The thought of falling pregnant with this man’s baby?
No, not of falling pregnant. That’s not where I have problems. It’s the idea of raising a child with him! How can I simply accede to that demand?
My parents loved each other. I grew up believing love and respect were essential tenets of a happy marriage – the idea of my own child or children seeing the exact opposite fills me a sense of dread.
Could I stall him? Go onto contraceptives and not tell him?
I angle my face towards him, heat creeping up my spine. He’s working, a large document with a bulldog clip at the corner spread before him. I watch as he flicks the page, my heart in my throat.
I can’t lie to him – I won’t. This marriage is something we’ve both entered into in good faith, our cards on the table.
“Stop staring.”
Heat colours my cheeks and it has nothing to do with the desert’s intense warmth. “How do you know I’m staring? You’re not even looking at me.”
“Aren’t I?” He drops the pen on the tabletop, his eyes lancing me with their scrutiny as he stands. “Something has been troubling me since yesterday.”
I push up to standing, feeling less at a disadvantage when we’re closer in height. “Go on.”
“You’re not a virgin.”
I gasp at the completely personal question. “How the hell do you know that?”
“Am I wrong?”
I drop my gaze.
“I didn’t think so.” He comes to stand right beside me. “So why do you act as though the idea of sex is terrifying to you?”
His perceptiveness makes my insides spin. “Because you’re a stranger.”
He reaches for my hand, lifting it between us, his fingers rubbing over our wedding bands. “Not anymore.”
I bite down on my lip. “Being married to you doesn’t mean we’re not strangers. It just means we’re the same kind of crazy.”
His smile lacks humour. “Yet here we are.”
I nod, troubled at the idea of what’s ahead of me – of us. Wondering, not for the first time, if this was sheer, impulsive madness. The idea of my dad being able to come home blinded me to everything else, but now I’m here and the expectation that I’ll uphold my end of the bargain weighs on me like a tonne of bricks.
“Something is bothering you.”
I tilt my face to his. “Do you care?”
His frown is infinitesimal. “I am…curious.”
“Because you like to know everything? It’s all just a power trip to you, isn’t it?”
He doesn’t respond, and I sigh at my uncharacteristically catty comment.
“I know you said you need me to fall pregnant.” I clear my throat, reminding myself of everything I know to be true.
“We agreed to that point.”
I bite down on my lip. “I know. But the more I think about it, the more I realise we’d be better to wait.”
His eyes narrow. “Is this your virginal act again?”
I colour, looking away from him. “This has nothing to do with sex,” I murmur. “It’s not about that. But having a baby, bringing a person into the world, it’s a huge responsibility. I know I married you this morning, but you need to understand: I didn’t come here expecting I’d be welded to you for life. I saw this as a short-term measure.”
Indignation fires in his face.
“Hear me out,” I insist, before he can interrupt with whatever it is I can see running through his mind.
He compresses his lips with obvious effort.
“I need something from you and you need something from me. That’s simple. Can’t we both achieve what we want without making any permanent changes to our lives?”
His nostrils flare, his eyes glittering with dark rejection.
“I want my dad to be able to come home, and you want your people to stop seeing him as an alternate leader.”
He lifts a finger. “A very small minority of my people.”
“If it were that small, would you have gone to these lengths?”
His eyes fire something in my belly. “Any threat to my country’s peace must be taken seriously.”
I jerk my head in agreement. “Fine. So for as long as we’re married, we can accept there’s no threat to you. Dad just wants to come home, to see his friends and be amongst the places in which he grew up. He’s not looking to stage a mutiny, I promise.”
He crosses his arms over his chest.
“We don’t need a baby.”
“I need an heir,” he says, in a quiet, determined voice.
“Eventually, yes.”
“No, not eventually. Can you not see that without an heir, there is a question about my succession? If I were to die tomorrow, who would be Sheikh? A distant cousin is next in line at present, but there are the Hassan supporters too. Without doubt, the country would be plunged into civil war.” His jaw is squared. “If you and your father are here, the nature of that war changes.”
I make a groaning noise. “How can I convince you I’m not interested in your bloody throne? And nor is my father!”
His expression is mocking. “Marrying me suggests otherwise.”
I grind my teeth. “I told you! The only reason I married you was so daddy could come home.” I revert to my childhood title for him, a name I haven’t used in a very long time, out of a strange defensiveness for the older man.
“And you think he isn’t already planning how to use your status in my palace to his advantage?”
“How could he be?” I demand, infuriated. My body shakes with the force of my rage. “He doesn’t even know I’m here, Zahir! He has no idea I came back, no idea I married you. He doesn’t know any of it.”
He stares at me, his eyes ravaging my face in a determined hunt for the truth.
“I didn’t want to tell him,” I say defensively. “Not until I knew he could return for sure. Being stranded in America has been almost impossible for him, but having false hope of coming home, only to have it taken away?” I shake my head wistfully. “I think that would kill him.”
His face is inscrutable once more. I have no idea what’s going on behind those dark eyes of his. He’s so good at hiding what he’s thinking and feeling.
I’m not. I fear my anger and frustration must show clearly.
“You’re very close to him.”
My heart rolls at the unexpected question. “Yes.”
His eyes probe mine. “You’re like him?”
I frown. “In what way?”
He turns away from me, walking towards the table and pouring a glass of water. He takes a drink, then holds it to me. I shake my head.
“Would you say your personality is like his?”
I don’t need to give that much consideration. “No.” My lips twist wistfully. “I think I’m more like my mum.”
Silence sparks between us, and I wait, wondering if he’s evaluating my suggesting, if perhaps I’ve convinced him.
“A baby will be necessary, Emira.”
He uses the title, perhaps, to remind me of my duties now, my obligations to this ancient land my father loves so much.
A shiver runs the length of my spine. “But not right away.” I intend it to come out strong, but instead it sounds like a plea. I try again. “Can’t we just take some time to get used to all this, first?”
His eyes glitter like black diamonds when they meet mine.
“A little time,” he concedes, with a dip of his head. “But not much.”
It’s a temporary reprieve, but I’ll take it.
“I have something for you.”
I look at him, my nerve endings still firing from our earlier conversation, his certainty that we must have children.
“What is it?”
“A wedding present.”
“Seriously?” My lips tug downwards. “You didn’t have to do that.” He hands me a gift, small in shape. I pull at the tissue paper, golden in colour and almost translucent, drawing it outwards slowly to reveal some
thing remarkable. Inside is the most delicate and perfect egg – porcelain and incredibly fine, so that even held within the palm of my hand I fear breaking it. The shell is covered in an ornate pattern, links of turquoise and yellow scrawl across it, enchanting me with the detail.
“It’s beautiful,” I murmur, my eyes lifting to his. Emotions stir deep in my chest. “It’s so strange. My mom used to have something similar to this.” I hold it up to the light, the shell shimmering at this angle. “Hers was less delicate, a little larger.”
His brow knits together. “You really do not know our culture, do you?”
The words sting more than they should. I stare at him blankly. “What do you mean?”
“It is a Qabidi tradition that a groom will give his bride an egg on their wedding night. It used to be a real egg, but over time, these became more popular, and ceramic is now the standard.”
“An egg?” I repeat, not sure this makes any sense.
He carefully takes the gift from my hands. “It symbolises new life – the life we are to start together, two people becoming one.” He reaches for my finger, running it around the diameter slowly. “This is the journey we are to take – all marriages are a circle. A beginning, and an end, but much experienced in between.” I feel as though something sharp is pressing to my side. Pain lances me. I understand it intrinsically. It’s the pain of knowing these words mean nothing to him; the gift is hollow, meaningless. A tradition someone on his staff thought he should abide by. They would have organised the egg, not him.
“An egg is beautiful and full of promise, but it is also fragile. In Qabid, we believe marriages must be nurtured, cared for, our partners respected, or cracks will develop and the marriage will break.”
An egg as a metaphor for marriage shouldn’t be romantic and mystical yet hearing this description from Zahir stirs something deep in my soul.
I ignore it as best as I can. “Well, thank you. I’ll bear that in mind.” I smile tightly and turn away, not sure I want to see the egg again – it’s just a reminder of what our marriage isn’t, rather than a lesson in what we should aspire to. Our marriage is already cracked beyond repair – it’s better to be realistic from the beginning.
Zahir
Asleep, she is so different to the woman I’ve seen these past two days. In sleep, there is no hardness or defensiveness about her, no anger or impatience. In sleep, she is gentle and soft, her breathing almost silent, everything about her rhythmic and peaceful. I watch her with a scowl on my face, a crystal glass in my hand filled with a generous measure of Kathani, a drink made in Qabid that best compares to scotch.
Her eyelashes form two perfect fans against her creamy cheeks, her blonde hair is a halo against the bright pillow. It’s a warm night and a few minutes ago, she pushed the coverings off her body. She’s wearing shorts and a singlet top. Nothing particularly seductive or glamorous, but the hint of her cleavage, the gentle curve of her breasts and hips, the smoothness of her legs, makes me ache to reach for her, to touch her, to hear her moan softly as she did when I kissed her after our wedding.
Her body’s response galvanised something within me. I’d had to fight every instinct I possessed not to throw her over my shoulder and drag her to my bedroom right then, to make love to her hard and fast, then slowly, oh so slowly, taking all night to pleasure her, to find the parts of her body she most liked having touched and kissed and torment her with her sensuality.
If I went to her now and kissed her, I know she’d stir with sensual need, her arms lifting and wrapping around my neck. No matter how she wants to fight with me, there is something between us, a chemistry or spark, that renders our hatred obsolete. Temporarily, but emphatically.
I want – things I can’t have.
It isn’t right to use her body’s desires against her.
She might be the daughter of a man I hate with all my soul, but that doesn’t mean I can treat her with less respect than I would any other woman.
She shifts, turning onto her back, lifting one arm above her head so her singlet separates a little, revealing an inch of tanned, flat midriff. My eyes roam her flesh then I stand abruptly, moving to the opening of the tent and stepping through it.
There are many things I love about the desert. The ancient sands beneath my feet, worn down over millennia to form this landscape, the stark heat that demands a type of strength our people are renowned for. I love the night sky viewed from this vantage point, the blackness of the backdrop to stars that shimmer as though hyper-charged with electricity. They are ancient too, like these sands, and in the midst of this I feel as though my life is a small reverberation in the cosmic fabric of time. Whatever worries I carry seem more manageable here, the burdens of leadership ebbing away as I am reminded, vigorously, of much greater forces and questions. Or perhaps I am reminded, here in the desert, of all the Sheikhs who’ve come before me, who’ve travelled to this oasis and sought counsel from its serenity. I walk to its edges now, bending down to run my fingers through the water. It is cool to the touch.
Without second guessing myself, I strip down and, naked, walk across the shore and into the lagoon, moving deeper, until the water brushes my hips.
She defends her father as though he is the epitome of honour and at the same time, hands me evidence that he is not. The emails she casually referred to him sending should have been impossible – our government agencies have sought to prevent any communication between him and his troublemaking followers. That he managed to circumvent those efforts is further proof of his ongoing intent to stir trouble.
Is it possible my plan here will backfire? No. Not so long as I have Amy as collateral.
My lips are grim, her instinct to speak highly of her father understandable, given their relationship. Before she travelled here, I was convinced she would know everything. I thought her father might have told her of his intentions, of the plot to have me murdered so that he could assume my place, and of his part in the death of my own father. I thought her father might have brought her in on that plot, or at least poisoned her mind with a hatred of me.
She does hate me, but only for the wrong she perceives I’ve done her father.
If she knew there was incontrovertible proof that I had, in fact, given him a kindness he never intended to give me? I could have had him put to death for his treason, but I didn’t, and now I realise how much Amy was a part of my consideration. For Malik Hassan had a young daughter at the time his plan was discovered and to rob a child of a parent was something I couldn’t do. I knew the distinct, pervasive pain of that; I’d felt the absence of my parents for many long years. I would never inflict that on another person.
And so I’d exiled him. Painful, yes, but far less so than the alternative.
I grind my teeth, running my fingertips through the water as I step deeper, pausing only when it’s halfway up my abdomen.
There is evidence of her father’s plans, evidence I could show to her. Why don’t I? It would be the easiest way to make her understand me, and yet instinctively I shy away from doing that to her. She clearly idolises the man. Is there any need to ruin that for her? He’s seventy nine years old and in poor health – one of the only reasons I contemplated this union. Oh, he still has the ability to make mischief, but far less so than before. His networks have been broken up, those with whom he plotted imprisoned or exiled. While there is a small band of dissidents who might seek to act in his name, to appoint a Hassan to the throne, I believe my marriage to his daughter will have quelled their need for civil unrest.
Amy is my wife.
This isn’t the marriage I had planned. Her ignorance of her father’s dealings changes things. I can’t hate her the way I expected to. A marriage I had thought would be purely political – a necessary connection resulting in the obligatory heir – has the potential to be something different now.
But what?
Amy
I wake alone and my first thought is one of disappointment. I reach for him without meanin
g to, my arm outstretched with the full expectation of connecting with flesh. Even the impulse is strange. I’ve had boyfriends, a lover, but I’ve never lived with one. I’ve never even spent the night with one. Sharing a bed is not in my realm of experience, so how strange that my first thought on stirring is to reach for Zahir.
And Zahir, of all people!
A man I have always, and will always, hate! And yet memories of that kiss stir something deep in my soul, making me ache to feel his skin beneath my fingertips, his hands on my body. My hand presses to my stomach and runs lower. I groan softly, then, mortified, wake up fully. He’s not in bed but that doesn’t mean he’s not somewhere in the tent, watching me, seeing my hand move towards the waistband of my pants!
I sit up, looking around quickly, but he’s not there. A frown crosses my lips, and before I can realise what I’m doing, I stand, feet bare, and pad towards the stretches of fabric that form a door. I push one open and for a moment I pause, the sheer beauty of the desert at night robbing me completely of breath.
The stars are so bright. I’ve never seen anything like this, despite the fact I grew up in a rural part of North Carolina. This is incredible. I feel as though I’ve stepped through a portal into a landscape just freshly painted. The moonlight casts the sand in a silver glow, the trees starkly shaped and black, the stars like explosions of diamond dust strewn across the sky. The night is cooler than the day, of course, but it’s still balmy and warm, yet I shiver as I turn towards the water.
Perhaps a part of me knew what to expect? Was the shiver a premonition?
He’s standing with his hands on his hips, staring up at the sky, so I know he hasn’t yet seen me. I could creep back into the tent and pretend I’m still asleep. I could escape unnoticed.
My legs though carry me towards the water, as drawn to it as I am to him. There is magic in the desert, and more so at night. If I’ve stepped into a different portal then something about the regular rules has changed; I no longer feel as constricted as I did in the daytime. It’s ethereal and beautiful.
The Marriage Deal Page 4
