CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER TWELVE
V AL BARELY RECOGNIZED the woman staring back at her.
Nothing physical had changed; she was wearing a silk jersey wrap dress that was constantly in her rotation during summer months. Her hair had been conditioned, detangled and smoothed back into soft puffs that adorned the back of her head. Her long-line bra and underwear were still digging into the tender flesh of her torso—a little more than usual, actually—but she was ready to leave London for Bahr Al-Dahab.
Desmond had somehow sweet-talked Sheikh Rashid into letting her off duty with Hind during the evenings. He’d been taking her to London’s finest restaurants every single night, and her stomach seemed to be reacting to the bewildering variety of Michelin-starred meals by ensuring every single calorie went straight to her hips and bum.
Desmond. She raised her fingers up to massage her temples. Whenever she thought about her experiences over the past week and a half, her head would start to throb.
Desmond loved to eat; she’d discovered that about him. He loved to talk, often gesticulating wildly as he did so, flinging food into his mouth every now and then. She’d never met a person in her life infused with such raw energy. He attacked every hour of the day ferociously, without looking back, without any of the hesitation or overanalysis that characterized Val’s days. When they ate together, he drew her into the conversation, showed her what he was working on and listened with concentration. He drank from Val’s water glass and laughed when she pointed it out; he cut the choicest bits from his plate for her to try and smirked at her when she scolded him.
He wanted to marry her.
After his heart-stopping announcement, he’d explained, of course, still cradling her in his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“I like you,” he’d said, simply. “And I want this to be—real, at least to the degree that we can make it. It seems all right for now, but you’re not going to feel right, lying to Sheikh Rashid for however long this lasts, and—well, I won’t, either. There are more reasons to marry than love, Valentina. I want you to consider it. I can promise you will never regret this.”
He seemed determined—she could see it on his face when he thought she wasn’t looking—that she would never have a reason to be uncomfortable in his presence, that she’d have every reason to accept his wild proposal.
And if she were honest, it was this that made her uncomfortable. It was too much.
She wasn’t used to such consideration, from anyone. Her stepfather had been tolerant. Malik had been…overbearingly self-interested. And here she was, with a man who sent cars to pick her up so she wouldn’t have to walk, who gave her an Amex black card in her name for “anything she needed” and who texted her every night to wish her sweet dreams.
She wished he was the shallow young man she’d assumed he was before she met him. It would have made their resolution so much easier. But he wasn’t. He’d proven that much, that night in Notting Hill. And then he’d look at her, and he’d smile, a slow deliberate smile that lit something inside her and made her feel sparks down to her fingertips. It wasn’t a crush or the beginnings of love or anything like that, but it was something . The pleasure of being seen perhaps, and the realization that after nearly a decade of resting in an emotionally fetal position, she now wanted to be seen. And it was having an effect on her that she couldn’t deny. What might it look like if she were free? Truly free?
Even now, in her old clothes, she looked so different—the type of difference that radiated from within. She was glowing . Being desired so nakedly by Desmond Tesfay had made her see her body in a different light. Her wobbly bits had been transformed to lush softness; her lips looked tender and red, even without the benefit of gloss. She was flushed and warm with passion—unbelievable passion—both given and received. Words. Kisses. Hands and lips skimming every inch of her body. Heat and sweetness and a pleasure that overwhelmed every bit of common sense.
Yes, Desmond Tesfay was a skilled lover. And she, Ms. Pragmatic, Ms. Practical, Ms. Prudish, even, had blossomed under his touch like one of the moss roses on her balcony that she guarded so carefully from the Gulf heat.
Val liked sure things; she liked answers. Embarking on this—could she even call it an affair?—was unsettling, at best. And in the days that had followed she’d waited in vain to see another glimpse of the man who’d taken her to his home that night and told her a story that had made her heart break for him.
But despite his loving gestures, that man never appeared again.
Would that be enough for her? Another marriage to a man who was masking his true self from her, even though he was considerably kinder than the last one?
A discreet tap at the door startled her. Goodness, she’d been deep in thought! She shoved her feet into her pumps, and when she opened the door she recognized the grizzle-haired concierge who’d been tasked with taking care of Sheikh Rashid’s family for the duration of the visit.
“Mr. Tesfay’s car is waiting downstairs, ma’am,” the man said respectfully.
Waiting among the black taxis at the curb of the hotel was a sleek champagne-colored Tesla that glowed in the light of the early morning. A smart driver in a tailored suit opened the door for her, and Val slid in, her eyes widening in surprise as she did.
The interior of the car was a surprise after the staid gray dignity of Mayfair. It smelled faintly of rosewater and something else too, something sharper and suggestive of essential oils. While she was figuring it out, the driver flipped open a carved wooden box and lifted out a rolled white cloth with a pair of tongs. He draped the steaming cloth over her hands, pointed out the glass water bottles and snack bar built into the armrest, then shut the door.
Traffic seemed to part as if by magic for the Tesla meaning the ride to the airport was quick and smooth. When she arrived, she was handed over to an agent who escorted her to a private check-in and security desk, and yet another car was waiting to whisk her off to a plane waiting at the edge of the tarmac. The distinct light blue, white and pale gold of Bahr Al-Dahab’s flag fluttered next to a strip of red carpet leading to the steps up to the aircraft. And when she caught sight of Desmond, tall and erect and impeccably dressed with his arms full of delicate, star-shaped flowers, her heart began to thud, and her throat tightened.
He smiled as she approached him. The scent of the flowers was so strong and sweet that she could smell them even from a distance. When she grew close he laid them carefully in her arms.
“You look good,” he said, kissing her cheek.
She swallowed. “Desmond, I don’t think—”
“Flowers a bit too much?” He peered into her face.
“Well, yes—”
“They’re Arabian jasmine—the Bahr Al-Dahab variety, as I’m sure you know. The design team thought they were overkill as well, you know, with allergies in the cabin and whatnot…”
He was trotting up the boarding steps as he spoke, leaving Val with a very hot face and an armful of flowers.
Desmond frowned down at her from the top of the steps.
“Are you coming?”
Val loosened her hold on the flowers and ascended with as much dignity as she could manage. He was grinning so widely when she reached the top that she narrowed her eyes in his direction. “ What? ”
“You’ve a lovely walk,” he said, and laughed out loud when she swung her handbag at him. She was secretly grateful though, because his nonsense dissolved some of the tension.
“I agree with your design team,” she said with hauteur, ignoring his statement and shouldering her handbag. “It’s too much. Perhaps stick to lavish arrangements in the lounge?”
“We’re having jasmine cultivated specially for the airline,” he confided.
“Before you even get the deal?”
Desmond shrugged, but there was a gleam in his eye that she was beginning to recognize. “I was chasing a deal once to market private cabanas. I built an entire villa from the ground up to show the client. He ended up going with someone else, but he was so impressed he bought the thing for himself. Come on.”
Despite her discomfort, Val was quite impressed by what she saw; it was impossible not to be. The inside of the jet was modeled, Desmond explained, after the first-class cabin he planned for GoldenEye.
“GoldenEye?”
“It’s only a working title, don’t worry,” he said with a laugh. “My team will come up with something more suitable by the launch. I was hoping to get Hind involved in naming it, but she had about as much interest in the project as I have in her social media reels. Come, I’ll give you a tour.”
A smiling flight attendant dressed in an impeccably tailored suit dress rendered in those same shades of pale blue and gold-tinged ivory accepted the bouquet from Val with a smile. Desmond pointed out the details: real gold watch and enormous sixties-style pearl stud earrings.
“They’re locally caught, and of the highest quality,” he explained. “Hijabi flight attendants have a brooch they’ll use to fasten their shaylas that are the same style. The fabric was also sourced locally from a family of textile artists from India who’ve been here for generations.”
“It’s impeccable,” Val said, impressed.
“There’s gold silk thread woven into the fabric so it catches the light. All the jewelry is locally made as well, and the cabin…”
The cabin was breathtaking . Val had flown private on occasion with Hind, of course, but the discreet taste and modernity of the cabin was a stark contrast to the Sheikh’s eighties-style opulence. The hardware was all gold-tinged cream; the seats were upholstered in pale blue; the paneling was Lebanese cedar, glass-smooth, polished and sealed to a soft glow; and the floors featured handwoven carpets crafted by local artisans.
Desmond and Val sat in adjoining chairs that were so luxurious that Val felt as if every muscle in her body was relaxing one by one. When she asked Desmond what it was, he grinned.
“Just call it space-age memory foam.”
A flight attendant surfaced, her finery covered completely by a filmy apron with long sleeves. She offered Val an exquisitely plated amuse-bouche: locally sourced caviar perched atop a delicate blini, perfectly crisped with saffron round the edges with a drizzle of saffron-infused crème fra?che and a dusting of gold leaf to finish off the bite.
After his initial bursts of enthusiasm, Desmond fell into a silence that felt oddly moody. Under the guise of enjoying the selections brought from the caviar and oyster bar, Val watched him carefully. He began to tap his left thumb on his armrest in a tic she had come to recognize. He answered every question she asked of him quickly and politely, but he was clearly distracted. Before takeoff he asked the flight attendant to bring him the safety checks and logs and everyone sat in silence for twenty-five minutes while he looked them over.
Val didn’t mention it; it was understandable, she thought with a stab of sympathy, for someone who’d lost his father in a plane crash.
“Thinking about work?” she ventured after they’d taxied and taken off in silence, and the crew had disappeared.
“What? Oh, yes,” he said briefly. It was the first time he’d been this quiet all week.
Val looked out of the window, but when she turned back to him she was surprised to find his eyes fixed on her face.
“Sorry if I’m being terrible company,” he said abruptly. His voice was clipped but apologetic. “Just shifting into work mode, I think.”
She nodded. Marriage to an incredibly moody person—and one with an awful temper, to boot—had schooled her well in dealing with men and their moods. Silence paired with wide-eyed attention—but not too wide-eyed—was the best course of action.
She hated that she remembered this, and she hated that Desmond’s moodiness had caused her body to tense with that memory.
But Desmond wasn’t Malik. He was nothing like Malik, and he’d proven that over and over. But this was a good reminder that even so, she still had a lot of healing to do.
And for once, it actually seemed possible.
Desmond sat up, startling her back into the present. “Damn it. I almost forgot.” He hit the call button, finally looking a bit more animated. The flight attendant appeared so silently that Val jumped, then flushed. They hadn’t been doing more than talk, she reminded herself, and were supposed to be a married couple besides, but she wasn’t used to feeling so…good.
“The trays,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” The woman first performed some complicated operation that transformed the space in front of them into a proper dining table, complete with white linen with sharp corners.
“I’m not hungry yet,” Val protested.
“It’s not food, although we’ve got a lobster thermidor back there that will surely change your mind. Ah, perfect, thank you,” he said, as the flight attendant appeared with two companions. Each of them placed a tray before her. One was lined with a deep emerald green, one ruby red and the third…
“Tiffany blue,” Desmond confirmed, his eyes beginning to sparkle just a bit. “Pick a ring. I’ve got one that I think will look amazing on you, but since this isn’t quite a traditional proposal, you might as well have full choice…”
“I don’t need a ring!” Val drew back in horror. There had to be millions of pounds’ worth of diamonds and gemstones sparkling in front of her, catching the very flattering lighting on the interior of the plane.
“You’re going to get one.” Desmond pointed. “Green tray is from Van Cleef, the blue from Tiffany, and the red are either antique or locally made. All responsibly sourced gems. And no protesting—you’re not going to make me look cheap. The official story is that you’ve been hiding it along with our relationship, but now that our happy union is out in the open—” here, a lilt crept into his voice “—you’re going to flaunt this absolutely beautiful, carefully designed token of our love.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, and sat on her hands.
“ You’re being ridiculous.” His long slim fingers hovered over the Tiffany tray, and he plucked one at random—a cushion-cut yellow diamond. He twirled it once and held it up for her inspection. “This is a little…”
“Flashy? I’d never wear that,” she said without thinking, and looked up to see him grinning.
“Oh, fine!” She filled her cheeks with air, then released them with a huff. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”
“What kind of ring did your husband give you?”
“He didn’t,” she said automatically. “I had a gold band that I bought myself. He didn’t—” His words came back to her. “He said there were better things to spend money on.”
Desmond gave her a look that conveyed precisely what he thought of that sentiment, and she pursed her lips, refusing to engage any further.
“I had a librarian,” Desmond said, “when I was in school. You look incredibly similar to—”
“Oh, hush!”
He smiled at her then, and her heart thumped deep in her chest because it had finally reached his eyes.
“Fine!” She bent over the trays in an effort to hide her face as much as to look closely at the rings.
“I could tell you the one that I thought looked most like you. But you pick one. I’d like to see how I did. No thinking about the cost, or anything like that, please. Choose the one you genuinely like the most.”
Val examined one or two, and finally picked up a simple solitaire set in a wide band rendered in a warm, rich shade of gold. It reminded her of the jewelry she’d seen while out with Hind in the souks. The teenager dismissed them as being deplorably old-fashioned, but Val liked the simplicity.
“Ah,” said Desmond softly. He took the ring from her, lifted up her left hand, and slid it onto her finger. It sparkled brilliantly. “Three carats. Simplest setting out of all of them. Beautiful, elegant and a little old-fashioned, like you.”
“How very gallant of you.” Oddly she could feel tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. What a tableau this was, but it was strangely touching.
“You’ll see over the next few days just how gallant I can be. This is just the beginning.”
* * *
Something had shifted between them.
The rest of the flight was spent companionably, with no deep, dark secrets revealed. It was as if they had some unspoken agreement to make the rest of their time as pleasant as possible and indulge in a fantasy that seemed to come from the clouds themselves. They ate their saffron-infused lobster thermidor and ate hot freshly baked bread and seasoned yellow rice, then washed their fingers in cool rosewater and applied a lotion that smelt of sun-warmed flowers. After dinner, the flight attendant came round and set up the entertainment system. Val elected to watch a Turkish drama that had been popular years ago, and they lost themselves in tales of sultans and princesses and desert intrigues until her eyes grew heavy and her head drooped down on his shoulder.
The soft, low light in the cabin made her ring sparkle. Impulsively, Desmond picked up her hand and kissed it. It felt so very natural, this little bubble of comfort, so removed from what lay ahead.
It would have been nice to linger there forever, but reality awaited them.
At that thought, Desmond’s jaw tightened. He lowered her hand back to her armrest and rearranged the linen and cashmere blend cabin blanket across her lap before drifting into a dreamless sleep, himself.
When he woke, it was to chatter in the cabin. He sat up blearily, rubbing his eyes as if he were four years old. He wondered when the last time was that he’d slept so deeply, anywhere? The flight attendants were preparing the cabin for landing and he sat up straight, yawning till his jaw cracked. Val was gone.
“She’s using the facilities,” a voice cut through his sleepiness as if reading his mind. A flight attendant shimmered over, offering a kit with mouthwash, a toothbrush, a small jar of La Mer and a rolled-up linen towel of unbelievable softness. He buried his face in it, inhaling jasmine and amber. When he lifted his head, Val stood before him as if conjured from the longings of his own mind and his body was suffused with warmth.
“Hello,” she said, smiling down at him, that dimple in her round cheek deepening. She was dressed in an abaya of shimmering blush pink that just touched the floor round her feet; the sleeves were long, bell-shaped and dramatically wide. The pale shayla , draped loosely round her shoulders, was a creamy color with just a hint of pink that made her skin glow. Tiny seed pearls adorned the sleeves and hem of the garment.
“National dress,” she said, as if it warranted some explanation. “Hind and I designed it.”
“You look beautiful,” he said softly.
She did not squirm in embarrassment or self-consciousness. Instead, she looked at him steadily, as if trying to figure out the answer to some question, before moving forward. The two halves of the abaya opened to reveal wide-legged trousers and a blouse in the same shade as the shayla . She eased herself back into her seat, crossing her legs at the ankle. “Black is the standard in the Gulf, of course,” she said, twisting her ring round her finger, “but the wife of the king is hugely popular, and she favors pastel colors. For this style of dress, all the colors of the rainbow are available, but soft, soft as if shrouded by a cloud. This fashion is called Al Farashat. Butterflies,” she translated. “The fabric is so gently woven that it flutters with even the slightest touch of wind.”
“Aptly named.”
“Yes.” She smiled and folded her hands. “Hind and Sheikh Rashid are eager to welcome you.”
His answer was cut off by the returning flight attendant, who complimented Val’s dress, helped her fasten her seatbelt and put their seats back into the upright position. Then they were making a slow, leisurely descent into a blazing sunset, with Val leaning over him and smelling sweetly of a floral scent.
“Do you see how the sun shimmers on the water, just like that?” Her voice was hushed, almost reverent, as if the landscape demanded it. “It looks like acres of gold, shining through the surface of the sea. A philosopher explored here in the eighteenth century and described the famous sunsets, and that’s how the country got its name. And there—” she indicated a string of irregularly shaped round islands “—that’s Lulu Island, on account of it looking like a woman’s pearl necklace. The mainland is that big one, right in the center. The old pearling port is there, and see that dome? That’s the Gold Palace, and the government buildings, and—”
“Hey,” Desmond said quietly. His heart was thrumming in his chest and his eyes were fixed on the soft berry-brown of her mouth. “I did the research.”
“Oh.” He watched her throat constrict as she swallowed. She’s nervous. He felt a surge of protectiveness. “I’m sorry. I just—”
“It’s not a complaint.” He was close enough to kiss her, if he wanted to. And he wanted to, so badly.
The thought was disconcerting, as well as felt so natural.
Bahr Al-Dahab looked even more extraordinary from the ground. The series of islands ranged from a twenty-minute to a two-hour drive from tip to tip and formed a semicircle that hugged the coast of Oman, which loomed purple gray in the distance, jagged mountains meeting desert, meeting crystal-blue water.
The airport was in the middle of one of the islands, and a troop of snow-white Land Rovers was there to meet them when they arrived.
Val glided out across the tarmac, smiling broadly and calling greetings; obviously, the drivers were well-known to her. It was fascinating to see her with this new confidence in her role as a trusted member of Sheikh Rashid’s household.
The motorcade drove sedately up a long corniche with palm trees and carefully tended Gulf rose bushes on either side. They passed through downtown, with its skyscrapers in reflective blue-gray glass that seemed to kiss the sky; drove over the bumpy cobblestones that lined the streets of the old souk, where vendors peered at the cars’ dark tinted windows, smiling and gesturing to their shops; snaked around the Culture Village which was dedicated to museums and sculpture and past the shining cream and marble domes of the city’s first mosque.
The line of Land Rovers eventually left the city and made their way up a quiet street to a white villa in a contemporary style reminiscent of Palm Beach, perhaps. As they pulled into the reddish-brown flagstone driveway, the doors flew open and Hind stood there in a pink linen abaya, grinning broadly.
“Surprise!” she cried.
Val rushed to greet her, while Desmond looked past them into the villa. It was tastefully simple, with a pearl-white tiled floor and walls, and comfortable furnishings.
“Baba said you’ll stay here while you’re in town. Let me give you a tour,” Hind said, setting off in a cloud of vanilla, jasmine, amber and oud. “Then you’ll come to our place for dinner, and the driver will bring you both back tonight.”
“This villa is for us?” Desmond murmured.
“Yes.”
“And we’re both coming back tonight?”
“Not now,” Val said through her teeth. “We’re married , remember?”
They followed Hind into the villa.
There was a bright, contemporary majlis ; three bedrooms, including an impressive master; a large, modern open kitchen with a dining room with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the sea. Val explained quietly that this was one of the many real estate investments Sheik Rashid owned in the country. This was one of the nicer, more modern neighborhoods, a place often chosen by young expat couples.
“I have an apartment on the sheikh’s estate,” Val added softly, falling a little behind Hind. “But with you in town…”
“Got it.”
After the tour they freshened up while Hind waited impatiently downstairs, chattering into her mobile. The three of them then went to Sheikh Rashid’s sprawling estate for a barbecue dinner, eaten outside in the garden, reclining on lush, embroidered cushions.
“Is this a good sign?” he asked Val under the cover of a troupe of traditional drummers, which were the evening’s entertainment.
“What do you think?” she said a little acidly. She was a little preoccupied, he found. She smiled about a fraction of a second too late when something was said to her and looked at her phone more often than was strictly polite. She frowned down at her phone and he couldn’t help mentioning it.
“Am I really that boring of a companion?” he asked dryly.
She started violently. “I—I’m sorry. This is inexcusable. I contacted Malik, through his family—texted his parents, at the last number I have for them. I wanted to see if maybe—”
Ah. Malik. The feckless husband.
He felt a flash of discomfort, one that took quite a bit of the enjoyment from the evening. In a quiet moment, he took out his mobile and sent a couple of text messages of his own.