29. Omar
Chapter twenty-nine
Omar
There was a certain comfort in returning to London. In so many ways, it was home. My parents moved there when I was little, and most of my childhood memories were surrounded by ancient buildings that towered above my tiny head.
At the same time, the city felt foreign, as though everything I thought made it feel homey had become foreign and distant, which, living abroad, I supposed it had.
Or was that the role I played in this scene? Was I the one who’d become foreign and distant, while London remained ever constant?
I had too much free time on my hands.
For the first few days of my visit, Mother and Father were so wrapped up in preparations for his official appointment and the transition of power that would follow that I barely saw either of them, save at mealtime.
Heaven forbid we miss a chance to dress up and dine.
Per our family’s long-standing tradition that apparently stemmed from British nobles, Father and I wore black suits with black ties, while Mother dressed in whatever shimmering gown caught her fancy. Meals were not a nutritional necessity. They were an event.
No, there were no others at our table. Yes, it was just the three of us.
Still, the show must go on.
And so we donned our ties and gowns and allowed a bevy of servants to wait on our every whim. The conversation was stiffer than Father’s posture, revolving mostly around the London weather and plans for Egypt’s future. It was only then, sitting at a table for twenty, that I realized how little interest I had in politics or diplomacy or anything resembling high society. Everything felt so plastic, so put on. I knew the foreign relations part of Father’s role was important, but I couldn’t help being bored as he droned on about this lord or that minister.
Never once did either of my parents ask about my new job. Hell, they didn’t even acknowledge my old one. And if I’d held my breath, waiting for them to ask if there was someone special in my life, I would’ve long since turned blue and dropped out of my high-backed seat.
God, I missed my overstuffed couch and simple meals and Netflix . . . and Matty.
One of the servants was unusually young for household staff, likely in his early thirties. Bright blond hair sprouted in every direction, though it appeared he’d tried to subdue it with paste or gel. Several times during our meals, I caught him licking his fingers and pressing unruly locks to keep them in place. He failed. It would not be quelled.
The boy, the blond color, the rebellious hair, it all reminded me of Matty.
If ever there was a person who needed to visit London, it was Matty. He would adore the ancient buildings nestled in with modern structures. His sense of fashion would kick into overdrive as the city’s upper crust drifted by. Beyond anything, his love of all things fabulous and colorful and regal would be thrilled by each castle, palace, or royal we passed.
The audience with the King might send him over the edge. Matty might not survive the glamor of His Majesty and his court.
It sure would be fun to watch, though.
Our audience was set to take place on my sixth day in London. Mother raced about, waving one necklace after another, like the gods themselves might descend to help her choose. Her emerald gown clung to her still-slender body like a glove, its thousands of sequins glittering in the light. I had to give it to her, she was stunning, every bit a royal like the ones we were about to meet.
Father fiddled with his tie, his face placid, as always.
We were preparing to meet a monarch, and I couldn’t help wondering if there was any excitement left in the man. Sure, he’d met plenty of other heads of states, emissaries, diplomats, and flunkies, but this was the King of England, Ireland, and France—or whatever they said he ruled these days. I could never keep up.
We hadn’t spoken of his health since I’d arrived. I expected Mother to raise the issue, or for Father to at least mention it in passing, but neither did. I didn’t think they were in denial. They were, above all, pragmatists. But it did feel as though other matters were more pressing, which meant discussions of pesky things like impending death had to wait.
While a bit maddening, I did understand, and the last thing I wanted to do was disturb the majesty of his and Mother’s moment with, well, His Majesty. This appointment was the culmination of a lifetime of work for both of them. The meeting with the Crown was a recognition of that fact.
They deserved to shine when the spotlight fixed on them.
My hands were shaking so badly as I tied my own tie Father had to reach over and help complete the knot and smooth it into perfection. I wasn’t sure if he thought twice about the moment—a fleeting instant between father and son—but I was instantly transported decades in the past. It felt special, like he wasn’t some high holy of diplomacy, and I was just his boy, the one he wanted to look his best, the one he loved.
Our moment passed as quickly as it had arrived, as Father turned and strode toward the front door and our waiting driver. I trailed behind, gathering Mother on the way. The blond with the hair problem inclined his head as we passed.
How British of him.
As we approached our car, a black Bentley sent by the palace, I reached out and gripped Mother’s arm.
“Let’s take a selfie,” I said holding up my phone.
She smiled and touched her perfectly coiffed hair. Ahead of us, Father grumbled something unintelligible in Arabic.
“Oh, stop that,” Mother chided good-naturedly. “Give the boy his photo.”
Father turned, the scowl on his face almost turning into a smile as I nuzzled between them and snapped a few pics. The moment we piled into the car, I sent one of the images to Matty.
Me : We’re in the carriage on our way to meet the King.
The dots danced immediately.
Matty : I’m so jelly. And fuck, you look hot. Why have you never worn a suit for me? Or is that a tux? Shit on a stick, are you a secret prince? Have you been hiding royal blood on me?
Me : Blood on you is not a pleasant thought. And no, I am most decidedly not a prince, but thank you.
Matty : Stop being British or modest . . . Is that the same thing? Just stop. You’re hot. I want to eat you alive right this minute.
Me : My parents are in the car.
Matty : That makes the eating thing awkward, but they could watch.
Me : Ew! Don’t make me soil my fancy suit.
Matty : I could think of other ways I’d like to soil that suit.
Me : I’m going now. You giving me a boner as I ride with my parents to meet the monarch is not helpful!
Matty : Boners are always helpful. Love you. Tell Chuck I said hi.
Me : Chuck? Dear God, you are a walking international incident. I have never been so glad to not be part of the diplomatic corps.
Matty : You love me and you know it. Patient’s waiting. Gotta jet. Toodles.
Toodles. As many times as I’d seen that typed, I couldn’t help the goofy grin that parted my lips. Matty was ridiculous and irreverent and silly and . . . God, I loved him.
“Something funny, dear?” Mother asked.
Father’s eyes were glued to his own phone as he reviewed emails or news reports or whatever else ambassadors reviewed when avoiding personal time with their son.
Wow. I sounded bitter in my own mind.
“Just texting . . . someone,” I said, unsure what to call the boyfriend my parents didn’t know about.
“Make sure you set that to heeby-jeeby before we walk into the palace,” she said.
I snorted. Cell phones had been out for how long? And she still called vibrate mode “heeby-jeeby.” Why were parents so strange?
“Yes, Mum. Of course,” I said, making a show of flicking the heeby-jeeby toggle on the side of the phone, then stuffing the device in my coat’s side pocket. I might not be able to receive calls, but I wanted the thing handy in case there were other opportunities to snap pictures.
The King sat on his throne, Queen Camilla sat to one side, and Prince William stood on the other, one step down. According to news reports I’d read on the plane flight over the pond, the Crown Prince attended many of His Majesty’s audiences, a preparatory step for when he assumed the throne. Where the King looked bored, William appeared interested in each person who approached, smiling warmly and offering a word of greeting.
A handful of other courtiers I didn’t recognize stood about the hall, which was far smaller and more intimate than most people imagine. Still, there was a sense of awe when entering The Presence, as an audience with the monarch was called. The room in which it took place mattered little.
Five minutes.
That was how long the formalities lasted.
That was how long we were with the King.
How many hours of travel, planning, and preparation had gone into those five minutes?
As we sat for lunch with a smattering of minor royals and nobles in one of the palace’s dining rooms, I wondered at the conveyer belt of ceremony that drifted through the place. Were all audiences so short? Was the King’s time in such demand that each supplicant received only a word or two, a wave of a sword, or a quick pinning of a medal?
It was a bit of a letdown.
Still, I reminded myself, I got to meet the King.
As Matty would say, “That’s fucking fab.”
Per court protocol, we weren’t allowed to take our own photos, but the royal photographer snapped a gazillion, which we were promised would be in our inboxes before we arrived back at Father’s residence. I made a mental note to insist on a copy of all of them for Matty. He would love all of this.
After lunch, our car traversed London’s streets, depositing us outside the city’s most famous door, Number Ten. A policeman in his crisp uniform and tall hat nodded politely, as though he were the only security a Prime Minister of England needed. The Brits played the coy game but took protection of their leaders seriously. I’d seen them in action when Father spoke to Parliament or visited the PM. I was sure there were snipers in the bushes.
Our audience—if that was what it was called with a PM—lasted twenty minutes. Mother and I were then excused and driven home, while Father, now officially Ambassador Gamal, continued his conversation with the PM, Foreign Minister, and a few other Cabinet Ministers I didn’t recognize.
The day had been a success.
We met the King and his First Minister.
Father became an ambassador.
Just when I was about to turn my mind to weightier matters, Mother reached across the seat and took my hand.
“Today was wonderful, son. I am so proud of you and your father.”
“Me? Father, I understand, but I didn’t do anything.”
She squeezed my hand. “We all became the ambassador today. You, your father, and me. He could never have achieved so much without our support—and by ‘our,’ I mean you, too. You sacrificed so much so he could serve Egypt. That means you also served Egypt and her people.”
I hadn’t ever thought of it that way. Growing up, I knew Father served and was doing good work, but I was just his son, the boy on the side who occasionally showed up at events and was waved around for photo ops when the British or Egyptian version of “family values” was required. I hadn’t done anything but grow up.
And leave.
I did that.
“Mother, I . . .” Words stabbed at my heart. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, Omar. You are the most wonderful son I could ever imagine.” She smiled and squeezed again.
I felt tears welling up. Damn it. I would not cry, not here, not in the car wearing a tux-like suit with my bedazzled mother smiling.
A tear broke free.
Bugger my life.
The other eye began to leak.
Mother reached into her hand-sized handbag and produced a kerchief, then dabbed my cheeks. As I had when Father tied my tie, I felt like a small boy of seven or eight, unable to face the world without my parents’ strength bolstering my still-growing heart.
“I have a surprise waiting for you back at the house,” she said, finishing her dabbing and handing me her handkerchief in case I sprung another leak.
“What is it?”
She smiled and sat back. “ Who , not what, and it wouldn’t be a surprise if I answered, now would it?”
It felt like Mother had just told me Santa was coming . . . in January . . . and Christmas was eleven-and-change months away. What parent does that? Is there no law against cruelty to minors? Well, men who were minors but still sons pretending to be young boys?
Bloody hell.
The car inched across town, London traffic being no more pleasant or forgiving than any major metropolis. Mother sat across from me, a smug grin on her lips as she stared out of the window and tried to avoid making further eye contact. She knew surprises ate me alive. She’d known for years.
How dare she toy with me like that!
Secretly, deep down, hidden where no one would ever see or know it, I loved surprises. There was something about the anticipation that made me all giddy and bubbly and . . . shit . . . I sounded like Matty on crack. Worse, I felt like that. It was as if I was a can of Coca-Cola and Mother had just shaken me for a quarter hour then set me back on the counter. My whole body vibrated, begging for release.
Whoa, smutty one, not that kind of release.
The kind of release one experiences when finally getting to open a wrapped present that sat there for weeks and weeks, its stupid bow gleaming with glitter and light. Yeah, that kind of release.
It was maddening.
Waiting was maddening.
And I loved every second of it.
When the car finally pulled into our circular drive, I leaped out and darted toward the door. Mother called after me, but I ignored her. There was a prize waiting, and I had to know what it contained.
Who it contained.
As I climbed the steps and my hand gripped the handle to our front door, the darn thing flew open, revealing a shrunken woman with dark, wrinkled skin, and the brightest smile the universe ever created.
“Well, for fuck’s sake, I am an old woman. What took you so long?” Teto asked.