by Liz Fielding
Then she’d walked into the office of Bouheira Tours and had come face to face with reality.
There had been no mistake. No point in putting off the inevitable. The money would be needed to pay off the debts Steve had run up in her name and the sooner the better.
She should call her next door neighbour too. She had a key; the estate agents would need that.
And the insurance company to make a claim for medical expenses—there must have been medical expenses—and for her luggage.
And the bank. She’d assured them she was sorting everything out. They wouldn’t be patient.
Han sat at his desk, the translation he’d been working on ignored. For a while he’d been in danger of forgetting the torment of the days he’d spent with Noor, knowing that there was nothing he could do, seeing the fear grow behind her brave smile.
To even smile at another woman was a betrayal of her courage. To hold Lucy, the way he’d held Noor, as he’d helped her walk to the shower, to wash and comb her hair, to feel the heat of her body through the finest silk, her curves yield to his hands, to respond to her closeness as a man, enclosed so intimately with a woman, must always respond.
He did not understand why he felt this way. There was nothing to attract him. Her face was bruised, her eyes half closed, her lips puffy and cracked…
Yet, even now, he was waiting for the phone to ring, longing for the phone to ring, wanting her to need him so that he could go to her.
Disgusted with himself, he abandoned his translation, deliberately walked away from his desk, determined to visit the stables, the mews. His animals were well looked after, but he should still have seen for himself that his horse had suffered no ill effects from the headlong rush down the jebel as he’d ridden to Lucy Forrester’s aid. He should spend time with his hawks.
He had scarcely left the pavilion before the sound of laughter reached him, brought him to a halt. Who was she talking to? Who had she called? Was it the neglectful husband who brought such joy to her?
He couldn’t get the picture out of his mind of the reckless way she’d been driving the 4x4, racing across the desert. Had she been flying to Steve Mason, or running away from him?
It shouldn’t matter. She belonged to another man.
Then he heard the laughter again and, unable to help himself, he moved closer, standing in the deep shade of a gnarled and ancient cypress tree watching as, completely absorbed in each other, Lucy Forrester and the child he had never been able to bring himself to touch, hold, acknowledge, played the simplest of games together.
‘…chin,’ Lucy said, touching her chin, then taking Ameerah’s hand and holding it there.
‘Chin,’ Ameerah repeated, then touched her own face, said the word in Arabic, before taking Lucy’s hand to her own face and waiting for her to repeat it.
They moved on. Hair, hand, elbow—first in English, then in Arabic.
Ameerah made Lucy say ‘elbow’ over and over, repeating it herself with a long roll on the ‘l’. There was much laughter.
It was a scene of such innocence, such simple joy, that he had to reach out and grasp one of the twisted trunks of the tree as raw pain threatened to overwhelm him.
CHAPTER SIX
LUCY wasn’t sure when she first became aware of Hanif, of a deeper shadow beneath the ancient cypress tree. She sensed him before she saw him. Felt the air shimmer with some powerful emotion that swept over her, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.
It took every ounce of effort not to look up, stop herself from turning to include him in their game, keep her attention totally focused on Ameerah.
His little girl had sought her out, bored with her own company, with a nurse who could not keep up, and it should have been the most natural thing in the world for Hanif to join them, pick up the child, hug her, tease her a little.
She had never had that for herself, but had seen it outside school, had seen other children scooped up, cuddled, their pictures admired by loving parents. She’d been the one alone, then, outside; she knew how it felt and she wanted to turn to him, stretch out a hand, say, Come and play. But he wasn’t a child. He had chosen to cut himself off from this scrap of a girl who, with her dark hair and eyes, shining smile, represented everything that he had lost.
It wasn’t just grief that kept him here in Rawdah al-’Arusah, shut away from life. It was anger too. And perhaps more than a little guilt that, unable to save her mother, he could not find a place in his heart for the child for whom she’d sacrificed herself.
Despite the fact that this was his home, it was his dark and solitary figure which was standing on the outside, looking in, unable to make that first step, breach the barriers.
Hanif had implied that the child had been sent as some kind of chaperon, but it occurred to her that his desperate mother may have hoped that a woman, someone the lively and curious Ameerah would be drawn to, might, in some way, be the catalyst who would draw them together.
It would be small enough repayment for all he’d done for her, but Hanif al-Khatib was a complex and sophisticated man. He would see right through an invitation to Come and play.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked Ameerah. ‘Aakul?’ She caught the little girl to her, rubbed her tummy. ‘What would you like to eat? Chicken? Hummus? Some of that good goat’s cheese?’
The child giggled, wriggled around in her arms to face her, not to pull away.
‘You know, what we really need is some paper and pencils,’ Lucy said. ‘Then you could draw me a picture of what you’d like.’
Han knew she’d seen him.
There had been no change in her manner and yet he sensed an awareness in her; Ameerah was no longer the sole focus of her attention. She was no longer entirely lost in the game.
And having been seen, he could not just walk away. He should have stuck to his original plan, gone to the stables; now he had no choice but to join them.
He crossed to the summer house, ready to send Ameerah back to her nurse, insist that Lucy return to her room to rest. But Fathia, the old woman who had once been his own nurse and as dear to him as his mother, was there too, dozing on a sofa, while Lucy occupied the child.
He didn’t know what his mother had been thinking of, sending her out to al-’Arusah. She had long since retired and should be sitting in the shade of her own garden, being cared for by her own family, not chasing around after a three-year-old. Ameerah needed a young nanny, someone with the energy to keep up with her.
Someone to amuse her, play with her, as Lucy had been doing. But to say so would give his mother the opportunity to tell him it was time he did something about it.
Since Fathia was here, he had no option but to pick up the phone and, doing his best to ignore the way Ameerah shrank nervously back against Lucy, hiding herself in the folds of her robe, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible, he gave orders to the kitchen to send food out for the three of them.
‘Lunch will be brought out here for you,’ he said, turning to Lucy. Then, obliquely, ‘Don’t tire yourself.’
‘I’m fine.’ As he moved to leave, she said, ‘Han? Won’t you stay and join us?’
‘No.’ The sound of her laughter had drawn him here and if she’d been alone he would have been tempted. More than tempted. Ameerah’s presence had worked a charm, serving to remind him of reality, but, aware that he had been abrupt, he gave the slightest of bows and said, ‘I regret that I have things to see to in the stables.’
From the depths of the sofa Fathia snorted, her voice following him as he walked away. ‘Going by the scenic route, were you?’ she said, taking the kind of liberties permitted an old woman who’d held him as a helpless baby.
Since she spoke in Arabic, Lucy did not understand what she said or, worse, what she’d implied, while he took the only course open to him and resorted to diplomatic deafness. But, before he went to the stables, he returned to his study. Searching through a cupboard for coloured pencils, he found a box of pastels. He brushed the dust from t
he lid, opened it. They were old, worn from use. They had been given to him by his father one summer when he’d had to stay in the capital on affairs of state and couldn’t come with them to al-’Arusah. He’d used them, had drawn pictures to send his father every day. Had kept and treasured them.
It was a small victory. Hanif had been listening. He hadn’t stayed, but he had responded to his daughter’s needs. They ate, played the finger games she’d learned when helping at summer play camps, used the paper and pastels he’d sent with a servant to draw pictures, while Fathia watched contentedly from the sofa.
But as the sun came round, grew too hot for comfort, Fathia summoned Ameerah, explaining, ‘It is time for her to sleep. You, too, assayyidah. You must go inside now, rest until the evening.’
Lucy was flagging in the heat and she made no protest when Fathia insisted on wheeling her inside, settling her comfortably on the day bed, before dragging a reluctant Ameerah away for her afternoon nap.
‘I’ll see you later, sweetheart,’ she said. ‘Bashufak bahdain.’
Ameerah broke away from Fathia to thrust one of the pictures she’d drawn into Lucy’s hand, scampering shyly away before she could look at it.
It was a simple enough picture, the kind that any three-year-old might draw. Three stick people. A tall daddy with a straight mouth, a smaller smiling mummy and a little girl with a smile that reached from ear to ear.
As Lucy held it, certain for a moment that her heart would break for the child, she heard someone coming and she quickly folded the drawing and tucked it inside the book of poems, out of sight. Then, heart beating so fast that she was sure he must hear, she waited. But it wasn’t Hanif. It was a young servant bringing her fresh water, a small bowl of dates. He bowed himself out and, after a moment, when her heart had returned to something like its normal pace, she sank back against the pillow and closed her eyes.
When she woke the sun was low. She yawned, stretched, sat up and saw that every surface of the room appeared to be covered by pastel-coloured boxes with famous names upon them. The kind of glossy carriers that only came from the most expensive stores.
Hanif had been there while she’d slept, she realized, a Santa in Sheikh’s clothing.
Excited by the prospect of new clothes, she picked up the crutches, got to her feet and began to explore the contents. Silk underwear, designer label shirts, beautifully cut trousers, as well as more traditional clothes. There was a shalwar kameez, embroidered kaftans and wide silk chiffon scarves. More shoes than she could wear in a year, exquisite handbags. She touched one that had a Chanel logo on the fastening and knew without having to be told that this was the real thing.
And it wasn’t just clothes.
Whoever had been given the task of replacing her belongings had taken the job seriously. There was every kind of personal toiletry, make-up, a hairbrush, pins, combs to keep her hair in place.
She subsided on to the satin love seat, holding a wrought silver pin against her breast. Had he remembered? Called someone, asked them to be sure and bring something to hold her hair in place?
She looked about her in desperation. It was all so beautiful.
So expensive.
She’d told him that she would pay for the clothes she needed, but she should have explained that her travel insurance would only cover the most basic of chain store buys. She wouldn’t be able to pay for these if she worked for the rest of her life.
She had to explain. Tell him. Now. And she set the silver pin on the table, picked up her crutches and made her slow, careful way along the wide hallway to his study.
Hanif was sitting with his back to the open door, his gaze fixed on some distant horizon far beyond the darkening skyline. She hesitated in the doorway, unwilling to disturb his reverie.
‘Will I never persuade you to ring the bell, Lucy Forrester?’ he asked, without turning around.
‘Not in a thousand years,’ she assured him. ‘I’m not an invalid. Besides, I need the exercise.’
‘Always an answer.’
‘That’s what you get when you ask a question,’ she pointed out.
He spun around in his chair. ‘What is it? What do you want from me?’
To be back in her room, she thought, taking a step back, stumbling awkwardly.
‘No…’ The word escaped him as if, against his better judgement, he wanted her to stay and, before she could regain her balance, he was beside her, helping her towards a deep sofa. ‘Please. Tell me what I can do for you.’
She regarded the sofa with misgiving. He was not going to be happy with her and at least while she was on her feet she could walk away. Sunk into the depths of those cushions, she would be trapped. But he waited, hand at her arm, until she lowered herself carefully on to the edge of the seat.
‘Can I offer you something? Tea? Coffee?’
She shook her head. ‘I just wanted to talk to you about the clothes you’ve bought me. They’re going to have to go b-back…’ she began, but his forbidding expression brought her stuttering to a halt.
‘You are unhappy with them?’
‘Unhappy?’ She realized he thought she did not like the beautiful things he’d had sent from Rumaillah. ‘No! They’re lovely, but—’
‘They do not fit?’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘That is not a problem. They can be changed.’
‘No!’
His eyes narrowed, but she refused to be intimidated. ‘Just listen to me, will you? I don’t know if they fit or not. There’s no point in trying them on.’ Now he was silent. ‘I can’t afford such expensive clothes.’
‘The cost is immaterial,’ he said evenly. ‘I do not expect you to pay for them.’
She hadn’t for one moment thought that he did. On reflection, even he must have realized that a basic travel policy wouldn’t cover designer clothes. But that wasn’t the point.
‘I can’t accept them as a gift.’
‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Of course it would not be appropriate for a married woman to accept clothes from another man. I will send a full account to your husband.’
‘Oh, right. I see. Well, take my advice, Han. Don’t accept a cheque.’
She struggled to stand, but before she could organize her crutches to make her getaway, Hanif had taken them from her, put them out of reach. Was beside her.
‘Why did you marry this man, Lucy?’
She did not move, did not answer. What could she say? That she had been a fool? That she’d craved love and he’d been there when she’d been adrift, alone. A life raft.
A leaky, rotten life raft…
She closed eyes that, without warning, began to sting and, unable to speak, simply shook her head.
‘It is clear from everything you say that he has not shown you the respect, the honour, that you deserve,’ he said more gently and somehow he was sitting beside her and she had a tissue in her hand. ‘Why did you marry him?’
But she refused to break down and cry, instead managing a careless shrug. ‘Because he made it so easy.’
‘Easy?’
How could she make him understand?
‘Gran was so afraid that I’d be like my mother, go off the rails. Maybe I should have fought harder, but by the time I was old enough for meaningful rebellion I’d worked out that my best way of escape would be university.’ She looked up at him, hoping that he would understand. She hadn’t wimped out. Her major asset had been her brains and she’d used them. ‘Then she had the stroke and there was no escape.’
‘When she died, you were alone?’
‘Alone, completely lost. And suddenly Steve was there, a prop, taking away the need to think. It was just so easy.’
He frowned. ‘You knew him?’
She nodded. ‘His family lived around the corner from us. Steve was in the same year as me in school.’
‘You had been in love with him since then?’
‘In love?’ She shrugged. ‘There wasn’t a girl in the school who wasn’t a little in love with Steve
Mason. He stood head and shoulders above everyone, you know?’ She turned to him, unsure whether he would understand. ‘He was a straight A student, great at sports, always wore the latest must-have clothes. He even had a motorbike.’
‘Deadly,’ he agreed, with the faintest of smiles, and she knew that he was speaking from personal experience. Of course even the oldest, grandest of British public schools took girls at sixth form level these days and she had no doubt that, in the hothouse atmosphere of a boarding school, Hanif would have been a danger to the heart of any girl.
But she raised her eyebrows and somewhat mischievously said, ‘The motorbike?’
‘What else?’ he replied. ‘Dangerous things.’
‘I’ll bet you had one.’
‘My father forbade it,’ he said. Then, when she lifted her brows a fraction higher, ‘But yes, you are right. I had a motorbike. So, where did Steve Mason take you on this dangerous machine?’
‘Me?’
‘I assumed that there must have been a long-standing arrangement between you. Something of which your grandmother would not have approved.’
‘She’d have locked me up in the cellar rather than let me out with Steve Mason,’ she assured him. ‘With or without the motorbike. But the situation never arose. He never even knew I existed back then.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘You wouldn’t, not if you’d seen me. I wore the most unattractive charity shop clothes my grandmother could find, my hair scragged back in a plait. Not a scrap of make-up.’
‘A woman does not need make-up to be beautiful. It is in the bones, in the character, in the heart.’
‘You might think that. I might like to believe that. But when you’re in the sixth form and the object of desire is an eighteen-year-old boy with a soul as deep as an August puddle, you need make-up. The works. Believe me. Not even the cool girls wanted to be seen with me.’
‘Then I do not understand. If you had not been kept apart by your grandmother, how did you meet, marry, so quickly after her death? It is a matter of months, you said.’
‘I think the official term is “swept off your feet”.’