Free Suite Dubai (Arriving) by Callista Fox

Chapter One

    People always asked how she’d met him. She wanted to tell them what he’d said about the Cave of Lascaux. How, underneath the chalky soil of southwestern France, near Montignac, hidden for centuries by underbrush, was a system of caves with prehistoric drawings. “People walked right by,” he said. “Their focus on the path, or the horizon. Can you imagine? They had no idea what was down there.”

    He’d seen the ochre stags, charcoal horses, the handprints, a rudimentary map of the stars, some drawn or painted, some etched with a sharp stone, all illuminated, foot by foot, by the soft light from a lantern. “It was deep and complex as a dream,” he said, looking down, like he was remembering it, "it changed me."  

    She wanted to tell everyone who asked about them, how they met, about the day he compared her to Lascaux. Instead, she told them a different truth. She told them she needed a job.  

    * * *

    Rachel migrated with the other passengers through the sunlit concourse. She passed men in crisp, white, floor-length dress shirts, checkered scarves flipped away from their faces like long hair. Women’s robes billowed as they walked. Some were completely covered by black gauzy material and moved like shadows along the avenue of duty free shops. She wondered if they recognized each other, by gait, by fragrance, or footwear. Or did they move among the crowds feeling invisible, anonymous?  

    She felt both underdressed and aware of her bare arms in a short-sleeved t-shirt and khaki pants. It seemed a comfortable choice for the trip around the globe. Now she wished she wore something like the Indian man in front of her in his tunic and loose cotton pants. His wife wore a bright green sari and a scarf that ended at her sequined shoes.  

    Between them, holding their hands, a tiny girl bent her legs, lifted her feet off the floor and let them carry her along like that. She giggled. They smiled at her in spite of the strain on their already tired arms. They seemed happy to be here. Rachel took that as a good sign.  

    “I’m really here,” she whispered, switching her bag to her other shoulder. Now both shoulders ached from the weight of the books she’d packed. She was wrinkled and travel weary, but happy to be off the airplane. After twelve hours of contorted sleep, she was almost there. Wherever there was.  

    Her parents didn’t want to her to take the job. They both thought it was a mistake.  

    “Where?” her dad asked, looking like he’d misheard her. “Dubai?” He always encouraged her to have a few adventures before she settled down. Now he seemed to be having second thoughts.  

    Her mom followed that up with: “Honey, I don’t know. Can’t you wait a few months, see if something comes up here?”

    A few more months? She’d already waited a few months. Twelve to be exact. She'd filled out more applications than she could remember, for jobs she didn’t even want until they rejected her. She had a degree in journalism and couldn’t get a job working the front desk at the Motel 6. “Have you ever worked in hospitality?” A woman had asked her over the phone, missing the irony of her own inhospitable tone.

    What did that even mean? Working in hospitality? She’d spent her whole life being unnecessarily friendly to people. On the phone, in person, even in heavy traffic. She was fairly sure she could hand someone a room key without causing a scene.

    This job, the one waiting for her at the end of the concourse, had been advertised on a website with an international employment section which she read mostly to pass the time, something she had plenty of since graduating. The public relations position caught her eye, any job that listed writing in the description caught her eye, but she didn’t apply. She didn’t even know where Dubai was.

    Then, rather than ask her mom for gas money, again, she threw some old clothes into the back of her Honda and headed for a consignment