No Sex in the City by Randa Abdel-Fattah

do? Tell your mother?’ He says this solicitously, genuinely seeking my opinion rather than asking a rhetorical question.
    But how can you tell your wife that you’ve gambled away her house? I think of all the nights my father must have returned from the club to an evening of deceit and festering secrets. How many times did he greet her with a forced smile after he’d fed their money into the fruit machines? Why wasn’t the image of my mother’s face powerful enough to help him resist the temptation?
    They could never afford to buy back into this suburb, even with the balance of the equity in their home after repossession. House prices here are just stupid compared to when they moved here twenty years ago.
    And what would happen to my parents’ marriage if Dad confessed? Would it survive his betrayal? Would Mum forgive him? What choice would she have? How could she support herself? Would she stay with him because she had no choice, and end what was once a happy marriage in bitterness, hurt and pain?
    I’m suddenly furious with my mother for placing all her trust and reliance in my father. How naive she must be to think that life is so safe and predictable that you can survive without some level of independence and autonomy.
    I go round and round the loop of questions and scenarios as my father waits for my response.
    But I don’t need to respond. My silence is enough of an answer.

Thirteen
    ‘I
hate
this case I’m working on,’ Ruby says while I’m multitasking, talking to her on the phone, typing up a report and scanning my emails. ‘It never gets any easier.’
    ‘If it’s any consolation, the fact that you haven’t been desensitised is probably a good thing.’
    ‘Misdiagnosis of cancer in a teenager. They cut out most of her stomach and then, oops, discovered that actually she had reflux, not cancer.’
    I wince. ‘Is the insurer denying the claim?’
    ‘No. I’ve advised them to pay up. It’s not a question of liability. We’re just negotiating the settlement.’ She sighs. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to think about it now. How are you holding up?’
    ‘It’s a little hard for me to feel self-pity in the face of that kind of suffering.’
    ‘Stop being a saint. If I judged my life against my medical negligence practice, I’d be a basket case. But I don’t. Because I’m human, and while relativity is great for the soul, too much of it is paralysing. We all have to function and cope with the life we’ve been given. So for God’s sake, enjoy a good rant about that spineless dropkick, will you?’
    ‘You know what kills me the most?’
    ‘The “it’s not you, it’s me” line? That line should attract a jail term.’
    ‘Well, yes, there’s that. But really, what’s killing me is that there’s no closure. I don’t even know why he thinks there was no spark when it was going so well.’
    ‘I know,’ she says, her tone suddenly gentle. ‘That’s the worst part of it. He gave you a pathetic reason and you just have to accept it. I know it’s a cliché, Esma, but you’re better off without him.’
    ‘That’s what makes it all so hard. I’m not moping around, focusing every last atom of energy into finding a man, but I’m so ready for romance ... I hate to admit it, but I have this secret fear that I’ll be
that girl
... the girl nobody falls in love with.’
    ‘Maybe the answer is online dating.’
    The lack of irony in her voice makes me laugh.
    ‘Trust me,’ she says. ‘I’ve heard great stories.’
    ‘They’re in the minority.’
    ‘Have you tried it before?’
    ‘No! I have my dignity.’
    ‘Don’t be such a snob.’
    ‘I’ll try it when I’m really, really,
really
desperate.’
    ‘Don’t be an imbecile. Taliah and Jaydin met online. And what about Julian and Carol? They’re madly in love, thanks to the web. So get over it, will you? I’m creating a profile and logging on tonight. It can’t hurt. In the meantime, do you want to start boot camp with