Chapter Eighty-Three
‘My goodness, it’s so warm out here.’ Yes. Warm. Something to do with living in the Middle East. Deserts, palm trees, dromedaries, and that sort of stuff. ‘It must play havoc with your coloured laundry. Katherine, you didn’t say you lived in a mansion!’
‘Mum, let Rashid past with your bags.’
Mum steps out of the doorway, murmuring her apology and thanks toMr. Rashid, who deposits the two massive suitcases, each complete with a yellow ribbon tied to the handle—so we can see them on the revolving thingy, silly—into the hall.
Rashid then gracefully refuses the fewdirhamnotes Geoff tries to shove into his hand. It’s barely enough to cover a cup of coffee, and I’m guessing Rashid is paid more than decently, judging alone by the way he dresses.
I smile awkwardly at the man while wanting to melt into the ground as visions of next week’s wedding flashes behind my eyes. It’s turning into something beyond my control. Not that it’s everbeenin my control, because I’ve quite happily floated along, letting other people decide things for me. Colour schemes, flowers and venues; I just haven’t given a stuff. But now I see how badly it could go; a weekend of my folksfaux-pasand guests who’ll think we’re allterribly gauche. Dubai people are pretty sharp, and my olds, well, a yearly cruise to Fiji hardly constitutes well-travelled.
‘Excuse me, Madam, I shall take these to which of the guest rooms?’
‘To the pool house, please, Rashid.’ With a smile as wide as it is fake, I address my mum. ‘It’s outside the main house, but I thought you might like to be able to do your own thing.’ More like the more distance we have between us, the better we’ll get along.
Geoff pulls a handkerchief from one of his cargo pants’ many pockets and begins mopping his brow.
‘Good idea, Katie. I expect it’ll take us a while to get our body clocks in line. No use creeping around here in the middle of the night, eh? That was some flight.’
I don’t bother telling him there’s not much chance of him disturbing anyone in a house built as solid as this. But the pool house seems to suit us all, so that’s where they’ll go. It’s more like a cottage than anything else and very self-contained. Besides, if we’re to all keep our sanity, we’ll each of us need space. Dunno about them, but I can feel my temper being frayed. The “massive” flight is all he’s gone on about since the airport; a car journey full of his observations of international travel, not that I listened beyond the first few minutes.
‘Yeah, it’s a killer,’ I answer, not really listening. As per, again.
‘Seventeen hours, wasn’t it?’ Mum adds.
Geoff confirms. ‘Straight through. We did it in style, though, didn’t we, darl?’
‘A plane with a shower. Who’d have thought?’
‘And champagne and caviar.’ Geoff’s voice comes out in a rumble, my mum gravitating to him. As she stares up at him all dreamy-eyed, I wonder if I’ll see my lunch making a reappearance real soon. I’m not sure whether it’s the recurring begonia dream, or the fact that Kai and Niamh’s words have somehow poisoned my mind, because that’s all I can see. My parents, the kinksters.Please, no.
‘Yes, yes, champagne and cashmere jammies,’ I say in a rush as she slides her arm through his. ‘Let’s just get you settled before—’ I lose my salad ‘—shit, there goes the cat!’
The little fuzzy bastard speeds through the still open door, and as I’m nearest, I take off in hot pursuit, calling behind me. ‘I’ll get her. You follow Rashid to your rooms.’
I catch the swish of her scrawny white tail as she dashes over the ornamental bridge and disappears through the bamboo screen. I mean, I don’t love her, but it’s not like she’s some street cat ready for the open road, and—
‘Habibti.’
My stomach rolls as I turn the corner and reach the open gate.
Can this day get any worse? If trouble comes in threes, I’m way over my limit as Essam stands, cat in hand, in the shadow of the solid wooden gate, not quite in the front yard, but not quite out. No national dress for him today; jeans and a white shirt, looking every inch the sophisticate, from his Gucci loafers to the carelessness of his curling and overlong locks.
‘Give her to me.’
His smile is feral, like I’ve just asked him if he wants to fuck.
‘What? This little thing?’ He holds my kitten in his palm, pressing her close to his chest. He says something in Arabic, which I can easily interpret by his obvious leer as he stokes one long finger down her tiny back.
‘Give her back,’ I repeat, my words coming out less strong as he links his thumb and forefinger around her thin neck, lifting and almost dangling her over his other palm.
‘Come. Take her.’ His tone is treacle sweet, but I don’t budge, memories of that night—the darkness, the smell of the leather sofa and of his cloying cologne, rising before my eyes like a storm. ‘It can be frustrating when someone has what you want, no?’
My immediate instinct is fleeting, the second is the conviction that I’ve somehow misunderstood. But as his gaze rakes over my body, I realise instincts are there for a reason; it seems I misinterpreted what he wanted the other day. Perhaps I’ve always misunderstood.
‘I don’t know. You tell me. You’re the one with the serious case of dick envy.’
Point to me and my runaway gob? Probably not as his thumb and forefinger tighten and Batool releases a pitifully strangled mewl.
