Secret Skin

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The Media Rooms were the place to network. Its restaurants and bars took up the first and second floors of a business hotel at the heart of Dubai Media City and in the cooler months the rooftop as well. Drunken editors would commission more work there in one night than in a month of carefully crafted pitches. A debilitating hangover seemed a reasonable price to pay for such enjoyable efficiency.

A successful free trade zone, Media City allowed foreigners 100% ownership of their business. This included me, operating freelance, a solo entity servicing the needs of tax free companies and corporations that couldn’t retain staff. A common problem as the over-inflating city hit the peak of its first building boom.

Downtown the half built Burj rushed to become the world’s tallest tower and the headline grabbing Palm Jumeirah geared up for its soft opening. Marketing slogans described it as the eighth wonder of the world. Locals believed these worn out claims without reservation, blind to earlier projects that already cracked and crumbled back into the sand.

Bigger always equaled better in Dubai, but if you wanted to grow outside the free zone you needed a sponsor from the local population.

The sponsor retained 51% of your company and there were countless horror stories of people investing in these deals only to find that when they wanted access to their capital the sponsor had already cleaned out the accounts. Unless you had wusta – quite simply power, influence and the right family name – you had a gambling addict’s chance of ever seeing your money again.

In the financial free zone the Emiratis had even created a British legal district so that international investors could feel confident doing business there. Nice idea, but the local exchanges still wobbled like a drunk on a tight rope.

‘Oi, Bryson!’ shouted Martin Newman above the heads of the fashionable rooftop crowd. A long-term British expat from the old school of darkies, danger payments and denial he would have liked a beard on his aging baby face. Instead, he wore the cracks and wrinkles from too much drink and sun with boyish pride. Compulsively competitive and with a generous inferiority complex, he was likeable but often highly annoying.

‘Bryson! Pull up a pint and tell us what you’ve been up to with those whores of yours.’

Every woman within hearing distance glared at me.

He was also the editor of Arabian Outlook. The magazine destined to publish my wonderful exposés of Dubai.   

‘Hey!’ I called back, explaining to those nearest to me, ‘It’s just research honestly. It’s not what you think.’ The tuts and disdain quickly disappeared as my audience returned to talking about themselves and sucking on the straws of their overpriced cocktails.

‘And don’t come over here without a Heineken and a Chivas from the bar, not if you want to work in this town again,’ he yelled.

‘Yeah. Right. Of course.’ I muttered under my breath, cursing him. I contemplated telling him where to stick his drinks, and then bought them anyway. I needed him.

***

‘So tell me again, what car do you drive?’ he said, already slurring his words. He grabbed both drinks from the tray in my hands and downed the whisky.

‘A dodgy hire car Martin. You already know that.’

‘Yeah!’ he said, booming, even managing to pronounce the exclamation mark. ‘Yeah that’s right. It’s purple isn’t it?