“If he’s hurt you, shaba, I will –,”
“Don’t!” I cut him off, aware there’s every possibility our conversation is being recorded. “Don’t even worry about it,” I finish with an attempt at calm, infusing my voice with what I hope passes for amusement. “You know me, dad. Would I ever do something I didn’t want to do?”
There’s a long pause.
“There’s so much you don’t know, Amy,” he says on a weary sigh. “So much I never told you.”
My stomach squeezes and unconsciously I move closer to Zahir, a sense of apprehension running the length of my spine. I came into this marriage with my eyes shut. I thought one thing, I saw this all as black and white, but the truth is, there are two sides to every story and I don’t know if I’ve properly heard either.
“I know.”
Zahir turns to face me, piercing me with eyes that reach right to the core of my being. My heart skips a beat.
“But are you happy to be home, dad?”
I wait, breath held, for his answer. It reaches me on a whoosh.
“Yes.” His pause is heavy with reflections. “I just hope my return didn’t come at too high a price.”
I hand the phone back to Zahir, strangely awkward, careful not to touch him. A stupid precaution, given how intimate we’ve been.
His mocking smile shows he understands.
“Thank you.”
His response is a tightening of his shoulders, a look that shows me he’s as unwilling to accept my thanks now as he was the day before.
“I still can’t believe he’s home,” I say, awed and shaking. “I know you don’t want my ‘thanks’, but I am so grateful, Zahir. This means everything to him, and me.”
His eyes rake my face and he nods then, a look that is a surrender.
“Your thanks are unnecessary. We made a deal – you have upheld your end of our bargain, it was time for me to do mine.”
My stomach swoops. He’s right. There’s nothing intrinsically offensive in what he’s said, but disappointment clips through me. What did I expect? A declaration of love? A statement that he can’t bear to see me unhappy so he moved heaven and earth to give me what I want?
I turn away from him with chagrin, a light breeze rustling my skirt. I lift a hand, catching my hair and tucking it behind my ear.
“Your father’s being here signals a new phase of our relationship.”
I pause, still, waiting for him to continue.
“Early on in our marriage, we agreed it would be best to avoid speaking of him.”
My smile lacks amusement. “I don’t know if we agreed to that. You certainly declared it to be for the best.”
“Do you disagree with me?”
I turn to face him slowly. “It’s not that I disagree with you in theory. It just doesn’t feel practical.”
“Why not?”
A short laugh emerges. “Because he’s my father. You’ve told me how much your own father meant to you – you slept in his room, checking on him all night to be sure he was still breathing. Do you think I love my dad any less than you did yours?”
“I have all the evidence I need of how much you care for your father,” he says with a gentleness that is surprising.
“But?”
“But we’re married. There is a chance my baby is in your belly, which makes us – you and me – a family.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
“You are my wife, my Emira, my country’s Sheikha, and you will be the mother to the heirs of Qabid. I understand that you will want to have a relationship with your father. I accept that. But for the sake of our life together, we must have boundaries in place.”
It all makes so much sense but I know this isn’t the solution.
“It’s been sixteen years, Zahir. Sixteen years. Are you really still so angry at him for whatever his alleged crime is that you can’t look past it and at least try to get to know him?”
“I am not angry with your father.”
“Yes, you are. This isn’t our first conversation about him, and I know you. I understand you. I’ve seen the anger and disgust in your face whenever his name is mentioned.”
His hand tightens at his side, the knuckles white. “All the more reason for us to avoid this conversation.”
“It’s just not possible,” I stamp my foot. “Surely you can see that? Why can’t we just resolve this? Meet with him.” I hold my finger up. “One dinner, or coffee, something. Come and look in his eyes and see how wrong you’ve been all these years.”
“I’ve met your father.”
Surprise blasts through me.
“Of course I’ve met him.”
“What? When?”
“Before he went to America. I wanted to look into the eyes of the man who –,”
I hold my breath.
“I was planning to exile,” he finishes, but it’s disjointed, as though the tail-end of his comment isn’t what he intended to make.
“And?”
“And, I exiled him,” he says with such finality, a shiver runs the length of my spine.
I want to defend my father, to tell Zahir how wrong he was, but something holds me back. I feel as though there’s so much I don’t know, just like dad said. But I know Zahir. I understand him. And I know that he’s just confessed something to me that I should pay heed to.
For Zahir, there is no doubt.
My father is guilty. Of the crime I know about, and perhaps many more.
I’ll never accept that, but Zahir’s beliefs are absolute.
I shake my head with sadness. How can this work? Why didn’t I realise how difficult this would be? Because I planned to hate my husband. I thought this would be a marriage in name only. I had no concept I was signing on to an impossible juggling act, that every moment with Zahir would require me to betray my loyalty to my father.
I feel that I’m being pulled in two directions again, my limbs sagging with the effort.
“I didn’t ask you here to fight.”
His words are a low rumble, and when I look at him, he’s gesturing towards the scatter cushions and a brightly coloured rug. For the first time, I notice a trolley made of gold, shimmering in the moonlight. It’s filled with trays, each topped with a golden cover, to keep what I presume is food beneath warm.
“No?”
He shakes his head and the smile he offers me now is a peace envoy. He holds out a hand and I stare at it, the pull on my heart from two different sectors so pronounced now. I walk towards him slowly, the drag back to my father, to defending him, stronger than I can easily dismiss, and yet I do, putting my hand in Zahir’s. It’s like the stars just got brighter, their lights blinding.
“We’re married.”
It’s a statement of fact but something about the way he says it, beneath the veil of stars and surrounded by ancient desert sands, pricks my skin with goosebumps.
“I know.”
His smile is reflexive.
“I want this marriage to work. I have been facing pressure for a number of years, on the matter of an heir. I knew I had to marry, and quickly, and choosing you – a Hassan – made a lot of political sense. But you are so different to what I expected; you are so much more...”
Again, my breath is trapped in my lungs, impatience searing me as I wait to hear his next words. Hope is an unbearable weight on my chest. Is it possible he has started to feel things for me too? To care for me in a way neither of us expected when we made this pragmatic union?
He shakes his head. “You are a far better Emira than I had hoped. You will be a true asset to my people.” He squeezes my hand, as though those words aren’t damning me with faint praise and killing my soul all at once.
“I want us to focus on that. There is so much good that can come from our marriage, if we don’t let the bad taint it.”
My heart skips a beat.
“Our marriage was founded on the bad,” I point out.
“But it’s changed.” He eyes me carefu
lly. “Hasn’t it?”
My mouth is dry. I can’t deny it. Our marriage has substantially changed, for me. But not in the ways he means. I drop my gaze, looking towards the trolley.
Perhaps he sees this as acquiescence because he lets go of my hand and strides to the meals. “Take a seat.” He lifts a dish from the trolley and walks to me – I have stayed standing right where I was. “And enjoy.”
He lifts the lid off the platter and my eyes go wide.
“Macaroni cheese?”
“And that’s not all.” His eyes are smiling when he looks at me, then he returns to the food and lifts the lids, one by one. “Fries, burgers, southern fried Chicken, cheesecake. American delicacies, just for you.”
My stomach gives a low rumble of appreciation. “I thought you weren’t tolerant of my American food love?”
“I’m trying to compromise,” he says gently. “Where I am able.”
And clarity sharpens inside of me. He’s trying. He wants this marriage to work. There’s good here. He sees value in me – not just as a Hassan but as a person. But he will never, ever change his opinion on my father.
This is the new deal he is trying to strike tonight. Not like the first deal we made, a contract with terms and requirements, this is far more subtle, and more plausible. I stare at the food, the sense that I’m about to agree to something that will forever wound my father impossible to ignore.
But what else can I do?
I’m married to Zahir. He’s my husband. I made my bed, and now I have to work out how to lie in it, with this man at my side for as long as we both shall live.
15
Amy
“IT’S BETTER THAN I thought.”
I can’t help laughing. He’s eaten three serves of Macaroni Cheese, two cheeseburgers, a piece of cheesecake and just reached for the bag of Hershey’s Kisses.
“You think?” I tease, reaching across and wiping an imaginary crumb from the side of his mouth. It’s like being struck with a lightning bolt. I withdraw quickly, looking down at my own plate.
He catches my hand though, lifting it to his lips and pressing a kiss against my inner-wrist. My pulse flutters; I can’t meet his eyes.
“I might have misjudged it,” he agrees quietly, but his eyes are probing mine and I feel a galloping in the region of my heart, a double entendre in the words he’s spoken.
“I think you might have.”
He pulls a Hershey’s Kiss from the bag, passing it to me. “Kiss?”
My pulse accelerates. “Always.”
He leans closer, his intoxicatingly masculine fragrance hitting my nostrils so my eyes close on a flutter of surrender. His lips are gentle when they meet mine, exploring, reading, listening. My lips part, my breath escaping on a sigh, my body immediately recognising its master, its wishes obvious.
Everything we’ve argued about seems so distant now. Academically I understand the reasons for our differences, the essential conflict that will always reside between us, but there are times where it’s almost impossible to feel it. There are times when I feel as though I was made to be here, with him, at his side, in his arms, together. Forever.
I groan, the thought weakening me even as I recognise its inevitability and truth.
He pulls away and a second later presses a chocolate button to my lips. I open my eyes to find him watching me, a smile on his face that makes my heart twist.
“Did you choose these?” I ask, when I’ve finished the confectionary.
“The sweet?”
I nod.
“Yes. They’re the only American junk food I’ve heard of.” He wrinkles his nose. “Movies.”
I laugh. “Really? You watch movies with Hershey’s Kisses?”
“Not intentionally.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Do you like them?”
“Oh, yeah.” I nod. “They were my mom’s favourite. When we first…moved…to America, it was really tough.”
His eyes narrow, watching me thoughtfully.
“I’m sure you didn’t think about that. The knock-on effects of his exile, and how your decisions would affect me. You probably didn’t even know he had a daughter,” I add with a tight grimace.
“I knew about you,” he says quietly.
I frown, trying not to let it bother me, trying not to be hurt that he still chose a course of action that would hurt me.
“Anyway,” I brush that particular thread of conversation away. “I struggled. I didn’t speak English, didn’t know anyone besides Mom’s family, I didn’t fit in. School was miserable. So every day, mom would hide one of these in my bag with a little note. I loved it. Believe me, it’s no exaggeration to say these got me through some tough times.”
“She sounds very thoughtful.”
“So you don’t think she was in on the conspiracy with dad?” I ask, then shake my head, pressing a finger to his lips.
“Don’t answer that. I think you’re right. For tonight at least. Let’s not…talk about that.”
His eyes seem to burn through me and for a second I wonder if he’s going to change his mind, but then he nods.
“Let me just say this.” I move my hand, stroking his cheek distractedly. “It would mean a lot to me if you’d see my dad. You don’t have to like him. But just…see him. Meet him. For me.”
It’s a lot to ask and I have no idea if ‘for me’ will be a persuasive argument, but I make it anyway, and then change the subject, asking him about the almrisad we’re in, and the history of the building in general.
For hours we stay there, laying against the brightly-coloured cushions, beneath the stars. At some point, I fall asleep, because I’m aware, vaguely, of being carried by a pair of strong, muscled arms, through the palace and into his room, laid gently on the bed as though I’m a delicate piece of ceramic.
I reach for him on autopilot, my arms latching around his neck, drawing him to me, my mouth seeking his. This part is so easy, so right. Kissing him, undressing for him, my body welcoming his, it happens without conscious thought or planning, it’s simply an enactment of fate. Making love to him in the small hours of the morning is perfect and sublime; I fall asleep again with my head on his chest, my heart thundering from the pleasure of satiation. Or is that his?
Zahir
“I’m here because she asked it of me.” And it was a mistake. I cross my arms over my chest, staring at Amy’s father with all the hatred I have long felt for this man. Yet he’s different to how I remember. Smaller, grown frail and feeble, his eyes buried in his face now, almost consumed by his skull.
He barely looks at me.
“I didn’t expect it.” His laugh is a croak and yet it reminds me of Amy so I stiffen. I thought I would hate her, like I hate him. I thought the sight of her would remind me of Malik and that being in proximity to her would be a form of torture, but I don’t feel that at all. Not since the first meeting have I associated her with her father, except when she brings him into conversation.
My hands tighten at my sides.
“I don’t know what I expected. I thought this was a trick.”
“No trick,” I grunt, turning my back on him. And despite the fact I’m in his hotel suite, I stalk towards the bar. “Would you like a drink?”
“Whatever you are having, your highness.”
My spine straightens at his use of the deferential title. I ignore it, thinking how easy it is for wolves to dress as sheep, and pour two glasses of Kathani. It is late, almost midnight. I resolved to do this before going to bed with Amy. She asked it of me, and it is within my power to grant this, so I do. Besides, I’m curious.
She’s so adamant about her father’s innocence; what will he be like with me?
I carry the Kathani to him, and he takes it, but there’s something in his face I recognise. I wait for him to speak, knowing he’s weighing his words, choosing how to address me.
“How is she?”
And I understand then. He has no idea about the nature of
our relationship, no idea what I’ve done with his daughter, why I’ve married her. Sympathy is unexpected and sharp, and where I might have thought I’d enjoy hurting this old man, having met Amy, I can’t do it. I can’t say or do anything that will alarm her father.
“Your daughter is fine.”
Is she, though? There are times when she seems happy and settled, and others when I feel as though our marriage is the equivalent of making her walk on hot coals.
“I didn’t know she was planning this.”
“It happened quickly. She didn’t want to get your hopes raised until she was sure.”
“Sure you would agree?”
I shake my head. “This was my idea.”
“Why?”
“Because your actions seeded divisiveness in the hills and I wanted it dealt with, once and for all. Another generation cannot be riddled with this ancient grudge.”
His eyes glitter when they meet mine. “You’re right.”
It’s a concession I don’t expect.
“It’s an ancient grudge,” he continues.
I nod.
“She must hate me.”
I’m surprised. I take a drink of scotch to buy for time; he does the same.
“God, I’ve missed this.” He lifts it up. “You cannot buy it in America.”
I don’t respond. I never thought I would drink Kathani with this man. I think of my father and hatred hardens in my heart.
I finish the drink.
“She doesn’t hate you. She doesn’t know the full extent of your actions.”
His eyes show embarrassment when they find mine. “What do you mean?”
“Your daughter idolises you. She thinks you’re the greatest man alive.” The grim truth of that sits like a boulder in my gut. Not only that, the fact she is his daughter first and my wife second. She’ll always belong to him, in a sense, be loyal to him. She is, after all, a Hassan. She loves him, and that’s the only reason she married me. “She knows how I feel about you, but I didn’t see any point destroying her image of you.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Oh, I planned to tell her, believe me. Before I met Amy, I was relishing the prospect of showing her your security file. I was looking forward to throwing it in her face.”
The Marriage Deal Page 17