After more cheers and showers of flowers, the prince gave a short speech in which he thanked his guests for coming and ended with a pledge: ‘Glamour and sophistication, the ultimate dream, will be this year’s motto of Chiffons à la Mode.’ As his eyes tracked the room, they fell on Aida and he singled her out for an enigmatic smile.
She glanced at Phares, who was once again talking closely with Alastair Carlisle; she was relieved that he was neither looking at Nairy, nor had he noticed the prince’s smile in her direction. Instead he seemed calm and aloof.
She sighed heavily. In spite of her close surveillance she had no idea whether he was in love with Nairy, or if the affair really was a thing of the past. So how, she asked herself despairingly, could she let herself love him? What was she getting herself into by agreeing to marry him?
* * *
The Mena House Hotel was almost as impressive as the monuments in whose shadow it nestled. Built on the edge of the desert in a beautiful garden and dominated by the Great Pyramid, it had originally been Khedive Ismail’s hunting lodge until it was bought by Ethel and Hugh Locke-King, who had turned it into a luxurious hotel. Arabesque in design, it covered a huge space, combining the comforts of modern life with the joy of sand and sky. Luxurious and expensive, yet it had a homely air, its wide doors welcoming guests and making them feel at ease, as if they belonged.
The long, low building with its white façade, flat roofs, elaborate balconies and terraces paved with old tiles and mosaic floors, and its dark mashrabiya, was reminiscent of the world illustrated in the tales of One Thousand and One Nights. It boasted large and comfortable salons with carved wooden doors and brasswork, and a delicious Moorish dining room lit by a galaxy of antique lamps.
Over the years, annexes and terraces had been added to the main building of which the popular garden café was one. In 1937 it had been expanded to include an al fresco dancefloor and it was on that terrace that Phares and his friends were congregating this evening.
A velvety, windless night had descended over the countryside. There existed a strange contrast between the crowded, noisy terrace with its bevy of guests in glamorous glittering eveningwear, drinking, eating, chatting and flirting, and the peaceful stillness of the ancient land of Egypt surrounding them. Beyond the hotel’s garden walls lay the desert, secret and mysterious, and tiny villages with patches of dense shadow and flickering lights, and here and there the blaze of a small open café. A radiant luminescence lay on the pyramids and desert. The tall group of palms lifted its branches calmly into the glory of the moonlight.
The ladies deposited their wraps and, piloted by Phares, made their way to one of the small tables that had been reserved for them in the garden café, dimly lit by candles and small lanterns hidden in the trees. The tables were crowded close together, colourfully decorated with smilax and roses. The place was thronged with beautifully dressed women, and men in conventional black and white or dress uniform, with rows of medals adding vivid touches of colour. Aida saw the scene as a glittering kaleidoscope of elegance, aristocracy, money and power.
Dishes of nuts and olives, tiny crisp biscuits spread with caviar, anchovies, antipasti, cream cheese stuffed with pimentos, already dotted their table. As usual, Phares had organised everything in advance, down to the smallest detail.
A Tzigane orchestra was playing on a dais, the first gypsy band to appear in Egypt since the war. The management had kept it as a surprise, springing it on their patrons tonight.
Nairy Paplosian was already there. A beautiful low-cut plain and close-fitting satin evening dress clung to her tall, slim figure, accentuating every curve like a loving caress. There were two gardenias low on one side of her head where the smooth red hair was gathered back into a great knot at her neck. Her almond eyes with their heavy lids stood out against the creamy pallor of her skin. She was surrounded by a court of heterogeneous men and women drawn from half the races of Europe.
Aida sat between Camelia and Alastair Carlisle with Phares opposite her, trying not to feel as though a knife was raking her stomach. The candlelight shone on her golden hair and cast deep shadows about her dark blue eyes. She was pensive.
Nairy’s earlier open advances to Phares were troubling her – not that she could pin on Phares any untoward reaction, not even an answering look. Indeed, it was just that detached imperviousness of his that bothered her. Aida had watched him closely and he hadn’t batted an eyelid at the coquettish movements Nairy had made, instead being as aloof to her as the Sphinx had appeared to her and Phares during their desert promenade the other night. For someone who was by all accounts deeply smitten by the sexy model, his attitude was too … unconvincing.
‘She looks like a black snake,’ Camelia whispered as she followed her friend’s gaze.
Aida smiled at Phares’s irrepressible sister. ‘You don’t miss anything, do you?’
‘Not when it has to do with the people I care for.’
The food was excellent but Aida could barely swallow it, so anxious was she made by the presence of the young woman seated two tables away. Phares also seemed uneasy. Or perhaps uneasy was not the right word. Electric was more like it … focused, as though all his formidable resources, physical and intelligent, were concentrated on some problem … and Aida was sure that the name of the problem was Nairy! Still, she ate her iced consommé, her homard cardinal, drank champagne and chatted inconsequentially all through dinner, laughing mechanically, barely conscious of anyone but Phares and Nairy.
She was thankful for Alastair Carlisle who never stopped talking and brought her all the society gossip from Cairo. His light-hearted chatter and entertaining anecdotes about the various places in the world he was posted before the war made her laugh, easing the tense atmosphere in the nicest way.
The band struck up with the first notes of Lucienne Boyer’s wartime hit ‘Que Reste-t-Il de Nos Amours’, and before Aida could bat an eyelid, Nairy was at Phares’s side, laying a beautifully manicured white hand with long red nails on his arm with open acquisitive eagerness. She fluttered dark lashes, gazing at him with bold grey eyes as though she wanted to carry him off there and then. There was nothing of the innocent angel about her now. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?’ she whispered, her openly sexual smile revealing in all its untamed greed the desires that prowled beneath a thin veneer of civilised reserve.
Aida’s hands gripped each other tightly in her lap. It was impossible to tell what Phares thought of this open parade of emotions as he was so intensely shielded by the golden mask of his features. His eyes were lazily undisturbed: reserved as ever, he didn’t seem to object to the way Nairy clung to his arm, and Aida found herself wondering painfully if the tune meant something to them.
‘Come on, let’s dance,’ the model insisted, fixing her hungry eyes on him. Phares sighed, then glanced at Aida as though he thought she might say something, but all she did was look away. She wasn’t going to diminish herself – her pride wouldn’t permit it – and she carried on sipping indifferently at her wine.
Shrugging, Phares allowed Nairy to draw him out on to the dancefloor. Somehow, Aida made herself smile and pretend it didn’t matter. She turned her face away from the dais; she didn’t want to see that woman in Phares’s arms, to see her deliberately provocative words and actions. In all honesty, he could hardly have refused without being rude, but Aida was not willing to think of it that way. Instead, she finished what was left of her drink and asked Alastair if he would refill her glass.
‘She’s certainly not trying to hide how she feels, is she?’ he remarked, cocking an eyebrow. ‘It’s a wonder she doesn’t just throw him down on the floor and have her way with him here and now.’
Aida ignored that remark and changed the subject, but, unwillingly, her eyes stayed on Nairy, watching her laugh, her beautiful head thrown back as she pressed her long, curvaceous body against Phares. Again, Aida had to fight back that tide of corroding jealousy that she had been trying to suppress since her meetin
g with Prince Shams Sakr El Din at the Musky: ‘Despite their social differences they are completely inseparable.’ Yes, right now, she could certainly see that was true.
Camelia shot a sideways glance at her friend. ‘She’s drunk, and poor Phares doesn’t know what to do.’
‘Gossip has it—’ Alastair started.
But Camelia cut in: ‘Gossip is gossip, and none of it’s worth believing.’
Alastair bit his lip and fell silent, realising his faux pas. Then, as if he’d had a sudden brainwave, he turned to Aida again: ‘Would you care for a dance?’
She managed a smile and got to her feet, joined by a couple of others with the same idea. As she moved like an automaton around the dancefloor, she looked back at the tables. Nairy had returned to hers, but Phares was nowhere to be seen.
And then as the first notes of the old 1930s hit, ‘Parlez Moi d’Amour’, were heard, Phares was at Aida’s side. Smiling at Alastair, he asked politely, ‘May I?’ before almost pulling her out of the other’s embrace. ‘It’s a rather special song.’
Alastair relinquished Aida gracefully and made his way back to their table. When she glanced up at Phares’s face again, its expression of severity made her frown in puzzlement. His mouth was tight, eyes hard as jet. He seemed caught in the grip of some strong emotion, yet his voice betrayed nothing of this when at length he spoke.
‘Relax, Aida. You’re stiff as a poker.’
‘How unflattering!’ she retorted. ‘I’ve never been told I’m stiff.’
He laughed, and in that instant all severity was dispelled.
‘Perhaps I was a little strong in my description. You’re tense. Is something wrong?’
She shook her head, feeling the pink rise to her cheeks, unable to explain the torture Nairy’s presence had put her through all evening.
‘No, nothing.’
And now they were dancing to the strains of the loveliest waltz ever written – Schumann’s Souvenir de Vienne – and the gypsies played it like a rhapsody. It was amazing how these talented musicians could switch from one type of music to another, skipping from tune to tune without a single piece of sheet music to follow.
‘You’re more relaxed now.’ He glanced down at her flushed face, and his eyes creased into a smile. Aida caught her breath, still bewildered to find that the touch of his hands was the most wonderful experience she had ever known. His arm about her was comforting … protective.
‘Are you tired? We’ll go home after this dance, it’s been a long day.’
She smiled up at him. ‘Yes, I think that’ll be wise.’
They went back to the table and waited for Camelia before bidding farewell to the few remaining late-nighters in their party. Osta Fathi and the Cadillac were waiting for them outside and they drove home in silence.
Once at Kasr El Shorouk, Camelia immediately said goodnight, taking her leave of them and going up to her room. Aida was about to follow her up the stairs when Phares caught her arm. His eyes settled on her face and she noticed a brooding expression in them.
‘Will you join me for a nightcap on the terrace? It’s such a beautiful evening and I’m rather restless.’
She hesitated a moment. Her mind was already in turmoil and she needed some space to think things over. She was well aware that she had promised to give her answer to Phares the next day, but something compelled her to stay.
‘Just for a few minutes,’ she found herself saying.
She followed him into the dining room, where he took two cognac glasses and a bottle of Rémy Martin. Together, they stepped on to the terrace. It was a hot night. They stood by the balustrade, not quite together, looking over the still and sleeping garden and gazing up at the sky. Aida caught her breath in amazement.
‘Oh, Phares,’ she whispered, the full splendour of the firmament bursting upon her with a glory that was overwhelming.
Phares poured them each an inch of cognac. They stood a while sipping their drinks, silently aware of the spell of Egypt upon them both. The heavens were an arch of purest, darkest blue, bejewelled with burning, glittering points of light. So big and bright were the gleaming clusters hanging, trembling, in the vast space above that it seemed as though a man might reach up and pluck a great gold star from among its close-set sisters of the night. In England, Aida had heard the term starlight without realising in the least what it could mean: back there, the stars at their brightest conveyed little idea of any real power of illumination but out here on the edge of the desert it was easy to comprehend the meaning of the word, for the stars did indeed pour down a stream of radiance that, even without the waning crescent moon, managed to flood the countryside with a soft and brilliant light which turned the world to a garden of enchantment.
All the while Aida could feel the presence of Phares a few feet away, as though he was keeping his distance, and yet the air between them hummed with heightened awareness, making the downy hairs on her arms lift. She tried to display a cool exterior but couldn’t help darting a glance at him.
He had turned his back to the scenery and for a long moment he looked at Aida, letting her see without evasion the open hunger in his eyes as they slid down the length of her silk chiffon dress and back up to her face. The silence between them seemed to roar, drowning out the cicadas singing in the grass.
Then, in a single stride he was next to her. ‘I can’t let you go, Aida. Give me your answer. Now.’ His lips found hers and crushed them mercilessly, his tongue invading her mouth. He was like some supreme pharaonic god whose word was a law unto itself, whose command could not be disobeyed. Aida felt the power of him, the mastery and the arrogance. The heat and hunger of his kiss rendered her lost, confused, no longer wanting to resist. She couldn’t help herself as her body began to respond to his touch, the need for him coursing through her veins, and she gave herself up to the dark, stinging rapture of the moment.
Phares dragged his mouth from hers and buried his face in her neck. ‘Your scent is driving me crazy,’ he said huskily, inhaling deeply. ‘You go to my head like a drug … I want you with my body, my mind, with every last bit of me … I want you so badly, chérie …’
Somewhere in Aida’s mind a rational voice was demanding proof that he loved her, telling her that she should not be allowing him to touch her until the moment he did. Yet the other voice inside her rang out more clearly.
It all came down to feelings, instincts, emotions – those vague, insubstantial things that weren’t even easy to identify, let alone prove: thistledown floating on the summer air, moonshine, flickering shadows. She didn’t understand them, but she knew what they told her.
I love him, she thought.
Finally disengaging from her, Phares met her troubled gaze. ‘Has no one told you that you have eyes so big and blue that a man might dive into them and be drowned?’
Aida stared back at him mutely, stunned by the heat between them. Then he touched his fingers to his lips and put them gently, fleetingly, on her mouth, before letting them slide down over her chin to the long line of her throat, and further down to the valley between her breasts that were already aching for his touch, and down still further over the soft chiffon fabric of her dress outlining her hips to the warm, moist joining of her thighs.
Aida gasped, her head falling back under the shock of his touch, as she realised the extent of her own need for him – and the power he had over her. Her voice cracked as she breathed his name, imploringly, her dazed eyes fixed on the firm line of his mouth. She wanted his lips on hers, longed for them, thirsted for them, but she mustn’t. She needed a clear head to think things over, and so with an almost insurmountable effort, she pushed his hand away.
Phares’s breath caught in his throat. ‘Why are you torturing me, Aida?’ His eyes were bloodshot and she could see he was fully aroused.
‘Forgive me, Phares. Tomorrow … I promise I’ll sort all this out tomorrow,’ she whispered, her eyes welling with emotion, her body still trembling from the excruciating battle with
her senses she was putting herself through.
Phares raked a hand through his hair and tossed back the remainder of his drink in one gulp. ‘Fine, I will wait until tomorrow lunchtime, because I want things to be right between us.’
She tried to bring her breathing back under control. ‘I’m spending the morning with Camelia at Chiffons à la Mode.’
He turned and leaned his elbows on the balustrade, staring into the night. ‘I’m leaving early in the morning. I have two operations and I’m at the hospital until two o’clock.’
‘I’m having lunch with Camelia at Shepheard’s. I’ll see you in the evening.’
‘But I want to have lunch with you at the Gezireh Sporting Club. Tomorrow you will give me your answer, chérie. Don’t worry about Camelia, I will talk to her. She’ll understand.’
‘I don’t think it’s fair on her, but if you prefer it that way then I’ll meet you at the club at two-fifteen.’
Only then did he turn to look at her. ‘Good. I want you to have no regrets because there is nothing safe about the way I want you.’ His smouldering gaze seemed to burn a hole right through her. ‘The delicacy of your skin … your body stops my breath and makes me almost afraid to touch you … and yet, at the same time, I want to penetrate you so deeply that your flesh will hold the memory of me within it forever.’
No man had ever spoken to her like this before, arousing her so intensely, both emotionally and physically, simply by the sound of his voice, the message in his words.
Still, it was all about sex, only sex, not love. And although Aida could actually feel the sharp, excited pulse of her own arousal deep within her core where she ached physically from Phares’s explicit description of his desire, she moved away from him.
Song of the Nile Page 36
