“I always thought your legal practice was a scam,” she continued as she sat down, “and that you simply claimed to be an advocate so people wouldn't accuse you of being a playboy.”
He laughed and she said, “I've come to see if you can supply me with names for the Red Cross ball I'm helping to organize
in order to raise money for the war effort. Lady Lampson and I have contacted everyone we know in the British community and your father has kindly shared with us his entire address book. But your social circle is a much younger one and I wondered if I could ask the same favor of you? I have four hundred tickets to sell and so I need all the help I can get.”
Keeping amusement out of his voice with difficulty, he said, “I can give you the names of some of my polo-playing friends, Delia, but the tally won't come anything close to four hundred.”
“Never mind.” She took off the gloves she was wearing. “Every little bit helps.”
His secretary brought in the tea tray.
Delia checked the contents of the china teapot and then poured.
Watching her, he wondered what had been missing in the Conisboroughs’ marriage that had resulted in her longstanding affair with Sir Jerome.
Probably Ivor had been unfaithful first and she had chosen Jerome to comfort her. The odd thing was her relationship with her husband seemed perfectly compatible. Conisborough had remained friends with Bazeljette. And certainly Delia— who Darius was sure must be aware of her husband's affair— accepted Kate. They were often seen together at polo matches and race meetings.
He wondered if Jack was aware of the nature of his father's relationship with Delia. Since Jack had married Fawzia, Darius had found it difficult to come to terms with the fact that they were now brothers-in-law. When they had been boys and Jack had spent long periods of time at Nile House, the two of them had been friends, though it had always been a fiercely competitive friendship—as when they had both damned near killed themselves at the Gezira Sporting Club polo match.
It had been a long time since the two had met; not since
Jack and Fawzia had visited Cairo as newlyweds. Now, with Jack's move into military intelligence, their relationship was even more strained.
Before he could ponder the problems of Jack being posted to Cairo, Delia said, “Something else I'm tryin' to do, Darius, is to think of ways of entertainin' the troops when they are on leave. They need something to take their minds off the fighting. At the moment most of them simply flock to the El-Birkeh district and then end up in the VD clinics. Alternatives are needed. D'you have any ideas?”
He couldn't think of another woman of her age and class who would so unselfconsciously mention prostitution and venereal disease.
Aware of how much he liked her, he said, “You could try tea parties and concert parties or historical trips to the city's mosques, but I doubt such activities will tempt soldiers away from the brothels—especially when women are in such short supply in the city.”
“But what about proper clubs? Somewhere they could get something resemblin' British food—eggs and chips and homemade cake, for instance?”
“If the club in question also had hot showers, baths, and a barber, you just might be successful. And if the British weren't so class conscious, there wouldn't be a need for such clubs. If privates and NCOs could go to Shepheard's, the Continental, the Gezira Sporting Club, the Turf Club, or any of the other decent places in Cairo that are out of bounds to anyone other than officers, the problem wouldn't exist.”
It was a provocative thing to say, but he was gambling on her agreeing, for she was, after all, an American. And he was damn sure American soldiers wouldn't put up with such segregation.
His hunch proved correct.
She made a despairing gesture. “I quite agree with you,
Darius. But strict segregation between officers and noncoms has always been the way in the British army. That's why it is important that there are other places the British Tommy can go.”
Darius pushed his half-drunk cup of tea to one side. “I'm not going to be able to come up with any ideas unless I get some coffee and decent pastry. How about we go to Groppi's?”
“That's a grand suggestion,” she said. “I like Groppi's. They make the best sugared almonds in Cairo.”
And with the suppleness of a woman twenty years her junior, she rose to her feet and slipped her hand companionably in the crook of his arm.
“I understand you squired my mother to Groppi's,” Davina said teasingly as they met up at the Gezira Sporting Club to watch a polo match.
“I'm not quite sure who was squiring whom.” Darius shielded his eyes from the sun as the ponies trotted onto the field. “It was my idea that we go there, but only after she'd taken me by surprise at work. She wanted a list of names to invite to a Red Cross charity ball. She also asked me for alternative ways to keep the troops out of the El-Birkeh district and the VD clinics.”
“Dear Lord! What did the two of you come up with? Or would it be better for me not to know?”
“No. Her idea was for a well-run club providing everything the Hilmiya Camp doesn't.”
The British had established the existing camp a tram ride out of the city at Heliopolis. It was common knowledge that apart from its sea of tents it boasted no facilities other than a bar and an inadequate football pitch.
The umpire tossed the ball between the opposing teams and the action exploded in a great clacking of mallets. Darius
was caught up in the furious excitement of the match and all conversation between them ceased.
During the intermission they walked onto the field with other spectators and began the ritual of stamping the divots back in.
“Petra is very happy at the moment,” Davina said, searching out another clump of grass that had been unearthed by the ponies and toeing it back into the ground. “She's just heard that one of her closest friends, Boudicca Pytchley, is coming to Cairo as an ambulance driver. Another of her old friends, Archie Somerset, is already in Cairo. She ran into him at a party at the Scarabee Club.”
“Is he a regular soldier?”
“No. Special ops.”
There was a whole clutch of such outfits operating deep in the desert, reconnoitering and raiding behind German and Italian lines.
He was still thinking about the special operation units when Davina said, “Mother's had an awful dustup with Sir Miles. She thinks he should be taking a stronger position about the army directive that wives and children of military personnel are to be evacuated and that only wives with official war work are to be allowed to stay.”
They were nearing the stands and a welcome breeze sent the skirt of her ice-blue silk dress fluttering against her legs.
“And what was Sir Miles's response?” Darius asked, wishing he could have seen such a head-on confrontation.
“Oh, he agreed with her that the action was unnecessarily alarmist, but said it was something he could do nothing about. Not being a military family it doesn't affect us and, as Petra is a secretary at the embassy and I'm a nurse, it wouldn't affect us even if we were. It's causing a lot of distress, though, and many wives are applying for clerical jobs in order to stay.”
Not feeling the remotest sympathy for the Englishwomen
desperate to stay on in a country that wasn't theirs he slipped his arm around Davina and said, “Let's miss the second half of the match. We can go to the houseboat.”
As they continued walking she leaned against him. “Yes,” she said, loving the feel of his body close to hers and the fact that he wanted to make love to her so urgently.
They walked past the stands and, avoiding the Lido terrace that was always full of people they knew, they left the club grounds.
Zamalek was only a short walk and as they strolled along the riverbank, her arm now comfortably around his waist, she said, “I think Fawzia must be becoming very friendly with Queen Farida. We went to Cicurel's department store yesterday to look at the new picture hats and while we were there a police officer came up to us and said Fawzia's presence was wanted at the palace. Then he whisked her out of the store and into a limousine. It was pretty rude of him.”
Darius stopped short. High above his head a kite circled slowly. “Did the policeman say specifically that it was the Queen who wanted her company?” he asked, a nerve beginning to throb in his jaw.
“No, but who else could have wanted her at the palace? If it had been the King she wouldn't have gone. Not unaccompanied. And I've heard your father say that Farida gets terribly lonely.”
“Yes,” he said, his voice carefully devoid of expression. “I expect you're right.”
The kite, spying prey, dived.
Davina, always on the side of the victim, winced.
As they started walking again, she said, “I imagine your father would like it if Fawzia and Queen Farida became friends, because I think Fawzia is also lonely. I see little of her and she and Petra are prickly with each other these days. The best solution would be if Jack were posted to Cairo. It can't be easy
being separated from your husband. She must miss him very much.”
He didn't say anything. He thought of how discontented Fawzia already was in her marriage—and of how shocked Davina would be to know the reason.
He remembered Fawzia wondering how generous Farouk might be to a mistress. And he was pondering the oddity of there being no comeback from the palace over his failure to deliver Petra there in order that she could, in Farouk's words, “see the art treasures of the palace” with him. Was it because Farouk's interest had shifted elsewhere? To Fawzia?
The next day Darius drove through streets choked with military vehicles to his family home in Garden City.
The house faced a tree-lined boulevard and he swerved to a halt outside a wide, high gateway. It was too early for Fawzia to be out, but not, he hoped, so early that his father would still be there. He wasn't in the mood for filial courtesies.
As he slammed the low-slung door of the Mercedes behind him a black Nubian, sitting cross-legged in front of the heavy cedarwood door of the gateway, leaped to his feet. It was his sole task to open and close the door to visitors and though he had been there ever since Darius was a child, Darius still had no idea of his name.
Striding past him into the huge rose-filled courtyard, his only thought was whether or not his sister was behaving like a whore.
His father's majordomo hurried to greet him.
Told that Fawzia was having breakfast on the garden terrace, he strode through the high-ceilinged, lavishly furnished rooms toward it.
When she saw him, she almost dropped her coffee cup.
“Darius! What on earth …? Nothing is the matter, is
it?” She put the cup down unsteadily onto the beautifully laid breakfast table. “There hasn't been an accident?”
“There hasn't been an accident, but there certainly is a problem.”
She went rigid and he knew instantly that she understood what he was referring to.
“Davina told me about your visit to the palace. She assumed it was a summons from Queen Farida, but I don't think it was. And I don't think it was the first such visit.”
Abruptly she pushed her chair from the table and sprang to her feet, her negligee swirling around her ankles. “What I do and whom I see is my own business!”
“Not if it means you've become one of Farouk's whores!”
“I'm not a whore!” Her eyes blazed fire. “I'm the mistress of my King!”
He'd never hit her, not even when they were children, but he slapped her face so hard that she staggered. A second later she slapped him back with all the strength she had.
The urge to seize hold of her and give her the kind of beating she would never forget was almost too much for him.
Well aware of the danger she stood in, and heedless of it, she didn't back away from him. Instead, she moved closer.
“Keep out of my affairs,” she spat, fire in her eyes, “and I'll keep out of yours.”
“And just what the hell do you mean by that?”
“I mean that I know all about your friendship with Constantin Antonescu—and if you tell our father about me, I'll tell Davina just how close your links are to Britain's enemies.”
“At least my loyalties are to my country!” Rage streamed through him in a dizzying tide. “Where are your loyalties? What do you think Jack's reaction would be if he knew?”
“His reaction would be about as disastrous as Davina's if I told her what you are up to.”
“And you think you know what that is, do you?”
“Oh, yes,” she shot back at him. “I know.”
At the certainty in her voice, he said, “Then you won't be surprised if I ask you to keep me informed of any interesting conversations you overhear at Abdin. If you have to whore, it may as well be for something more valuable than the jewels you're no doubt receiving.”
“That's quite a lot to ask, considering my husband is a British intelligence officer.”
Sometimes her effrontery was so shameless that he almost admired it.
“You should have thought of your husband before you got into bed with Farouk,” he snapped as she seated herself once again at the breakfast table.
She crossed her legs. “King Farouk,” she corrected with insolent composure. “His Majesty, King Farouk, by the grace of God, King of Egypt and of Sudan, Sovereign of Nubia, of Kordofan, and of Darfur. One of the richest men in the world and a man who is going to divorce Farida and make me his queen.”
“Sweet heaven,” he said devoutly. “I do believe you think it's possible.”
“It's more than possible. It's already in the cards.” Her voice was amused. “Like you, I play for very high stakes—and I can't wait for the day when you have to comply with royal etiquette and walk away from me backward.”
“That day, Fawzia,” he said through clenched teeth, “will never come!”
He strode away from her, slamming the French doors so hard behind him that the glass in the frames splintered and shattered, falling at his heels in great ugly shards.
“I don't care how many other parties there are this Christmas, the one at Nile House is going to be the biggest and the best,” Delia said as she sipped a gin sling on Shepheard's terrace. “We have so much to celebrate. General Wavell has chased the Italians all the way back across the Western Desert and there are no enemy troops now on Egyptian soil. It's a cause for great celebration, don't y'think?”