Virtually Perfect (24 page)

'...And then we have the mutawa...'

'Mutawa?'

'Morality police.'

Oh God...

'But it's OK.  You will not find them at the palace.'

Ben had no intention of speaking to business ladies.  He was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he had no intention of speaking to anyone at all.

'There are no boyfriends and girlfriends here, Benjamin.  It is a crime for a woman to be with a man who is not her husband or her family.  Adultery is taken very seriously.  If you get caught with a woman here, I am sorry, but I will not be able to help you.  Benjamin, my friend, in the worst case they will cut off your head.' 

He looked like he meant business.

'OK, Aziz.  Look, don't worry - there won't be any of that.'

'...Of course, there are parties where all of that goes on, behind locked doors, by special arrangement.  In these places - so it's OK.  Even alcohol.  I can take you, if you like...'

He smiled and tipped Ben a wink.

This place is insane...

'I think I'm good,' Ben murmured. 

'As you like,' said Aziz, turning back to the road. 

He looked almost disappointed.

'As for The Prince, you know, I say he is religious, but still.  He's a pretty laid back kind of guy.  He knows the Western culture - if you make a mistake, he will not mind...'

'Apart from alcohol,' Ben said cynically, sipping his coffee.

Aziz shrugged and glanced back.

'Of course.  Alcohol is a banned substance here.  Benjamin, tell me truthfully, if you were going to meet your Queen, would you turn up smoking a hashish cigarette?  With cocaine all over your nose?'

'...Fair enough.'

'If you eat everything on your plate, they will keep filling it up with more.  I think there is an idea in the West that it is polite to eat everything that is put down in front of you.  If you try to do that here, you will get fat very quickly.'

Aziz cast a hazy smile back at him.

'The Prince is very generous.  If he is happy with you, he will offer you a tip.  In our culture, with such a thing, it is not polite to accept the first time.  Or the second.  But the third?  So, it's OK.'

It had taken three attempts to get Eve to go out with him.  Three attempts to let him settle the bill at
La Casona
.  She never accepted anything straight of the bat. 

Ben smiled to himself, gazing out of the window.  He wondered what she was doing now.

'If he gives you a gift, do not make a big deal of it.  Say thank you and put it away.'

Ben smiled again and nodded.

'Never refuse an invitation.  He is The Prince, after all.  This would be very impolite.'

'...What kind of invitation?'

'I do not know,' shrugged Aziz.  'Maybe he will want to show you his boat, maybe his aeroplane.  His Highness is a very good pilot - you know this?'

Oh God... 
Ben hated little planes.

'Don't look so worried,' Aziz told him.  'There will be no wild parties, I promise...  That is unless...'

'No!'

Aziz smiled and nodded back.

'You have a wife.'

'No,' said Ben sheepishly.  'Girlfriend.'

Aziz gave him a look. 

'Ah, that's nice,' he said quietly.  'Mabruk my friend.'

There was a knock at the door.  It took all of Eve's energy to unravel herself from the duvet and drag herself from the sofa.

'Hi.'

Jackson stared at her for a second.

'Rocking the flu look, twinkletoes!
'
he said, flashing a grin.

Eve smiled coyly, tightening her dressing gown, wriggling her toes in her winter socks, scraping her ringlets behind her ears, acutely aware that she looked like shit.

He hadn't recognised her voice when she called earlier to apologise about the milk.  She'd meant to get it back to him before.  But when she woke up on Monday, she had a raging pain in her ear, banging headache.  She felt like she'd been hit by a bus.  It had all been a blur until today.  Finally the antibiotics had kicked in.

Jackson held out a white plastic bag, contorted around a heavy round carton.  Eve smiled and took it.

'Thank you Jackson!' she smiled.

She knew exactly what was inside.

'There's extra chilli in there,' he warned her.  'That should sort you out...  If you need anything, just ring me, sweetie.'

He knew she wouldn't.  She was too proud.

'I mean it.' he reaffirmed. 

'Thank you,' she smiled back at him. 

'Nevermind all that, darling.  Now go!  Shoo!  Get yourself back in the warm.'

Eve poured the contents into a white porcelain bowl.  The stock splashed back as the vermicelli flopped out.  She licked her fingers.  She couldn't taste it at all.  She couldn't smell anything.  Mr Bojangles evidently could.  He was up and nuzzling her legs in no time. 

She took the tray back to the sitting room and sat nestled in the duvet on the sofa, watching a repeat of Desperate Housewives.  Jackson was right - it must have been a hot one.  She grabbed the box of Kleenex from the coffee table and put it on the armrest, alternating spoonfuls of Thai chicken soup with blowing her little red nose. 

Bree Van De Kamp's hair was fluorescent orange.  She was just about to bed the gardener.  Jackson would have been proud.

The past two days had been a feverish blur of bad dreams, pain and self pity.  Eve was rarely sick these days.  It had come as a shock.  She'd woken up dripping with sweat, everything hurting right down to her hair follicles, her head thumping, pressure behind her eyes, her nose.  The pain in her ear was horrendous, like someone jabbing a pencil into it; down her neck, twisting it, jerking.  It made her almost sick. 

She was lucky in a way though.  If it had happened in London she would have been screwed.  The doctor had seen her within an hour.

She dumped her tray in the kitchen and necked her next round of amoxicillin.  The pain in her ear was ebbing, finally, turning from constant to intermittent.  She wondered what she was going to do without it.  It had been a pretty effective distraction.

'I'll call you...' 

Bastard. 

She peered into the fridge.  She was all out of milk, again.  She'd been living on tea and microwaved Wheetabix since Monday.  She needed to start back on solids again, or she'd never be right for Saturday. 

Or did she?  Eve hovered over the empty fridge thinking about it.  Maybe she had the perfect excuse?  Just drag it out a few days longer and she wouldn't even have to go.  She'd been dreading it since the date had been set. 

Her ears pricked.  She heard it, singing out over the TV in the sitting room.  Her xylophone ringtone.  She ran after it, thrust her hand in her handbag, flipped back the cover.

Bollocks.

'...Hi Curtis.  Everything OK?' Eve said glumly.

'...Crikey, you sound like Mo from the Simpsons...'

'Gee, thanks,' she said sarcastically.

'How did you get on at the docs?'

'He gave me some pills.'

'Some bills?'

'Get stuffed,'  said Eve.

Curtis laughed.  She felt a twinge in her ear.  She swapped the phone over to the other side.

'I'm just ringing to check you're still on for Friday.'

There was a long pause.

'...Yeah I'll be in on Friday.'

She couldn't really duck out of it.  When it came down to it, she didn't even have the balls to try.  They had a big auction coming up - she'd already left them to do all of the cataloguing.  There was a lot of glassware.  They'd be screwed without her. 

'Good.  I thought you were going to bail out for a second there.  Eve, I'm relying on you to keep Alice out of trouble.  Don't let her get too drunk.'

Silence.

'...The hen party?'

Oh shit...

'...Seriously?  You're still doing that?' 

They'd both been abroad on expensive weekends with their mates.  For once, Eve was more than happy to be skint.

'Course.  Now, Alice's sisters are coming down and they can get a bit rowdy...'

'Oh Jesus, Curtis.  I'm really not up to this...'

It wasn't Eve's thing at the best of times.

'...I am really sorry to put this on you,' he said, 'but who else have I got?' 

He actually sounded sincere.  Eve felt a teeny bit flattered. 

'...I suppose I could always ask Stacey,' he said forlornly.

Eve scoffed.  She'd seen the teenage dream out on the razzle a couple of times on her way home,  all fake fur and stilettos staggering up the street.

'OK, OK.  I'll do it,' she grizzled.

Curtis was grinning on the other end of the phone.  He knew that would do the trick.

'Evelyn Blake, I love you!'

'Sod off, Curtis.  You're making my other ear hurt.'

He laughed.  Eve winced.  He always was too loud on the phone.

'I can cover your spot on Friday,' he offered.

'No,' she told him flatly.  He wasn't glassware - he'd only make a pig's ear of it.  Besides, Eve needed some kind of diversion, to take her mind off of Ben.

'Listen Aziz, I'm not fooling around.  I need that laptop and I need it now!'

Aziz waved his hand dismissively.

'There is television.'  He gestured to the huge flatscreen.  It was twice as big as Ben's.  'We have
Sky TV
- all the latest movies!'

'I need it to process the pictures.'

'Benjamin, we have print shops here...  I will get Sayed to bring the car around immediately.'

'I mean edit them,' Ben said angrily.  'This is ridiculous!  I'm going to speak to His Highness about this.'

Ben had met him twice now.  He seemed approachable - pretty friendly, actually.

'No-no-no-no!' Aziz blurted like a machine gun.  He smiled anxiously, wringing his hands.  'No need to bother His Highness with any of this...  I will get it for you.  No problem!'

'And my phone?'

'And your phone,' Aziz grumbled, tutting and shaking his head.  'But you must agree never to take it out of this room.  Like I tell you in the first, this is The Prince's private palace.  This is a sensitive area.  God forbid you going to take pictures of anything here...'

'Aziz, I'm been taking pictures all week!'

'Under strict supervision!'

Ben rolled his eyes.

Everything
was under strict supervision.  Ben had cabin fever.  The one stroll he'd taken around the gardens had felt so uncomfortable.  He knew they were watching him.  One of The Prince's female assistants said hello, he didn't know where to look; didn't dare look at her.  She wasn't wearing a veil.  She wore a western suit.  There were so many contradictions in this place. 

Here he was shooting a wedding - he hadn't even seen the bride.  The wedding celebrations would span three whole days, so far entirely in segregation.  The groom, Omar, was a good looking chap.  Slight, with perfect glowing white teeth.  About mid twenties, Ben would have guessed.  He was The Prince's nephew, by marriage.  He wore traditional clothing - the white headdress and black band - a deep blue robe trimmed ornately with gold.  He had a sparse goatee and, apparently, more money than Ben would ever see in his lifetime.  Omar was softly spoken with an American twang.  He spent most of his time in the US.  He was some sort of global investor. 

He was easy to work with - he wasn't fazed by the camera at all.  Ben had taken some great portraits.  He got some good shots of the drummers, plenty of the elaborate dinners, sheikhs busting a move on the dancefloor. But by the second night, it was all getting a little bit samey.  From what Ben could gather, it was like a two day stag party fuelled by fruit juice and virgin punch.  By British standards, it was pretty tame.  Apart from the sword dancing.  That was downright scary.

Aziz had warned Ben that The Prince was religious, but he didn't seem overly so.  Ben had heard that some Wahabis took exception to music, but he'd been throwing some mean moves last night.  He didn't seem to mind being photographed.  He came over and shook Ben's hand, greeted him warmly, flashed a smile. Ben was horrified when he wouldn't let his hand go, when he pulled Ben up on the floor. 

Ben jigged to the rhythm, dying of embarrassment as the sheikhs clapped loudly around him.  He didn't like dancing at the best of times (well, maybe with a warm girl after several drinks).  Here he was, the centre of attention by royal command.  A hundred pairs of eyes waited expectantly.  When it comes to making an idiot out of yourself, you can't do it by halves.  He knew what he had to do.  He rocked that Arab beat MC Hammer style.  It always made Monique laugh till she cried.