I smiled and said, “You’re a very foolish woman, aren’t you?” and when her mouth dropped in anguish and rage, I walked out of the aromatherapy room and straight into the cold pool, where I stayed, head pounding with the change of temperature as I counted to fifty, then surfaced and breathed, then sank down again, counting back to zero.
Why had I said those words?
A lapse in professionalism; unforgivable on a job. I watched my skin prickle with icy water, felt pressure build at the back of my nose, and chided myself.
I mastered myself, always, no matter what. Discipline in all things.
When I went back to the aromatherapy room, Suzy-Sandy was still there, lying on a white towel. She opened one eye as I entered, saw no threat, closed it again.
“Hi,” I said, sitting on the bench opposite her. “I’m Rachel; I’m new here. What’s your name?”
In the evening, I met Leena for the very first time, for the sixteenth night running, and having had the practice I went straight in with, “I love your dress.”
Previous approaches: I’m interested in this amazing city. I work in finance. I’m interested in Perfection. I’m writing an article about women in Dubai. I knew Reina, sorry for your loss.
None had worked, though the mention of Perfection had got me closest. Sometimes the truth is that the trivial route is the most successful, and thus:
“I love your dress.”
“Do you, it is amazing, isn’t it?”
“Is it Vera Wang?”
“It is! And you’re…?”
“Dior.”
“I just adore Dior.”
“Who doesn’t?”
Empty words.
I am my smile.
I am my lips.
I lower my head as I speak to her, so that my eyes have to look up, seeming wider, rounder, more appealing. Animals reading animals. My jewels, my dress, my body, they speak for me, a woman with skin almost as dark as my mother’s, wearing the perfect perfume for the perfect night by the sea. First impressions matter, when they are all you have to live by.
I am the delighted crinkle in the corner of my eyes. I am the woman she wants me to be. “I just love fashion,” I said through my polished lips. “You’re the most stylish woman here by a year.”
Information, drifting:
Vera Wang: fashion designer, former figure skater.
Al Maktoum, royal family of Dubai, descendants of the Al Falasi of the coalition of Bani Yas tribes.
“You’re wonderful,” exclaimed Leena. “You’re just the kind of person I like to meet.”
Once you have your prey, keep it in sight. It’s only when people no longer see me that they forget.
I stuck close to Leena, flowed with her entourage, laughed at her jokes, shared my views on fashion, celebrity, travel. “The perfect people, the perfect clothes, the perfect words, the perfect holidays!” she exclaimed, and all around her people laughed.
“I’m with Prometheus,” explained a man in a white and gold Nehru suit, iced cocktail in one hand. “We really want Perfection to be good for people, to help them live better lives. With the right help, anyone can be perfect!”
I smiled and laughed, and thought of another kind of righteousness, expounded by a long-dead Indian prince. Right view, right wisdom, right speech, right conduct, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, right concentration. The eightfold path. Samyanc in Sanskrit; rightness as denotes completion, togetherness, coherence. (Can also be used to express the notion of perfection.)
Leena and I circled together through a room latticed with gold, marble floor, fresh flowers — orchids, lilacs flecked with white. A party in full swing, barely a headscarf in sight, men and women mixing freely, a banner on one wall — The Future Is Perfect. The waiters were Indian and Bangladeshi, drawn from the labour camps hidden in the desert. Expats everywhere.
I used to specialise in government bonds, but now I’ve moved into global futures…
… the thing about insurance is…
Why do they call it “tax haven”? I mean, don’t they realise how the press react to words like that?
… oil is too short-term. Sure, there’s big bucks now, but I want my kids to get into digital rights.
The United Arab Emirates has a population of somewhere between 75 and 85 per cent expats. What do so many foreigners do to a society? Volvos in Abu Dhabi, McDonald’s a good night out? Or does culture bite back by extolling ancient virtues: the poems of Dhu al Rummah, the music of Umm Kulthum, the words of the Hadith, the traditions of the peoples of the sands?
A bit of both, perhaps. Umm Kulthum’s songs reinterpreted in the style of Beyoncé.
I counted gold watches.
I counted mobile phones.
I counted steps to the door.
I looked, and I saw the necklace I had come all this way to steal, no longer in its pressure-sensitive, motion-sensitive, heat-sensitive security case, but being worn around the neck of Shamma bint Bandar, who even now kisses a man in a smart black suit on the cheek, congratulating him on his hard work. Here, tonight, the Chrysalis was being put to its proper use; vanity makes people vulnerable.
“I’ve just started my treatments,” exclaimed a woman in six-inch heels, the backs of her ankles incredibly thin, calves faintly etched with a translucent silver line where the surgeon had cut, visible only when it caught the light. “It’s incredible, just incredible, it’s changed the way I see the world.”
She wore a dress that plunged at the front, the back, the sides, leaving little more than some tactically placed straps across her shoulders. The man she spoke to wore a white headdress held in place with gold, white robes, a black beard cut to a perfect V round his chin, and a ceremonial dagger decorated in rubies. They looked like they should struggle to communicate, but he exclaimed, “My first treatment was astonishing. My driver came up after, and for the first time I saw him. Not just him, but him.”
I moved on. Circled, counting.
Stealing jewels from a human is easier for me than stealing from a vault. CCTV will remember my face, the vault will need experts to crack, the motion sensors will require tools to deceive. I cannot execute the long con, but must wait for opportunity to strike, alone, unaided, taking risks that anyone who feared their face being known would never take.
I turn, turn, turn in the room.
Count the security men in overt black — eleven — and the more discreet security men blending with the crowd — four that I can see.
I count Jordanian sheikhs in white robes, Saudi princes in smart silk suits, American embassy men with sweat patches seeping into the shirts under their arms, Chinese investors taking selfies against the background of the ballroom’s internal waterfall, smiling to the camera on the end of its stick.
I count women who would rather not be there, their lips smiling where their eyes do not. I count wristwatches that cost more than the yearly salary of the waiters who envy them, and the number of times I hear the word “equity” said out loud. (Thirty-nine.)
I count security cameras.
I count steps to Princess Shamma, and the $2.2 million dollars’ worth of jewellery round her neck. My interest in Leena is gone, now she’s got me in the party, and she’s already quite drunk. Her aunt is not.
Are you ready?
I count seconds, place myself in the perfect position for my move, loosen my feet inside their ridiculous high-heeled shoes, which will only be an encumbrance when the moment comes.