Sandstorm

by Anne Mather

  '—you'd have refused to answer the phone,' retorted her father dryly. 'And that was why I chose not to tell you.'

  Abby shook her head. 'But what did you say? Who did you speak to?'

  'I don't know. Some servant or other. I didn't ask to speak to Rachid, if that's what you mean. I just left a message for him to call you, and happily, that's what he's done.'

  'Happily?' Abby shivered, and walked down the hall into the kitchen, warming her cold hands on the radiator. 'He's coming to England to see me. What do you think about that? And all because you told him to ring me.'

  Professor Gillespie had followed her, and now he picked up the kettle and carried it to fill at the tap. 'You must have told him about the baby,' he remarked reasonably, carrying the kettle back to the power point and plugging it in. 'I hoped you would. It's much better than writing a letter. Letters are such—impersonal things.' He turned to smile at her. 'How did he take it?'

  Abby rested her back against the draining unit. 'I don't know,' she murmured uneasily. 'He was shocked, naturally, but—I don't know.'

  'You did tell him that it was his, didn't you?' her father prompted briskly. 'You explained.'

  'Explained?' Abby looked at him blankly. 'I—why—what was there to explain?'

  'Abby!' Her father stared at her impatiently. 'For heaven's sake! You must have reminded him about that night at the hotel. Oh, lord! You didn't let him go without knowing he was the father!'

  'Dad!' Abby was affronted. 'What do you think I am?'

  'It's not what I think that matters,' retorted her father shortly. 'Abby, you've been asking Rachid for a divorce. What would you think, given the same circumstances?'

  Abby's pale cheeks flushed with colour. 'You don't think he imagines there's someone else?'

  'Why not?' Her father's tone was irritated. 'Honestly, Abby, you must have known how ambiguous a statement like that can be, particularly right now. Didn't you tell me he accused Daley of having a more than fatherly interest in you?'

  Abby's shoulders sagged. 'Oh, well, if that's what he chooses to think, let him.' She moved away from the sink. 'I'm going up to my room. I feel a bit dizzy.'

  'Don't you want a cup of tea?' exclaimed her father, as the kettle began to boil, but Abby shook her head.

  'No, thanks,' she refused flatly, and walked wearily out of the room.

  Upstairs, she flung herself on her bed, with an intense feeling of frustration. If was ridiculous to care what Rachid thought, but the fact remained, in spite of what she had told her father, she did. She felt depressed and bewildered, and dangerously near to tears, and no matter how she tried, she couldn't escape the consequences of her own foolishness.

  What was she going to do? she asked herself despairingly. When Rachid came, as he surely would, what was she going to tell him? If he asked her to go back to Abarein with him, how would she respond? And ultimately, after the child was born, where did she propose to live?

  It was useless to pretend that these questions would not have to be answered. Whatever happened she would be expected to hand the child over, providing Rachid believed it was his, and that would mean abandoning either her motherhood or her self-respect. But living in Xanthia meant living near Farah again, and that was something she had sworn she would never do.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Abby spent the following day in a state of high tension. Every car door that slammed in the Mews outside brought a chill of anticipation to her spine, and when the telephone rang she froze at whatever task she was tackling, standing in numbed apprehension until her father called that it was for him.

  She didn't know what time Rachid was likely to arrive. Flights from Abarein to London invariably left in the morning, but the length of the flight and the possibility of delays meant that it was impossible to correcdy gauge his landing. Sunday was not the easiest day to travel, but as the afternoon drew to its close Abby felt the first pangs of troubled anxiety. What if his flight was overdue? What if it had been hijacked? The craziest notions spun round in her head so that when she served their evening meal, her appetite was practically gone.

  Her father studied the untouched plate of roast beef in front of her, and laid down his own knife and fork. 'Now what's wrong?' he asked, his own concern evident, and Abby shook her head helplessly.

  'It's nothing. Just apprehension, I suppose.' She glanced surreptitiously at the clock on the wall. 'Eat your dinner. Don't take any notice of me.'

  Professor Gillespie's eyes followed hers. 'He's late, is that what you're thinking?' he suggested quietly. 'What do you want me to do? Phone the airport?'

  'Heavens, no!' Abby was insistent. 'I was just checking the time, that's all. Do—er—do you think he will have eaten?'

  Her father shrugged and picked up his cutlery again. 'Very probably,' he remarked. 'Either way, I can't see him sitting down to a plate of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, can you?'

  Abby fidgeted with her napkin. 'He—he used to like English food.'

  'Not after a long flight,' retorted her father dryly. 'Stop worrying, Abby. I thought you'd got over that. For goodness' sake, Rachid's not an ogre. In my experience, he has always had your best interests at heart.'

  'Really?' Abby was emotional. 'Even when he was with his other women, I suppose.'

  'Abby, when will you realise you're not unique‑'

  'Do you think it makes it any easier knowing there are other women in the same situation?'

  Her father sighed. 'If it hadn't been for the girl, you'd never have known anything about it.'

  'Perhaps not. But I do know about her, don't I?' Abby pressed her lips tightly together, pushing the napkin aside. 'At least no one can accuse Rachid of being impotent. Who knows how many bastard children he's fathered? They may be scattered all over the Middle East!'

  'Abby, you're getting hysterical! Calm yourself, and stop behaving like a foolish child! There's more than one side to a marriage. Financially, materially, you were secure. And what was more, Rachid cared for you‑'

  'Oh, stop it, can't you?' Abby got up from the table, putting her hands over her ears, unwilling to listen to any more of his rationalising, and as she stood there, taut with prejudice, the doorbell rang.

  Her hands fell to her sides, but neither of them moved, and eventually, when the bell chimed again, it was Professor Gillespie who rose to answer it.

  'Shall I?' he asked, and mutely she nodded; but she followed him to the door of the dining room, hovering there nervously while he traversed the hall.

  She heard Rachid's voice as she pressed herself back out of sight against the wall. His deep attractive tones were absurdly upsetting, and she could only explain her present emotional state as a symptom of her condition. She knew a quite ridiculous feeling of embarrassment at the prospect of seeing him again, and she cast anxious eyes down over her olive silk shirt and matching corded pants, needing to assure herself of their elegant simplicity. With her hair coiled at her nape, and the plain gold chain around her neck, she looked calm and unflustered, and she prayed her inner turmoil would not expose her outer facade for what it was. As her father divested Rachid of his overcoat, she ran a probing hand over the reassuring flatness of her stomach. There was nothing to see. Apart from a slight pallor, she looked perfectly healthy, and it was still a source of amazement to her that another life was growing inside her.

  She straightened as she heard her father inviting Rachid into his study, realising he would expect her to join them. It wasn't easy leaving the security of her hiding place, particularly as her nerves felt as taut as violin strings, but she had to do it, and stiffening her spine, she stepped out into the hall.

  She h.ad thought they would be already in the study, but she had forgotten Rachid's instinctive respect for his elders. He had stepped back to allow her father to precede him into the room, and as she emerged, he turned and looked at her. ..

  Even across the shadowy width of the hall she felt the burning intensity of his gaze. With unhurried appraisal his
eyes moved arrogandy over her face before dropping pointedly to her stomach, and it was all she could do not to protect herself against that significant assessment.

  Then, as if his innate courtesy came to his aid, he permitted her a polite bow of his head. 'Abby,' he greeted her expressionlessly. 'Will you join us?'

  'Of course.' Abby moved jerkily across the hall, but as she reached him, she allowed herself a swift examination of his lean features. Perhaps it was the muted light, but he seemed paler than was usual, his dark skin drawn tautly across his cheekbones. He seemed taller, thinner, and his mouth was drawn uncompromisingly down at the corners.

  'Oh, there you are, Abby.' Her father had turned and seen her, and she quickly withdrew her gaze from Rachid and entered the study, endeavouring to appear casual as she touched his hand.

  'Yes, I'm here,' she murmured, with a tight smile, and with a look of relief Professor Gillespie excused himself.

  'We—er—we were just having dinner,' he explained, making a dismissive gesture. 'If you don't mind, Rachid, I'll leave you with Abby. We can talk later.'

  'Oh, please‑' Rachid held up his hand. 'Do finish your meal.' His eyes switched to Abby. 'Both of you. I can wait.'

  'That won't be necessary,' replied Abby tersely. 'I—er— I had finished. But you go, Dad. I—we—it's all right.'

  'You're sure.'

  Professor Gillespie was endearingly anxious now, but Abby insisted. 'Honestly,' she nodded, hiding her apprehension, and with a shrug he left them alone.

  With the closing of the door, Abby felt the now familiar sense of panic she was beginning to associate with Rachid. It was heightened by the unpleasant awareness of the censure in his expression, and she shifted rather nervously as he took up a position by the fireplace. She didn't know how to begin to explain the situation, and she pressed her balled knuckles together, as she sought for words with some meaning.

  'Let us be candid, shall we?' Rachid said bleakly, before she had composed herself. 'You have told me—with evident reluctance—that you are expecting a child. Indeed, your intention was to apprise me of that fact by letter. Do you not think I deserved to know? And at once?'

  Abby held up her head. 'What did you expect me to do? Phone you from the doctor's surgery? I only got to know on Tuesday myself.'

  'Tuesday!' Rachid's mouth tightened. 'And yesterday was Saturday. There are three days unaccounted for.'

  Abby sighed. 'I needed time to think‑'

  'Yes, I imagine you did,' he snapped harshly. 'Time to think and time to act, before I was made cognisant of the affair. It seems to me, I should have been the first to be told, or was it Daley who enjoyed that doubtful privilege?'

  Abby gasped. 'What do you mean?'

  Rachid shook his head. 'Naturally, you do not want the child. In the circumstances, it can only be a source of embarrassment to you. So what were your intentions? To dispose of it without my knowledge?' His eyes darkened. 'You are still my wife, Abby, in spite of the frustration that must create.'

  Abby trembled. 'Are you suggesting I would consider‑'

  'Your—friend, Daley; he cannot be in favour of losing his secretary again so soon. Even if he is prepared to exchange a business relationship for a marital one, when this divorce you so eagerly seek is made absolute!'

  Abby's throat felt choked. So that was what he thought. Like her father, he had assumed the child was Brad's, and he imagined that was why she had been loath to tell him.

  She was tempted to let him go on believing the lie, but honesty overcame even humiliation.

  'You—you have no right to criticise Brad,' she said now, hiding her disappointment. 'He has always been kind to me.'

  'At my expense,' retorted Rachid savagely, his lean face taut with anger. 'Without his encouragement, you would not be so opposed to reason.'

  'With you?' she taunted, turning away. 'You don't reason, you dictate!'

  'Haji, this is impossible!' He expelled his breath on a heavy sigh. 'Must we continually go on in this futile way? Let us return to the reason why I have come here. You say you are going to have a baby. So—are you well?'

  Abby sought the sofa, seating herself at the farthest end away from him, crossing her legs and coiling her body into the smallest space possible. 'I'm fine,' she answered, cold with disillusionment. 'I've seen a doctor, and my health is good. I'm to visit the local ante-natal clinic after Christmas, and‑'

  'What are you saying?' Rachid's fury erupted into action. Abandoning his stiff posture on the hearth, he strode across the room to her, standing right in front of her, legs set aggressively apart. 'Tell me again what you just suggested. This talk of ante-natal clinics. Are you implying that there are no doctors in Abarein capable of attending my wife?'

  Abby shrank back against the cushions. 'You—you want me to have the baby in Abarein?' she stammered incredulously.

  'Where else would my son be born?' Rachid grated harshly, and her lips parted.

  'Your son?' she echoed, feeling suddenly weak. 'You believe it's your child?'Rachid lost colour with a suddenness that left him pale and gaunt. 'Is it not?' he demanded, with an anguish that tore her apart, and she knew an almost overwhelming urge to put her arms about him.

  'Yes,' she said then urgently. 'Yes, of course it's yours.' She looked up at him tremulously, ridiculously moved in spite of herself. 'I only thought—that is, my father suggested—oh, you seemed to be implying that Brad‑'

  'Daley!' He came down beside her on the couch, knees apart, hands clasped tautly between. 'Do you think I could stand here and discuss this with you if I suspected that you and Daley‑' He broke off, his expression contorted with emotion. 'Dear God, Abby, what do you think I am? What kind of an opinion do you think I have of you? I trust you—I told you that.' He paused, his dark eyes probing hers. 'And I also know that no other man has touched you.'

  Abby's eyes dropped before his disturbing gaze. 'You— you seemed so angry. On the phone‑'

  'Of course I was angry, I am angry,' he muttered violently. 'You do not see fit to tell me of this thing to my face. You cannot even pick up a telephone. You mean to write to me, a cold-blooded letter, informing me of your condition.' He shook his head. 'Even now, I do not know how you really feel.' He smote his fist into the palm of his hand. 'If only this had happened sooner! One year, two years after our marriage. Instead of waiting until it was almost too late.'

  Abby's brief exhilaration in the realisation that he had not doubted her fidelity died. His words had reminded her of the real situation. It should have happened sooner, before he sought consolation with someone else, she thought bitterly, before he destroyed for ever the faith she had had in his love.

  'It is too late, Rachid,' she said now, smoothing the crease of her pants, and he turned towards her, grasping her chin and tipping her face up to his.

  'What do you mean?'

  'You know what I mean, Rachid,' she insisted, trying to pull away from him. 'This doesn't alter anything, not really. All it means is that what should have been the end inspired a beginning. But not a beginning for us, Rachid. I've told you, that's over.'

  His expression grew impatient. 'I will not accept that. Not now. Not ever.'

  'No?' Her lips twisted. 'Not even when you made that statement to the Courier concerning your reasons for being in London last month?'

  'I made no statement to the Courier,' he retorted, his eyes moving over her face with increasing hunger. 'Abby, Abby, listen to me‑'

  'If you didn't make the statement, who did?'

  Rachid sighed. 'I thought you did.'

  'Me?' Then: 'You read it?'

  'Of course I read it. It was pointed out to me by not one but many people. Not least your friend Liz's employer, Damon Hunter.'

  'And didn't you question it?'

  'Did you?'

  'I had no reason to.'

  Yet even as she said the words, she wondered. If she had not already been vulnerable from that night spent at Rachid's hotel, she might have viewed Damon's
supposition with less conviction. But she had been hurt, and she had believed it.

  'You knew it was not true,' Rachid was saying now. 'I have made no attempt to gain my freedom. Why should I? It is not what I want.'

  'Well, you can always marry again, can't you?' Abby - ' derided him bitterly, fighting the attraction his nearness was evoking, but Rachid did not respond in anger.

  'You know I do not follow the religion of my forefathers,' he told her, his thumb rubbing along her jawline. 'If I did, I would not permit you to live in this heathen society, that allows women to speak to their men as equals.'

  'Just because I'm independent‑' she began forcefully, and then choked back a gasp as his mouth touched a corner of hers. It was a tentative caress, a delicate pressure, but when his lips explored the outline of her lips, softly and sensually, before hardening over hers, weakness overwhelmed her.

  'My child,' he said, against her mouth, with disruptive insistence. 'My seed inside you.' His hand spread possessively across her stomach. 'This belongs to me, Abby, and so do you ...'

  'No!'

  She fought to sustain her individuality, but she was sinking beneath the wave of emotional feeling he was arousing inside her. With his hands on her body promoting an intimacy between them, and his lips searching the moist opening of hers, it was difficult to prevent herself from responding completely to him. His thigh was against hers, firm and muscular, her arm was pressed against his leg, and it would have been the easiest thing in the world to allow her instincts to lead her, and allow her hands to explore his body as he was exploring hers.

  It took a superhuman effort, but at last she managed to pull herself away from him, trembling a little as she encountered the blazing passion in his eyes.

  'All right,' she said, 'so you can make me want you. But it's a physical thing, a physical response, and I only hate myself afterwards.'

  His cheeks drew in as if she had struck him, and without another word he got to his feet. 'You do not pull your punches, do you, Abby,' he said grimly. 'But at last I think we have got at the truth.'