Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
WHERE THIS WORLD MEETS THE OLD AND NEW DREAMS UNFOLD . . .
Hattie sat rigidly in the back of a taxicab, gripping the edge of the seat.
The Egyptian driver who’d bartered hard for the fare seemed to have a lead foot, and if he went any faster, she thought they might become airborne.
This was worse than a ride with Alf, she thought, as the streets of Aswan screeched by in a blur.
Unlike the smell of shaggy animals in Alf’s old vehicle, the cab oozed cigarette smoke, thick and stale, but with something else.
Dried oregano? Or perhaps it was liquorice-tinged anise from the limp air freshener swaying in the rear-view mirror. Whatever it was, layered with petrol and exhaust fumes, Hattie couldn’t wait to get out and breathe fresher air.
The cab suddenly slowed, turned off the road, then stopped, and as Hattie gazed out, she saw huge iron gates opening to the gardens of the Old Cataract Hotel. A valet, in an immaculate cream uniform with gold buttons gleaming, and a red felt fez, stepped forward and opened the door.
Free from the heat of the vehicle, Hattie felt as though she was moving into another era as she straightened her dress and settled her bag on her arm.
‘Welcome to the Old Cataract Hotel,’ the man said, and with the sweep of his arm invited her to step into the garden.
Wearing a pale blue crepe tea dress that she’d treated herself to for the occasion, Hattie adjusted her shallow-brimmed straw hat and touched the pearls roped at her neck. Placing her best foot forward, in low-heeled soft blue suede court shoes, she moved into her dream.
The perfectly sculptured garden was surrounded by a palm-tree-lined pathway, and Hattie paused to admire a classic vintage car before passing a waterfall and making her way to the hotel entrance.
‘Oh my,’ she gasped, as she crossed the threshold and into the cool lobby, and the outside world suddenly receded.
Her heels clicked as she stepped across the gleaming floor.
A chandelier caught her eye, beneath which sat a circular table and the largest arrangement of fresh flowers that Hattie had ever seen.
A staff member stepped forward, introduced himself as Youssef and asked if he might assist. Escorting Hattie, he guided her past a bar with dark polished wood, deep leather chairs, and high curved arches.
The hotel slowly unfolded, with glimpses of staircases curving to the upper floors before widening into a covered wrought-iron terrace of rattan tables and deeply cushioned chairs.
‘You will enjoy our lower terrace.’ Youssef smiled.
He led Hattie down a set of steps through more manicured gardens, and she paused to admire an open-air infinity pool, where bodies lazed on old-fashioned steamer beds, under the blazing afternoon sun.
The Nile came into view, and Hattie stopped.
She stared at the breathtaking sight of feluccas catching the wind, as they had for centuries, their sails billowing against the blue sky.
On the island in the river, date palms lined the banks, and she could see the ruins of ancient buildings before sand dunes gave way to sun-bleached hills.
The spectacular scene was everything she’d imagined it to be.
Under a wide shady awning, a corner table beckoned, laid for afternoon tea. ‘Please,’ Youssef said, ‘for you.’
‘Thank you, Youssef.’ Hattie beamed. ‘This is like a wonderful dream.’
‘I am at your service, madam, to make your time at the Old Cataract Hotel like a dream come true.’
Seconds later, Hattie raised her glass to the Nile. ‘Perfect,’ she purred, sipping ice-cold champagne with a satisfied smile.
Peter placed the soft soles of his desert boots on the gleaming floor of the lobby of the Old Cataract Hotel and, with the air of a man who thought someone was watching him, glanced over his shoulder, then paused as though making a mental note.
‘Best not to rush,’ he whispered to himself. Espionage in Peter’s make-believe mind thrived on patience.
Moving carefully, he acted as though he knew exactly where he was going, and it was with luck that moments later he stood beside the curved archway entrance to the bar.
Choosing a seat with a commanding view of the room, he picked up a cocktail list, his eyes peeping over the sculpted leather, as he discreetly observed other guests.
When the steward approached, Peter ordered a beer.
At the next table, smart in white silk, a woman held a pencil and studied a magazine.
A courier! Peter thought, his mind racing.
When she finished reading, she idly placed the magazine down, drained her wine glass, and stood.
Without a glance in his direction, she smoothed her skirt and walked out of the bar.
Peter waited, then rose, and casually inched towards her table.
When he was certain no one was watching, he seized the magazine and returned to his seat.
The woman had been filling out a crossword, her pencil marks light.
Clues, he told himself and scanned the words, imagining them to be code. He slid the magazine carefully back to the table, positioning it exactly as she’d left it. Taking a sip of his beer, he waited, prepared for whatever came next.
Glancing around the bar, Peter found himself thinking of Mary. This hotel, he knew, had for a time been the home of her favourite author, and the real reason he’d visited today.
Mary had enjoyed their bi-annual break in Tenerife, which he’d booked year after year, the comfort of its familiarity, he now realised, appealed far more to him than to her. Mary often said that she wished they’d try somewhere different.
Perhaps, had they ventured somewhere more exotic, or even if he’d brought her here, they might still have been together.
In his fantasies, he escaped from the realities of the world but back on the ground, the truth was simple, and he missed her.
Peter swirled the beer in the twinkling cut-glass and knew that he’d failed his wife.
Visiting places like this didn’t change your life but simply reminded you of what you’d failed to do.
But before he could speculate further on his malfunctioning marriage, the woman in white had returned, and Peter looked up, his pulse quickening. Had she come to retrieve the magazine and see if a message had been left in its pages?
The woman reached down, picked up the magazine, and tucked it neatly into her bag. Turning, she realised that Peter was watching.
‘I forgot my magazine,’ she said.
‘I see,’ he replied.
She was about to move away, but instead, paused. ‘Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind my asking,’ she began, ‘but do you know the twelve-letter word for careful monitoring? I’ve been struggling with it all afternoon.’
Peter sighed. A tourist with time on her hands.
‘Surveillance,’ he answered flatly.
And with his brief interlude in fantasy espionage momentarily concluded, Peter turned to the steward and ordered another beer.
In their suite, Anouska was preparing for the boat trip to the Nubian village, and Gerald watched her place her selfie stick in her bag, then check that she had her lipstick, shades, sunscreen, and her phone.
God forbid that she should forget her phone, he thought.
Imagine an afternoon with @AnouskaDelusca failing to post a picture!
He had to admit that she looked stunningly beautiful in flared silk trousers and a matching blouse, pretty jewelled sandals, and a stylish, wide-brimmed statement hat that cast a cool, deliberate shadow across her face.
‘Do get changed, Gerald, I can’t possibly be seen with you if you insist on wearing that ridiculously tight shirt,’ Anouska said. ‘And please, trousers, not shorts. Your legs are so white they look like they’ve been bleached.’
Gerald bit his lip. Yesterday, for a brief moment, when she’d brushed her lips across his cheek as they left for the Kom Ombo Temple, Gerald had thought that Anouska still loved him, but her feelings had been fleeting, and by evening, after she’d tumbled at the Philae light show, they’d become positively hostile.
Earlier, at breakfast, she’d bickered the entire time, and now she was ordering him about as though he were a child unable to dress himself.
He was about to head to the wardrobe and change when a wave of defiance stopped him.
If Anouska didn’t like it, she could damn well lump it!
‘We’re going to be late if you don’t get a move on,’ Anouska called out.
‘I’m ready,’ Gerald replied. ‘I need to grab a map from guest services, so I’ll see you on the quay.’ Before Anouska could reply or join him, Gerald grabbed his oldest hat and hurried from the suite.
At the top of the steps by the riverside quay, a coach was waiting to transport guests to the boat bound for the Nubian village on the West Bank. Gerald deliberately blended into the crowd, knowing that when Anouska joined them, her anger might tone down as she wouldn’t want to risk a scene.
But . . . he was wrong.
Anouska’s arrival saw her jostling through the crowd, her expression furious beneath her hat’s wide brim.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?
’ she hissed, leaning in close. ‘You left me to walk through all those hecklers . . . and what is that?’ She stopped dead, eyes widening as she took in the dusty trilby perched at a jaunty angle on Gerald’s head.
Squinting, she read the slogan.
Kiss Me Quick – Squeeze Me Slowly
‘Where in God’s name did you get that hat?’ Anouska snarled.
Gerald smiled. ‘Don’t you like it, dear?’
‘No, I damn well don’t. You look ridiculous,’ Anouska snapped, reaching to snatch it away.
But Gerald was quicker and lifted the hat just out of reach. He wasn’t about to let it be tossed to the ground. It was a favourite. A bit of fun on a day trip to Blackpool with Sally, back when fun and laughter had come easily.
Guests were piling onto the coach, and Anouska – not wanting to be bundled at the back – huffed as she boarded and found a seat. Still holding his hat, Gerald sat beside her.
The engine rumbled, and Sam – at the front of the coach – took the microphone and began to speak, outlining the trip and what guests could expect on arrival.
As Gerald stared straight ahead and Anouska stared out of the window, he had a sudden impulse to abandon the trip. To hell with it, he wasn’t going to go!
Clutching his hat, Gerald turned to Anouska.
‘Sorry, dear,’ he said loudly, ‘but I think I have a sudden case of the Pharaoh’s Revenge, and I need to find a loo. NOW!’
Anouska recoiled as though Gerald was contagious, and before he could change his mind, Gerald leapt from his seat, muttered apologies to Sam and bolted off the coach. As the coach pulled away, Gerald smiled, a sudden lightness filling his chest. He put the hat on and headed back to the boat.
And, for the first time in as long as he could remember, Gerald knew exactly what he was going to do.