Finally Jack asked the question that had been on his mind since he landed in Egypt. “How is Petra, Delia?”
“Petra,” Delia said, looking toward the house, “is fine. You will stay for a late lunch, won't you? We can catch up on all the other gossip. Boo Pytchley is in Cairo, and so is Archie Somerset. I don't think Petra has had news of Rupert and all we know of Annabel and Fedya is that Fedya is in the RAF. It's impossible to get news of Suzi. What life is like in occupied Paris is hard to imagine, but at least Suzi isn't Jewish. I say my prayers every night for the French who are. As for Magda …”
She tucked her hand once more in the crook of his arm and they began walking back to the house. “As for Magda, I sincerely hope she no longer thinks Hitler is the Savior of Germany. In the days when she admired him much of English high society shared her opinion. In 1936, when Ribbentrop was the German ambassador to London, he was accepted nearly everywhere. I met him twice when we were both guests at the same dinner party. Sholto, I believe, knew him quite well. As for poor Wallis …”
She lifted her shoulders in a gesture of despair. “According to your father there's a rumor that she and Ribbentrop were lovers. It's the usual bunk. Wallis would never have put her relationship with David at risk in such a way. Why people are such skunks about her is beyond me.”
It was a familiar refrain and Jack's thoughts turned to Petra again. Delia's brief comment about her had been infuriatingly unsatisfactory. He was fairly sure he knew why she'd changed the subject so quickly. She didn't want him upsetting Petra's marriage, or his own to Fawzia.
And she was quite right about the dangers. British social life in Cairo had always revolved around a handful of venues: the Gezira Sporting Club, the Turf Club, Shepheard's, the Continental, Groppi's, and a few others. That he would meet Petra continually went without saying. For him, seeing her could easily destroy his own shaky union.
Resolved to make his marriage work, he stepped into the shady coolness of the dining room and began paying attention again to Delia's conversation.
“Your father don't get to ride half as much as he would like these days,” she said as they took their places at the beautifully laid table. “In Virginia he'll be able to ride to his heart's content.”
With amusement he saw that Adjo had taken it for granted that he would be staying for lunch and that the table was laid for two.
“When I was a girl,” she said, her green eyes growing dreamy with memory, “I had the most wonderful horse; his name was Sultan. Saying goodbye to him was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do.”
A young safragi, who Jack suspected was probably one of Adjo's great-nephews, poured the wine and then left them to enjoy their meal.
“Was that when you married Ivor?” he asked, dipping a piece of warm pita bread into a dish of hummus.
“Yes,” she said, unusually thoughtful. She took a black olive from a blue-and-white glazed bowl, bit into it, and then said, “He wasn't in love with me when we married, although
he was deeply attracted and had a genuine affection for me— an affection that has lasted, I'm glad to say.”
It was something he had long suspected, but hearing her speaking so frankly was a shock. He said carefully, knowing he was on dangerous ground, “But if he didn't love you, why did he marry you?”
She put some fava-bean salad onto her plate and added a stuffed sweet pepper. “He was a widower who had no heir. I was young and he thought I would be able to provide him with a son. As it was, after Petra and Davina there were no more children. Considering his disappointment, he took it mighty well.”
“If Ivor didn't love you,” Jack said, “who did he love?”
Her eyebrows rose slightly, as if it was a question she was surprised he had to ask. “Why, your mother, of course,” she said.
Her eyes held his with perfect candor.
“Your mother was the love of Ivor's life when he was a young man. He was in love with her when he married Olivia, and he was in love with her when he married me—and she remained his love long after she ended their affair and married Theo Girlington.”
There was no bitterness or resentment in her voice and he realized that all resentment and hurt were long over.
“Kate, who is so utterly different in every way from your mother, brought happiness back into his life.” Her affection for Kate was clear. “I've always been grateful to her. With luck she'll be able to give him the son he has waited so long for.”
Jack didn't have to ask where Delia's own happiness lay, but there was one question he had to pose while she was in such a starkly honest mood.
“Why,” he said, as she took a sip of her wine, “did you object so strongly to my marrying Petra?”
The instant the words left his mouth it was as if all the air in the room had been sucked out. The tension was palpable.
Delia hesitated and just as she was finally about to answer, the door of the dining room opened and Fawzia walked in. Her black hair was looped into a knot on the top of her head. Her skin gleamed pale gold. She was wearing a vivid emerald brocade dress more suitable for a cocktail party than the early afternoon, and she looked like a princess straight out of the
Arabian Nights.
“Daddy told me you were here!” she said a trifle breathlessly. “Isn't this wonderful? To be together again like this?”
He rose from the table, agonizingly aware that the moment between Delia and himself had been lost.
He kissed Fawzia with as much passion as Delia's presence allowed, noticing that her perfume was as unsuitable for an afternoon as her dress. It was heavy, exotic, and very, very sexy.
“How long are you here for?” she asked, her arms still around his neck. “Your father was in Cairo with Mr. Eden a few months ago, but only for three days. Then they flew off to Ankara. Is that what you will be doing, Jack?”
“No,” he chuckled, amused at her naivete. “I will most likely be here for the duration of the war. We can't live together, though. Did your father tell you? We're going to have to behave like illicit lovers.”
She laughed. “But that will be fun! Will you be in an apartment, or the barracks?”
“An apartment. I'll be sharing it with a couple of other officers.”
She gave a small pout, but one that indicated she was going to accept the living arrangements. He was deeply grateful. Not many wives would have been so understanding, and it indicated that Fawzia had done a lot of growing up during their eighteen-month separation.
“Adjo is bringing some champagne,” Delia said, as they
joined her at the table, their arms around each other's waist. “So if you two happy people can bear to stay for just another few minutes, we'll drink it in celebration. D'you have a staff car yet, Jack? If not, you can borrow mine. The best place for a little privacy is still the Mena House Hotel.”
Thirty minutes later, in Delia's open coupe they were on the road leading to Giza.
A mile out of Cairo Fawzia's hair suddenly tumbled free of its pins and cascaded past her shoulders, long and heavy.
He took his eyes from the road to shoot her a swift, amused glance. “You must have put your hair up in an awful hurry.”
“Pins can never be trusted,” she said, blushing slightly.
When they finally reached Mena House there wasn't a free room, but Fawzia's father's name carried a lot of weight.
A room was found for them—and not just any room. It looked south to a glorious view of the pyramids.
“It's a good job we can't see the Sphinx,” she said as he tipped the bellboy and closed the door. “It's covered in sandbags—presumably in case the Germans attempt to bomb it.”
He wasn't interested in the Sphinx.
He was only interested in taking her to bed.
Considering Fawzia's protected upbringing and her strict schooling at the Mere de Dieu, her abandonment in bed had always both surprised Jack and given him great pleasure. Now, within seconds, he knew that during the long months of their separation she had changed.
She was no longer delightfully abandoned in bed.
She was lasciviously wanton—and skillfully so.
Certain of what her new expertise signified, he pulled away for a moment, but his body wouldn't allow him to stop. It was like being on a roller coaster with no way of abandoning the ride until it came to a cataclysmic end.
As he finally collapsed on the tangled sheets, exhausted and covered with sweat, he knew that she hadn't been faithful to
him. That she'd had—and possibly still had—a lover. A lover who, if the sexual tricks she had revealed were anything to go by, was Egyptian, not English.
He slid from the bed, picked up his khaki shorts and put them on. Then he scooped up his shirt and took out a packet of Camels and a lighter.
Fawzia didn't move. She was lying on her back making small purring sounds, her eyes closed.
He remembered her first words to him: “How long are you here for?” He had thought she was desperately anxious for him to stay. But it had been just the reverse. She had been hoping to hear that in forty-eight hours or so he would be on his way back to Palestine. And her easy acceptance of the fact that they were not allowed to live together hadn't been a sign of understanding. It had been relief. Her dress, the exotic scent she was wearing, the way her hair had been so precariously pinned, this all made sense now. When she'd heard the news of his arrival she had come to him straight from her lover's bed.
He walked to the window and stood looking out toward the pyramids, his guts twisting deep in his belly.
He'd known, when he'd been transferred from Jerusalem to Cairo, that he was going to face emotional difficulties, but not this. Fawzia's affair had come straight out of left field.
He had to decide what to do. One thing was obvious: he had to be fair.
They had been apart for eighteen months—and it was wartime. Old values, old standards, had been overturned. She hadn't known they were about to be reunited. If she had, she would, no doubt, have ended the relationship with her lover immediately.
He wondered how many people knew about it. Someone had told her of his arrival and he didn't think it was her father. Though he knew that Zubair Pasha would have far preferred
an Egyptian son-in-law, he couldn't imagine him condoning Fawzia's adultery. The person who had known where to find Fawzia and who had told her of his arrival was more likely to have been a house safragi in Fawzia's confidence, or, even more likely, her personal maid.
Delia obviously did not know that Fawzia was being unfaithful to him. It was one secret that Delia would never, in a million years, have been a silent party to.
It didn't mean, though, that other people weren't aware of the other man in Fawzia's life.
Behind him he heard Fawzia stir.
He turned around. As she pushed herself up against the pillows, her silk-black hair grazing her breasts, he said tersely, “Your lover, Fawzia. Who is he?”
Her face immediately became impassive, her expression shuttered. It was a look with which he was familiar. When necessary, Egyptians were more skilled at hiding their thoughts than any people he had ever met.
“I don't know what you mean,” she said pettishly. “I don't have a lover.”
There was a large brass ashtray on a nearby table and he ground out his cigarette. “Don't make this any harder than it needs to be, Fawzia. I'm not a fool. I know you have a lover. I need to know his name.”
He saw something flicker in her eyes and read what it was immediately. She thought someone had told him. That he had been told even before he had left Jerusalem.
Angrily she swung her legs from the bed and stood up. “If you know that I am having an affair, then you also know who I am having it with.” She snatched a lace-trimmed black bra from a chair.
“I don't, as it happens.” He watched her as she reached for a pair of silk camiknickers. Though she wasn't tall, her body
was magnificently proportioned: her breasts full, her waist so narrow it was literally a handspan, her legs slim and exquisite.
Knowing Fawzia's body would never again have the power to move him, he said, “I do know that your father believes you've been spending time with Davina when, according to Delia, Davina is working all the time. Delia believes you've been spending time with Queen Farida, but I very much doubt that you've been anywhere near the palace. So where have you been?”
From the far side of the bed she glared at him with the venom of someone who has been tricked and who, if she'd realized how little he knew, would have kept her mouth very firmly shut.
“You're the intelligence officer!” she hurled at him. “You find out! I'm not going to tell you!”
The desire to shake her till her teeth rattled was almost more than he could control. He said through clenched teeth, “I'll find out all right. And when I do I'll make sure he never attempts to make contact with you again!”
“And how are you going to do that?” she spat, stepping into her brocade dress.
“I'll let him know that if he does, I'll kill him.”
It wasn't an idle threat. He'd never been in a fight yet when he hadn't truly thrashed his opponent.
As she slipped her feet into her high-heeled sandals, she said with amusement, “You'll deck my lover? A lover I have no intention of giving up? And in public?”
His eyes held hers. “Yes,” he said white-lipped. “That's a pretty accurate description of what I'll do, Fawzia.”
She began laughing.
He reached for his shirt and pulled it on over his head. “I'm going back to GHQ,” he said. “You'll have to get yourself a taxi. As you've no intention of breaking off with whoever it
is you're sharing a bed with, we won't be having another reunion. It's over, Fawzia.”
Controlling her laughter with difficulty, she said, “And will you still punch him on the jaw when you find out his identity?”
“Oh, yes,” he said grimly, yanking the door open. “That's a pleasure I've no intention of forgoing.”
She laughed again and he slammed the door, knowing, as he strode away, that his unwise marriage was over.
As Delia's bright-yellow sports car was brought from the car park, he resolved to tell Zubair Pasha at the first opportunity. He wouldn't tell him why. He would simply say that he and Fawzia had always been incompatible and that it was a mutual decision. What Fawzia chose to say was up to her.