by Liz Fielding
She thought she was home clear when a journalist caught up with her in the supermarket.
‘Nice tan, Diana. Been somewhere nice?’
‘Do I know you?’
‘Jack Harding. The Courier. Ramal Hamrah is very nice at this time of year, I believe.’
‘And you would know that how?’ she asked.
It was surreal but she refused to duck and run. She would not hide. Instead, she carried on shopping, bought cheese, eggs, apples.
By the time she reached the checkout there were three of them.
‘Will you be seeing the Sheikh again?’
‘Can you pass me down that jar of tomato paste.’ she replied.
‘Are you going back to work?’
‘Haven’t you lot got a supermodel to harass?’ she asked, losing patience.
‘She’s in rehab. And Cinderella is a much better story.’
‘It’s a fairy tale,’ she replied. Then, ‘Are you lot going to follow me home?’
‘Will you make us a cup of tea and tell us your life story if we do?’
‘No, but you could make yourself useful,’ she said, pointing at her shopping. ‘Carry that.’ She didn’t wait to see whether any of them picked up her bags, but just walked out.
She let them follow her up to the front door before she retrieved the carriers with a smile. ‘Thank you.’ Then, as she slipped the key into the lock, she glanced back. ‘Will you be here tomorrow?’
‘What’s happening tomorrow?’
‘Nothing. But the grass needs cutting and because of you lot Dad isn’t here to do it.’
They laughed, but with the embarrassment of men who’d been caught out misbehaving.
‘No? Well, sorry guys, but that’s as exciting as it’s going to get around here.’ And with that she stepped inside, closed the door on them and leaned back against it, shaking like a leaf. So much for it all being over.
But she’d survived. And as soon as they realised there really was nothing in it for them, they’d drift away. A week from now no one would even remember that she’d danced with a sheikh in Berkeley Square.
Well, except for whoever made a little cash selling an old school photograph.
And her.
Her fairy tale prince might be unattainable, but he was unforgettable. And he had made the magic happen, had brought the world into focus, had reminded her that dreaming was allowed. That anyone could do it. That she could do anything…
Next year she’d have her own taxi. A pink, sparkly one that would turn heads, make people smile. And every day when she drove it around London, she’d thank him for hauling her out of the deep rut she had been digging for herself, had been hiding in.
She drew in a deep breath and walked through to the kitchen. Dumped her bags on the table.
The cat rubbed against her leg, then crossed to the door and, refusing to submit to the indignity of the cat flap when there was a human on hand to open the door, waited to be let out.
‘You are such a princess,’ Diana said, opening the door with a mock curtsey. And found herself staring at her fantasy.
The desert prince she had expected when she’d dashed to the City Airport. The whole white robes, gold-trimmed cloak, headdress thingy.
But it wasn’t his robes that held her. She’d recognised what he was even in the most casual clothes. Now, as then, it was Zahir’s dark eyes that drained the power of speech as she relived that moment when she’d first set eyes on him. But this time she recognised it for what it was.
The prelude to pain…
Ten minutes ago her life had seemed so simple. Her sights fixed on an attainable goal. Her heart safely back behind locked doors.
Now…
‘Your Aunt Alice was kind enough to let me come through her garden,’ he said, answering the what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here? question she’d been unable to frame. He shrugged. Smiled. Just with his eyes.
Oh, no…
‘Aunt Alice!’ she exploded. ‘Why did you bother coming in the back way if you’re going to come dressed like Lawrence of…’ she struggled to keep the expletive in check ‘…of Arabia?’ She made a wild gesture that took in his clothes. ‘And where did you park your camel?’
‘I hate to disappoint you, Diana, but I came by cab.’
‘Oh, great! The driver is probably calling in the story right now. I’ve only just got rid of three journalists who followed me home…’
And, grabbing his arm, she pulled him into the kitchen, shut the door and leaned back against it, hands pressed to her lips.
‘It was not my intention to sneak in unobserved, but I only had Aunt Alice’s address.’ Then, taking her hands from her mouth, kissing each of them, he said, ‘I suppose I could have walked along this street knocking on doors until I found you-’
‘You might as well have done!’
Then, with a gesture of helplessness, she let it go. What mattered was not how but why he’d come.
‘What are you doing here, Zahir?’ she demanded. ‘I’ve just about got my head around this and you’ve chosen to turn a nine-day wonder into a front page story…’
‘I have nothing to hide and neither have you.’ Then, ‘Freddy asked me to give you this.’ From somewhere in the folds of his robe he produced a small piece of rope. ‘He wanted you to see the reef knot we made.’
Diana took it. It was warm and without thinking, she lifted it to her cheek.
Then, looking up at him, ‘We?’
‘The two of us.’
‘But…You said you wouldn’t be going back to Nadira this week.’
‘Is that why you left?’
‘No…’ Then, because he deserved better than some feeble lie, ‘Maybe. But it was more than that. You listened to my story and you…’ She reached for the words. ‘You set me free, Zahir. Showed me how insignificant we are, but how great too. I’ve spent years expecting nothing. Believing that I was worth nothing-’
‘Believing that you were the frog?’ He smiled. ‘Don’t you know that once you’ve been kissed by a prince all bets are off?’
‘No. The true meaning of the fairy story is that we are all princesses. It’s just that some of us lose the ability to see that. But you treated me like one. Gave me the courage to believe. To gather my own stars.’
There was a long peal on the doorbell. It hadn’t taken long…
‘Speaking of fairy stories, why did you come back, Zahir? Haven’t you got something more important to do? Like arranging your marriage?’
Far from looking like a man caught out, he said, ‘That’s the beauty of a system like ours, Diana. Once I have made my decision, chosen my bride, I don’t have to do a thing. Even as we speak, my mother is negotiating with my bride’s family, drawing up the contract.’
‘I can’t believe you’re saying that. It’s…gruesome.’
‘No, no…I promise you, the women will have a very happy time disposing of my assets. Squabbling over the exact size of the house my bride is to have in London-’
‘A house?’
In London?
‘A woman must have a house of her own. Suitably furnished, of course. An income to maintain it. A car.’ He considered that. ‘Make that two.’
‘For heaven’s sake!’
Tiny lines creased around his eyes in the prelude to a smile. ‘Princesses are high maintenance.’ There was another long peal on the doorbell, followed by an insistent knock. ‘Do you want to get that?’
‘No, thanks.’
He continued to look at her. ‘Where was I?’
‘High maintenance,’ she managed. ‘Two cars.’
‘Oh, yes. Then, once all the practical stuff is out of the way, they get to the really good stuff. The jewels I will give her…’
She clutched her arms tightly around her waist, trying to hold herself together, and, as if to ease her pain, he laid his hand against her cheek, so that without meaning to she was looking up at him.
‘My mother thinks I should give her diamonds, but
I disagree. I think nothing would become her throat more than the soft lustre of pearls…’
‘Please, Zahir! Don’t do this to me.’
‘What, ya malekat galbi? What, the owner of my heart, am I doing to you?’
‘You know.’ She moaned as, trapped, she had nowhere to run. No escape from his touch, from her body’s urgent response to the darkening of his eyes, his scent…
‘Tell me.’
‘I can’t be what you want me to be. Maybe an arranged marriage is different. Maybe with her house, income, jewels, your wife won’t care whether you are faithful or not. But I do. I can’t, I won’t be your mistress!’
Even to her own ears, her cry had sounded desperate and he took her hand from her waist, lifting it to lay it over his heart, with the words, ‘Ya rohi, ya hahati. My soul, my life…I believe you.’ And, as if to prove her a liar, her knees buckled and she fell into his waiting arms.
‘Please,’ she begged, her face pressed against his chest so that she could feel the steady, powerful beat of his heart. But what she was begging for, release or thrall, she no longer knew or cared.
He gathered her in and held her for a moment, his arms around her, his cheek resting against her head. And for a moment she felt as if she was in the safest place in the world and she cared. Cared more than anything. That gave her the strength to pull away.
For a moment he resisted, then he kissed the top of her head, eased her into the battered armchair which, since his stroke, her father used when her mother was busy in the kitchen-so that they could be together, talk, as she did the ironing, baked. It seemed to symbolise everything that was good and true and pure about their long marriage.
Everything that she was not…
As she made to move, get up, Zahir stopped her, knelt at her feet. ‘Maybe just one diamond,’ he said. And, opening his palm, he revealed an antique ring, a large emerald cut diamond supported by emeralds. ‘A pledge, my promise, while your mother and mine enjoy themselves squabbling over where your house will be-in Mayfair or Belgravia-whether you should have diamonds or pearls, or both. Arranging our marriage.’ He slipped the ring on to her finger. Kissed the backs of her fingers, kissed her palm. ‘The beauty of a system like yours, twin of my soul, is that I do not have to wait until the contract is signed before I may see you. Talk with you. Be alone with you. Kiss you…’
His kiss was long, lingering, sweet…
The doorbell rang again. Someone hammered on the back door. Then the telephone started ringing.
Zahir drew back.
‘That would be alone with a media circus…’
‘Well, what on earth were you thinking? If you’d worn jeans, you might have got away with it.’
‘When a man asks a woman to be his wife, jeans will not do.’ Then, ‘Shall we make their day and go outside, pose for photographs? You can show them your ring, have your own Princess Diana moment.’
‘I don’t think so! Not until I’ve done my hair. Changed into something to match my prince.’ She drew back, shook her head. ‘How can I do this? I’m no princess.’
‘Believe me, you’re a natural, but if you are concerned about how we will live, your life, talk to Lucy. When she tells you her story, you’ll understand that anything is possible.’
‘Really?’
‘Remember the stars.’
‘And Freddy?’
‘Freddy is your son and when we are married he will be mine, Diana. Ours,’ he said, thumbing a tear from her cheek. ‘Frederick Trueman Metcalfe bin Zahir al-Khatib. The first of our children.’
‘I need to learn Arabic, Zahir. Will you teach me?’
They had stopped on their way from the airport to walk in the desert. A last moment alone before they were plunged into wedding celebrations. To look again at the stars.
He turned to her and she leaned into him for his warmth, for him to hold her. Wrapping his arms around her, he said, ‘Where do you want to start?’
‘Sitti,’ she said. ‘Hamid calls me sitti. What does it mean?’
‘Lady.’
‘Lady? Goodness.’ Then, ‘And Lord?’
‘Sidi.’
‘Tell me more, sidi,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘What is ya habibati?’
‘You have a good ear for the sound, my beloved. But a woman, if she called her husband “my beloved” would say ya habibi.’
‘Tell me more, sidi, ya habibi.’
‘To a child, to Freddy, I would say ya rohi, ya hahati. My soul, my life.’
She repeated the words. ‘That’s beautiful, but you might be better not telling him what it means.’
‘He is beautiful. You are beautiful, ya malekat galbi. The owner of my heart. Ahebbak, ya tao’am rohi.’ Then, after a slow, searing kiss that heated her body, melted her heart with his love, ‘I love you, the twin of my soul.’
‘Ahebbak, Zahir. I love you.’ Then, as they walked on, ‘I think I’m going to enjoy learning Arabic.’
He stopped. ‘There is one more phrase I must teach you, ya rohi. Amoot feeki. There is no life without you, Diana.’
She took his hands, raised them to her lips. ‘Amoot feeki, Zahir. Is that right?’
He smiled. ‘As good as it gets.’ Then, ‘It’s nearly dawn. ‘Come. I have something for you.’
‘What? What more could I possibly want, dream of? A house in Belgravia, a BMW, more pearls than the ocean. Diamonds like the stars…’
‘This is not something to be written down. This is a gift of the heart. My promise that I will always, before anything, do all I can to make your dreams come true.’
‘Zahir…Every dream, every possible dream…’
‘Shh…Wait…’
Dawn was turning the sky pink and blue as they reached Nadira and, as they drove in through the gates, the sun burst above the horizon to light up a pink, sparkly Metro taxi.
Liz Fielding
***
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