Castles of Sand

by Anne Mather

  Her hand shook so much she could hardly grip the receiver, but she managed to hold on. ‘By the way,’ she said, as he was about to ring off, ‘did you have an address for—for the Gauthiers?’

  There was silence for a moment, then Malcolm said rather doubtfully: ‘Yes. Why?’

  Ashley took a deep breath. ‘Alain—he forgot to give me the address to write to, about—about this job I mentioned. Whether I decide to take it or not, I’ve got to let him know, but—’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Malcolm sounded relieved, and she heard him riffling through the papers on his desk. ‘Yes. Yes, here it is. I thought you’d have known it. It’s the Askar Palace in Khadesh.’

  Ashley’s momentary excitement dispersed. ‘No,’ she exclaimed, ‘I—I meant in England. Wh-where is he staying?’

  Malcolm checked again. ‘That’s the only address I have. Besides, as he’s flying back to Murad tomorrow, I hardly see—’

  ‘Tomorrow!’ Ashley’s hand flew over the mouthpiece of the telephone to prevent Malcolm from overhearing her horrified exclamation. Then: ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right. I—I’ll contact him there.’

  ‘That’s the best idea,’ Malcolm approved. ‘And—Ashley?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t do anything you might afterwards—regret.’

  He rang off before she could ask him what he meant, but it made her see he was not indifferent to her state of mind. He knew she was distraite, and he was trying to tell her not to do anything foolish.

  Pacing the flat later, she wondered whether he was not right, after all. She was considering action which, by any standards, could be regarded as reckless. She could conceivably hurt herself more than she was likely to hurt Alain, with Andrew the innocent pawn in the middle. But then she remembered her son’s smiling face, and knew that whatever happened she had to make the attempt.

  But how? How? If Alain was planning to leave the following day, he could have no intention of agreeing to her suggestion. He had only agreed to think it over to placate her. His determination to remove the boy from temptation had not faltered.

  Straddling a chair by the window, she draped her arm along its back and rested her chin on her wrist. Where was he likely to be staying in London? Not the apartment. She shivered. He had given that up after—well, when she married Hassan. And if the Gauthier organisation had any other property, she was not aware of its whereabouts. Which only left hotels…

  Getting up, she rescued the commercial edition of the telephone directory, and turned to the relevant section. There were dozens of hotels in and around the London area, but she knew Alain would choose somewhere exclusive, and quiet. Running her finger down the list, she jotted the numbers of half a dozen of the more elegant establishments on to a pad, then picked up the telephone receiver.

  Half an hour later she was no further forward. Even when she claimed kinship with the family, none of the receptionists would admit that Prince Alain was staying at their hotel, and while she suspected they might not tell her even if he was, the suspicion was growing that he was staying elsewhere. But where? With relatives? With friends? Or in some other apartment, high above Regent’s Park, with a magnificent view over the city?

  Sighing, she got up from the couch again and trudged into her bedroom. Her passport was in the drawer of the cabinet beside her bed, and pulling it out, she assured herself of its validity. The last entry in it had been stamped when she went to Paris in the spring, one of the staff accompanying a school party of a dozen older boys. It had been a successful trip and the boys had enjoyed it. And if she had felt a pang at the French capital’s association with Alain, and subsequently with her son, she had succeeded in keeping it at bay…

  Closing the passport again, she tapped it on her palm. She knew, without looking, that she needed no special inoculations before visiting Murad. Like Egypt, it only demanded smallpox and cholera certificates and an injection against yellow fever, if she was coming from an infected area, and unlike Egypt, a visa was not necessary. If she could get on the flight, she could leave for Murad tomorrow, too, with only currency providing any difficulties. It might even be the same flight that Alain and Andrew were taking…

  With a nervous gesture she dropped the passport back into the drawer and closed it quickly. What was she thinking of? She was still obliged to honour her contract with Brede. How could she consider flying off to the Middle East, without positive proof that Alain would even acknowledge her, let alone employ her?

  Nibbling at her thumb, she went back into the living room, unable to remain in one place for any length of time. What time was it? she asked herself unsteadily, and discovering it was after five o’clock, she determinedly marched into the kitchen to prepare herself some food.

  But even a plate of soup defeated her, and after swallowing several mouthfuls, she was on her feet again. If only she could get in touch with Alain, she thought bitterly. If only she had asked him where he was staying before all this blew up.

  By bedtime, she had forced herself to the realisation that unless Alain contacted her, there was nothing she could do. Once again the Gauthiers had had the last word, and the tears she had been stifling all day soaked her pillow. Oh, Alain, she breathed, at the last, how could you do this to me? And she had no satisfactory explanation for the pain that tore her apart.

  * * *

  In the morning, things looked marginally better. With an autumn sun streaming through her kitchen windows, Ashley felt almost resigned as she prepared her toast and coffee, and carrying the morning newspaper to the dining room table she propped it against the marmalade pot as she buttered her toast.

  There were the usual headlines—another strike in the Midlands, an escape from custody of a wanted criminal, more unpopular governmental decisions—and after skipping through these, Ashley turned to the gossip columns. It was a relief to read about someone else’s problems, she thought, sympathising with the fight an actress was having in establishing her rights as a famous actor’s common-law wife. Without the security of a wedding ring, a woman had few privileges, she acknowledged flatly, and even with one, a man always had the ascendancy.

  Her lips tightened. It wasn’t fair, she fretted, her eyes registering a mute protest. Andrew was her son! Was he to grow to manhood without even speaking a word to the woman who had borne him in her body for nine whole months?

  The telephone bell interrupted her melancholy abstraction, and it rang several times before she stirred herself to go and answer it. She didn’t feel like talking to anybody right now, and she lifted the receiver with dour reluctance.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Ashley?’

  Her knees gave out on her, and she sank down weakly on to the couch. ‘Al-Alain?’

  ‘You did not expect me to ring?’

  ‘No—yes. I mean—’ Ashley struggled to shake off her apathy. ‘Why are you calling? To let me know you’re leaving today? I know that already—Malcolm told me. He said you’d definitely withdrawn Andrew’s name from the register, and as you conveniently forgot to give me your address, I suppose you’re ringing to flaunt your advantage—’

  ‘Do you want to hear what I have to say, or do you not?’ Alain interposed curtly, cutting into her babbling tirade. ‘I told you I would consider your proposition, and I have. Where I am staying in London does not seem of great relevance.’

  Ashley’s jaw shook. ‘Well, all right. What have you decided? That I won’t do? That I’m not suitable? That you couldn’t possibly employ a woman to teach the boy, and that in any case your father would never agree to it?’

  ‘Will you stop trying to pre-empt me?’ Alain’s voice betrayed his irritation now. ‘In the name of Allah, you seem to be doing your best to persuade me that you are not suitable!’

  Ashley faltered, ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do you think I mean?’

  Ashley’s palms were moist. ‘You can’t mean—you don’t mean—’ Her voice shook. ‘Oh, Alain! You wouldn’t tease me, would you?’
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  ‘No,’ he said flatly, ‘I would not tease you. And you have yet to decide whether what I have to say is acceptable to you.’

  Ashley swallowed convulsively. ‘Go on.’

  Alain hesitated, then he said briefly: ‘Your initial contract will be made for a probationary period of a month. If, at the end of that time, the arrangement has proved—unsatisfactory—to either party, it can be terminated forthwith.’

  Ashley breathed out quickly: ‘All right.’

  ‘This is to be a business arrangement only,’ Alain continued. ‘With certain—clauses inserted, relevant to the situation.’

  Ashley quivered. ‘What clauses?’

  Alain paused. ‘A sworn undertaking from you that you will not, at any time, and to anybody, divulge your relationship to Hussein.’

  Ashley’s stomach churned. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No. In addition, I shall want your written agreement that you handed over Hussein independently, and of your own free will, and that you have no intention of asserting your rights as his mother in the future.’

  ‘No!’ Ashley’s voice broke on the word. ‘Alain, you’re unreasonable. You can’t make me sign something like that.’

  ‘Then you must do what you can to gain your own ends,’ he declared roughly. ‘There is nothing more to be said.’

  ‘Wait!’ Ashley could not let him go like that. ‘Alain, give me a few moments, at least. Let me think!’

  ‘I do not have much time, Ashley. We leave for the airport in less than half an hour.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ she gasped, in consternation.

  ‘You said you knew,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Well, yes, but—’ Ashley sought for words. ‘I thought—now—’

  ‘If you decide to accept the position, you will follow us, after you have completed your term of notice,’ he replied smoothly. ‘It is better this way. It will enable me to prepare the ground, as you might say. And give you time to resign yourself to the situation.’

  Ashley shook her head. ‘You—you’re inhuman!’

  ‘Merely practical,’ he amended dryly. ‘Well? Have you reached a decision?’

  Ashley tipped back her head, as if her neck ached. It was too much. How could she sign away her child’s birthright? But if she did not, she might never see him again. Was the one any worse than the other?

  ‘And—and who will be his guardian?’ she asked huskily. ‘Who—who has custody of him?’

  ‘Who has always had custody of him?’ retorted Alain punishingly. ‘Myself—Alain Gauthier.’

  Ashley expelled her breath weakly. ‘Very well.’

  ‘You’ll do it?’ Alain sounded incredulous.

  ‘Why not?’ Ashley felt suddenly very weary. ‘You hold all the cards, Alain. And I haven’t the strength to fight you.’

  ‘You realise this arrangement can only last for two years—three at the most?’ he exhorted. ‘Hussein will go to boarding school eventually. When he is older—and wiser.’

  Ashley sighed. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  There was silence for a moment, then Alain spoke again, giving her details of his arrangements. ‘The contract will be drawn up by a firm of London solicitors who handle the Gauthier business here in England,’ he declared brusquely. ‘They will contact you, when it is ready for your signature, and they will also arrange your travel documents, tickets, and so on. I assume you have a current passport, and that you are not suffering from any transmittable disease.’

  ‘No.’ Ashley’s voice was scarcely audible. ‘Is that all?’

  Alain made a sound of impatience. ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this?’

  ‘Do you care?’ There was a note of indifference in Ashley’s voice now.

  ‘You may regret it,’ he said harshly. ‘The boy is your son.’

  Ashley’s mouth twisted. ‘So much for motherly love,’ she choked bitterly, and put down the receiver before she could change her mind.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THERE was blue sea below the aircraft again now, as there had been during the flight across the Mediterranean. But now it was the translucent waters of the Arabian Sea, as the plane began to lose height, preparing to make its approach to the airport just outside Khadesh. Ashley’s stomach was churning so badly, she could hardly sit still. She, felt alternately sick and exhilarated, apprehensive of her reception by Alain’s family, yet excited at the prospect of being with Andrew. Hussein, she corrected herself fiercely, repeating his Arab name under her breath. She must never forget, she was merely his governess, and as such, not entitled to address him by any other than his given name.

  It was almost three weeks since that fateful morning when Alain had brought the boy to school. Three weeks, during which time she had broken the ties with her old life, in spite of opposition from all sides. Malcolm had not approved, but that had not been entirely unexpected. He was upset at losing a valued member of his staff, and, she had to admit it, distressed, too, on a more personal level. Perhaps he did care about her in his own way, she acknowledged, but he had been a bachelor for so long, he had forgotten how to show his true feelings. She dismissed the thought that so far as she knew, Alain was a bachelor, too. They had lived a different kind of life, and Malcolm really believed she would regret putting her emotions before commonsense. She couldn’t help wondering how he would have reacted if she had confided the whole story to him, and squashed the unwilling conclusion that that was why she had kept the details of her employment to herself.

  What had disturbed her most was Mrs Armstrong’s reaction to her plans. She had spent last weekend with the family, needing their support and reassurance at this time, but ultimately gaining neither.

  ‘You’ll regret it, Ashley!’ Mrs Armstrong exclaimed, after the girl had confessed that Alain had his own methods of ensuring her silence. ‘My dear child, you’re just creating trouble for yourself later on. Don’t you see? This man must realise what will happen when you’re in contact with the boy every day. You’ll become attached to him, you’ll find yourself caring for him; and when the time comes for you to leave, you’re going to be torn to pieces!’

  Ashley had drawn her knees up then, sitting on the floor in front of the Armstrongs’ cheerful log fire, and endeavoured to defend the decision she had taken. ‘Isn’t it better that I spend some time with him now?’ she protested. ‘He doesn’t know me. He might never know me any other way. Isn’t it conceivable that even this small share of his affections is better than nothing?’

  ‘Ashley may have a point,’ Lucy had defended, secure now in her own love for a neighbouring farmer, and their proposed marriage in the spring. ‘After all, Alain’s not going to let her see the boy any other way.’

  ‘She should have fought for him through the courts,’ declared Mrs Armstrong firmly. ‘That’s what they’re for.’

  ‘She’s right, lass,’ Mr Armstrong had supported his wife. ‘Legal—that’s the only way to do it.’

  ‘But we’ve all seen how legalities have been over-thrown!’ Ashley exclaimed. ‘My son is a citizen of Murad. His father—his grandfather is a powerful man in political circles. Do you think I would stand any chance against that kind of influence?’

  ‘You should,’ Mrs Armstrong protested, but Ashley only shook her head.

  ‘Even if I won the case, there’s not a chance in a million that they’d let me keep him,’ she sighed. ‘He lives in Khadesh. What earthly use are our laws, when Murad can overturn them?’

  They all agreed that she had a point, nevertheless she knew that they thought she had signed away her child’s birthright. And so she had, she thought bitterly. And for what? A month of her son’s time—for she had few doubts that she would be found unsuitable, and dismissed at the end of four weeks. But that was something she had told no one, not even the Armstrongs.

  Her communication with the Gauthiers had been confined to the medium of their solicitors, Messrs. Stoneham and Laurence, of Grays Inn. Ray Stoneham, grandson of the foun
der of the firm, and son of the present partner, dealt with her case, and although he might have found the circumstances unusual, his attentions were not entirely altruistic. He evidently found Ashley an intriguing mixture of sophistication and naïveté, and towards the end of their association had invited her to lunch with him. Ashley had politely declined, pleading a previous engagement, but it had been somewhat reassuring to find herself in that position, after years of keeping the opposite sex at bay.

  From the air, Murad had a bare, uninhabited appearance. Miles and miles of desert stretched back to the distant hills, and such townships as there were seemed small and remote. The refinery at Zarif, the core of the nation’s economy, was along the coast from Khadesh, and Ashley had read that eighty per cent of the population made their home in the capital. The rest eked out a nomadic living in the desert, caring for their sheep and goats, as they had done for centuries, and the fierce wild tribesmen had long been tamed.

  The airport, perhaps not surprisingly, was modern and effective, and Ashley, trying to keep her mind from more personal matters, decided that it needed to be. A country’s economy depended on the efficiency of its transport, and businessmen and Arab sheiks alike demanded a standard of practice that had to be maintained.

  The flight had taken more than seven hours, but Ashley did not feel tired. As she checked her passport and collected her luggage, she was too keyed up to consider her body’s weariness, and shunning the attentions of an Arab porter, she carried her own suitcases through to the reception hall.

  It was early evening in Murad, and the crimson rays of the setting sun bathed the airport buildings in a roseate glow. Ashley seemed to be the only woman travelling alone, and as she paused in the air-conditioned lounge and looked about her, she realised how conspicuous she was. Perhaps she should have employed the porter after all, she reflected doubtfully. She did not like the curious glances being sent in her direction, or the amused speculation she was attracting.

  She considered stepping outside the building, but the unexpected coolness of the air discouraged her, and besides, she felt safer, if only marginally, within these walls. She was beginning to realise she should have worn something less revealing than the plain black corded pants suit, but in the chill of an English autumn it had seemed the ideal choice, and the fact that it was black should have made her inconspicuous. She had not given much thought to the fact that black was a perfect foil for her honey-blonde hair, secured now in a neat coil at the nape of her neck, or considered that in a country where women wore shapeless black robes to conceal their shape from masculine eyes, the short jacket and form-fitting pants drew attention to the very attributes she had hoped to disguise. She wished desperately that Alain had been there to meet her. For all her antipathy towards the man himself, she knew he would not have permitted her to stand here at the mercy of these prying eyes, and she looked about her anxiously, wondering if there had been some hold-up in communications. How terrible it would be, she thought, if the Gauthiers had not received details of her travel arrangements. Was it possible for a woman to hire a taxi here, and make her own way to the Askar Palace?