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‘The Ten of Swords. It’s a dead body full of swords. I’ll have to look it up. I bought a Tarot book.’
‘I don’t think Tarot cards are meant to be literal.’
The sound of shuffling cards.
‘Can’t you get the book done any faster than three months, Addy? I need you to photograph a penthouse I’ve just finished in Mayfair for some Chinese clients. Never met them. Did it all through their PA. A million pounds on the interiors and they’re only going to use it for a week at Christmas. Apparently, it’s an investment.’
Addy swats at a fly. ‘The visa lasts for three months and I need the time to do this book. And …’
‘And what?’
Addy sighs. ‘Oh, Pippa. I met someone. I don’t know what to think. He’s a Berber mountain guide. Well, Amazigh, actually. He’s very nice. A bit younger than me.’
‘Oh, good grief. Define younger.’
‘Thirty-ish. Nothing’s happened. It’s just … I don’t know.’
‘My sister, the cougar.’
Addy watches a black-and-white cat slink across the gravel path as it eyes a rooster strutting under the olive tree with a harem of chickens.
‘Don’t worry. I’ve been avoiding him. I’ve still got Nigel to deal with. But then sometimes I think maybe a fling would do me a world of good. I mean, what’s the harm, Pips? It’s not like it’d ever be a long-term relationship.’
‘You don’t want to know what’s inside my mind. It’s a dustbin in there.’ The cat pounces. The rooster and chickens scrabble, flapping away in a cloud of dust and ear-splitting cackles. ‘What’s that racket?’
‘A cat chasing some chickens. His name’s Omar.’
‘The cat?’
‘No. The Berber guide.’
‘Have you slept with him?’
‘Pippa! I just got here.’
‘Why not just be on your own for a while? You’re always looking for a man to rescue you.’
‘I’m not!’
‘Really? When was the last time you were single?’
‘I was single in Canada.’
‘Twenty years ago. Don’t you think it’s time for you to stand on your own two feet instead of going after inaccessible men?’
‘I am standing on my own two feet! I’m in Morocco, aren’t I?’
‘Running away, more like.’ Philippa huffs into the phone. ‘What’s a Berber, anyway?’
Addy sighs and shifts the phone to her right ear. ‘I’ve been doing some research online for my travel book.’ She shuffles through her papers and pulls out a piece of paper covered in scribbled notes. ‘Berbers, or Imazighen as they call themselves – Amazigh singular – are the indigenous population of North Africa. The Arabs converted them to Islam in the eighth century. Before that they practised everything from paganism to Christianity and Judaism.’
‘The Fool. Bloody hell. I want the Lovers, not the Fool. That one’s probably meant for you.’
‘You’re not listening.’ Addy sips her coffee. It’s gone stone-cold. She sets down the mug and peers out over the railings.
‘It’s all very interesting, Addy. Good research for your book.’
A donkey emerges from the olive grove ridden by a bare-footed boy. Amine. The boy with vitiligo from the restaurant. He smiles and waves at her as he passes by. She waves back.
‘What do you think I should do, Pippa? About the man, I mean.’
‘You can’t seriously be considering a relationship with a Moroccan goatherd. It’s not so bad being on your own. Look at me. Divorced twenty years and I couldn’t be happier. Free as a bird. I can tango every night till dawn if I want to. If only the knees would hold up.’
‘C’mon. You’re always talking about wanting to find a man.’ Addy picks up the mug and pads over the cool stones into the house. ‘You’re glued to that house in Chelsea. The world’s a bigger place than Redcliffe Road. You should travel more.’ She dumps the cold coffee in the kitchen sink and turns on the tap to rinse the cup. The pipes groan. ‘Bugger.’
‘Bugger? There’s nothing wrong with Redcliffe Road. It’s a very good address.’
‘No water.’
‘Exactly. How can you live like that? You want my advice? Get on the first plane back to London and sort out your life. As for men, well, I’ve given up on the whole bloody lot of them. Everybody my age wants a twenty-year-old bimbette or someone to nurse them through their dotage. Once you hit forty you’re done for, Addy. I may as well have “Danger, Radioactive” tattooed on my forehead. Thank God I’ve got a career.’
‘What about the tango guys?’ Addy heads across the living room’s cool concrete floor back to the veranda.
‘A bunch of mummy’s boys and sexual deviants. But at least I get to touch a man, otherwise it’s just me and the neighbour’s cat. The Wheel of Fortune. That’s more like it.’
Addy flops into the chair. ‘That can go up or down.’
‘Let’s say it’s on the way up, shall we? Seriously, this Omar person probably makes eyes at all the girls. Though you’re way past the girl phase.’
‘I don’t think he’s like that.’
‘He’s a mountain guide. In Morocco. Of course he’s like that.’
‘He’s a university graduate.’
‘Really?’
‘In English literature.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘And you believed him.’
‘Well …’
‘You’re naive. That’s part of your problem. You trust people. Everyone’s out for themselves. It’s a Me! Me! Me! world.’
Addy massages her forehead with her fingertips. ‘What do you mean “part of my problem”?’
‘You have terrible taste in men.’
An image of her ex-fiancé, Nigel, plants itself in Addy’s head. Floppy brown hair, ‘trust me’ hazel eyes, the teasing grin. Despite how much he’d hurt her, she couldn’t help but feel some lingering affection towards him. They’d had some fun together, when Nigel wasn’t off somewhere climbing the ladder to a legal career. They’d play hooky to catch a mid-week movie matinee at the Clapham Picture House, or check out a band at the Brixton Dome. All that petered out as Nigel got busier with work. But then she’d been busy with her photography studio too. It had just all gone wrong at the end. Badly wrong.
‘Nigel wasn’t so bad. He was under a lot of pressure at work. He was trying to get taken on as a partner at the law firm. My cancer was hard on him. It couldn’t have been easy holding my bald head over the toilet while I puked my guts out.’
‘My heart bleeds. Did I ever tell you he used to come crying on my shoulder when you were sick? I was completely taken in. I was the one who pulled strings to get him into that law firm in the first place. More fool me. He’s a bastard for fooling around when your hair fell out.’
Finding the bill from The Ivy was a shock. Dinner for two. But it wasn’t as bad as finding the hotel invoice. Both dated the night she was in hospital having the blood transfusion. Nigel should’ve been more careful. Shoving the receipts in an envelope on their shared desk was stupid. Cancer did strange things to people. There was a lot of collateral damage.
‘I guess.’
‘I don’t mean to upset you. It’s just that when I think of Nigel, I want to poke his eyes out with a burning poker. I hate being taken for a fool.’
‘Never mind about Nigel. That’s over. Mashy mushkey.’
‘Mashy what?’
‘It means no problem.’
‘So, now you’re speaking Moroccan.’
‘Darija, actually.’
The rooster rends the air with an ear-splitting crow. Addy watches him strut across the path. He stops and stares at her with a cold black eye. Thrusting out his red feathered chest, he bellows out another piercing crow.
‘Good God, what a racket. The Devil card. Addy, that one’s definitely for you.’
Chapter Nine (#ulink_383bb6c3-6892-5f8f-be4e-5e0ad68c5846)
Zitoune, Morocco – April 2009
‘It’s working?’
Omar’s mother, Aicha, flicks through the TV remote but the images on the large flat-screen TV wobble and fizz like the European soft drinks Omar brings them from Azaghar for the Eid al-Adha celebration dinner.
Aicha walks through the archway from the living room and yells up the steps to the roof. ‘Laa! Not yet!’
Fatima pops her head around the kitchen door. ‘Maybe it’s not a good television. It’s not new like the one Yassine bought for his wife.’
‘Yassine never bought it for Khadija, one hundred per cent.’ Omar’s head appears in the patch of blue sky over the open courtyard. ‘He only buys stuff for himself, you have to know about it. Anyway, this is a good television. It’s a bit new. You’ll be able to watch your Turkish shows better.’ Omar’s head disappears from view. ‘Yamma, try now!’ he yells. ‘I fixed the satellite with the clothesline.’
Aicha hands the remote to Fatima. ‘You do it, Fatima. It’s too complicated for me.’ She heads up the rough grey concrete steps to the roof of the extension Omar’s building. Stepping over a stack of wood, Aicha grabs a rusty iron strut to steady herself. Omar is by the satellite dish, tightening her clothesline around the white disc to correct its tilt.
Fatima’s voice floats up to the roof. ‘It’s working! Don’t move it! Just like that!’
Omar steps back from the satellite dish and slaps the dust off his hands. ‘Good. I’ll buy you another clothesline, Yamma. Don’t worry.’
‘Mashi mushkil.’ Aicha steps over the discarded paint cans and bends down to collect the workers’ dirty tagine pot. Finally, she has Omar on his own. It’s time to discuss the situation.
‘Zaina’s mother was here yesterday.’
Omar’s eyebrow twitches. ‘Oh, yes? She’s well? Everyone’s well?’
Aicha props the tagine pot on her hip as she picks dead leaves off her pots of pelargoniums. ‘Everyone’s well. But, you know, Zaina is getting older. Her parents are worried about her.’
Omar begins stacking concrete blocks into a neat pile. ‘No reason to worry about her. She’s a clever girl.’
‘Omar. You know what I’m talking about. You’re not so young. You must think about marriage. Zaina is waiting for you. You promised …’
‘Yamma, I didn’t promise anything. You promised her parents I’d marry her. Full stop.’
‘I don’t understand what the problem is. She cooks well. She cleans her parents’ house well. She’s young and healthy and very pretty. She’ll be a good mother.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’
‘So, why are you waiting? They’ll marry Zaina to someone else soon.’
‘If Allah wills.’
‘Omar, I’m only thinking of you and your happiness. All you do is work. Your life is passing you by. Don’t you want to have a fine son?’
‘I think you want to have a fine grandson.’
Aicha twists her mouth into a pout. ‘What’s wrong with that? Yes, I want many grandchildren. We must think about Fatima as well. She must be married soon, even though she says no to everybody.’
‘Fatima can do as she likes. She’s a free Amazigh woman like the Queen Dihya of history. I won’t put my sister in a prison to make her marry someone she doesn’t want, like what happened to Uncle Rachid’s daughter. Fatima must be happy when she gets married. That’s my responsibility to her.’
‘Fatima thinks only of romance like she sees on the television. She has to be practical. It’s not easy to find her a husband because of her black skin, even if she’s your sister. It’s easy to find a good wife for you because you’re a hard worker. If you don’t want to marry Zaina, tell me. Everybody wants their daughter to marry you.’
Omar stacks the last concrete block onto the pile and sits down on it with a sigh. He rubs at the crease between his eyes.
‘I don’t like to talk about this situation. Anyway, maybe I’ll marry a foreign lady. It’s possible.’
Aicha bolts upright, dropping dried pelargonium leaves over the concrete.
‘You shouldn’t say things like that. You’re Amazigh. You must have an Amazigh wife.’
‘Uncle Rachid doesn’t have an Amazigh wife.’
‘He has an Arab wife, and this has caused many problems for him in his life.’
‘Yamma, I’m Amazigh, so I’m a free man. I can marry who I like. Anyway, I like a foreign lady. You met her.’
The beautiful woman with the red hair like a boy. Aicha shakes her head.
‘This is not a good situation, Omar. You’ll have problems with a foreign lady. Will she live in Zitoune? I don’t think so. She’ll want to be with her own people. She’ll make you live far away.’
