The interior was true to its reputation of opulence, and more. It was done up in the pharaonic style, with the thick lotus-topped alabaster pillars in the main hall a copy from the ones at the Temple of Karnak in Luxor. The lobby was furnished with rattan chairs, the walls adorned with paintings and sketches of Ancient Egypt and there were beautiful ornate hourglass urns containing dwarf palms set here and there on small, delicate marble tables. A pair of tall, ebony caryatid light-bearers, in the image of topless pharaonic women with golden headdresses, stood like mute sentinels on low columns each side of the elegant double staircase that wound itself gracefully to the upper floors.
Having registered at the reception desk in the lobby, Aida made her way to the high Moorish hall through one of the four great, striped blue-tiled arches, modelled on the Mamluk architecture of medieval Cairo. The great hall was dimly lit by a coloured domed glass hung in the ceiling. The suite she had reserved was on the second floor and, feeling stiff after having spent long hours sitting in a train, she decided to walk up the stairs.
Although not so ornate as the ground-floor reception rooms and the main hall, the suite had elegant proportions and was just as luxurious. It consisted of a vast octagonal bedroom with a fifteen-foot ceiling, from which a Murano glass chandelier was suspended. An arch led through to a sitting area, the two rooms flowing into each other without barrier. A sofa, armchairs and coffee table made one end of the room sumptuously comfortable, while the adjoining one was furnished tastefully with built-in cupboards, a dressing table and finally, a spacious, sumptuous pink granite bathroom. The walls were hung with jade, yellow and off-white striped damask wallpaper and green velvet curtains were drawn across the three windows, one of which looked beyond the hotel gardens to an open-air public cinema that was showing Lauren Bacall’s latest film, Confidential Agent.
It was already late and although the kitchens at the hotel were still open for dinner in the dining room, it had been a long, strenuous day and Aida was pining for her bed. She had a bath and ordered room service: turtle consommé, medallions of turbot in a creamy white-wine Normande sauce – a sauce made of fish stock, flavoured with white wine and enriched with cream and egg yolk – with steamed potatoes and leaf spinach. She had always ordered this dish whenever her father had taken her for lunch at Shepheard’s.
As she prepared for bed, Aida found herself thinking about her encounter with Prince Shams Sakr El Din. She had no doubt she would be seeing him again … not that she would be instigating a meeting in any way, but he was clearly a determined sort of man and Aida had been aware of the predatory undercurrents vibrating around him. Still, she had never met anyone like him – he was a strange character, compelling even – and it was exciting to be courted. It was up to her to protect herself and make sure she did not get into any difficult situations with him.
As she waited for sleep, her thoughts roamed back to Phares. During that second week at Karawan House, while struggling with the management of her estate, Uncle Naguib had pleaded with her again to be sensible. He had met with Kamel Pharaony, who had been delighted to learn that Aida had returned and expressed again his personal hope that the two families might be joined with the marriage of Phares and Aida, fervently asking Naguib to reason with her. Now, as Aida’s lids closed, Phares’s handsome strong-featured face stamped with self-will, blood pride and charm swam in front of her eyes, unmistakable marks of his distinguished pharaonic forebears. She had always likened him to the beautiful statues she had been surrounded with since childhood and under whose spell she had fallen – there was a pagan quality to his looks: a full and passionate mouth that revealed strong white teeth when he smiled, and saturnine brows above coal-black eyes that smoked and sometimes mocked. Yet he had shown her that if his eyes could flash with pride, they could soften quickly too, with sympathy and kindness. And she would never forget the look Phares had given her that day in the courtroom, while he was bent over the figure of her father.
Doubtless he still remembered the actions of the fiery eighteen-year-old who, on that late afternoon eight years ago, had stormed into Hathor to confront Kamel Pharaony after Ayoub El Masri had been dragged away by two policemen and Souma Hassanein had poured out her shocking revelation. She had been beside herself with fury and grief, demanding that Kamel Pharaony should admit he was the owner of the Nefertari statue, rather than her father who was now dead because of Kamel’s own cowardice. All the while Phares had listened patiently and said little, as far as she could recall, though she had been in such a state that her memory of that afternoon was hazy and fraught with emotion. At the time, Aida was left with a sense that he had been haughty, proud and angry, a stiff figure in his pinstriped suit looking down at her, condemning her uncontrolled outburst. Yet, truthfully, she couldn’t remember any actual rebuke from him, only tolerance in the few words he spoke as he tried to calm her down. In the days afterwards, her pain and anger had been so ferocious that she’d refused to see Phares when he’d paid a visit to Karawan House the day before she left for England.
Perhaps he hadn’t been judging her back then … Maybe he hadn’t come to the house to shame her for her accusations … but her rage had been too strong for her to see clearly, and now, eight years later, she was no longer sure how she felt about Kamel’s son. However, the intervening years had calmed her rage but not her resolve. Aida wondered if Phares had known about Kamel’s guilt. She presumed back then that he had, but now she wasn’t so sure. Still, he was the son of a traitor – his father had betrayed his best friend. How could she ever be part of that family?
Chapter 3
Aida, fathoms deep in sleep, felt herself being drawn up from those blissful depths like a diver at the end of a chain. She tried to resist, but there was a noise that couldn’t be ignored and eventually she surfaced to a sunlit world and the shrill ring of the telephone next to her bed.
The young woman reached out a lazy arm from under the cosy covers and grabbed the receiver. ‘Hello?’
‘Good morning, Aida? Have I woken you?’
Aida’s laugh was crystalline, happy. ‘Good morning, Uncle Naguib. Yes, I must admit I was fast asleep. What time is it?’ She looked up at the sun blazing through the open windows, shining full on her face so that she almost had to shade her eyes.
‘It’s eleven o’clock. The train journey must have tired you.’
Aida sat up against the large plump pillows, pulling the telephone set on to her lap. ‘Yes, I was exhausted and slept like a log. I feel wonderful this morning though.’
‘Well, I did try and tell you to take it easy, at least for a couple of months, but there’s no reasoning with you when you’ve decided on something.’ He gave a throaty chuckle. ‘Still, I’m happy that you’ve recovered and seem to be in good spirits. What are your plans for the rest of the day?’
‘I’m not sure now. It may be a little late to go to the British Embassy, but I’ll ring them. Mind you, I don’t know if I’ll be able to see Sir Miles tomorrow. I’ve been told he’s away.’
‘Told? By whom? Don’t say you’ve already made friends at the hotel.’
‘No, not exactly. I met a gentleman on the train who’s apparently a friend of Sir Miles.’
‘Who? A foreigner? Tell me, I might know him.’
‘Prince Shams Sakr El Din.’
There was a pause at the end of the phone. ‘Ah yes, I’ve met him. Only a couple of times, but I’ve heard a lot about him … A suave fox, that one, and by all accounts a little too fond of the ladies. Not that they don’t seem to like him too. Apparently, they swoon as soon as he enters a room. But I wouldn’t get too close, habibti … he has a shady reputation.’
‘Well, don’t worry, Uncle Naguib. I’m not here for long enough to get into any trouble, and I’m quite capable of looking after myself.’
‘Ah, my dear, but you’re a pretty girl and, as I’ve said, the prince has an eye for the ladies.’ Naguib’s tone became more serious. ‘I’m told he keeps a large harem at his pa
lace in the desert – and it isn’t just made up of Arab women.’
Aida burst out laughing. ‘Trust me, Uncle Naguib, I’m not about to join the queue. I personally don’t find him at all attractive,’ she lied, ‘though I can see the appeal he might have.’
‘I’m just warning you, habibti. If you’ve caught his eye, that one won’t rest until he has you where he wants you.’
‘Well, I say good luck to him.’
‘Just stay away, Aida … I knew I should have come with you … Trouble has a knack of finding you.’
Aida heard the uneasy note in Naguib’s voice and she could just imagine his concerned face. ‘Please stop worrying, Uncle. I promise to be good and not to associate with strange men. After all, I’ve lived through a war and managed to keep safe,’ she declared, a little irritated by his overprotectiveness. Aida was not in the habit of being told what she should, or shouldn’t, be doing. She thought she had left all that behind when she’d gone to England. As far as she was concerned, she had returned to Egypt a grown woman, perfectly capable of taking care of herself.
‘Yes, all right, all right,’ he said, capitulating. ‘But don’t stay away too long, there’s work to be done here. Now that you’re back, everybody on the estate expects it to be up and running at last, and as you already know, it won’t be an easy task.’
‘I’ll be back in a couple of days and will buckle down to work, I promise.’
‘Good … well, there’s plenty of money in your account so go ahead and indulge yourself. I’ve opened accounts for you at Cicurel, Shemla, Sidnawi and Chalon.’
‘That’s wonderful. Thank you, Uncle Naguib. And please, don’t worry about me.’
Having put the receiver down, Aida sat up against her pillows and phoned room service for some breakfast, before asking the switchboard to put her through to the British Embassy. The prince had been correct when he told her Sir Miles had gone away. But now the secretary on the other end of the line put an end to any hope Aida might have had of having a meeting with him in the future. He had a new job, the woman told her: Special Commissioner for Southeast Asia.
‘Is it an important matter, madam?’ the woman asked. ‘If so, perhaps I could book an appointment with Mr Alastair Carlisle, one of our consuls … Let’s see … He has a spare slot in his diary next week if that works for you?’
‘Please don’t worry,’ Aida said quickly. ‘It was only a courtesy call to pass on a message from my uncle in England. Nothing important. If it’s all right, I’ll drop off the letter instead, if you wouldn’t mind forwarding it to Sir Miles?’
As soon as the conversation was over, she made a note of the name she had been given – Alastair Carlisle. Perhaps the next time she was in Cairo she could find another excuse to meet the consul. At least she had this new contact at the Embassy for the future.
Aida sprang out of bed and padded across the plush Persian carpet to one of the open windows. She hadn’t noticed the night before that it had an outside balcony. The sun was fully up; Cairo shone in all her glory, her domes and spires glittering, white walls gleaming under an azure sky. The sunlight fell warmly upon Aida’s bare neck and arms as she stepped outside, and she lifted her face to it happily. On a flat roof not faraway a little Egyptian boy was standing. He tossed a handful of grain into the air and a flock of doves appeared from nowhere, circled above his head, dipped and rose and was gone again.
Aida heard a knock at the door and came in from the balcony. Pulling on her dressing gown, she went to let in the suffragi bearing her breakfast. She drank her tea with a slice of toast and marmalade, had a bath and dressed. Aida was beside herself with excitement. She was going on a spending spree – shopping for clothes, a whole new wardrobe! For the past eight years, Aida – who had always been pampered growing up in Egypt – had had to make do and mend. In England the clothing coupons never went far enough, and she would save them for emergencies. Everything she owned had been kept in a small cupboard, and she had learned never to throw anything away.
Throughout the war years she had adopted the Parisian motto that had come out in Vogue magazine in 1941: ‘Il faut “skimp” pour être chic’. The phrase referred to the tight, short-skirted silhouette that had replaced the flirty fullness of dresses worn in the thirties. The new sculpted look was driven by the wartime rationing economy, but not only that, it gave the illusion of brisk competence. As Vogue put it, it looked ‘sharp, cold and even bold’. If you kept your figure trim, it was most elegant, and luckily, Aida’s puppy fat soon dropped off her, helped by the inevitable austerity of wartime. In no time she had lost two stone, and the new style suited her beautifully.
This morning she was dressed in what she called ‘her staple suit’ with black platform shoes. The cut of the suit of grey jersey wool with padded shoulders had been influenced by the austere style of military uniforms. It had a red trim in soft velveteen to brighten it up and Aida wore it over a white crepe blouse with three buttons covered in the same red material, and a red velveteen pillbox hat to match. Although the style was conservative and uniform-like, the tailoring was magnificent.
As she crossed the lobby and walked out into the bright sunshine, Aida did not feel out of place among the more glamorous outfits worn by the other women milling about the foyer. The doorman hurried to ask her if he could call a taxi or hantour carriage, but, thanking him, she said she would prefer to walk. She knew her way about Cairo well, and besides, she needed some exercise.
Aida set out, enjoying how being on foot made her feel part of the city. She headed down Sharaa Ibrahim Pasha, one of Cairo’s main streets that ran from Ramses Railway Station to the gates of Abdin Palace. The street was only a stone’s throw from sharaa Fouad, where she would find Cicurel and Shemla, two of the most prestigious department stores in Egypt. This part of town had submitted to Khedive Ismail’s urbanisation project in the mid-nineteenth century, one that had changed the face of Cairo. Entire streets of traditional Oriental houses had vanished – the Cairene elite aspiring to a more European style – and between the Nile and the old town a whole new quarter of magnificent lacy boulevards had been built. The new features had a belle époque veneer as Italian, French and Austro-Hungarian architects went about creating a ‘Paris of the Nile’, with a twist here and there of Moorish decor to maintain the Islamic atmosphere.
The pavements were thronged with an international crowd. Aida could tell their nationality by the way they were dressed. Englishwomen in morning cottons made by local tailors; French and Italian girls beautifully turned out in light summer dresses, some of them showing a daring amount of bare skin; young Egyptian women in swinging black silk skirts, short black abbas wrapped around their heads and shoulders, filmy yashmaks below their large painted dark eyes, and tiny high-heeled shoes on small feet covered in white stockings. The men also were attired in a variety of clothes that pointed to their social status. Some wore linen and thin tweeds, others were in frock coats and tarbooshes, and many sported long, white kaftans and skullcaps. Every now and then a majestic sheikh passed her in richly embroidered silks, a flowing cloak and snowy turban, each one with their Sibha, Islamic prayer beads.
Brightly striped awnings shaded the shopfronts. Aida was amazed at the wealth and variety of the merchandise displayed. It seemed you could buy virtually anything in Cairo, though the war was not long past – if you could afford the inflated prices, of course. She couldn’t help but feel a little shocked by it all and found herself gazing at the hundreds of silk stockings displayed in all their lustrous, almost forgotten sheen. Such luxuries were nowhere to be seen in London, even on the black market, until the American GIs arrived on British shores in 1942, bringing sought-after nylons in their ration packs. Aida remembered using Elizabeth Arden leg paint to imitate seamed stockings and sometimes, when she was short of cash, gravy browning and cocoa, which were cheaper and just as effective. Aida couldn’t help but feel incredulous when she saw the rich panoply of frocks, hats, scarves and filmy underwear; kid glo
ves and soft leather shoes; creams, powders and expensive bottles of French scent. At the small tables outside the cafés, men sat placidly playing tawla, drafts, and sipping coffee – another rare commodity in Britain – while cars belted along the road, klaxons sounding, and hantours clattered by, their drivers cracking long whips and cursing the suicidal pedestrians who seemed happy to take their lives in their own hands and cross the roads in a haphazard fashion.
The Cicurel department store loomed into view, four storeys high. Aida paused outside and lingered a while over the displays in the wide plate glass windows that ran the length of the ground floor of the vast building. Although Cicurel was the larger of the two department stores, Aida had always preferred to shop at Shemla next door, and so she decided to try her luck there first. Her main concern was to secure a suitable gown for Princess Nazek’s ball.
Shemla, though smaller, was just as grand, designed in the more comfortable and elegant French fin de siècle style. Aida entered the vast art deco marble hall of the luxurious emporium and glanced up at the mezzanine level above, supported by columns topped with acanthus leaves. Glass display cases filled with expensive French bottles of scent and well-known make-up brands were the first stop for customers, as well as gloves, beautifully embroidered small evening bags and purses, sequined shawls and silk scarves. The ground floor held the cloth department, well known in Cairo for selling imported silks, which sat alongside the hosiery and lingerie section, and deeper into the store lay the furniture and shoe departments.
Aida made her way up to the next floor, which housed the spacious haute couture atelier that sold clothes in the latest Parisian trends. After the fashion starvation she had experienced during the war years, she was overwhelmed by the profusion, diversity and splendour of the elegantly displayed daytime clothes, evening gowns, hats, bags and accessories. She didn’t know which way to turn.
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