Never Saw You Coming - Hayley Doyle Page 0,102

like a few photos, comment on the odd amusing status. The massage taking place on the soles of my feet is heaven, so I put the phone down, reminding myself that a bit of much-needed pampering isn’t killing time, it’s making good use of it. Marina is the only person I know in Dubai who doesn’t work during the week. The whole place is so work hard, play hard, all my friends – well, acquaintances – do long, stressful hours and release all their tension by partying at the weekend. Sure, there are plenty of women like Marina; housewives, stay-at-home mommies, but I’m not in those circles. I wonder where the party will be this weekend, where I can let my hair down and forget.

About Jim.

Oh, Jim Glover. Why am I still thinking about him? Four thousand miles stand strong between us and that’s nothing compared to the strength of my head telling me this is a No Go Area. The last long-distance attempt resulted in disaster and I must, must, must learn from my stupid mistakes. I need to find a job, and fast. Throwing myself into some sort of work will be the best solution and, of course, a great way to meet new people. Maybe I should just put it out there and ask the universe (well, social media) if my services are needed? It’s knee-deep into event season here. Surely some companies need an extra girl to dish out a shot and a smile?

I peep down at my toenails, transforming into flawless white, smooth and party ready.

Maybe someone’s having a pool party this weekend. The weather is perfect for barbecues, too. And isn’t it that girl’s birthday, the one hosting the yacht cruise on Friday afternoon? What’s her name, Layla? Lola? Or is it Nayla? Friend of a friend. I’m sure I’ve seen an invite to that in my inbox.

‘You want headphones, ma’am?’ Rubylyn asks, a little late into the treatment.

‘I’m good,’ I say, the spacey ambience kind of working for me.

I start to type a status before my fingers are preened and polished, attempting to find out if any of my Facebook friends can point me in the direction of some work.

God, I sound so needy, though. Delete, delete, delete.

I try again.

And totally sound like a prostitute. Delete, delete, del—

BEEP.

I click on my new notification; an invitation entitled Brunch … Because.

Dubai has a slightly different take on the wholesome late breakfast, early lunch ordeal, with hotels offering customers a deal on unlimited international cuisine and unlimited alcohol every Friday afternoon. These events are often extravagant, luxurious, littered with expats from all corners of the globe, and, of course, a perfect way to make new friends.

I read through the details.

At ‘Oceanic O’, the new beachside/poolside restaurant in the new Marriott. 10 live cooking stations, cocktails on tap, a purpose-built chocolate room, ice sculptures, stilt walkers and live jazz band. Because it’s Friday. Because we can. Who’s in?

When? This weekend.

The guy inviting me isn’t somebody I know well. In fact, I can’t work out how I even know him at all. Most probably a previous brunch. That’s how the expats roll, isn’t it? I know a handful of people who’ve already said yes to attending so it should be good fun, a chance to throw myself back into the social circuit. I no longer have the option of hanging onto my laptop in my PJs, looking forward to a Skype call from Liverpool, and besides, I can’t hide away forever. Never, ever again will I jump into a relationship unless its flesh and blood and bones are within my physical grasp. So I have to get out. I have to say yes.

Rubylyn starts to massage my right hand, leaving only my left hand free to keep browsing. I’ll take some time to think about how to write my job-hunting status, maybe come up with something catchy, witty. Then my heart sinks. The date for the brunch isn’t this weekend. It’s the following weekend. Right, I’ll update my CV and contact all the promo companies I worked for last year. They might let me wear a mask, or face paint. Or maybe they just won’t care. And I’ll draw. I’ve got a new sketchpad waiting to be put to use. It won’t amount to anything, but it’s something to do, something I enjoy, at least. I sit up straight.

‘Relax, ma’am,’ Rubylyn snaps.

I say sorry and receive a tut, then a tug to my index finger. Using my left

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