‘What do you suggest then?’
‘I suggest calling each other by our real names,’ I said firmly.
‘What about something more rooted in us?’ he offered. ‘I could call you City Tower and you could call me Flightbird. People would find that unbelievably cute.’
I considered this for a while. People did find this kind of thing cute. But the more I thought about it, the more it gave me intense, spine-curling cringe.
‘How about we stick to our real names? City Tower and Flightbird would sound ridiculous outside of an airport setting.’
‘I guess no arms around the waist then either?’ he asked.
‘Definitely not!’
‘And it goes without saying that a quick kiss on the cheek would also be out?’ he questioned.
‘A quick kiss on the cheek, or even the lips, would definitely add to the authenticity of the moment. But no.’ I shook my head. ‘No kissing of any kind.’
‘Got it. Anything else?’
‘No, I think that about covers it for now. I’ll let you know if I think of anything else.’
The Uber driver finally pulled up to my hotel. I’d booked myself into a fairly small one. I preferred them; there is nothing worse than standing in a line with people as they queue for a breakfast buffet and jostle for the last cold pancake.
‘See you soon,’ Andrew called as I climbed out of the Uber.
‘In exactly two and a half hours.’ I tapped my watch.
I checked into my hotel room and looked around. I hated new spaces, unfamiliar ones, but mostly I hated unfamiliar pillows. So the first thing I did, the first thing I always did when I checked into any foreign place, was unpack my pillows from home and pack their pillows away. The idea of resting my head on something that hundreds, possibly thousands, of heads had been on did not sit right with me. Besides, I also had a very specific pillow configuration that allowed for ultimate comfort and relaxation. I pulled out the dress that my mom had insisted I take with me. She’d come around to my place while I packed and sat on my bed making fashion suggestions. Her suggestions were always based on what garment would garner me the most attention, which would hopefully lead to a male admirer, hopefully leading to a wedding, a honeymoon and grandchildren.
‘You have such a gorgeous figure. You should really show it off more.’ She was always so fond of pointing this out.
She was right, of course, I did have a good figure, which I attributed to my daily swimming routine. I loved swimming. The blissful feeling of being enveloped by liquid, and the inevitable silence that followed. The world above you stilled and muted. I find the world very overwhelming: the sights, the sounds, the smells. But down there under the water, there’s a kind of peace that I never get up here. If there was a way of living underwater permanently, I would. My dream has always been to live in one of those underwater floating villas in Dubai. I dream of waking up every morning in my underwater bedroom, looking out into the calm blue waters, hearing the soft sounds of water lapping at the sides of the house. But with a price tag of $3.3 million, that dream is perhaps a little far out of my reach, right now anyway. But it’s always good to have something to work towards. Perhaps one day I’ll be running the airport in Dubai – my ultimate career goal was to run my own airport – and then I’d be able to have as many underwater villas as I wanted.
I pulled the red – my mom had called it a ‘bodycon’ – dress out of my suitcase and held it in front of myself as I looked in the mirror. The red suited me; it accentuated my green eyes and contrasted with my porcelain skin. But it was tight. I did not like tight clothing, and that’s why, much to my mother’s despair, I spent most of my days in loose trousers and even looser tops. Tight clothes made me uneasy. The squeezing sensation always made my mind drift to a documentary I’d watched once on the African rock python. The video of it constricting and then eating an entire springbok in one fell swoop had always stayed with me. But despite thoughts of giant snakes, I’d promised my mother – and I always keep my promises. My phone beeped. Andrew and I had swapped numbers in case we needed to liaise further.
Andrew:Is this a formal thing? What should I wear?
Pippa:The invite says smart/casual.
Andrew:Can I wear jeans and a white button-down shirt? I don’t have many clothing options. I wasn’t expecting to go out tonight.
Pippa:Wear whatever you have. I’m sure it’ll be fine.
Andrew:Okay, see you soon.
I put my phone down on the bed and slipped into the dress. My mom was right: it did accentuate all my good parts. I contemplated putting some red lipstick on but didn’t want to look as if I was trying too hard. I put on a pair of comfortable flats. I never wear stilettos. Quite frankly, I was utterly terrified of them, especially given how eternally clumsy I was. I touched up my so-called ‘clean girl’ aesthetic and headed out.
CHAPTER7
I sat in the back of the Uber waiting for Andrew to emerge from his hotel. I’d become acutely aware by this stage that this dress had a habit of creeping up my thighs when I was seated. And being a tight dress, it was hard to pull down to a more appropriate level. I bet my mother knew this when she packed it for me. I bet this was part of her plan: expose my thighs to attract a mate. I made a mental note to spend as little time sitting as possible, for fear that too much leg would show. Besides, I already had a mate, a fake one, so no need to attract a real one.
I peered up as Andrew walked – nay, strode – towards the Uber. His strides were wide and confident, with just the tiniest hip swagger that ramped up the catwalk sexiness of it all. He was an awfully handsome man, especially in the clothes he’d chosen to wear. His dark hair looked darker against the white button-down shirt. Muscular forearms were visible under the sleeves he’d rolled up. The black watch he wore made his wrists look larger than they probably were. You could see he worked out regularly; those sexy veins that ran from the back of his hand into his forearms told me so. His untucked shirt flapped open just enough in the front for me to see how his jeans fitted. Slightly tight, framing what was possibly something impressive inside. Not that one can make any assumptions about penis size based on the fit of the pants – after all, body builders stuff their trunks, and we all know what they say about body builders’ appendages. Besides, even if he was boasting something impressive, I wasn’t into impressive. I was into average. A perfect five to six inches was more than sufficient. Anything more was unnecessary. Not that I was ever going to have sex with him, of course, so this speculation about the size of his penis was utterly pointless. I willed my brain to stop the current tangent it was so happily galloping off on.
He bent down to open the door and, as he did, the light from inside the car flashed across his face, revealing once again those royal blue eyes. It was then that I noticed the only non-symmetrical thing about him.
‘What’s wrong with your left eye?’ I enquired as soon as he was inside the car. Andrew didn’t answer right away. ‘Sorry, was that rude?’
‘Not at all.’
