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Her incredulous gaze does a sweep if the table. ‘Can you believe it? Your man said that, in an actual conversation, like? The conceited shite.’
    Murmurs break out amongst the group, and I decide it’s probably not the place to quip I’m no fan of the peasant wagon myself. As it is, I don’t need to respond as Niamh interrupts.
    ‘We’ve the same problems in the international schools, Jen. There are always people who think they deserve preferential treatment. It’s nothing new.’
    As I’ve nothing sensible to add, I keep quiet, grateful when the conversation turns to someone else.
    ‘Hey, did you hear Sarah resigned?’ Jen tugs at the sleeve of a girl to the far left, leaning across the PR girls sat in between. ‘She up and quit her job to spend more time with that fecker Khalid, can you believe it? She’s only known him a month!’ Both girls’ eyebrows pucker, neither offering a response beyond a vague hmm . ‘Why do they do it? Sure, it’s all hearts and flowers one minute. Then it’s, babe, I’ll get you an apartment and you won’t have to work . But then the bastards have you. You’d be better off whoring in one of the hotels.’
    Confusion must be written across my face as Matt leans in with an explanation.
    ‘Rich Gulf Arabs dating Western girls, a culture clash. Nice guys turning into control freaks, Mr Hyde, that sort of stuff.’ I know from personal experience there are men all over the planet hiding ugly alter-egos. It isn’t unique to Dubai. ‘Unfortunately, it doesn’t happen the other way around. No wealthy Arab women trying to make me a kept man,’ he says, laughing.
    Catching this, Jen turns her attention back. ‘Avoid them like the plague, y’ hear? Sure they know how to woo a girl out of her knickers, and they smell great, but they’re trouble, girl. Fun but trouble,’ she says, sniggering still.
    ‘I’ll . . . bear that in . . . mind?’
    ‘You hungry?’ Matt interrupts.
    I am. I’d also jump at any chance to escape this conversation. I turn to ask Niamh if she’s ready for food, quickly turning back again. She’s not ready to eat. Well, not actual food. Left leg off the Lamb of God? More like a leg of Rob . The poor guy probably doesn’t realise he’s her dish of the day. But I have the major munchies and could do with something to soak up the booze.
    ‘Sushi?’
    Rising, I nod enthusiastically. ‘Sounds yum.’
    Brunch is served at various points through the restaurant: Arabic, Italian, huge roasts and jeweled salads; the choice is astounding. But the dessert station is out of this world: delicate pastries, truffles and chocolate dipped fruits, exquisite petit fours , flambéing crepes, tiny puddings and gold-dusted chocolates; I’m in heaven! Wonder how acceptable it’d be to just eat dessert? As we reach the sushi station, I change my mind on sight; it’s an artistic production on a grand scale. Sushi and sashimi are displayed on frosted glass platters, brimming with colour and looking like edible works of art . I’ll never feel the same again about my favourite sushi joint back home, those coloured plastic plates, revolving train-style.
    I’m sure I must still be drooling as Matt interrupts my plate filling and gastronomic reverie.
    ‘Hot stuff.’ With a comic wiggle of his brows, he drips green condiment onto his plate. ‘And I don’t just mean the wasabi.’
    It’s corny, but I laugh anyway, regretting it as he places his hand at the small of my back. Could it really be the lip gloss? Plate full now, I turn away and pick up my pace, weaving through tables heavy with linens and glassware, moving just fast enough to avoid his palm. Still pondering the alchemy in a tube of gloss, I happen to glance up, my heart hitting the pit of my gut. I do a cartoon worthy double-take, my feet refusing to move.
    Surely not . . . that couldn’t be . . . Kai?
    Time seems to take on that slow-mo T.V. effect as his head rises, the sun beaming through the