The Marriage Deal Page 13

  I shudder at the wanton destruction. “He will repair it once we leave,” Zahir murmurs, stepping back, waiting for me to move into the house.

  I stand on the threshold looking in, my body quivering and my mind racing. Shards of the past slice into me. Pain is everywhere. Before I can realise what I’m doing, I reach down and grab Zahir’s hand, needing his strength to spread to me even as I acknowledge how much of this is his fault.

  “I’m here,” he says quietly, understanding how I feel and that I need reassurance.

  One foot in front of the other, just like I did on our wedding day. I step up into the hallway, and a sob rushes out of me without warning. Everything is just as I remember, but less well cared for. The hallway light is broken, shards of glass at my feet, and a window at the back has been broken so that dust and detritus have blown in. I press my hand to the wall – rough and cool – and close my eyes, remembering the sounds of my childhood. My father and his frequent visits with friends, my mother cooking and singing – she would always sing.

  When I open my eyes, Zahir is watching me with an intensity that robs me of breath. I can’t look at him. My emotions are a maelstrom. When I try to relinquish my hand he holds it tight, squeezing my fingers. To the left of us is a drawing room. Father used to meet his friends here. I always loved it in that way children adore the prohibited spaces of their homes.

  “I wasn’t allowed in here,” I explain, hesitating for a moment before stepping into the room.

  “But you came in anyway?” He guesses.

  A wistful smile touches my lips. “From time to time.” I gesture across the room with my other hand. “I used to hide over there.” I point to a small piece of furniture with a pot plant on top of it. When we lived here, it housed a glossy green fern, but now it’s withered away, just a pot with dry, dusty soil. The sofas have become drab, the cushions faded and there is a smell of dust in the air. I move towards the window, looking out at where the swimming pool used to be. The water is gone, now it’s just a concrete hole in the ground, dusty and dirty. It’s horrible to see it like that, quite eerie and soul-destroying.

  “What was the room for?”

  “Dad would meet his friends here,” I say innocently, then stiffen when I remember the animosity between my father and this man. “No doubt to plot your downfall,” I say sarcastically.

  He doesn’t take the bait. His eyes move slowly around the room and I see it as he must. It’s drab now, but still beautiful, the mid-century designer furniture gleaming in the morning sunlight. The floors are pale, catching the warmth. There’s a desk near the window, large and made of dark timber. I remember dad had a key he wore around his wrist that he would use to unlock the drawers. On the top of the desk is a red leather-bound notebook he used to write in often. He would always store it in the top drawer before locking it – strange that he left it out now.

  I move back towards the door. The kitchen is opposite. “Mom loved to cook,” I say quietly, unable to breach the space of the kitchen. “She spent a lot of time in here. She could watch me play in the garden out front, and my father was close by.” I sigh. “They were so happy here.”

  I feel him stiffen at my side and this time when I pull at my hand, he lets it go; something between us has changed.

  Across the hallway there’s the kitchen, so much my mother’s domain that I stand on the threshold and my heart judders almost to a stop. I feel her there. I almost see her, hands kneading dough, as she did every morning, fingers elegantly weaving it to make the most elaborate plaited breads. I hold my breath as I step inside, running my fingertips over the counter. A thousand memories fracture in my mind. Eating porridge with pomegranates and date syrup, right here, as the sun grew high and hot, drinking sweet tea with my mother and her friends, learning to read in this very chair, my mother patient as she taught me the sounds each mysterious letter made.

  I blink quickly, moving to the cupboards above the sink. I open one automatically, a weak smile on my face as I curl my fingers around what I knew I’d find.

  “His Alabaya,” I turn to show Zahir, who’s watching with an expression I can’t decipher.

  He nods once.

  “It was left here, all along.” Like all of my father’s most precious things. His entire life suspended in this place, waiting for his return. I put it back as though suddenly crawling with spiders, slamming the cupboard shut. My mother is everywhere here and my heart breaks because I’ve never felt her absence more keenly.

  Back to the corridor I go, moving deeper into the house. I pass the lounge room, Dad’s office, and then my parents’ bedroom. I peek my head in, everything just as I remembered it except for one important detail. It’s so much smaller.

  As an adult, I see it as it really is, rather than through the eyes of a little girl in a grown-up space. The next room is my bedroom. I push the door open and step inside, right back into my past. I was only six when I left here for the last time, and the room reflects that. The bed is tiny and narrow, covered in a pale pink coverlet and stuffed animals. My slippers rest at the foot of the bed, waiting dutifully for me to return, and across the room there’s a low timber desk I used to sit at to do drawings. I move to it now, lifting one of my childish pictures and tracing the lines with an unsteady finger. The window displays a view back over Thakirt, all the low roofs something I remember staring out at with fascination. The floor is tiled with a large rug, and as a girl I used to lie on my tummy and pull at the balls of wool, working them loose then trying to push them back in so I wouldn’t get in trouble. Across the other side of the room is a chest of drawers. I open the top one and remove a dress – so tiny, like doll’s clothes.

  “I remember wearing this,” I say, lifting the pale-yellow fabric to my chest and breathing it in. Nostalgia engulfs me.

  “Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea.” His voice is grim and as he crosses to me, he rubs his thumb over my cheek, wiping away a tear I hadn’t realised I’d spent.

  “I’m fine,” I assure him. “I’m glad to be here.”

  A muscle throbs in his jaw. “Nonetheless, we should go.” His features soften. “For now.”

  ‘For now’ is a promise. We both hear it. He’s telling me I can come back, another time. I nod softly. He’s right, anyway. This has been overwhelming. I need time to prepare for my next return.

  On an impulse, I cross back to my desk and collect some of my drawings, and a book I’d adored as a child, then move to the bed and sweep a few of the soft toys into my hands. “It doesn’t feel right to leave them here now they know I’m back.”

  He nods, but his dark eyes show something like amusement and my heart rolls.

  Near the front door, I duck into my father’s drawing room, lifting the red leather notebook from his desk and clutching it in the same hands that carry my childhood drawings.

  “Let me take those.” He nods at the soft toys.

  I shake my head. “I want to.”

  He looks set to contradict me, but perhaps something in my expression stalls him because he simply nods impassively, waiting for me to navigate my way into the luxurious limousine with my arms full of ancient history.

  I’m glad he doesn’t argue with me. I hold the toys close as the car drives away from the town and towards the airstrip. The last twenty-four hours feel like a strange dream, but they weren’t. I turn to look at Zahir, my heart pounding once more at the sight of his face in profile. This man destroyed my father’s life, but he’s also my husband.

  I don’t know how I’m going to marry those two distinct ideals but somehow I must.

  “What will it be like when he comes to Qabid?”

  I see him tense slightly and sigh. I don’t want Zahir to respond like that about my father.

  I reach across, putting my hand on his. His head turns abruptly, his obsidian eyes beating down on mine. “I cannot say, Amy.”

  “You’ll meet with him? He’ll be welcome at the palace?”

  He stiffens and my heart cracks
a little.

  “No.” It’s said stiffly, but a moment later his features bear a mask of sympathy. “He’s your father, but I have no interest in involving him too closely in our lives.” He pauses. “My security counsel would likely not allow it, in any event.”

  “I thought you were Sheikh,” I point out, then shake my head. “This is all so ridiculous. He didn’t do what you accused him of.”

  Zahir ignores that statement. “He may return to his home, live in Thakirt as he used to.”

  “And I’ll be able to see him whenever I want?”

  Again, he stiffens, his face unreadable before he nods, just once.

  It’s something, I suppose. My lips form a tight smile and I sit back in the seat, but I’m far from relaxed. Everything about this feels complicated and somehow wrong. Things I used to take for granted – certainties such as my father’s innocence – now make little sense.

  “I’m sure we’ll be able to work all this out,” I say to myself, as much as to him.

  “One way or another, we are about to find out.”

  11

  Zahir

  “YOU CAN’T SERIOUSLY BE going through with this?” Rafiq stares at me with obvious disapproval. I sigh heavily, well aware of my best friend’s thoughts by now.

  “He is Amy’s father.”

  “Yes, and you married her to quell those idiots to the east.”

  “Those idiots are my people,” I remind him through ground teeth. “And whether they support me or not, I am their king. I cannot dismiss them as easily as you do.”

  Raf lifts his hands in surrender. “I know that.” And he does. As a Sheikh of a small, oil-rich nation south of Qabid, I know there’s nothing Raf wouldn’t do for his people.

  “Besides, I promised Amy I would bring her father home.”

  “The man is a traitor.”

  I see Amy’s eyes, wet with unshed tears, hurt at the very idea softening me in a way that is pathetic and stupid. Dangerous, too, for trusting her is a bad idea, given that for a very long time her father wished me dead. She is still a Hassan, I remind myself forcefully, even when distrusting her is anathema to me.

  I hate you. Her words pierce me out of nowhere. Not her words so much, but the look of truth in her face as she said them so calmly, as though she were observing the weather. The words rang with intent, and they have lodged in my chest, a constant companion since we left Thakirt.

  My voice is grim. “He’s old and ill. I do not believe he poses a threat to me.”

  “More fool you,” Rafiq snorts. “I’m not suggesting he’ll personally sink a dagger into your heart, Zah. It’s far more likely he’ll organise for a militant to do that on his behalf.”

  “For God’s sake,” I laugh despite the serious tenor of our conversation. “You seem to forget I’m surrounded by security almost constantly.”

  “Not when you are in bed with your wife, I presume.”

  It’s a throwaway comment but something fires deep in my gut. Amy might hate me, but she’d never hurt me. She’s not capable of it.

  “I gave her my word, Rafiq. I must bring him to Qabid.”

  “To hell with the consequences?”

  “Or in spite of them.”

  “Are you forgetting what her father’s people have already taken from you?”

  I look at him sharply. We are old friends, but in that moment, I feel as though we stand across battle lines. “How could I? I live with that every day. My father’s death was at their hands. We know that, but not many others do. Particularly not my wife.”

  “I know it’s a secret,” he says quietly. “But it is still a truth. You cannot ignore the power and will of these people.”

  “It has lessened over time. They are disbanded – exiled or dead.”

  “And yet you brought her here. You’re bringing him home.”

  “What else could I do?”

  “I don’t know.” Rafiq sighs heavily. “I know you’ve tried everything else.”

  “Exactly. My marriage was a last resort. Believe me, it’s not what I would have chosen. I think of him often. My father. I wonder what he would make of this. Someone killed him, at the orders of the Hassan supporters, poisoned him slowly over time, took him from me, from this country. And now I’m married to a Hassan, planning to combine our bloodlines to put this ancient feud to rest for all time.” I look at him slowly. “Do you think I’m not conflicted about this, Raf? Do you think it’s easy for me to put aside my father’s death and plan ahead like this?”

  “No.”

  “But it is my sacred duty to act in the country’s interests. I need an heir – that has been abundantly clear for a long time. And the Hassan threat will never die down so long as they live. So here we have it. The only thing I can do.”

  “Then do it carefully, my friend. Never forget what they took from you. I do not think there is anything Amy Hassan can give you that will make up for their treachery.”

  Something stirs in my chest and I’m surprised by an instinct to protect her, to tell him he’s wrong, to call out my friend – more of a brother, in fact. “It’s Amy Al Adari,” I remind him in a quiet rebuke, standing to signal the conversation is at an end. “And none of this is her fault.”

  She is asleep when I enter her room. Three days after returning from the country and still she continues to use this suite of rooms rather than come to my bed. I want to be patient, but I’m finding that increasingly difficult.

  I prop the door open with a large vase then stroll across to her bed, scooping her up in my arms. She murmurs something softly, her head nuzzling into my chest. I breathe her in, my heart thumping hard against my ribs as I carry her out of her room and stride towards mine.

  As we cross the threshold, despite the fact she’s fast asleep, I speak quietly. “You are my wife. Your place is in my bed.”

  She murmurs softly in response. I lay her down gently, my stomach tightening at the sight of her here, and at what I’ve done. Guilt washes over me; I ignore it. It’s time for us to start living together, as man and wife. Her father will arrive soon, and Rafiq’s words have served as a timely reminder. Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

  Amy

  I’m disorientated when I wake, looking for the familiar landmarks of my room, the pictures that adorn the walls, the lighting I’ve come to know. But nothing remains. I push up onto my elbows, looking across at a different piece of art, an ancient tapestry set against a navy-blue wall.

  My eyes scan the room and my heart kicks up a beat, because there can be only one explanation for this.

  I turn slowly to the other side of the enormous bed, and Zahir is there, watching me with a guarded expression.

  I stare back at him, trying to connect the dots – and failing.

  “Good morning.”

  “You brought me to your room?”

  His face is a mask of determination, his features carved from granite. “It’s time.”

  “But why?”

  “Because you’re my wife.”

  “So?”

  “Your place is here, with me.”

  My lips part, and I’m so glad he’s done this. Not because I want to sleep beside him, I hasten to reassure myself, but because when he does something like this it’s easy to be mad with him, and anger is a much better way to feel than anything else.

  “We agreed you’d move here almost a week ago. Then you were unwell, so it was delayed.”

  My brows knit closer together. “When did we agree?”

  “After the caves.”

  Despite my anger, a tight smile shapes my lips. “That wasn’t ‘agreement’, Zahir. It was you dictating and me not having the energy to argue in that moment.”

  His eyes flash and excitement flutters in my belly. Strong emotions run through me whenever I’m near Zahir and at least in arguing with him I can express them.

  “So your illness was an excuse?”

  I don’t particularly want to admit to lying to him so I ti
lt my chin and change the direction of our conversation. “You can’t just go into someone’s room and relocate them in the dead of the night.”

  He gestures to the bed, the fact I’m here a direct contradiction to that.

  Anger zips through me, but so do Zahir’s words about passion and reason, and before I can give full vent to my feelings, I try to think calmly. I know him better now. I understand the kind of man he is and what he wants most in the world. I understand his pride and moralism, and I know that he knows this was the wrong thing to do. I don’t need to hurl it at his feet.

  “I’m not ready for this.”

  “To sleep in my bed?”

  I nod. “It’s too much.”

  For a second, I think I see something in his eyes that shows a weakening, a relenting, but then he stands up, wearing only a pair of cotton boxer shorts, his body lithe and athletic.

  “It changes nothing,” he throws my words back at me, consciously or not, I’m not sure. “Our rules are the same. We know why we married, what we each want from the marriage. But having you here is appropriate.”

  “Appropriate?” I spit the word at him, pushing out of bed now, almost losing my train of thought when his eyes drop to my breasts, then run lower, inspecting me slowly, heat building in the pit of my stomach at the look of sheer desire in his eyes. Whatever need I feel for him – its constant pressure in my chest – he feels it too. My nipples tingle and grow taut, straining against the soft cotton of my pyjamas and his lips twist in a derisive expression of comprehension.

  “Yes, appropriate,” he responds a moment later, without making any attempt to act on the heat between us. The air cracks with awareness, yet he stands his ground and I stand mine.

  “And what do you care for such things?”

  “Our marriage is purely for political reasons,” he reminds me. “It’s important it is seen to be a real marriage.”