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By Root 828 0

Under Islamic law, if a man walks up to a woman he doesn't know, the way I frequently do, and starts talking to her without being invited, as I also frequently do, he can be jailed for a year, I'm told, which I'm not up for at all. In fact, you can be jailed in Muslim countries on a whim for almost anything: having sex out of wedlock, getting drunk, being a pothead, and all manner of other playful acts that we take for granted in our culture and that really don't count in the bigger scheme of things, but which these people take very seriously indeed. I heard of a man in Saudi Arabia, for instance, who left his wife after she was caught in front of the TV watching a program starring a male host. Merely seeing this guy on television was in itself considered adultery and sufficient grounds for divorce. In Iran, I hear, you can be flogged or stoned for having a copy of the Bible in your home and put on trial for calling your teddy bear Mohammed. In Dubai, a straight guy who was anally raped by a gang of closet homosexuals was instantly deemed to be homosexual himself and banged up in the slammer. Elsewhere, thieves may be punished by having their hands chopped off. Panhandling is illegal. Bums are thrown in jail, too. Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. It's all very eye-for-an-eye and gratuitously barbaric.

Luckily, Dubai has moved on a little these days. It's no longer considered quite such a haven of narrow-minded intolerance as other Islamic countries are. Still, you can't help worrying for your safety, and I'm taking no chances.

Having already put the fear of Allah up me, Nick has more. “I mean, I don't want to influence you editorially or anything, mate,”—meaning he does—“but there are certain things you shouldn't ask people.”

“Such as what?”

“About money and … well, certain other stuff,” he adds mysteriously.

Oh, okay. Well, thanks for clarifying.

“And when you write the script for the show, please only say nice things.”

“Why is that?”

He looks nervous. “Because if you don't, mate, they'll come after us.”

“Who will?”

“They'll find out who 'elped you, who made the arrangements, and they'll shut down our company.”

“Who will, Nick?”

Too scared to name names, he clams up.

“And anyway,” I persist, “why would they shut your company down for something I did? It doesn't make sense.”

As he's about to answer, a man wearing the traditional Arab white robe—the dishdasha—and the white headdress—the gutra—saunters by with a laptop—asonyvaio—looking for a wireless connection. Nick stalls, waiting for him to pass, then two earnest blue eyes round on me. “My point is, mate,” he lowers his voice, “watch what you say or you'll get everyone into trouble.”

And Tasha agrees.

The three of us are huddled conspiratorially in fancy leather armchairs in the ultra-plush, oak-paneled lounge of a private club at our hotel, eating cake. The club is “members only,” reserved for elite guests—that is to say, those staying in the more expensive suites on the tenth floor and up. Sadly, we're booked into budget rooms on the ninth and below, so we don't qualify. However, reading the hotel brochure last night, I noticed in passing that the club offers afternoon tea each day in its lounge. Well, who doesn't love a spot of tea in the afternoon? It's a very British institution. More to the point—and here was its main appeal as far as I was concerned—the tea was free. So I swapped my jeans and T-shirt for a smart designer number and slacks to make me look less ninthfloorish, slid a little mousse into my hair, took the elevator up to the club, and defined myself as a member simply by walking in, quite brazenly grabbing a corner table and a plate of scones and refusing to leave until I'd eaten them all.

I also went to the trouble of putting the receptionist on notice that I was expecting guests for a business meeting, a piece of news she received with snake-eyed skepticism and a “Yes, sir” so chilly I was able to see my own breath for a moment.

Unfortunately, Tasha and Nick have blown my cover wide open by arriving in sweaty T-shirts and shorts. Tasha