A shop assistant came to her rescue with a broad, slightly patronising smile. Dressed elegantly in a black suit and white silk shirt, her whole persona smacked of French couture, although Aida guessed she was either Greek or Italian.
‘May I help you?’
‘Yes … yes, please. Umm … I’m looking for an evening gown.’
‘For what kind of special occasion? Daytime? Evening? Wedding … or a ball, perhaps?’
‘Yes, a ball …’
The assistant smiled. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem. I’m sure that I have exactly what you’re looking for. My name is Cleo, by the way.’
She led the way to a large fitting room with a sofa and two armchairs, a coffee table and a set of tall mirrors, set at different angles to afford various views of a client’s reflection.
Cleo disappeared behind a curtain and was back within minutes carrying a number of gowns. ‘These have just arrived from Paris last week,’ she declared as she hung the garments on a rail in a corner of the changing room. There were four evening gowns, each more glamorous than than the one before. Aida was spoilt for choice. ‘No one has seen them yet …’ Cleo added as she plucked a fabulous gown by Schiaparelli from its velvet hanger.
Aida tried out every one of the dresses and though each was prettier than the last – and she would have taken them all, had she been extravagant – none was quite right.
‘All these dresses are spectacular,’ she said, handing the last one back to Cleo, ‘but they don’t quite fit the occasion.’
‘I have shown you the simpler, elegant dresses. But we do have a fancier, more ornate collection.’ Cleo hesitated. ‘May I ask if you require this gown for Princess Nazek’s Annual Ball?’
Aida laughed at her astuteness. ‘Absolutely – yes, you’re right.’
‘I think I have just the thing for you then, madame. It was delivered this morning, straight from the airport, and hasn’t yet been released from our atelier. I haven’t seen it myself, but the girls upstairs were really excited. As you know, these are unique gowns and our buyer had real difficulty in securing it. Apparently one of the Monaco princesses had set her heart on it and at the last minute changed her mind.’
Aida’s eyes widened. Hearing the shop assistant, she couldn’t get over what felt like almost unimaginable luxury. ‘Wonderful, thank you! I’ve just come back from England. There’s little in the way of fashion there so I need a new wardrobe.’
Cleo’s expression softened a little. ‘In that case, please feel free to browse the rails while I fetch it. If anything catches your eye, we are able to order it for you even if it’s not in stock.’ Twenty minutes later she came back with a dress still covered in tissue paper. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but it wasn’t supposed to be released until next week. I’ve had a bit of a job trying to convince Madame Reinach, the head of the department, to do so, but in the end, she agreed.’ She gave a small, satisfied smile.
‘Thank you, Cleo. I’m sure I’ll love it. So far I’ve loved everything you’ve shown me.’
As she unwrapped the gown, Cleo described it, saying, ‘It is called Romance à Minuit, designed by Balenciaga. You’ll see why when I show you the colour. Midnight blue. Not the shades and tones you mentioned earlier, but I think it will suit you beautifully. The dresses I showed you before … each a work of art, of course, aren’t … comment dirais-je?’ She hesitated, looking for the right word. ‘I would say they are more frivolous. This piece is in a different league. A creation, if you like, and a substantial one at that.’
Aida’s impatience to see the dress was growing by the minute as, one by one, the layers of tissue paper were peeled off. Finally, freed from its wrapping, the garment appeared in all its splendour. Dazzling and decadent were the only words to describe it. Cleo helped the young woman put it on.
Aida couldn’t help a smothered gasp as she viewed herself in the mirrors that showed off every aspect of her habiliment. The gown’s sweetheart-shaped bosom had a band made out of gold leather strips embroidered with multicoloured pearls, stones and sequins. A thin, intricate filigree spaghetti strap with a similar embellishment rose from the band and encircled Aida’s slender neck in a sparkling halter style. The tight bodice of lustrous midnight-blue taffeta flared into a short full skirt that billowed over a longer, full-length one. On one side of the waistline was a repeat of the bodice motif, a lavish bejewelled cluster in the shape of a horseshoe that drew attention to the fitted waist, while the shimmering weave of the material reflected the blue of her eyes and darkened them.
‘Magnifique! You will take the room by storm when you arrive at the ball, madame. The dress really enhances your beauty. What do you think of it?’
Aida could hardly believe how glamorous she looked. ‘What can I say? … It is really fabulous.’
Cleo nodded knowingly. ‘Balenciaga today is recognised as the master of couture even by Coco Chanel. I personally love his dramatic style but he does charge the highest prices.’
The price was indeed high: almost a third of the total bill once Aida had finished her shopping extravaganza. To the clothes she had chosen she added shoes, bags, coats, a cape, nylon stockings which she had so missed, and some gloves. To keep her going for the next couple of days she was spending in Cairo, she picked out two or three outfits, some accessories, nightwear and lingerie, which she asked the shop to deliver to Shepheard’s. As for the remainder, they were to be sent to her home in Luxor.
As she turned to leave the counter, she almost collided with a young woman who was walking past with a large shopping bag.
‘Camelia!’ she exclaimed, recognising her old friend.
Camelia Pharaony seemed to hesitate for a brief moment before crying out in surprise, ‘Aida? Aida El Masri, mish maaoul! Impossible … Is it you? … I can’t believe it! When did you arrive?’
Aida looked back at her, equally dazed. ‘Only ten days ago.’
Camelia enfolded her in a warm hug. ‘How long are you here for? Are you alone? Have you been to Luxor? Where are you staying?’
Aida laughed. ‘Slowly, one question at a time! I’ve already been home and I only arrived in Cairo last night … and, yes, I’m here alone.’ She couldn’t help beaming at Camelia; there was clearly no awkwardness between the two of them and she realised how delighted she was to see her old friend. ‘I was going to contact you while I was here so it’s wonderful we bumped into each other.’ She let out another laugh, almost of relief.
Camelia’s dark eyes danced with excitement. ‘Let’s catch up while having a spot of lunch … unless of course you have other plans.’
‘No plans. I’m staying at Shepheard’s. Let’s have lunch there.’
‘Wonderful! Do you have a car?’
‘No, I walked. It’s such a lovely day.’
‘Mine is outside. I’ve just come to pick up a dress that needed altering. I’ll tell them to deliver it to the house instead. I’ll be right with you.’
The luxurious navy-blue chauffeur-driven Cadillac was waiting on the pavement. Talking endlessly all the way to the hotel, the two women fell back into an easy rapport, with so much to catch up on that both were gushing to fill in the gaps of the last eight years. Like Aida, Camelia had undergone a complete metamorphosis: the chrysalis had turned into a butterfly. From the tomboy she had been at sixteen, she had become a sophisticated young woman, now dressed in the latest of Paris suits, her lustrous jet-black hair gathered up in a cloud of curls on the crown of her head and styled in the most recent fashion. She was pure Egyptian, like her brother Phares, with thick-lashed gazelle eyes the colour of black velvet which burned with an intense flame, giving away her passionate nature. Still, there lingered in their depths a graveness, a sadness even, that Aida silently attributed to her friend’s recent loss.
At Shepheard’s, Aida went straight to the reception desk to inform the concierge that she was expecting a large delivery from the Shemla department store later that day.
‘I will be i
n the dining room, but could you please have it taken upstairs and put in my dressing room.’
‘Certainly, madame. And also, while you were out a large basket of flowers was delivered for you. We have placed it in your bedroom.’
Aida raised an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Flowers? For me? Are you sure?’
The concierge eyed her slyly. ‘Certainly, madame. The gentleman left a card with this note. He asked me to hand it to you personally.’
Aida took it and immediately recognised the same royal crest from the card Prince Shams Sakr El Din had given her on the train. Her expression flickered with unease. Without opening it, she put the note in her pocket – she would read it later.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
‘Something wrong?’ asked Camelia, appearing by her side.
‘I’ll tell you over lunch. Come, we’d better go in or we’ll never find a table.’
The high-ceilinged Moorish dining room at Shepheard’s, like the rest of the hotel, was magnificent and was packed for lunch. The maitre d’hôtel greeted Aida and Camelia at the door and showed them to one of the last empty tables. The elegant room was cool, dimly lit by different-sized Mamluk copper lanterns suspended from keyhole arches. The walls were adorned with tadelakt plaster, zellige tiles, motifs carved in the top of the marble columns and leaf and flower designs. Suffragis, each clad in a white kaftan with red cummerbund, red fez and slippers, glided effortlessly around the tables, appetising dishes of food balanced on their outstretched hands. At the far end of the crowded room, on one side, stood a beautiful six-panelled mashrabiya arabesque screen, while nearby, a three-tier stone fountain, its cooling blocks of ice ringed by beautiful banked-up plants and flowers, cooed monotonously in the background.
Once seated, the young women ordered the set lunch for that day. A plate of mezzeh, Egyptian hors d’oeuvres, followed by grilled entrecôte served with Béarnaise sauce, French-style peas and new potatoes.
‘Shall we have some wine?’ Camelia asked her friend. ‘This is a special occasion after all.’
‘Why not? I haven’t had a decent glass of wine for years. It was so expensive in England.’
Aida, along with Camelia, had been brought up in the Coptic community, where alcohol was only to be enjoyed in moderation, though a trip to Shepheard’s and a reunion with a long-lost friend, both agreed, was cause for celebration.
Camelia turned to the maitre d’hôtel. ‘A bottle of Gianaclis red, please.’ She fixed Aida with a quizzical smile. ‘Now then, tell me all about this gentleman who has sent you flowers. Is he English?’
Aida shook her head and gave a little laugh. ‘No, far from it! He’s an Arab prince.’
‘You mean Turkish prince.’
‘No, no … nothing to do with the royal family,’ Aida explained, then saw the odd look on her friend’s face. ‘I’m not joking … really, he’s an Arab who says that his kingdom – I can’t remember the name now – is an oasis in the desert.’
‘Where did you meet him? What’s his name?’
‘We met on the train. His name is Prince Shams Sakr El Din.’
Camelia paled at the name. ‘You’re not serious?’
‘I promise you, it’s true.’ Noticing her concerned expression, Aida’s curiosity sharpened. ‘Why? What’s the problem?’
‘The problem is that he’s known to be one of the worst womanisers in Cairo. King Farouk is an angel in comparison, habibti.’
The conversation paused while a waiter appeared with the wine, pouring two glasses, while another followed in his wake with a tray of mezzeh. The women waited until they left before continuing.
‘Apparently, women find the prince irresistible,’ Aida said with an amused smile, dipping a small triangular piece of baladi bread into a plate of bissara bean dip.
Camelia’s dark eyes widened. ‘Well, this woman doesn’t. Trust me.’
‘You’ve met him?’
‘Yes, actually … though there’s enmity between our two families dating back three generations.’
Aida looked startled. ‘For what reason?’
Camelia helped herself to some warag enab, stuffed vine leaves, and a couple of falafels. ‘My great grandfather Boutros and the prince’s great grandmother Gawahir were in love and tried to elope. Her brother Seif stopped them at the edge of the desert. He knifed his sister and then a fight ensued between him and my great grandfather. They were both found dead the next day, their bodies ravaged by vultures and hyenas.’
Aida shivered and put down her fork. ‘What a dreadful story.’
Camelia nodded. ‘My grandfather hated the Bedouins, but I think all that has been forgotten now. The prince has been to the house a couple of times, which is why I’ve met him briefly. My father initiated the peace. It seems they have some business together, but I’ve not seen the prince lately. I personally don’t like him, and Phares loathes the very idea of him, though I’m not sure they’ve ever spoken. I’m told the man is quite civilised, having studied in France, and certainly a great charmer. But I know several respectable socialites whose wings have been burnt by his fire. Apparently, he’s always on the lookout for beautiful women to add to his harem …’ Camelia gave her friend a knowing look. ‘So, not someone whose company you should keep.’
Aida laughed and gave an emphatic shake of her head. ‘Aasham ibliss fil jannah’, Satan’s aspiration to Paradise! Well, he won’t find success with me. I admit, he’s a handsome man and I can well believe that women swoon around him, but believe me, I’m not that naïve, my dear.’
‘By the looks of it, he has already cast his line.’
‘Maybe, but I’m not about to swallow the bait.’
Camelia regarded her warmly before saying, ‘It’s strange how we can still talk freely to each other … It’s as if you’d never left.’
Aida smiled gently. It was impossible to imagine what her life would have become if she had stayed in Egypt. ‘Yes, but a war has taken place in that time and I don’t think anyone has remained the same.’
‘Nevertheless, habibti, you are here now, and we should drink to your return.’ Camelia lifted her glass and clinked it against Aida’s.
‘To reunions,’ Aida grinned and took a sip of the delicious Egyptian wine. How fond she still felt of Camelia!
‘We didn’t feel it much here, the war, I mean,’ continued Camelia, after the waiter had brought their entrecôte steak. ‘Especially in Luxor. In Cairo, it was full of British soldiers on leave but Gizeh, Garden City, Zamalek and all this part of town were never bombed. Of course, it was different for Phares who stayed most of the time in Cairo or in Alexandria, working in hospitals with the wounded brought in from the desert. He saw the uglier face of the war.’
Aida felt a tremor in her heart at the young man’s name.
Camelia’s eyes became wistful. ‘We’d be sisters-in-law today if you hadn’t rushed off as you did. I think it hurt Phares a lot, even though he didn’t show it, of course.’
Something in the tone of her voice made Aida think Camelia had felt wounded too. ‘Phares and I were never in love.’ She cut into her steak but didn’t eat it.
Camelia looked sceptical. ‘You have a short memory, habibti. I seem to recall otherwise, at least where you were concerned … Don’t you remember when we went riding that summer at the crack of dawn, just to catch a glimpse of Phares studying on the terrace? And when we used to go to the Gezireh Sporting Club to watch him playing polo … and that time you asked me to steal one of his photographs, which you then kept under your pillow?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Camelia, that was puppy love – infatuation,’ Aida protested, though her cheeks went slightly pink. ‘Like your being in love with Rizk, the gardener’s son, remember?’
Camilia’s face brightened and suddenly she giggled. ‘Touché … but not quite. I still think your feelings for Phares ran much deeper than you remember, or want to admit to.’ Her expression stilled as she added cautiously, ‘You would have married him if … if y
ou hadn’t left Egypt.’
Aida stiffened at Camelia’s veiled reference to her father’s death. It was the one subject they hadn’t discussed yet. She took another sip of wine and cut into her steak. ‘Anyhow, your brother was never in love with me. He was just following his father’s instructions … doing the right thing for the family business.’
‘That’s not so. Phares was very fond of you and admired the way you had turned out, considering your mother died when you were very young. He always said you were not spoilt like most girls in our social milieu, but intelligent and strong, and that you’d make a wonderful nurse because of your compassionate heart. Your impulsive nature was the only trait he had reservations about, and deep down I think he even respected that.’
Aida gazed at Camelia intently. ‘It would never have worked. There was no passion between us.’
‘Your arguments were certainly fiery.’ Camelia glanced at her knowingly. ‘My brother is a very passionate person.’
‘Maybe with another woman, but he never showed that side of himself to me. We never even held hands.’
‘You were not yet his fiancée … nothing was official. He isn’t like most men –Prince Shams Sakr El Din, for instance – who enjoy courting, kissing and more intimate things as casually as a glass of wine. Phares lives by a different code. Pride runs in his blood. Passion is something he would reserve for the woman he marries.’ Camelia sounded fondly exasperated. ‘You can’t deny there was something there between you.’
Aida shook her head. ‘I was in awe of him, probably because he was the only good-looking and charismatic man I’d met … and remember, by the time I was eighteen, he was already twenty-five. Back then I must have seemed very gauche to him, with my half-formed ideas about life and my flippancy. He had lived on his own and travelled the world. For him I was probably just a child. I would have bored him … it would never have worked.’
Camelia took a sip of her wine and said nothing for a few moments. ‘He’s never married, you know,’ she said finally. ‘Although it’s not for want of women trying. Heaps of beautiful heiresses, whom Aunt Halima has been parading in front of him for the past few years, the old busybody!’
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