She smiles, and I swear I would give her the entire country if it was mine to offer. “I have.” She laughs, sounding relieved. “It’s just so…” She waves one graceful arm in a circle.
I get it. I feel the same way about the place. It’s why I’m so keen to invest here, to work with their artisans and help grow their surf movement. The meeting this morning has already been productive, and I’ve lined up another for tomorrow, discussing sponsorship for the Taghazout Surf Expo, one of the newest stops on the surf competition circuit.
But now I have someone else to meet. I didn’t need to bring Zara along with me; I just wanted to. Wanted to watch her face as she explored the village, wanted her at my side.
I don’t know what it means. But here beneath the bright sun, honesty seems to be required. I’m not sure I’m ready to be totally honest yet, not with her, or with myself. I just want her with me, so I’m going with that for now. We’ll see where it leads.
A few minutes later we’re standing at an open-fronted shop at the end of the village. The shop itself is small, not much more than a three-sided box lined with shelves groaning with metal lanterns and enamelled bowls, ceramic tagines lined up like triangular hats. However, spread across the wide mosaic pavement in front of the stall are rugs, and it’s those that I’ve come to speak to the supplier about.
I’ve been talking with the design team about expanding into homewares for a while now. But they need to be the right kind of homewares. The kind of stuff a surfer would pick up as they travelled the world, all created by and bought for a fair price from local artisans. I don’t want mass-produced stuff. Just small lines of interesting things. When they’re gone, they’re gone. We’ve already started the procurement process for a few pieces, but this is the next item I’m interested in.
“Hello, my friend.” The man coming towards us is short and fine-boned, his ancient face, marked by time, as deeply scored as the gullies alongside the road. His smile is wide and he holds out his hand. “Mr Brandon?”
I nod, taking his hand in greeting. “Myles. And this is my assistant, Zara.”
The man smiles, bowing his head to her. “Zara. I am Ibrahim.”
She returns his smile, and I can’t stop watching her.
“So, Myles.” Ibrahim is rubbing his hands together. “Will you and your lady join me for tea?” He gestures to a small carved wooden table and stools set up near the entrance to the shop, shaded by a cloth awning. A silver tray sits on the table with a tall silver teapot and several small turquoise tumblers.
“A moment.” I hold up my hand. “If you please.”
Zara glances at me. Ibrahim waits, a smile still hovering around his lips.
“Zara, you mentioned wanting a rug. If you could choose any of these, which one would it be?”
She blinks. “Um…” She takes a moment, her brows drawing together. I could watch her face change for ever. Her expression clears, and she points to one lying flat on the pavement. It’s rectangular, not huge, and woven in a design of geometric shapes in reds and blues and greens, on a cream and navy background. “That one.”
“Why that one?”
I know I sound like a schoolmaster. Then I imagine spanking Zara on her creamy ass and have to cough. I need to get a handle on this.
“I just like the colours,” she says. “And the different textures. It looks soft.”
“Your lady has good taste,” Ibrahim says, eyes twinkling. “That is a Taznakht rug.” At Zara’s quizzical glance he continues. “Made in the Atlas Mountains by Berber artisans, from the softest wool. Each one is unique. See, feel it.” He picks up the rug and brings it to Zara. She runs her hand over it, and I try not to imagine her lying on it, open to my hungry gaze. She nods at Ibrahim.
“It’s very soft,” she says.
“Ibrahim is right,” I say, coming closer to her. I can’t help it. “You do have good taste. These rugs are the reason we’re here.”
“Let us sit, then,” Ibrahim says, moving towards the table, one arm out. “We have much to discuss.”
ChapterFifteen
Zara
Iwander along the main street, pausing to look at the scarf that had caught my eye on the way to Myles’s meeting. But I can’t seem to make up my mind. Myles is still in the meeting, hammering out details as Ibrahim unrolls rug after beautiful rug. I’d sat there, feeling like a rather useless third wheel, at the same time mesmerised by Myles, the way his mouth moved when he spoke, his deep voice, the way his hands stroked the rugs. He seemed to have forgotten I existed, though, until he finally turned and looked at me.
“Why don’t you go and explore?” he’d said, sounding dismissive. “I’ll see you at the car in an hour.”
I’d nodded, getting to my feet, feeling somehow upset. Outrageous. If I wasn’t me, I would slap me. I’m here in a professional capacity, nothing more. I should be grateful Myles is even involving me in design-related stuff. Half the company would love to be in a meeting with him and a supplier, I’m sure. And most of them probably wouldn’t spend the whole time staring at him, checking out his broad shoulders, the hint of muscle beneath his linen shirt. I know I’ve just been dumped in the most humiliating way, but that’s no excuse.
On impulse I start down one of the sloping alleyways that run between the white-painted buildings lining the main street. There are more market stalls, bundles of colourful textiles and clustered necklaces hanging from nails in doorways or strung against walls, children darting and playing. And everywhere, colour. The window surrounds and shutters are painted blue, doors in ochre and brick-red, the geometric patterns similar to those woven into the rug I’d liked. One door has an eye painted above it flanked by a pair of hands– I remember reading somewhere that it’s a symbol of protection.
I follow the alley down, past bright-painted signs and cats slinking panther-like along the painted stones. The buildings open up and I find myself amid a cluster of blue- and white-painted wooden fishing boats, pulled up onto the shore. Beyond them is golden sand and the glittering sea, the village following the curve of the shoreline.
Enchanted, I pull out my phone and take several photos, then continue along the waterfront. It’s lined with a mix of cafés and buildings that are obviously homes, with more colourful doors and shutters to keep out the heat, terraces looking out to sea shaded by bougainvillea vines, their flowers like a cloud of butterflies. I start to fantasise again, wondering how much it would cost me to get one. But, for the first time when thinking about my dream, there’s an ache in my chest. I don’t want to do this alone. I think our shared dream was a big part of why I thought I was in love with Dean, and the hardest thing about him betraying me the way he did. I want to create my fantasy life with someone who loves me, and whom I love. Someone I can walk along the water with, build a life with. Myles popping into my head at this moment seems very inconvenient, and I try to push him away, imagining one of the characters from my romance novels instead. But his face just keeps morphing into Myles’s face, his body into one clothed in rumpled linen. Lost in my daydream, I don’t realise at first that someone is calling my name.
