‘Very good,’ she said as the elevator doors slid open.
‘By the way, what is that scent you’re wearing? It’s gorgeous.’
‘Actually, it’s body oil and I make it myself. Goodbye, Miss D’Aplièse.’
The elevator doors closed and Mariam Kazemi was gone.
All Mariam’s references didn’t just check out, they couldn’t sing her praises highly enough, so the following Thursday, the two of us boarded a private jet from Teterboro Airport in New Jersey and headed for Paris. The only nod she made to the fact we were travelling, in terms of her ‘uniform’, was that she had replaced the skirt with a pair of beige pants. I watched her as she took her seat in the cabin, then got her laptop out of her satchel.
‘Have you flown by private jet before?’ I asked her.
‘Oh yes, Bardin used nothing else. Now, Miss D’Aplièse—’
‘Electra, please.’
‘Electra,’ she corrected herself. ‘I must ask you whether you would prefer to take some rest during the flight or would like to use the time to go through a few things with me?’
Given the fact that Zed had been my playmate up until four a.m. that morning, I chose the former and as soon as we were airborne, I pressed the button that turned my seat into a bed, donned my eye mask and fell asleep.
I woke three hours later, feeling refreshed – I’d had plenty of practice at sleeping on planes – and peeped out of a corner of the eye mask to see what my new PA was up to. She wasn’t in her seat, so I supposed she must be in the bathroom. Pulling off my mask, I sat up, and to my surprise saw Mariam’s rear end lifted towards me in the narrow aisle between the seats. Maybe she’s practising yoga, I thought, as she was kneeling on all fours with her head bent to the floor in what looked like a variation of the child’s pose. Then I heard her muttering to herself and as she raised her hands and head slightly, I realised she was praying. Feeling uncomfortable that I was observing her in such a private act, I averted my eyes and went off to use the facilities. When I came back out, Mariam was in her seat, tapping away on her laptop.
‘Sleep well?’ she smiled at me.
‘Yeah, and now I’m hungry.’
‘I asked them to ensure there was some sushi on board – Susie said it was your favourite when you were travelling.’
‘Thanks. It is.’
The cabin attendant was already by my side. ‘Can I help you, Miss D’Aplièse?’
I put in my order – fresh fruit, sushi and a half-bottle of champagne – then turned to Mariam. ‘Are you eating?’
‘I already did, thank you.’
‘Are you a nervous flyer?’
She frowned at me. ‘No, not at all. Why?’
‘Because when I woke up, I saw you were praying.’
‘Oh,’ she laughed, ‘that is not because I am nervous, it is because it is midday in New York, which is when I always pray.’
‘Right, wow, I didn’t realise you had to.’
‘Please don’t worry, Electra, it is not often that you will see me in prayer – I usually find a discreet private space, but up here . . .’ She gestured around the cramped cabin. ‘I could not fit into the toilet.’
‘You have to pray every day?’
‘Oh yes, five times actually.’
‘Wow, doesn’t that cramp your style?’
‘I’ve never thought about it like that, because it is what I have done every day since I was a child. And I always feel better for it afterwards. It is just who I am.’
‘You mean what your religion is?’
‘No, who I am. Now, here is your sushi. It looks delicious.’
‘Why don’t you join me while I eat? I don’t like drinking alone,’ I quipped as the attendant poured champagne into a flute.
‘Would you like anything, ma’am?’ she asked Mariam, who had slipped into the seat opposite me.
‘Some water, please.’
‘Cheers,’ I toasted her. ‘Here’s to a successful working relationship.’
‘Yes. I am sure it will be.’
‘I’m sorry if I’m ignorant of your ways.’
‘Please don’t be,’ Mariam comforted me. ‘If I were you, I would not have known anything about them either.’
‘Do you come from a strict family?’
‘Not really, no. Or at least, compared to others, I don’t. I was born in New York, as were my siblings, so we are Americans. As my father always says, the nation gave my parents safe harbour when they needed it and we must honour their ways as well as the old ways.’
‘Where were your parents born?’ I asked her.
‘In Iran . . . or Persia, as we all prefer to call it at home. It is a much prettier name, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, I do. So your parents had to leave their country against their will?’
‘Yes. They both came to America as children with their parents after the fall of the Shah.’
‘The Shah?’
‘He was the king of Iran and very Western in his ideals. The extremists in our country didn’t like this, so anyone who was related to him had to flee for their lives.’
‘So if he was a king, does that make you, like, royalty?’
‘Well,’ Mariam smiled, ‘technically, yes, but it is not like European royalty – there are many hundreds of us related to him . . . cousins, second, third or fourth by marriage. I suppose you would say in the West that my family was high-born.’
‘Jeez! I have a princess working for me!’
‘Who knows, if things had been different? I may well have become one if I had married the right man.’
I didn’t like to say that I’d been joking, but as I looked at Mariam, things fell into place. Her air of containment, her self-assurance, her perfect manners . . . maybe these were things that only hundreds of years of aristocratic breeding could provide.
‘What about you, Electra? Where is your family from?’
‘I have no idea,’ I answered, draining my champagne. ‘I was adopted when I was a baby.’
‘And you’ve never thought to investigate your past?’
‘No. What is the point in looking back when you can’t change the past? I only ever look forward.’
‘Then you’d better not meet my father.’ Mariam’s eyes danced with mirth. ‘He is always telling stories of the life he led with my grandparents in Iran. And the stories of our forebears who lived many hundreds of years ago. They are very beautiful and I loved listening to them as a child.’
‘Yeah, well, all I got were Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and the stories always had a scary witch or a troll and frightened me senseless.’
‘Our stories have those too, but they are called djinns. They do terrible things to people.’ Mariam sipped her water, eyeing me over the rim of the glass. ‘Papa always says that our history provides the carpet on which we stand and from which we can fly. Maybe one day you will want to find out your own history. Now, would you be up to listening while I go through the Paris schedule?’
An hour later, Mariam went back to her own seat to type up the notes she’d taken during our chat. I reclined my seat and watched as the sky began to darken outside, heralding the European night. Somewhere under that darkness lay my family home – or at least, the home of us disparate kids who Pa had collected from around the world.
I’d never really minded that we weren’t blood-related, but listening to Mariam talk about her roots – and watching her continue a centuries-old culture that she still celebrated on a private jet bound for Paris – made me almost envious.
I thought of the letter from Pa sitting somewhere in my New York apartment . . . I didn’t even know where it was. As I hadn’t opened it and it was most likely lost, I’d probably never get the chance to find out about my past. Maybe ‘The Hoff’ – as I’d privately nicknamed Pa’s lawyer – could shed some light on it . . . And I remembered that there were also those numbers on the armillary sphere that Ally said could pinpoint where we had originally come from. Suddenly, it felt like the
most important thing in the world to find Pa’s letter, almost important enough to ask the pilot to turn back just so I could rifle through my drawers in search of it. At the time, when I’d arrived back in New York after the quasi-memorial that had been arranged because Pa had apparently decided to get himself buried at sea before we arrived at Atlantis, I’d been so angry I hadn’t wanted to know.
Why were you angry, Electra?
The therapist’s words rang in my ears. The truth was, I didn’t know the answer. I seemed to have been angry ever since I could walk and talk, and probably before that too. All my sisters loved to tell me how I’d screamed the place down as a baby and things hadn’t gotten much better as I’d grown up. I certainly couldn’t blame it on my upbringing, which had been pretty perfect, although odd, given the fact we were all adopted and the family pics looked spookily like a Gap ad due to our different ethnicities. If I ever questioned it, Pa’s answer was always that he’d chosen us especially to be his daughters and that had seemed to pacify my sisters, but not me. I wanted to know why. The chances were, now he was dead, I’d never find out.
‘An hour to landing, Miss D’Aplièse,’ the attendant said as she refilled my glass. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
‘No thanks.’ I closed my eyes and hoped that my contact in Paris had been as good as his word and delivered what I needed to my hotel, because I was desperate for a line. When I was clean, my brain began to work, and I started to think about Pa, about my sisters, my life . . . and I just wasn’t comfortable doing that. Not right now anyway.
For a change, I actually enjoyed the shoot. Spring in Paris – when the sun was out anyway – was crazily beautiful and if I felt I belonged in any city, it was right here. We were in the Jardin des Plantes, which was awash with cherry blossom, irises and peonies, and everything felt new and fresh. It also helped that I liked the photographer. We finished way ahead of schedule and continued the chemistry in my hotel room that afternoon.
‘What are you doing living in New York?’ Maxime asked me in French as we drank tea from delicate china cups in bed then used the tray to do a line. ‘You have a European soul.’
‘You know, I’m not really sure,’ I sighed. ‘That’s where Susie, my agent, is and it made sense to be near her.’
‘Your modelling “maman”, you mean?’ he teased me. ‘You’re a big girl now, Electra, and can make your own decisions. Live here, then we can do this more often,’ he said as he clambered out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom to take a shower.
As I gazed out of the window across the Place Vendôme, which was packed with people sightseeing or browsing the elegant shops, I thought about what Maxime had said. He was right, I could live anywhere; it hardly mattered because I spent so much of my life travelling anyway.
‘Where is home?’ I whispered, suddenly feeling deflated at the thought of returning to New York and my soulless, echoing apartment. On a whim, I reached for my cell and called Mariam.
‘Am I doing anything in New York tomorrow?’
‘You have a dinner at seven p.m. with Thomas Allebach, the head of marketing for your fragrance contract,’ Mariam responded immediately.
‘Right.’ Thomas and I had shared some pleasant downtime over the past few months since Mitch had left me, but I wasn’t enamoured. ‘And Sunday?’
‘There’s nothing in the diary.’
‘Great. Cancel the dinner – tell Thomas the shoot here has run over or something – then move the flight back to Sunday evening, and extend my hotel booking for another couple of nights. I want to stay in Paris a little longer.’
‘Perfect. It is a wonderful city. I will confirm everything as soon as it’s done.’
‘Thank you, Mariam.’
‘No problem.’
‘I’m staying on longer,’ I said to Maxime as he emerged from the shower.
‘That’s a shame, because I’m out of town for the weekend. If I’d have known . . .’
‘Oh.’ I tried not to let my disappointment show. ‘Well, I’ll be back again sometime soon.’
‘Let me know when, won’t you?’ he said as he dressed. ‘I’d cancel if I could, but it’s a friend’s wedding. Sorry, Electra.’
‘I’m staying for the city, not you,’ I said as I forced a smile.
‘And the city loves you, as do I.’ He dropped a kiss on my forehead. ‘Have a wonderful weekend and keep in touch.’
‘I will.’
Once he’d left, I did a line to cheer myself up, and thought about what it was I wanted to do in Paris. But just like in other big cities, the moment I stepped out of the front entrance of the Ritz, I would get recognised and then within a few minutes, someone would have alerted the press and I’d have an unwanted entourage following me.
My hand hovered over my cell to call Mariam and have her revert to plan A when, as if by magic, it rang.
‘Electra? It’s Mariam. Just to let you know that the flight back to New York is changed to Sunday night and your hotel suite booking extended.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Do you wish me to make you any restaurant reservations?’
‘No, I . . .’ For some reason, tears came to my eyes.
‘Are you okay, Electra?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
‘Are you . . . busy right now?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘Then can I come and see you? There are a couple of contracts Susie’s sent through today that you need to sign.’
‘Sure, fine.’
A few minutes later, Mariam arrived, wafting her lovely scent into the room with her. I signed the contracts, then stared moodily out of the window at the approaching dusk of the Paris evening.
‘So, what are your plans for tonight?’ she asked me.
‘I don’t have any. You?’
‘Nothing but bath, bed and a good book,’ she replied.
‘I mean, I’d like to go out – visit the café I used to work in as a waitress and just eat normal food like a normal person – but I’m not in the mood to be recognised.’
‘I understand.’ She stared at me for a few seconds, then stood up. ‘I have an idea. Wait there.’
She disappeared from the room but was back within minutes holding a scarf.
‘May I try it on you? See how it looks?’
‘You mean, round my shoulders?’
‘No, Electra, around your head like mine. People tend to keep their distance from a woman in a hijab, which is part of the reason why many women of our faith choose to wear one. Shall we give it a go?’
‘Okay. It’s maybe the only look I’ve never tried,’ I added with a giggle.
I sat on the end of the bed as Mariam wound the scarf deftly around my head, draped the ends over my shoulders, then pinned it in place.
‘There, take a look.’ She indicated the mirror.
I did and could hardly believe the change. Even I didn’t recognise me.
‘It’s good, real good, but there’s not a lot we can do about the rest of me, is there?’
‘Do you have any dark-coloured pants or leggings with you?’
‘Only the black sweatpants I travelled over in.’
‘They will do. Put them on while I go and get something else.’
I did so, and soon Mariam was back with a garment over her arm. She shook it out and I saw it was a cheap flower-printed cotton smock with long sleeves.
‘I brought this in case we were going anywhere smart. I save it for special occasions, but you can borrow it.’
‘I doubt that it’ll fit.’
‘I don’t think we’re that different up top. And although I wear it as a dress, I think it would work on you as a shift. Try it on,’ she urged me.
I did so, and saw that Mariam had been right. The dress fitted me fine up top and fell to my mid-thighs.
‘There! No one will recognise you now. You are a Muslim woman.’
‘What about my feet? I only have my Louboutins or my Chanel pumps.’
&nbs
p; ‘Wear the sneakers you had on to fly here,’ she suggested, heading for my suitcase. ‘May I?’
‘Go ahead,’ I said, staring at the new me in the mirror. With the headscarf and the simple cotton dress masquerading as a top, it would take a pair of eagle eyes to spot who I was.
‘There,’ Mariam said as I slipped on my sneakers. ‘The transformation is complete. Just one more thing . . . may I look in your make-up bag?’
‘Okay.’
‘Here, we just need to put some kohl around your eyes. Close, please.’
I did as I was told, my mind skidding back to when us sisters were on Pa’s boat during our annual summer cruise and going out for dinner wherever we’d docked. Deemed too young at the time for make-up myself, I’d sit on the bed and watch Maia help Ally with hers.
‘Your skin is so beautiful,’ sighed Mariam. ‘It literally glows. Now, I am convinced that you will not be bothered by anyone tonight.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so, but test out your disguise downstairs when we walk through reception. Ready to go?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ I made to pick up my Louis Vuitton shopper, but Mariam stopped me.
‘Put whatever you need into my bag,’ she said as she proffered her cheap faux-leather brown shoulder bag. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
In the elevator, even though three people got in with us, no one batted an eyelid at me. We walked through the lobby and the concierge glanced at us, then turned his attention back to his computer.
‘Wow, Christophe has known me for years,’ I whispered as we walked outside and Mariam called over the doorman.
‘We need a cab to Montmartre,’ she told him in very passable French.
‘D’accord, mademoiselle, but there is a queue so it may be as long as ten minutes.’
‘Okay, we can wait.’
‘I haven’t queued for a cab in years,’ I muttered.
‘Welcome to the real world, Electra,’ Mariam smiled. ‘Look, here we go.’
Twenty minutes later, we settled ourselves at a table in the café I used to work in. It wasn’t a very good table – we were squashed tightly between two others and I could hear every word of our neighbours’ conversations. I kept looking up at George, who’d given me the job as a waitress ten years ago, standing behind the bar, but his head never turned towards me.
The Sun Sister Page 3
