Nina started crying, she realised now why she had been sent out of the shop to find Ashok. He stopped the car, causing the squealing of brakes and horn blowing from behind. She cried because their life was so different since Madame had come into their lives. She cried because she was happy and she cried because, in a package on her lap, was the most beautiful fabric she had ever dreamed of. Ashok turned in his seat and flashed Liz a smile of pleasure. His white teeth gleamed against his brown skin. “Madame O’Mal,” Nina said between sobs. “You are so good to us. We don’t deserve such kindness.”
“You most certainly do,” Liz responded. “You help me so much Nina, I don’t know what I would do without you and Ashok. Particularly driving me about and stopping all the traffic behind us.” Nina laughed, an understanding laugh.
“His driving, oh Madame,” she giggled whilst Ashok, pretending to be affronted, restarted the car and it was a merry trio that arrived back at the villa, where Nina handed her precious package to Ashok before rushing to see if Bernadette had managed alright with Maya and Samir. Ashok carefully parked the car, trying to contain his excitement about the air-conditioning. Who would have believed that only a short while ago he and his family were living in a mud hut, and now they were having air-conditioning…
As good as his word, the tailor arrived the next afternoon having tacked the cut silk pieces together. Liz stood as still as she could whilst he tightened here, and let out a little there, until both he and Liz were equally satisfied. He had done a splendid job. The cut was as good as the red dress and the additional length, plus the addition of elbow-length sleeves, made it sufficiently different and equally good. She mused inwardly that the designer Frank Usher would be amazed.
Having professed her satisfaction, the tailor left and Liz decided now was as good a time as any to decide what she would travel in and what other things she needed to take with her. Fortunately, it was not a difficult decision. She decided to travel in a white trouser-suit, worn with a simple pale pink tee shirt and a flowing silk scarf in exactly the same shade to soften the outline.
She had a well-cut blue denim skirt which she would wear with a smart blouse during the day on Thursday, but for good measure decided to take her stone-coloured shirt-waister in case she needed to change during the day or felt it more appropriate apparel!
Shoes, undies, etcetera, were easy and a small pearl-beaded evening bag would work with the yellow silk. She felt an innate sense of relief when all the decisions had been made. For some reason, and unusually for her, she felt surprisingly nervous and was not sorry that Ronnie was due back that evening in time for dinner.
chapter 14
It was good not to be sitting in a solitary state. Ronnie seemed in the best of spirits full of what he and Tim had been up to, culture-wise at least. Having let him chatter on for most of the dinner she finally asked him if he wanted to hear her news.
“How thoughtless, Liz. I am so sorry!” He was full of contrition and sat back, dessert finished, waiting for her to speak. She told him about the telephone call – the mysterious “high-powered” guest. “Ah,” said Ronnie finally. “That explains it.” Liz raised her eyebrows questioningly.
“Tim packed me off – I thought in a rather an abrupt way after all our lovely intense moments.”
“Don’t tell me.” Liz grinned.
“I wouldn’t dare my darling! Tim said he was going to be very tied up for the next week or two. I offered to be tied up with him.” Liz smiled at the mix of disappointment and innuendo in his voice.
“Ronnie,” she remonstrated. He tried to look apologetic, somewhat unsuccessfully she thought.
“What are you going to wear, darling?” Liz loved him for the question, only a gay man bothered about women’s choice of clothes, so comforting at times like this. She told him every detail, which she knew he wanted, of her planned wardrobe including The Dress.
“When can I see it?” he wanted to know. Liz smiled, explaining that the tailor was arriving the following morning for a second and hopefully final fitting. “I hope he won’t let you down.” Ronnie sounded a little concerned.
“He won’t,” replied Liz, with more confidence than she felt.
They chatted on in a desultory fashion, though Ronnie sat up when she talked about the air-conditioning for Ashok and Nina. “You are so good to them Liz. No wonder all the staff here love you.”
“Do they?”
“Of course darling! Of course they do.” He repeated emphasising the point with one of his expansive gestures.
She had been expecting the airline ticket to arrive in the post and was somewhat concerned at its non-appearance. Just before lunch on the day before she was due to leave she received a telephone call from Tim. “Just to let you know Liz, the ticket will be waiting for you at the Air India check-in. The Ambassador asked if you needed transport to the airport?” She assured him not. He continued by telling her that there would be a car waiting for her in Delhi. They chatted for a few moments more, Liz longing to ask who the important guest was, but carefully refraining. “Well I’ll see you soon,” Liz said just about to finish the conversation.
“Could I have a quick word with Ronnie?”
“Of course,” Liz replied handing the ‘phone directly to a hovering Ronnie who had quickly realised who was on the other end of the line.
Liz felt slightly disappointed that Philip hadn’t telephoned her himself with the details, but she rationalised that Mr Ambassador was probably far too busy and important to worry about travel arrangements for a guest – a fairly lowly one at that, at least compared to whoever she was to meet. Still, she couldn’t stop herself feeling a little piqued!
chapter 15
On the plane flying to Delhi, enjoying the unexpected luxury of First Class, Liz realised she was excited. Her dress completed just in time was all she had hoped it would be. Ronnie’s ecstatic approval confirmed that she had made the right choices in the colour, silk and more or less copying the red dress which he loved. She had, at Ronnie’s insistence, tried it on for his benefit, he had made her walk and turn around. “Very, very special Liz. Your tailor-man has outdone himself!”
Now, enjoying a glass of champagne and a canape or two, Liz felt comfortable about the clothes she had organised, now she could relax and enjoy herself. It was a short flight of little more than two and a half hours and before long she was walking through Customs. A liveried chauffeur carrying a large card with her name on was standing in a prominent position, and she gladly handed over her case, holding on to her leather vanity case and small shoulder bag.
It was not long before they were driving through the gates of the Embassy. The car drew to a stop outside the main door of the residence and the chauffeur was out of the car and opening her door before she knew it. The double doors opened and the butler welcomed her in, whilst a maid appeared, as if from nowhere, and took her case from the chauffeur. The whole place, perhaps unsurprisingly, seemed to run on extremely well-oiled wheels.
“I am afraid Madam the Ambassador is in a meeting, he sends his apologies and will meet you for a late lunch at one-thirty p.m. Would you like something in your suite in the meantime?” Liz looked at her watch, it was noon and she realised she was starving – still, she would have to wait of course.
“Tea would be pleasant,” she answered. “Earl Grey with lemon, please, and perhaps some fruit.”
“You will find some fruit in your sitting room,” the butler replied, indicating to the maid waiting patiently with her case that she should show the way. “I will attend to your tea personally Madam.”
Liz followed the smartly dressed maid up the broad curved stairway. Liz felt as if she was on the set of an old Hollywood movie and almost expected to hear an orchestra playing softly in the background.
The suite was delightful. A moderately sized sitting room overlooking the manicured gardens and a bedroom with a king-sized be
d – a light and airy room with a marble floor that was partially covered with an Aubusson-style – or maybe the real thing, she smiled to herself, probably was – rug.
The maid unpacked her case and she was relieved to find that, with the many layers of tissue paper, the dress had travelled as well as the red one had. Liz took off her jacket and relaxed on one of the comfortable sofas, kicked off her shoes and curled her legs up under her. A light knock at the door indicated her tea had arrived and, as she poured herself a cup of tea, she looked at the headlines of The Times and the Telegraph that had been neatly folded on the tray.
She must have dozed off. When she woke she looked at her watch. With a jolt, she found it was one-fifteen. Hastily getting up, she went to the bathroom, splashed some water on her face and dabbed it dry with one of the incredibly soft towels, brushed her hair, put on a touch of moisturiser and blusher, a swipe of lipstick, replaced her jacket and made her way towards the stairs.
As if on cue, the maid she had seen earlier came towards her. “This way Madam,” she indicated. They walked along the wide corridor and came to another set of double doors. “Please Madam,” she indicated again opening the door. It was not a large room. A round table that would seat about eight, she imagined, was set for two – she was one, but of Philip, or whoever she was to have lunch with, there was no sign
With a sigh and feeling hungrier by the minute, she wondered what next. The door opened just as she was about to sneak a piece of a bread roll. The smell of the freshly baked bread was tantalisingly tempting. Her hand hovered over the bread basket as the door was flung open. “Ah, caught you,” were Philip’s first words to her. Liz felt herself blushing and started to mumble some excuse.
“You must be starving. I am. Breakfast was at six-thirty and apart from coffee I haven’t had a thing since.” He rang the bell on the wall, then indicated she should sit while he sat further around the table where the place was set. “Look Elizabeth—” he began as she started, “Are you going—” They broke off and laughed and the tension eased. “Ladies first,” he said.
“I was just going to ask if you were able to tell me yet about the special guest?” Liz asked. Philip smiled.
“Now I have you locked in my embassy – with no mode of escape – I can certainly tell you. It’s our Prime Minister.”
“How interesting and exciting,” said Liz. “I’ve been longing to meet her. I think it’s good to have a woman again and she is so different to Mrs Thatcher – or she certainly appears to be!”
Lunch arrived. A cold cream of avocado soup, followed by slices of chicken breast and salad. Dessert was pomegranate seeds and oranges in Curacao. “I chose a light lunch, I hope that is alright. I know you were hungry, as was I.”
“It was perfect.” Liz meant it. The soup, plus the delicious bread, would probably have been sufficient, as it was the chicken and salad had filled any remaining gaps. She couldn’t be fiddled with pomegranates and after two glasses of wine felt the oranges in liquor were best left alone.
They had coffee on the balcony, which, despite being outside, was pleasantly cool being on the north-facing side of the building.
Philip stood up suddenly, Liz had noticed him sneaking glances at his watch. “Elizabeth, you must excuse me. I’m afraid I have to attend a meeting. My assistant would be happy to take you on a tour of the embassy, the paintings are really worth looking at and the library is most interesting particularly so for you as an author.”
It was, in fact, a pleasant afternoon. Deirdre, his assistant, seemed to enjoy showing off the embassy and it became clear fairly early on in their acquaintance that she had a “thing” for Philip. Liz wondered if Philip was aware of it, probably not, she thought, men were surprisingly dim sometimes!
Liz admired the artwork, the library, the main reception rooms. She exclaimed over the flower arrangements and finally, thankfully, Deirdre suggested she might like to take tea in her suite and relax before the six p.m. reception. With a sense of relief, she agreed, perhaps with a shade too much alacrity. Deirdre probably expected her to want to see more. As it was they parted at the foot of the stairs, Deirdre to check and see if she was needed and organise tea to be sent up for Liz, and Liz to find her way to her room. Fortunately, she remembered a specific vase on a small table and with a sense of coming home found herself back in the suite again.
In what seemed only a few moments later, the maid, prompted by the efficient Deirdre, arrived with some dainty sandwiches and a pot of tea – all beautifully laid out with Crown Derby porcelain. She returned to her favourite spot on the sofa, kicking off her shoes again, and poured herself a welcome cup of tea. She ate two of the dainty sandwiches with their smoked salmon filling then decided, after a quick look at her watch, to organise herself for the evening.
As she stood in the shower her mind turned to the lunch she had shared with Philip. They had talked of her flight, of Goa, of the Prime Minister, but although there had been no personal conversation she had felt his steady gaze and in some strange way she felt connected to him. With the water still cascading over her, she tried to analyse what she meant and found she couldn’t! There was “a something” – what it was she didn’t know – and didn’t even know if she wanted to find out.
Tonight’s reception was fairly low-key. The Prime Minister had asked for an opportunity before the big reception the following evening for local dignitaries, government officials and so forth, to meet with all the key embassy personnel. There would be about thirty people in total, one of whom was Liz. There would then be an early dinner at seven-thirty.
Liz was looking forward to meeting the Prime Minister, she had followed her meteoric rise to fame with a great deal of interest. She had certainly jolted the failing Conservative Party out of their apathy. She had broken a few rules and a number of Conservative traditions. She appeared outspoken but fair, she got rid of malingerers in the Party, dismissed spin doctors and returned to a consensus Cabinet. She made it clear she did not want yes – men and – women and she stated publicly that any member of Parliament who had complaints should, above all, direct their views to the Cabinet and not the Press. She had invigorated Parliament and was even met with grudging approval from a surprisingly large number of Opposition MPs. It was as refreshing as it was productive – and in her first three years, she had managed to get politics on to a more balanced footing.
Liz dressed with care, her red dress looking as elegant as ever. Her hair gleamed and the light tan she had acquired since living in India brought out the green of her eyes. She knew she looked good – but what now?
As if on cue the telephone rang. It was Philip, telling her they should go down to the gold drawing room. He said Tim would meet her at the foot of the stairs in five minutes. Liz was thankful she was ready. She gave herself an extra spray of Shalimar, picked up her evening purse and was, she decided, as ready as she would ever be.
With her heart beating a shade faster than usual in anticipation of meeting the Prime Minister, she walked to the stairs. Tim stood with his back to her and didn’t hear her approach, the thick carpet blanketing her footsteps.
“Good evening Tim,” she spoke softly, not wanting to startle him. He turned instantly and a look crossed his face that she interpreted as approval. He held out his arm and together they walked towards the gold reception room. It was one of the smaller public rooms and a perfect size for the numbers invited tonight. The buzz of conversation stopped briefly as they entered the room, but picked up again when those present realised it was “only” Liz.
“The Prime Minister,” announced the butler, throwing open the doors with a certain panache as he continued, “Miss Julia Naik.” The first Asian prime minister of the United Kingdom walked in. Giving her a gentle push from behind, Tim managed to keep Liz abreast of him, while she instinctively felt she should hold back.
Philip had been in meetings all afternoon with the Prime Minister but nev
ertheless greeted her gravely, almost as if for the first time. He introduced Liz, and Julia Naik smiled warmly. “I know your name, your books give me a great deal of pleasure. You live in India now I believe.” They chatted away and it was several minutes before Philip could continue introducing the Prime Minister to the staff she had not yet had an opportunity to meet. “We shall talk again,” the Prime Minister said to Liz, sotto voce, before moving dutifully on.
“It was fascinating,” Liz told Ronnie on her return home. “To watch Julia Naik work the room. She spoke to everyone, asked appropriate questions and listened intently.” Liz was utterly impressed. Later at dinner, Julia had made an apparently impromptu speech, quite short and to the point, basically thanking them for the work they did representing the United Kingdom and adding that, as far as she was concerned, their important role should be mirrored in every embassy across the world and equally British people travelling or living abroad should feel that there was a piece of the United Kingdom wherever they went. The final sentence, Liz noticed, caused a slight groan, a few glances and a raised eyebrow or two between some of the staff around the table. Liz got the impression that there was not total agreement about the Prime Minister’s final comment amongst some of the colleagues. With a tight smile, Julia finished by saying that being in the diplomatic service did not mean they were in any way superior to their fellow countrymen and women.
Liz felt this was a light but well-aimed rap across the knuckles, and it confirmed for her that this was a “thinking” PM as well as a “doing” one. Julia Naik had achieved more than anyone would have believed possible. She had been born in Bermondsey shortly after her parents had arrived from India. Her mother spoke little English, hated the weather, didn’t understand the life she was leading and was only there because she was married to Julia’s father.
The Portuguese House Page 7
