by Isobel Chace
“But—” she began. She licked her lips and began again. “But—”
“Yes?” he prompted her.
“It wasn’t like that!” she insisted, but even as she formed the words, a small doubt came into the back of her mind. Perhaps it had been like that. Perhaps that was what Jill had been getting at, not only when she had warned her to be on her guard with Jacques, but when she had said that Lucien might have been the big fish who had got away, but all the others were rising to the bait! “I think that’s horrible!” she said out loud.
His eyes quizzed her. “It would be worse if you had no effect at all on the males of your acquaintance!”
“Would it?” Arab said dolefully.
“When you’ve thought about it,” he drawled, “I’m sure you’ll come to the same conclusion.”
“I’m not! I didn’t have much of an effect on you!”
“That, little one, is something you’ll never know!” The affectionate amusement in his voice made Arab crosser than ever. She did know! She knew exactly! She knew that she had strayed blithely into his life, without a care in the world, and now she would never feel like that again. Now she had to worry about Jacques, and what Sammy was thinking and, worst of all, how she was going to cope with her own knotted emotions every time Lucien came near her.
She made an attempt at a smile. “You told me,” she said. “You thought me a street arab with a certain gamin charm. A suitable friend for Hilary!”
His laughter mocked her. “For Hilary, yes. For Sammy, no!”
Arab sighed deeply. “Sammy doesn’t mean anything.”
“Doesn’t he? Think again, Arab!”
She remembered how Sammy had almost kissed her in the ruined harem quarters of this very house. But he hadn’t kissed her!
“I thought so!” Lucien remarked, watching the expressions as they flickered across her face, first guilt and then surprise, and finally a valiant dignity that told him more than she knew.
“They’ll be waiting for me,” she said. “Thank you for telling me about Cheng Ho.”
She more than half hoped he would think of something to stop her going, but he never even looked at her. He sat down again in front of his typewriter, his notes beside him, obviously glad to get back to his work.
Arab rubbed her shoulder where he had held her, telling herself that the place still hurt though it no longer did. She wanted to know about Cheng Ho and the people of Malindi who had sent ambassadors as far away as Peking so long ago. But she didn’t dare to interrupt him again, so she turned and went into the house with dragging feet, and began to change languidly into the harem trouser suit, ignoring Sammy’s cries of rage that she was wasting time and that she would have to do better if she wanted to keep her job.
Arab’s evening was spoilt before it had begun. The air-conditioning in her room wasn’t working properly and she took her gold dress in to Jill’s room to change in there. It was only then that she noticed that one of the seams under the arms had begun to come undone and, by the time she had sewn it up, she was already late for dinner and had to hurry to get dressed, which made her hotter than ever.
To her surprise, Jill was already in the dining room when she went to find her, eating at a small table for two with Jean-Pierre.
“I thought Jacques would prefer it,” Jean-Pierre explained with Gallic charm. He pointed to his friend at another table. “He is waiting for you over there. Have a good time, no!”
Arab thought it very unlikely, but she managed a smile, and went over to the other table, wishing that Jill and Lucien hadn’t combined to make her feel so absurdly self-conscious of this likeable young Frenchman.
“A golden goddess!” Jacques greeted her. “How lucky that I have a tribute for such a beautiful lady!”
Arab hesitated, sitting down as quickly as she could opposite him. “I thought we were all going together,” she said.
“We are! But to have you a little time to myself is more romantic, n’est-ce pas?”
“I don’t feel romantic!” Arab retorted, but he looked so hurt that she immediately regretted her frankness. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Sammy made us work all through the heat of the day and then the air-conditioning in my room went wrong. The heat hasn’t bothered me before, but today I feel wilted!”
He smiled, his warm eyes caressing her. “Yet you look so cool and perfect,” he complimented her. “As perfect as my tribute!” He held out a little box to her. “It is a symbol of my devotion!”
She opened the box slowly, relieved to discover that it contained nothing more compromising than the frail bud of a golden rose, still cool from the refrigerator where it had been kept all day.
“May I pin it on?” Jacques asked her, already standing and coming round the table towards her.
She had little choice but to allow him to do so, though she couldn’t help comparing his fumbling movements with Lucien’s firm, cool hands. Lucien! He had haunted her thoughts all day and she heartily wished that his ghost would go away and leave her in peace. She smiled warmly up at Jacques, accepting his light kiss on her cheek.
“Thank you, Jacques. I’m sorry I took my bad temper out on you. I won’t any more. In fact, I think I’m going to really enjoy every moment of this evening!”
He bent his head and kissed her other cheek in the Gallic manner. “So shall I, ma belle, so shall I!”
Arab opened her eyes wide and she chuckled. “You are the first person ever to call me beautiful!” she told him, dismissing the compliment as an enjoyable quirk. “I shan’t be able to believe anything you say!”
“But you are beautiful!” he protested. “I find you quite lovely! But, if it annoys you, you can look on it as a pleasant contraction of your name. Belle, bella, bellissima!”
Arab blushed. “But nobody calls me Bella.” She eyed him dreamily across the table, enjoying his mild flirting. How much nicer it was to be called beautiful than a street arab, she thought.
“I shall call you Bella!” Jacques laughed at her. “Ma belle petite! Do you mind?”
She blushed again. “No,” she assured him, her voice eager. “I rather like it! It’s pretty!”
Bella, she tried it over to herself. It sounded older and more sophisticated than Arab. She smiled jauntily at Jacques, wondering why she had allowed herself to be suspicious of his motives in asking her to the dance. “This is fun!” she said.
They rejoined Jill and Jean-Pierre for the short walk down the road to the hotel where the dance was being held. The room was already full of people and, despite the open windows and the fans overhead, the heat met them like a blast from a furnace. Most of the people seemed to be Germans holidaying in Malindi on the package tours that are operated so cheaply from there. A few Britons, most of them air-crew benefiting from the cheap rates they could get for their families from the airlines, stood round the edges of the dancing space, their faces red and shiny from the sun and the heat.
Jacques put his arm round Arab and swept her on to the floor, smiling into her eyes. He was a good dancer, a better one than she was, and he made her feel that together they could attempt anything and get away with it.
“Records are not as good as a band, but after a term on the space project, this is good enough for me!” Jacques breathed.
Arab missed her step. “I suppose you get very lonely out—out there?”
“Very lonely!” he grinned. “But now I am busy forgetting all about that! How could I be lonely with you in my arms?”
Arab swallowed. She found that she preferred to look over his shoulder and to do that she had to stand away from him, despite the pressure of his hand in the small of her back.
“What’s the matter, Bella?” he whispered.
“I—I don’t know,” she admitted. She tried to relax against him, but in doing so, the flash of an orange dress caught her eye and she knew, even without looking, that it belonged to Sandra Dark. She was laughing, too, straight into Lucien’s eyes, and he looked as though he were loving every moment of it.<
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Nothing was the same after that. Arab finished the dance with the now familiar, tight knot of despair in her stomach. When the record came to an end, she tried to look gay and smilingly asked Jacques if she could have something to drink. He went away immediately in search of a long orange squash with buckets of ice in it. Arab pushed her way to the edge of the dancers and sat down on one of the hard wooden chairs that the hotel had provided. She shut her eyes for a moment, closing out the sight of Sandra Dark, who was everything that she was not. When she opened her eyes Lucien was there before her, smiling down at her.
“Don’t you feel well?” he asked her.
“Oh yes!” she assured him. “It’s only the heat.”
“Well enough to dance?”
She couldn’t answer him in words, but the heat and the pressure of the people about her dropped away. She stood up and went straight into Lucien’s arms, forgetting all about Jacques and the promised orange squash. This was a taste of heaven, to be close to him, to love him even if he didn’t love her in return. This was what she had wanted from the beginning of time. This was Lucien Manners!
CHAPTER SIX
THE dance came to an end and Arab reluctantly pulled herself free of Lucien’s encircling arms. Despite the heat, she felt cold and forsaken away from his touch and longed to rush headlong back into them no matter what anyone thought of her. Instead she stood, with dreamy eyes, pretending that the tune they had been dancing to, of which she hadn’t heard a single note, was one of her favourites and always had this effect on her.
“They have lots of the latest records, don’t they?” she said, when she couldn’t stand the silence between them any longer.
“They do, but that one was old before you were born!” he answered, the familiar mocking expression back in his eyes.
“Oh,” she muttered. It was funny, but she hadn’t felt at all inadequate all the time they were dancing, but now the tight knot of depression was back with a vengeance and she hadn’t the least idea of what to do next.
“Arab—” Lucien began with an urgency she had never heard before in his voice.
“Yes?” She looked up at him eagerly, hoping that he was going to say something that would destroy her nervousness for ever. But he never had the opportunity, for there was Sandra, her beautifully manicured hand on Lucien’s jade green coat, smiling at them both.
“Duty done, darling?” she asked him.
Lucien took a quick step away from Arab. “A pleasant duty,” he said. He smiled faintly. “Arab dances very well.”
“All her generation does,” Sandra remarked. “I suppose the coming of the shake, or whatever it’s called, has made them less inhibited than we were at that age.”
“Are we that old?” Lucien drawled.
Sandra laughed. She managed to laugh without disturbing any of the contours of her face. Arab watched, fascinated, wondering how long it had taken her to practise laughing like that, and thought cattily that it would probably save her any distressing lines later on.
“We aren’t children any longer,” Sandra reminded him. “I’ve never thought that children and adults should mix in the same world, have you? It’s so unfair on the children. Their heads are easily turned and they think themselves much more important than they really are!” She turned to Arab with a friendly smile. “Present company excepted, of course, I’m sure you are only interested in the delightful French boy who brought you. I have to confess that I drank your orange squash, while you were dancing with Lucien—once it had been suitably pepped up with gin!”
“It doesn’t matter,” Arab managed.
Sandra laughed again. “I should hope not! Darling, it was only a drink, even if it had been obtained for you by Jacques. He’ll get you another, if you ask him nicely!”
“Are you thirsty, Arab?” Lucien asked her. “Seeing I deprived you of your drink, perhaps I should be the one to get you another?”
Sandra frowned. Arab knew that the older girl was keeping a tight rein on her temper and wondered what it was that had angered her. “Leave the child alone!” Sandra snapped. “We’ve already interrupted her young idyll with Jacques for quite long enough. Darling, I think you’ve forgotten how much these things matter at that age!”
“Perhaps I have,” Lucien agreed tersely.
Arab longed to cry out, No, you haven’t! Could he really think that she preferred Jacques’ company to his own? She couldn’t allow him to think that! But then sanity returned and she realised that he had already practically forgotten her. His eyes were on Sandra and she was smiling up at him, as she had been when Arab had first seen them. Jacques came up to them, putting his arm round Arab’s shoulders.
“Will you excuse us, sir,” he said to Lucien.
Lucien started. For a brief second his eyes rested on Arab’s flushed face. “Thank you for the dance,” he said.
Arab swallowed. “You haven’t forgotten about Sunday, have you?”
The coldness of his expression hurt her. “I suppose you want me to invite this boy-friend of yours?” he enquired.
She shook her head. “No! He isn’t interested in that sort of thing!”
Something of her anxiety seemed to transmit itself to him, for he smiled suddenly, looking pleased with himself. “Then we’ll keep Sunday to ourselves,” he answered. “Sharing it only with Hilary and Cheng Ho—”
“And the Sultan of Zanzibar!” she agreed.
“Or the old Sultan of Malindi whom Vasco da Gama knew!”
“It sounds too like a schoolroom to me!” Sandra declared. “Come on, Lucien, I want to dance.”
Obediently, he put his arm round her, moving with confidence in among the other dancers. Arab watched them go, trying not to look as down as she felt, but in this she was not very successful. Jacques grunted disgustedly by her side, pulling her on to the floor whether she wanted to go or not.
“I thought you didn’t like the great Lucien Manners?” he accused her. The pressure of his hand on her back became more gentle. “It won’t do you any good,” he went on. “Mademoiselle Dark has him where she wants him. You will have to look elsewhere, petite, for your grand amour. Perhaps you will look in my direction?”
Arab shook her head. “I don’t think that sort of thing is much in my line,” she told him frankly.
“You think I am offering you an affair, non?”
“Oui,” she said.
“Mais non! Naturally this occurred to me when I first saw that you were pretty and unattached. I was determined that this break away from the space project would be the best I had had! But after we had seen the film together, I knew that this was not the right thing for you. With you, I can be very serious—”
Arab stirred restively in his arms. “Oh no, Jacques, please don’t! I—I like you, you see, but I could never feel anything else.”
“That is because you have not tried! Come, we shall walk back to the hotel along the beach in the moonlight and you will begin to feel the romance of the tropics when you have a handsome man by your side.” He danced on in silence for a few minutes. “The great Lucien is not for you, petite.”
“I know that,” Arab said. “As far as he’s concerned I’m a ragamuffin, and the perfect friend for his little niece. Not that he means anything to me, because he doesn’t! He’s far too arrogant and sure of himself for my taste!”
Jacques grinned. “For mine too! Let’s forget all about him and his sultry girl-friend. Let’s concentrate on ourselves and how much we are enjoying ourselves!”
They danced until nearly midnight. The supply of records gave out and the tunes began to repeat themselves. When they played again the song that Arab had danced with Lucien, she felt she had had enough, and pulled herself away from Jacques, begging him once again to fetch her a drink.
“I think it is time I was taking you home,” he said, when she had swallowed down the greater part of her soft drink. “I can lounge the day away tomorrow, but you, I suppose, will have to work again.”
“I would like to go home,” Arab admitted.
“Then you shall, ma belle. Do we go by way of the beach?”
Arab nodded without answering. It might even be fun, she thought. The sea would be as black as ink, and the coral sand would be silver in the moonlight, broken only by the occasional palm tree. The lapping of the sea, and the song of the night birds, would be the only sounds. It would indeed be romantic, just as Jacques had promised her. Romantic and sweet, just as it should be at the end of a successful dance.
They walked together down the path to the beach, admiring the fairy lights that had been placed at strategic intervals to light the way. Arab’s gold dress stuck to her ribs and she wished she had had something cooler to wear.
“I’m afraid your rose is dead,” she said sadly.
Jacques put his arm around her, pulling her close. “Perhaps we crushed the poor thing when we were dancing. Don’t mind, Bella. There will be other roses and other nights to wear them.”
“It’s too hot for roses,” she sighed. “It never even had time to come out properly.”
Jacques chuckled. “Then next time I shall give you a passion flower,” he teased her. “Will you accept such a token, my golden goddess?”
Arab tore herself away from him, running ahead of him on to the beach. “I don’t know what a passion flower looks like,” she admitted.
“Exotic!” he murmured mysteriously. “A little like you! Oh, Bella, you go to my head, do you know that?”
“It’s the night Have you ever seen so many stars? I wonder why we see so few in London?”
“Or in Paris. It is the street lights that blot them out But here they are able to take their proper place in the scheme of romance. It is perfect, don’t you think?”
Arab ran farther and faster along the sand. It was quite true that there was a sweet scent on the air that must come from the hotel flowers. Mixed with the ozone of the sea, it was a heady affair, and not one to be played around with. She had been stupid, she thought, to come this way with Jacques. She pressed on as quickly as she could, pausing only to glance over her shoulder and wave him onwards.