenth time.

Faces came and went, editors, fair-weather friends, press officers, one-night stands, people I was in awe of, people I cared nothing for, and all the while I couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop babbling.

Another half of Ritalin and the only way was up. So I headed for the roof.

Looking out over the dusty light of the Marina’s soaring cityscape I felt a sense of serenity. Dubai was an ambitious place, a bold place, and it always looked amazing at night. Tens of skyscrapers towered in front of me and hundreds more were on the way. They had been empty plots of land when I arrived. We were all witnesses to the creation of a new city and this was just one tiny part of it. One million to more than ten million people in under a decade. That was the plan. You couldn’t help but be impressed. Not for the first time I wondered how many names Dubai would give to posterity.

There were enough egos here to fill up years of unwritten history, but would any of them do anything worthwhile? Would Dubai be quickly forgotten along with the pretty, but badly built towers, destined to return to the sand in less than thirty years? If the ruling sheikh died would this tiny island of modernity be driven back to the sword?

A few hours ago, I was scared for my life, but now….

I’d forgotten how much I loved prescription amphetamines. Happiness was a listed side effect for Christ’s sake.

Verity, Martin’s unrequited squeeze, tapped my elbow, her editor Carl beside her. They wanted to know what had happened. The drinks kept flowing and so did the words.

I remembered dancing in a club. I remembered laughing.

Then I awoke to a world of frilly whiteness. I didn’t question it. It was womb like and comfortable, I fell asleep again.

Sometime later I came to and lay there with my eyes closed. I could smell roses, or some other floral feminine thing.

Where was I?

I didn’t know and I didn’t care, it was nice wherever it was.

Nature hollered and I got up reluctantly. The mirror in the en-suite bathroom showed a familiar face plonked atop a blue and white neck brace like a withered cherry on a bun.

I took the brace off. It didn’t help any.

Water washed the night from my skin and unglued my eyelids. The shower, which I used without asking for permission, eventually woke the rest of me and managed to make my unruly hair relax.

I found a dressing gown on the back of the bathroom door, one of those girly get ups. Short and pastel colored it barely reached the tops of my thighs, but it would do. I looked on the floor for my boxers and found them neatly folded on an armchair in front of the bedroom’s patio doors. Clearly someone else had undressed me.

On the other side of the window there was a vibrant, green and well cared for garden. The long white curtains complemented the cool white of the rest of the room. I closed them again. I preferred the dark.

There were photos of families and friends on the dresser but nobody I recognized. The rest of the furnishings had a feminine flourish, and like all temporary homes in Dubai everything was brand new.

There was no one else there, so who had undressed me?

The large hallway outside revealed a villa filled with doors, all of them closed. As I walked by each room I sensed the occupants were sleeping. A fuzzy memory told me that it was Friday morning. The clock in the living room said 6.40.

Friday was the Islamic holy day, so that meant 6.40 Sunday morning by western standards. No wonder the place was so quiet; everyone was in bed, probably only just got there.

The sleeping body I discovered on the sofa was buried under another thick white duvet designed to keep the cold of the air conditioning at bay. I pushed the springy fibers down so that I could see the face that belonged to the lank blondish hair splayed out on the sofa’s arm rest.

Verity.

An unusual name, kind of kooky, but very cute.

Just like her.

I remembered a kiss and someone holding me up.

We fell over.

Oh yes, we fell over, and then we kissed. I licked my lips at the memory.

Dead in a ditch.

I ignored the thought. Why spoil a beautiful morning? Despite the dry mouth and aching body I felt happy, and a beautiful woman had kissed me.

She’s not a prostitute either.

Shut up, I told myself. Neither is Yasmin she’s a slave…fuck Yasmin…take the easy road man, stop fighting it, life is good here…look at her, life could get even better.

I looked at Verity and she looked back. Her eyes blinked sleepily and then closed again. She touched my hand. Her soft skin warmed my air conditioned fingers.

With eyes closed, her shiny cheeks creased into a dimpled smile and I felt that familiar breathless surge of emotion pulling at me. That feeling of wanting to belong. I felt protective of someone who looked so effortlessly content, someone who didn’t frown in her sleep, untroubled, unscarred, out of harm's way.

My instincts told me to protect her, but from what?

From you.

Yes, from me I agreed.

You are trouble.

Yes, I am.

You are in harm’s way.

Damn. I let my hand slip from hers and padded softly out to the kitchen. With the door closed I cleared a space amidst the bottles, cans and unwashed leftovers of the previous night. I stole some coffee from one of the cupboards to make a fresh pot.

Standing in the kitchen blowing on the hot liquid I listened to the usual inner whining nag quietly in the background, surprisingly peaceful whimpers for a change, not the normal panic switch I’d grown used to.

Aim for the puddles.

My life was all about getting into trouble I reasoned. Standing in harm’s way was part of the job description.

I wasn’t in Iraq where unless you’re embedded you’re a target, or in the Philippines, where unless you write what you’re told the town mayor will saddle up his hog, hunt you down and shoot you. I’d wanted to do something worthwhile and this was it.

I couldn’t be the objective reporter because there was no such thing, the observer always affected the experiment – Schrödinger’s cat in a box confirmed that – to pretend otherwise was pure fantasy. You never knew whether the cat was alive or dead until you looked inside and just looking might make the cat live longer, or kill it.

You could only report what you saw and heard, you could never be an objective outsider. That was a daydream, made to make journalists seem more authoritative than they really were.

To avoid the fantasy, you aimed for the puddles in the land of make believe. Subjective analysis was the only truth I could ever have. And if my subjects were trying to kill me it meant I was doing something right.

Lost in my thoughts I hadn’t noticed Verity walk quietly into the kitchen.

‘Coffee?’ she said, her hair an unruly tangle above her head, lips crinkled with dehydration and brow creased with sleepy concentration. She rubbed her eyes. ‘What time is it?’

‘Early early,’ I said.

She shut her eyes again and stood there, rocking gently back and forth in a granddad shirt. I took a chance and kissed her. She kissed me right back. ‘I fell asleep on the sofa,’ she said licking her dry lips, working things out at her own delicious semi-conscious pace. ‘Did you cover me up?’

‘I don’t know, I thought you put me to bed.’

‘Hmmm,’ she sighed softly, ‘Let’s go back,’ she grabbed my hand, ‘It may be daylight but it’s still the middle of the night. Come on.’

She led me away. Sleep walking behind her to the bedroom. She pulled heavy light blocking curtains over the thin ones and opened her eyes wide enough to see me properly for the first time.

‘Nice dressing gown,’ she said undoing the cord, ‘But I think you look better without it.’

She pulled me to the bed, kissing lazily; our hands finding each other in the haze of a morning after. We caressed and nibbled at necks, cheeks, shoulders, breasts, fingers, tongues, stomachs and hips, the delicious ache of desire coursing between us. She maneuvered herself on top of me. We held each other close, no desire to act or pretend with each other. We fit perfectly, her small frame in my hands and my body inside hers. We moved; she controlled. The pulsing shocks of electric pleasure below forced the breath from our lungs. We forgot the world around us as we merged and let ourselves go.

Afterwards, curved together, her mouth open, savoring each deep breath, she relaxed, became heavy in my arms and fell into a deep trouble free sleep. I quickly followed her.

***

The dream was simple, a boy and a girl buried under the covers. The boy was me, the girl was…the girl’s appearance morphed, dark features like Yasmin’s, then fair like Verity’s, then faceless. When the covers were pulled back there was no one there, just desert sky, open and vast. The stars were farther away than normal. The girl sat on her haunches and hugged her knees to her chest. I wanted to protect her but when I reached out I couldn’t get close. The air became thick and the harder I tried to move toward her the further she drifted away. A door slammed shut in my face and I stood in an empty corridor. I heard whimpering on the other side of the door.

***

‘I’m not going to be your cliché David.’

‘Whaddya mean?’ I said defensively.

‘Well let’s see, what are the usual responses I give to self loathing male companions? No we don't have to get married; no I'm not rejecting you because I’m after a man with money; no you don't have to buy me endless dinners just to get me into bed; and don’t think for a minute that I’m going to buy you dinner whenever I want to have sex with you.’

I laughed at this pleasurable shock. Realizing that while she wouldn’t be my cliché I was already one of hers.

‘But,’ she continued, ‘You can stay here. I will be back tonight; I have an afternoon shift on the news desk.’

‘That’s outrageous,’ I said genuinely disappointed and unable to take my eyes off her. Watching Verity get dressed was every bit as arousing as undressing her had been. Wearing nothing but her underwear she shuffled each lovely buttock into her jeans. Leaving them unbuttoned she rummaged through her wardrobe to find a suitably breathable high necked blouse and choker. She added a pashmina. An easy nod to modesty that outside the office would stop unwelcome eyes imagining the soft skin hidden beneath her collar.

She lit a cigarette, the first one of the day and sat down on the arm of the chair. The nicotine hit and she swayed for a moment. She wore no makeup, was hung over and unfed, and looked fantastic. I told her so.

She smiled at me, ‘Yeah right,’ she said then held the cigarette between her teeth and pulled her hair back into a loose pony tail.

‘I’m serious.’

‘Yes you are a bit aren’t you? Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now what were these stories you were telling me about last night?’

‘Stories?’

‘Sure, you said you had a couple of stories you were working on that could be pretty big, property scandals and police corruption if memory serves.’

Really, I told her about that? I watched her blow smoke into the air as she patiently explained what I couldn’t remember in the quickest way possible.

‘You asked if we’d syndicate for you, but without a previous publisher, or unless it’s in house we can’t. No budgets remember?’ I nodded, and flashes of pain exploded in my head. ‘If your story is published somewhere else we can definitely syndicate it for you, same for ghost ships, just make sure you don’t give all your rights away. Make sense?’

‘Of course.’

‘Of course? 50/50 split on sales okay? We’ve plenty of clients that will pick up a big breaking story.’

‘50/50, plenty of clients, sure,’ I agreed.

‘I’ll send you an agreement; send it back to me, and when you’re ready to go just email the story, okay?’