Desert Honeymoon

by Anne Weale

  He looked down at her. ‘Is that an oblique way of saying you don’t want to share the suite with me?’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ she began.

  ‘Women often don’t say what they mean,’ he said dryly. ‘It’s one of their characteristics. Taking your question at its face value, the hotel staff are paid to think about making us as comfortable as possible. What we do, unless it interferes with the comfort of other guests, isn’t their concern.’

  The lift was at another floor. He pressed the call button. ‘Do you want me to move somewhere else?’

  ‘No...no, of course not.’ She could see that, from his point of view, it would be less convenient, not to mention more expensive. Presumably the Prince, not the sardonic-eyed man beside her, would be paying the bill for their stay here.

  The lift opened. As she stepped inside, Nicole felt herself blushing. She wished she had held her tongue. All she had done, by raising the matter, was to embarrass herself.

  The hotel’s garden was screened by tall trees that muted the noise of the city surrounding this exclusive oasis. Immediately outside the building there was a paved terrace where people were eating light refreshments. Beyond it was a sunlit lawn where tables were laid more formally.

  A portly major-domo in leg-hugging white trousers, the knee-length tunic which she knew was called an Achkan and a spectacular crested green turban to match the broad sash round his middle came to meet them as they stepped onto the lawn.

  ‘Dr Strathallen...madame...where would you like to sit?’

  ‘In the shade, please. My guest arrived from Europe this morning. She might find the sun too hot.’

  The major-domo conducted them to a table under a sunbrella. A waiter was summoned, gin and tonics brought.

  ‘Does the Prince spend a lot of time in Delhi?’ she asked.

  ‘He comes about once a month. His sister works here. She’s a gynaecologist and very involved in women’s pressure groups. The Prince also tries to influence the future of India. He also enjoys the more sophisticated social life here... something that I would pay to avoid,’ he added dryly.

  ‘But surely everyone needs some social life.’

  ‘I enjoy meeting my friends. I don’t care for large smart parties.’

  He had been looking at her, but now he turned his cool grey gaze on two groups of people taking their places at nearby tables. One was a party of well-dressed businessmen. The other group consisted of three attractive young women, one wearing European clothes, the second a silk sari and the third dressed in loose trousers and a long tunic, both garments made of pale blue and white cotton voile.

  ‘What’s the name of the outfit the girl in blue is wearing?’ Nicole asked.

  Strathallen had given them only cursory attention before turning back to Nicole. He must be exceptionally observant, she realised, when, without a second look at the three women’s table, he said, ‘That’s a salwar kameez, traditionally from the Punjab, but city girls aren’t sticklers for tradition. They wear what they like.’

  At that moment Nicole caught sight of a small bushy-tailed striped creature darting across the grass towards the damask-clothed table on which, shaded by an awning, an array of puddings and gateaux awaited the lunchers after they had eaten their selections from the range of hot food in the huge silver-topped dishes on the main table.

  ‘What’s that little animal?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘A palm squirrel. They’re the reason the puddings are protected by plastic domes. If they weren’t, those little marauders would be tucking in with great gusto,’ he said, smiling.

  Perhaps it was just as well that he didn’t smile often, she thought. Every time he did, it had a peculiar effect on the pit of her stomach.

  He rose. ‘Let’s go and choose something to eat, shall we?’ he suggested.

  When lunch was over, Nicole expected him to leave her to her own devices for the afternoon. But he said, ‘I have an hour to spare before my meeting. Do you feel like stretching your legs?’

  The truthful answer would have been that she felt so full of delicious food that, on her own, she would have retired to her room for another nap. Instead she nodded and reached for her bag.

  Leaving the grounds of the hotel was like entering another world, but only a short walk along the dusty, noisy main thoroughfare that Strathallen said was called Janpath was a relatively quiet sidestreet where women were selling textiles in all the roseate colours of dawn and sunset. Their wares were spread on a bank at one side of the lane like a huge magic carpet. On lines strung between the trees, hand-stitched quilts made from pieces of antique velvet and silk were displayed.

  Although the vendors’ cotton saris probably cost nothing compared with the silk ones worn by guests at the Imperial, the colours were still wonderful, perhaps enhanced by long exposure to the sun and many washings.

  ‘How graceful they are,’ she remarked to Strathallen.

  ‘Grace seems to go with bare feet or flat sandals and to disappear with high heels.’ He glanced down at her low-heeled shoes. ‘I’m glad to see you don’t wear them.’

  She found some of his views irritatingly arbitrary. ‘I do sometimes, when I’m not going to have to walk far.’

  ‘I’ll take you along to the government-sponsored emporium and leave you there,’ said Strathallen. ‘You’ll probably want to spend an hour looking round the various craft sections and it’s only a short walk back to the hotel. We’ll convene for dinner about seven.’

  Nicole was ready and waiting in the suite’s sitting room when, a few minutes to the hour, Strathallen came out of his bedroom. His hair still damp from the shower, he was no longer wearing a lounge suit but had changed into chinos and a cotton shirt a little darker than his tan.

  ‘You got back all right then?’ he said.

  ‘No problem,’ she smiled. ‘After I’d left the emporium I had a browse in a bookshop where the proprietor told me I must read this.’ She held up the book she had bought.

  Strathallen read out the title. ‘A Princess Remembers...The Memoirs of the Maharani of Jaipur. It’s very popular with women tourists. The Maharani and her mother were both famous beauties in their day. I haven’t read it myself but I’m told it’s an interesting insight into a vanished era.’

  ‘Why haven’t you read it? Because it’s written by a woman?’

  His mouth curled with amusement. ‘You think I’m a woman-hater?’

  ‘Not a hater, that’s too extreme, but perhaps not very pro women.’

  ‘Not en masse,’ he agreed. ‘But there are some women whose company I enjoy. Don’t tell me that, given the option of being, let’s say, stranded somewhere with a group of men or women, you wouldn’t choose your own sex as more likely to be on your wavelength.’

  ‘That would depend on the situation. On a bus that had broken down in the middle of nowhere, I certainly wouldn’t be the one to get it going and nor would most women. In any random group of men, there’s almost certain to be one with mechanical know-how. I’m sure you would have a crack at fixing an engine. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

  ‘I’d start by looking for the manual. Let’s go down to the bar, shall we?’

  As they left the suite, four women emerged from a door at the far end of the corridor. All were dressed in exquisite saris with borders of real gold thread. They glittered with costly jewels. But while three had their lustrous black hair uncovered, the fourth had her hair and face concealed by the shimmering folds of a diaphanous scarlet sari with gold embroidery all over it.

  Like a cluster of iridescent dragonflies, they approached the lift.

  ‘We’ll go down by the stairs,’ said Strathallen. Lowering his voice, he added, ‘The one in red is the bride.’

  As the three unveiled woman glanced at him, he placed his palms together and inclined his head in a gesture that made Nicole wonder if, behind the rather ruthless exterior he presented, there was a streak of chivalry.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘WI
LL her bridegroom have been chosen by her parents?’ Nicole asked, as they walked down the staircase.

  ‘Yes...and she probably has as good a chance of being happy as a western bride,’ he said. ‘Most of the people here believe that love is something that grows in a lifetime of living together.’

  ‘Perhaps they’re right,’ said Nicole. ‘I suppose if you grow up with the idea of your parents picking out a husband for you, it doesn’t seem as outlandish as it does to us. Anyway our system isn’t all that successful. But it must make their wedding nights horribly fraught if the brides and grooms barely know each other.’

  ‘It may make them more exciting,’ he commented dryly. ‘It’s no big deal going on a honeymoon with someone you’ve been sleeping with for months.’

  ‘I should think it would be a much better deal,’ said Nicole.

  ‘Was your first time a disappointment?’

  She couldn’t believe he had asked such a personal question on so short an acquaintance. Her cheeks flaming, she said stiffly, ‘I was speaking generally, not personally.’

  He made no comment. She knew he didn’t believe her. What made it all the more annoying was that his guess was correct. It had been the worst disappointment of her life. She had thought that love was the passport to rapture. Perhaps, for some people, it was. But it hadn’t been for her.

  When they reached the lobby, the bride and her attendants had just emerged from the lift and were moving in the direction of a wide corridor leading off the lobby.

  ‘The hotel has a small shopping arcade,’ said Strathallen. ‘The windows might interest you. What did you think of the emporium?’

  Still annoyed by his earlier question, Nicole said, with forced politeness, ‘It was fascinating...a very useful overview of the things being made here. Thank you for thinking of it.’

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it. Did you buy anything?’

  ‘I was tempted several times, especially by the cashmere shawls, but I managed to resist them. It’s usually a mistake to shop when you’ve just arrived somewhere.’

  They had come to the first of the window displays he had mentioned. It was full of jewellery and ornaments of the type to appeal to wealthy tourists in search of lavish mementoes. Her taste ran to simpler things. She could see at a glance there was little she liked.

  Again, Strathallen showed uncanny perspicacity. ‘Not your style?’ he asked.

  ‘Not really...and I’m sure you would rather be sitting down with a drink. Was your meeting successful?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was summoned to address a government committee on ways to protect the interests of the nomads. Whether the committee was persuaded by my arguments only time will tell. Did you go anywhere else apart from the bookshop?’

  ‘No, I came back and had my first taste of lassi on the terrace.’

  She did not tell him she had also asked at the desk if the hotel had facilities for sending an email to Dan. They had and, to her delight, when she had keyed in the password to her Yahoo mail box, there had been a message from him, sent the night before when he got home from the airport.

  Dear Mum, Hope you enjoyed the flight. Did you have your own TV screen? Email soon. Lots of love. Dan xxx

  Her reply had been longer. When he printed it out it would cover a couple of pages. She had included messages to her father and Rosemary. Once a week she would send an email for family consumption. The daily messages would be for Dan’s eyes only.

  ‘Did you like it?’ Strathallen asked.

  ‘What...? Oh, the lassi...yes, delicious. When the waiter told me it was made with yogurt, I was sure I would like it I eat a lot of yog as—’ She stopped short, on the brink of saying ‘as my son calls it’.

  Fortunately the bar steward was approaching the corner table where they had just sat down and his arrival distracted Strathallen’s attention from her slight slip of the tongue.

  In fact Alex was aware that she had clipped off the end of her remark. He also knew that, for a minute before that, her mind had been miles away from where they were.

  He ordered a Golden Pheasant beer for himself and, at her request, a soft drink for Nicole.

  When the steward had gone, he said, ‘Yogurt is usually called curd here. When I’m at the palace I have it for breakfast with a banana and some of the local millet bread.’

  She asked what he ate in the desert. As her interest seemed genuine, he told her. As he talked he was thinking about her reaction to his question on the staircase. It wasn’t his habit to quiz women he had only recently met about their sex lives, but the question had slipped out. Clearly she had been startled and embarrassed. Which in itself told him a lot about her. Generally women of her age could take almost anything in their stride.

  Perhaps all her sexual experiences had been unsatisfactory. Maybe that passionate mouth was misleading and she had emotional hang-ups which prevented her from enjoying making love. Or maybe she had picked the wrong partners. Some women made a habit of falling for men who wouldn’t make them happy in or out of bed.

  He found himself wishing that, instead of having a meal neither of them really needed after eating a substantial lunch, he could take her back up to the suite and make slow painstaking love to her.

  The rose-coloured blush that had suffused her face on the stairs had been a powerful turn-on. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a woman blush. They didn’t do it any more. In his father’s youth, men had modified their language in mixed company. Alex himself had been raised not to swear in front of his mother and sisters. Even now, from long-ingrained habit, he still didn’t use certain words when women were present. But, except in front of their parents, his sisters and their girlfriends all swore like troopers. They had also, before they were married, had enthusiastic sex with whomever they fancied. Why not? was their attitude.

  He couldn’t believe that, despite the blush, Nicole was any less experienced than most of her contemporaries. But going to bed with men and having a great time there were not necessarily concomitant.

  He looked at the woman beside him with her slender yet ultra-feminine body and he wanted to give her pleasure... the pleasure she might have missed in her past relationships.

  When Strathallen suggested they have a light supper in the hotel’s Garden Room rather than in the main restaurant, Nicole was relieved. Now, by her body clock, it was past midnight. She wasn’t tired, but nor was she hungry.

  Neither was he, it seemed. After they had looked at the menu, he ordered chicken sandwiches and a bottle of white wine. When they had finished the sandwiches, he persuaded her to share a dessert called Banana Bonanza with him.

  There was something curiously intimate about two people dipping their spoons into the same pudding, thought Nicole, making her spoonfuls last as long as possible so that most of the calories would be burned up in his big frame rather than hers.

  The occupants of the surrounding tables probably thought they were on far closer terms than was actually the case. They might even think they were husband and wife, or lovers travelling together.

  The thought of being in a close relationship with Strathallen—he had called her Nicole several times but she hadn’t yet used his first name—started a tremor inside her. His ability to stir up feelings she would rather stay dormant annoyed her.

  That side of her nature had brought her nothing but unhappiness and frustration. After the last disaster, she had made up her mind to stay celibate. Even though she had never actually experienced it with someone else, she knew she was capable of reaching orgasm. She had just never met a man who understood how a woman’s body worked.

  Why should Strathallen be different from the others? Not that the entire male sex could be judged by the three she had been involved with. But from everything she had read in women’s magazines and agony columns, there were more inept lovers than brilliant ones.

  The man across the table had all the physical qualifications. The attractive face. The great body. But how much did he know about w
omen’s bodies and their much slower, more complex responses?

  There was still some wine in the bottle when he asked for their bill and signed the chit. ‘We’ll finish the wine in our room,’ he told the waiter, as he gave him a tip.

  Nicole expected the waiter to remove the bottle from the ice bucket, wipe away the condensation and wrap it in a napkin before handing it to Strathallen. But it remained on the table as they rose and left the Garden Room.

  Hardly had Strathallen closed the outer door of the suite behind him than there was a knock from outside. He re-opened it to admit another waiter bearing both bottle and bucket and a tray with two glasses.

  As the man set it down on the coffee table, pocketed a tip and departed, Nicole wondered if the sensible thing to do was to plead tiredness and say goodnight now.

  If she stayed to share the rest of the wine, would it give a false impression? Or was she assuming, wrongly, that because she was intensely conscious of Strathallen’s masculine magnetism, he was equally aware that she was a passable woman who might be willing if he were to try his luck? If he was that sort of man...and most of them were.

  ‘What you have to realise is that India’s greatest resource is people,’ he said, filling the glasses. ‘In the west, all forms of service are expensive. Do-it-yourself has become part of the culture. Here service is cheap. By using it, you’re contributing to the country’s economy. In human terms, everything you pay to have done for you is helping to give someone a slightly better quality of life.’

  Nicole found it unnerving that he was so closely attuned to her thought processes that, yet again, he had known what was in her mind.

  Bringing the glasses to where she was standing, he handed one to her. ‘Some newcomers find it hard to adapt to that concept, but I don’t think you will.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You’re a woman. There are always exceptions to every generalisation, but on the whole your sex tends to be more sensitive and responsive to cultural differences.’ He touched the side of his glass to the side of hers. ‘Here’s to your enjoyment of “the Indian experience” as the travel operators call it.’