Desert Honeymoon

by Anne Weale

  ‘I needn’t ask if this is your mother?’ said Alex, picking up the second photograph. ‘You’re very alike.’ He gave her an appraising look. ‘Except mat she doesn’t have your obstinate chin.’

  ‘I think it’s a myth that features reflect people’s characters. I used to work with a man who had a receding chin. He was as stubborn as they come. I know my chin is too square, but I’m not an obstinate person.’

  ‘Aren’t you?’ He looked amused. ‘You give a good imitation of being a woman who can’t easily be persuaded.’

  As she realised to what he was referring, she felt her colour rising.

  Before she could answer, he went on, ‘But your chin isn’t too square. It redeems your face from being merely pretty and gives it character.’

  ‘If that’s a compliment...thank you.’

  ‘The terms of our treaty don’t preclude an occasional compliment, do they? I’m sure Kesri has made some comment on your beautiful skin, if only to warn you to protect it from the desert sun.’

  ‘He did say I should be careful, but he was being thoughtful rather than complimentary. He has never stepped out of line by a centimetre,’ she said pointedly. ‘He may flirt with the guests at the hotel. That’s different. I’m sure he wouldn’t create an awkward situation for one of his employees.’

  At that moment there was another knock at the door and Kesri himself walked in.

  ‘I was told I would find you here,’ he said to Alex. Then to Nicole, ‘May I join you?’

  ‘Of course. Would you like a drink?’

  When she had fetched a gin and tonic for him, Kesri said, ‘My sister Chandra is coming home for a few days. On the day she wants to come, the head of an important American travel company is arriving. I must be here to receive him. Could I ask you to fetch her, Alex? I can send Mohan if it’s not convenient for you. But I know she would prefer your company.’

  ‘I’d be delighted to fetch her,’ said Alex.

  ‘Thanks very much.’ Kesri turned to Nicole. ‘Mohan is a qualified pilot who also supervises the maintenance of the plane. He’s a thoroughly reliable fellow but not much of a conversationalist. Chandra works hard and takes very little time off, so I like to make her visits here as pleasurable as possible. She’ll enjoy the Sight far more with Alex as her pilot.’

  Alex said, ‘Is there anything you’d like me to bring back from Delhi, Nicole? Anything to do with your work that you forgot to bring and won’t be able to buy here?’

  ‘I don’t think so, but thank you for offering. What is your sister’s work, Kesri?’

  ‘She’s a gynaecologist...and also deeply involved in various women’s rights organisations. Raising the level of female literacy is one of her special concerns. And mine,’ he added.

  On the day of Kesri’s sister’s arrival, Nicole’s maid brought her a note inviting.her to join them for dinner.

  Nicole decided to wear a dress she had designed and had made up by a friend she had met at pre-natal classes. Emily was also a single mother who, to support herself and her daughter, had built up a successful clothes alterations business. Now assisted by several part-timers and under less pressure, she also did highquality dressmaking for Nicole and a few other customers with exciting ideas.

  Nicole’s dress was made from a length of exquisite printed silk-chiffon she had seen in an antiques shop and been unable to resist. The shop specialised in things made in the Thirties and Nicole’s design for the chiffon was an echo of that stylish era.

  When she was ready, she made her way to the room where the Maharaja had welcomed her on her first day at the palace. Already she felt at home. The only flaw in her contentment was missing Dan.

  A turbanned servant was on duty outside the double doors of Kesri’s drawing room. He opened them with a flourish, standing aside for her to enter.

  There were only three people present: the two men she had expected to see and a woman who did not match her preconception of Kesri’s sister. Somehow she hadn’t expected Chandra to share her brother’s good looks. He had made her sound a serious-minded and perhaps rather intimidating person. Which had not prepared Nicole for the glamorous vision in a pale blue sari and pearls who was smiling at her.

  ‘Come and sit next to me,’ said Chandra, when they had been introduced and Nicole had been given a glass of champagne.

  Far from being formidable, her manner couldn’t have been more friendly. Seeing her now, every inch an Indian princess in graceful traditional dress with real pearls at her ears and throat and a sapphire bracelet clasping one slender wrist, it was hard to imagine her in a white coat with a stethoscope in her pocket. The only clue to her occupation was that her nails did not extend beyond the tips of her fingers.

  ‘While he was flying me home, Alex refused to tell me anything about you,’ she said, as Nicole joined her on the sofa while the men sat in large armchairs placed at right angles to each end of it. ‘He will never discuss other people, not even in a flattering way. I don’t like unkind gossip, but he goes to the other extreme.’ She flashed a teasing glance at him from her large and longlashed dark eyes.

  Then, concentrating her attention on Nicole, she said, ‘What a lovely dress. Do you design your own clothes?’

  One evening, when Nicole had opened her laptop with the intention of writing an email to Dan, the computer didn’t go through its usual start-up process. The screen remained blank and, from somewhere inside the case, came a faint but ominous grinding sound.

  She was too experienced a user to fly into panic immediately. After doing everything she could think of that might get it going, she consulted the manual and went through all the routines that were recommended. None of them did the trick.

  Hoping whoever serviced the palace computers would be able to repair it for her, or at least point her in the direction of someone who could, she made herself a cup of tea and considered the situation. At worst, she might have to replace it, an expense and inconvenience she could do without. At best, whatever was wrong could be put right, but perhaps not for several days. In the meantime she might be able to borrow or rent a substitute.

  But that didn’t solve her immediate problem: how to send her nightly bulletin to Dan. As a last resort she could phone him, but calls from India to Europe were expensive and, before she could speak to him, she would have to waste several minutes listening to Rosemary who seemed unable to grasp that overseas calls were costly.

  After more thought she decided to seek help from Alex. When she called his extension on the internal telephone, he answered with a brisk, ‘Strathallen speaking.’

  ‘It’s Nicole. I hope I’m not disturbing you?’

  ‘Not at all. What can I do for you?’

  ‘My laptop seems to have died on me. I was wondering if you’d allow me to use your machine to pick up some important email.’

  ‘By all means. Do you want to do it now?’

  ‘If it’s not inconvenient?’

  ‘No, it’s good timing. I’ve finished what I was doing. Bring the laptop with you. I might be able to resuscitate if Do you know where to find me?’

  ‘Yes...I’ll be there in five minutes.’

  She spent three minutes brushing her hair and retouching her lipstick before hurrying from her part of the palace to the wing where she knew his rooms were. Now she would see for herself what personal imprint, if any, Alex had stamped on his living quarters. He had had them for a long time, but perhaps, like the nomads, he had few possessions. The bits and pieces she treasured, he might regard as clutter.

  The door was already half open when she arrived. She tapped on the wood before she entered, closing the door behind her. He had called ‘Come in’ when she knocked, but when she passed through the hallway into his sitting room it was empty.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ he called, from another room.

  Nicole stood looking around her. Every wall had been fitted with shelves to accommodate an extensive private library. In places half-height shelving left w
all space for paintings hung frame to frame in a carefully thought out mosaic which took account of the colours as well as the shapes. He had not ‘killed’ the delicate watercolours by hanging them next to bigger and bolder acrylics.

  She was pleased by his eclectic taste. It mirrored her own, except that his pictures had come from many parts of the world while the source of hers were junk shops and car boot sales.

  She was scanning the spines of some of his books when Alex joined her.

  ‘Do you have all these catalogued?’ she asked.

  He came to where she was standing, the laptop held on her hip. Taking it from her, he said, ‘There is a catalogue, but I don’t often have to use it. I can usually lay my hand on the book I want. They’re arranged in categories...languages...outdoor sports...history et cetera.’

  ‘Kesri told me you were a brilliant linguist.’

  ‘He exaggerates. An ear for language is like an ear for music, or your eye for good design. It’s something people are born with and can develop, or neglect, as the spirit moves them. A lot of Scots are good at picking up languages. It’s one of our positive characteristics... a counterbalance to our reputation for meanness,’ he added, smiling.

  There are unflattering myths about all nationalities. I think of the Scots as brave in battle and mad keen on higher education. But you’re the first Scot I’ve had much to do with.’

  ‘My PC is in my office. What makes you think this is dead?’ he asked, as he led the way to a smaller room where an L-shaped counter provided two separate work areas.

  Nicole explained while taking in the well-organised layout of his working equipment.

  ‘Is it still under guarantee?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Unfortunately, no. In fact this model is no longer being made. I’m overdue for an upgrade, but I’ve been putting it off. You know how it is with computers. You’ve no sooner bought one than the thing is obsolete.’

  ‘Or so the manufacturers would like to have us believe,’ he said dryly. ‘Do you mind if I take a look at its innards?’

  If anyone else had asked that, she would have demurred. But with Alex she knew instinctively that he wouldn’t, like some of his sex, claim an expertise he didn’t have.

  ‘Go ahead,’ she said. ‘I never mess with the insides, although my...I know people who do.’ She had stopped herself just short of saying ‘my son does’ and hoped that the hasty switch from ‘my’ to ‘I’ hadn’t caught his attention.

  ‘You sit here,’ he said, pulling out the desk chair facing the screen of his desktop PC. ‘I take it you’re collecting and sending with one of the free mail services? I’ll just get you connected and leave you to it.’

  One hand on the back of her chair and his other hand on the mouse, he clicked his way through the Internet connection procedure. It seemed to take longer than usual. Or was that only because he was standing so close behind her? Nicole wondered. Instead of watching the screen, she looked at the strong sunburned hand sliding the mouse over the surface of the mouse-mat. Each time his finger pressed the button, a sinew moved under the skin on the back of his hand. She liked the length of his fingers, his short well-kept nails, the light dusting of hairs on his muscular wrist.

  She found herself wishing he would take his hand from the mouse and slide it under her chin, turning her face up to his, bending his tall frame to kiss her. She wanted it to happen so badly that when he started speaking she didn’t take in what he was saying.

  Collecting her scattered wits, she realised he had opened a screen from which she could access her mail service.

  ‘It’s all yours,’ he said, moving away.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, half relieved, half frustrated.

  Her fingers unusually clumsy, she mis-typed the familiar address and had to re-type it. Then, as she keyed in her password, the surge of desire she had felt a few moments ago dissipated. Her thoughts focussed on the email she expected to find in her inbox.

  Alex moved to the other work space. Before starting a check on Nicole’s laptop, he spent a few moments studying her profile, knowing that, intent on the screen, she would not be aware of his scrutiny.

  ‘If you want to print anything out, be my guest,’ he said.

  ‘Oh...thank you.’ She flashed an abstracted glance at him, then returned her attention to the monitor.

  He wondered who her correspondents were. Other designers...girlfriends...her father? From where he was leaning against the desktop he couldn’t read the writing on the screen. But he could see from her face that whatever it was gave her pleasure. Her lips curled back from her teeth in a glowing smile. She had never smiled at him like that.

  His gaze drifted down from her face to the hollow at the base of her throat and the vee of bare skin revealed by her white cotton shirt. It was fastened by little pearl buttons. He found himself wanting to undo them, to distract her from what she was doing as she was distracting him.

  She was getting under his skin to an annoying extent. He knew that the only cure was to take her to bed, enjoy her and get her out of his system. Except that she wasn’t the kind of woman with whom that way out was possible. She didn’t want an affair. She wanted a man who would give her his heart and his soul, and he didn’t have them to give.

  The noise of the ink-jet printer interrupted his thoughts. He watched Nicole starting to touch type, a skill he had taught himself but without achieving the speed of her flying fingers.

  He forced himself to stop watching her and turn his mind to what might be wrong with her laptop.

  Nicole took the single sheet of paper from the out tray of Alex’s printer and folded it in half, blank side outermost. She didn’t want him to spot that the message began Dearest Mum and ended with a row of crosses followed by a row of paired brackets symbolising hugs.

  Not that Alex would necessarily know about things like smileys and emoticons with which her son’s generation peppered their emails.

  ‘I’ve finished now, thank you. I’ll disconnect...OK?’ OK.‘ Intent on what he was doing, he didn’t look J.

  Nicole closed down the connection and spent a few moments looking at the icons on the screen. They could be as revealing of people’s habits and tastes as the contents of their cupboards and bookshelves.

  Unlike Dan whose Windows desktop was crowded with numerous icons, many of them representing blood-and-thunder games, Alex had very few. Most were short cuts to folders in regular use. Shortcut to lecture notes and Shortcut to typescript were two that she noticed. She wondered if he was writing a book about the nomads, but didn’t like to ask in case he preferred not to talk about it.

  At that point his screen saver activated: a sequence of beautiful photographs epitomising Karangarh. A camel pacing slowly across the desert...a girl with her face concealed by a rose-pink veil and silver anklets adorning her bare brown feet...the city seen from a distance in the light of sunset.

  ‘I think this problem is beyond me,’ Alex said, shaking his head. ‘You need someone more expert. At a guess I’d say your hard disk needs replacing, but I could be wrong. Anyway, as long as it’s out of commission, you’re welcome to come and use mine to get and send mail. How many times a day do you check your inbox?’

  ‘Only once. But I don’t want to impose on—’

  ‘You won’t be imposing,’ he said firmly. ‘You’d do the same for me if my system had crashed. Leave the machine with me and tomorrow I’ll have it looked at. Would you like a drink?’ The question was accompanied by a gesture towards the sitting room. ‘I have a bottle of a very fine single malt whisky I think you’d find a surprise if you’ve only drunk blended whiskies.’

  ‘This will probably damn me in your eyes for ever, but the only whisky I’ve drunk has been with hot water and lemon as a cure for colds,’ she admitted.

  Alex laughed. ‘Then it’s high time you were taught to drink it properly. Make yourself comfortable and we’ll share one of life’s greatest pleasures...a wee dram.’

  But the look he gave he
r before turning away suggested that it was another of life’s pleasures he was thinking about. Or was that impression only a figment of her over-heated imagination? Nicole wondered, as she decided against sitting on the sofa and chose one of the several comfortable chairs grouped to face it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  IF HE noticed her avoidance of the sofa, or if he too was reminded of her first night in India, it was impossible to tell.

  She wondered how alcoholic the ‘wee dram’ would be. She didn’t think Alex would renege on their treaty without warning. On the other hand he might take her acceptance of his invitation to stay for a drink as a sign that she had changed her mind.

  From a cupboard he brought a bottle of whisky, another of water and two glasses which she would have thought were copitas for drinking sherry, except that these had a thicker base.

  ‘You don’t have to be a designer to know there are three primary colours, and most people know there are four primary tastes...sweet, sour, salty and bitter,’ he said. ‘But do you know how many primary aromas there are?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Six? Ten?’ she guessed.

  Alex shook his head. ‘You’re miles out. There are twenty-three. Sight is our dominant sense, but the nose is our most sensitive organ. I’m going to pour a little whisky in your glass. Sniff it and then take a very small sip. Then I’ll add water to it. The water brings out the “nose”.’

  Nicole did as he told her and was astonished at the difference.

  Alex settled himself in the chair nearest to hers and held his glass to the light to admire its pale golden colour. Then he put the glass to his nose and breathed in its fragrance before drinking.

  ‘Did you know that, in the old days, most of the palaces in this part of India made their own liqueurs from closely guarded recipes? According to Chandra, a lot of secret drinking went on in the women’s quarters.’