apply to London University to study medicine.
Faisel had seemed only a little concerned at her parents' misgivings.
It was natural, he said. They felt they were losing their only
daughter. When he returned to England with Jacey he would make a
special effort to win her parents' approval. And I believed him, she
remembered. I believed all his lies.
The time that passed between her marriage ceremony and her arrival at
Faisel's home was still a blur in her mind, a jumble of images: the
bustle of the airport; the boredom of the flight (Faisel slept for most
of it); and the oven-hot air that engulfed her when she finally stepped
out of the plane. Faisel's father was in America. His mother, a
stunningly elegant woman in a white, linen designer suit, greeted
Faisel with theatrical emotion, but eyed Jacey coolly, offered her a
slim hand and a frosty smile, and then ignored her. Jacey spent the
next three days on her own, in a plushly furnished apartment, attended
by servants, but isolated by her lack of Arabic and her inability to
ask where her husband was.
When Faisel finally appeared, he did at least apologise. It was, she
recalled, probably the last time he ever did so. He had been obliged
to visit a variety of relatives, he said. These things were expected
of him;
he had a large family. He sat next to her on the large settee. It was
the first time they had been alone together since their marriage.
How would I describe what happened next? she thought. In those days,
I could still pretend that we were making love. But she knew now that
Faisel's actions had nothing to do with love. He copulated with me,
she thought. It had hurt because she wasn't ready or aroused. He had
wanted her to use her mouth but she wanted him to put his arms round
her and kiss her. She remembered his irritation as he unzipped his
trousers and pushed her head between his legs.
"Make it hard," he ordered.
"Suck me."
"I don't want to." She vividly recalled the strength of his hands on
her head as he tried to push her down over his lap.
"Not yet. Let's talk."
"Talk?" He turned it into a swear word.
"You're my wife. Behave like a wife." He managed to push her down. He
was not even partially erect and his penis felt flaccid against her
lips.
"Do your duty," he said.
"Service me."
She had started to cry, and he let her go, muttering something in
Arabic under his breath. He took hold of himself and masturbated. It
was the first time she had ever seen a man do that. He achieved his
erection quickly, and turned to her.
"Open your legs. You want me, don't you?"
She had wanted him, she remembered, but with tenderness and love, not
the crude speed of a rutting dog. When he had satisfied himself and
rolled off her, he added the final insult. He stood up, zipped up his
trousers, and left.
And I forgave him, she recalled bitterly. Those first few times I
forgave him. I even thought I was being noble and understanding by
forgiving him. And I thought it would get better as we got to know
each other. What a little fool I was. What a dewy-eyed, empty-headed,
fucking little fool. I deserved everything I got. Didn't I? No, she
thought, I didn't. No one deserved what happened to me.
Why am I remembering this? she wondered. It was twelve years ago. She
did not want to think about the time that had elapsed either. It's
over and finished. Forget it. But she knew that she never could. It's
made me what I am, she thought.
An ex-boyfriend had called her hard when, easily and without regrets,
she had broken up with him because he had kept talking about
marriage.
Hard? she thought. She preferred the word 'strong'. Strong enough to
resist male flattery and promises. Strong enough to discard a man
Faisel had seemed only a little concerned at her parents' misgivings.
It was natural, he said. They felt they were losing their only
daughter. When he returned to England with Jacey he would make a
special effort to win her parents' approval. And I believed him, she
remembered. I believed all his lies.
The time that passed between her marriage ceremony and her arrival at
Faisel's home was still a blur in her mind, a jumble of images: the
bustle of the airport; the boredom of the flight (Faisel slept for most
of it); and the oven-hot air that engulfed her when she finally stepped
out of the plane. Faisel's father was in America. His mother, a
stunningly elegant woman in a white, linen designer suit, greeted
Faisel with theatrical emotion, but eyed Jacey coolly, offered her a
slim hand and a frosty smile, and then ignored her. Jacey spent the
next three days on her own, in a plushly furnished apartment, attended
by servants, but isolated by her lack of Arabic and her inability to
ask where her husband was.
When Faisel finally appeared, he did at least apologise. It was, she
recalled, probably the last time he ever did so. He had been obliged
to visit a variety of relatives, he said. These things were expected
of him;
he had a large family. He sat next to her on the large settee. It was
the first time they had been alone together since their marriage.
How would I describe what happened next? she thought. In those days,
I could still pretend that we were making love. But she knew now that
Faisel's actions had nothing to do with love. He copulated with me,
she thought. It had hurt because she wasn't ready or aroused. He had
wanted her to use her mouth but she wanted him to put his arms round
her and kiss her. She remembered his irritation as he unzipped his
trousers and pushed her head between his legs.
"Make it hard," he ordered.
"Suck me."
"I don't want to." She vividly recalled the strength of his hands on
her head as he tried to push her down over his lap.
"Not yet. Let's talk."
"Talk?" He turned it into a swear word.
"You're my wife. Behave like a wife." He managed to push her down. He
was not even partially erect and his penis felt flaccid against her
lips.
"Do your duty," he said.
"Service me."
She had started to cry, and he let her go, muttering something in
Arabic under his breath. He took hold of himself and masturbated. It
was the first time she had ever seen a man do that. He achieved his
erection quickly, and turned to her.
"Open your legs. You want me, don't you?"
She had wanted him, she remembered, but with tenderness and love, not
the crude speed of a rutting dog. When he had satisfied himself and
rolled off her, he added the final insult. He stood up, zipped up his
trousers, and left.
And I forgave him, she recalled bitterly. Those first few times I
forgave him. I even thought I was being noble and understanding by
forgiving him. And I thought it would get better as we got to know
each other. What a little fool I was. What a dewy-eyed, empty-headed,
fucking little fool. I deserved everything I got. Didn't I? No, she
thought, I didn't. No one deserved what happened to me.
Why am I remembering this? she wondered. It was twelve years ago. She
did not want to think about the time that had elapsed either. It's
over and finished. Forget it. But she knew that she never could. It's
made me what I am, she thought.
An ex-boyfriend had called her hard when, easily and without regrets,
she had broken up with him because he had kept talking about
marriage.
Hard? she thought. She preferred the word 'strong'. Strong enough to
resist male flattery and promises. Strong enough to discard a man
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