“That was bliss. I feel like I’ve never worked a day in my life after that.”
I laughed. “We can just lounge about here this afternoon if you want?”
She opened her eyes. “No. I’d like to have a look round. Have some lunch. Decide what I’m going to haggle for.”
“Was your hammam better than a night with me?”
She laughed, sitting up a little straighter. “It was different.”
“Was it a woman who did the massage and scrub thing?” I knew from experience that you wore very little. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was feeling at the thought of it being a man.
“It was a woman. She had the muscles of a man though. Never had a massage like it.”
I relaxed.
“Have you heard how your mum’s doing?”
“Spoke to Max, Vic and my dad. She’s still under but they’ve been told it’s going as good as they hoped.” I stretched. I was ready to do something, needed to burn off some of the energy that was becoming pent up.
“That’s good. I’m going to rinse off and then get ready. Do you think I could get some mint tea before we go?”
She was getting addicted to the mint tea.
“Sure.” I stood up, a towel around my waist. I noticed her checking me out and maybe flexed a few muscles discreetly, not preening at all.
“You look hot. I can say that now without it being weird.”
“You could’ve said it eleven years ago and it wouldn’t have been weird then.” I hadn’t brought up the past for weeks.
Her mouth opened as if she was about to speak, but instead she shook her head. “Let’s get lots of pics for your family.”
“And your mum.”
She nodded. “And her. She’ll love it.”
Wren
Marrakesh was everything I’d hoped. It was nicknamed the Red City due to minerals in its soil content giving the city a red glow. There were large bustling squares filled with traders selling colourful wares and spices; some animals that were being used to make money which broke my heart, but I understood was the culture; restaurants lining the sides. Dark alleyways shot off from the squares, unleashing a labyrinth of small narrow streets that were filled with streets selling silver and leather goods, more spices and clothes. It was noisy and it bustled with life, a complete contrast to our little riad.
Callum had his hand on his phone as we walked round the square. There was a monkey, wearing a long chain but looking quite happy. I picked him up and gave his owner some cash, checking the animal over without anyone bar Callum picking up on it. The little man was in good health, and cheeky with it.
“Nicely done.” Callum was wearing shades, his dark hair somehow styled like a model’s on the cover of a romance novel.
I shrugged. “Any opportunity. I’m trying not to judge.” I was. I wanted every animal to be free and to enjoy the life it was meant to have in the wild before humans had abused their power and tried to tame the world. But I had to accept that I was fighting culture and history and survival. For some people here and in Africa and other parts of the world, using animals was the only way they could survive.
The work we were doing with a charity here that supported working animals was one I could see myself doing at least for another short term project, if I could finance a volunteer stint or a low paid contract. Part of the reason for agreeing to take on this role in filming was so I could help my mother and be able to do what I’d always hoped to do. Help animals.
Even if it meant not helping myself.
“Different culture. We have to accept that and not preach. Just educate.” For some reason, his words fractured me a little. Despite whatever Callum was, had been made, he loved animals.
I’d watched him work with them, both first hand and through his videos on social media. He’d played handsie with a wild cat in one of them, a beautiful margay, a tree dwelling cat with distinctive markings. It had been a kitten and playing; Callum had been relentless in his play, the cat responding. He’d understood it completely, allowing himself to play, knowing he’d be scratched some and bitten, but he knew what risks to take with animals.
Just not with people.
He’d never trusted anyone with his heart and I understood why. Except he’d wanted to trust me.
We headed to a café in Jemma El-Fnaa, a couple of storeys up and in the corner of the square. The view was incredible: a sea of people walking through the stalls, noise and music and heat radiating from every one of the city’s pores. There was a magic and a vibrancy to the air that I knew was because of Africa. This place; it was a haven of myth and magic and survival.
