At last she found a suitable compromise: a long, polka-dotted black skirt topped with a sleeveless, embroidered black blouse. For safety, she added a black pashmina shawl to cover her shoulders. Her black leather sandals were scuffed and gritty with embedded sand, but the skirt was long enough to hide them. Finn, who had just finished straightening his green flowered tie, inspected her selections lying out on the bed. “What?” she said. “You don’t like them?”
“They’re fine,” he said. “It’s just…would you mind terribly if I ironed them? And give me those shoes.” Wordlessly, she handed him the shoes, and he disappeared downstairs into the utility room, emerging twenty minutes later with freshly pressed clothing and shiny sandals.
“Wow,” she said. “Full-service ambassador.”
“Attention to detail, darling. It’s part of the job.”
“You’re almost as useful as Negasi,” she said, admiring her improved feet.
Brushing her hair, Miranda wandered over to the window. The fanciful metal grating, all swirls and curls, somewhat limited the view of the drive. But she could see the massive armored car just beneath the bedroom window, all four of its doors standing open, surrounded by men gripping AK-47s as they surveyed the surrounding rooftops.
“The guys look ready,” she commented.
“Always,” said Finn. “Usually about an hour before I am.”
—
THEY SLIPPED OUT the front door just after seven. Mukhtar, who had been lurking in the shadows of the bougainvillea bush beside the stairs, emerged to shield them from the possible bullets of possible snipers on the way to the car. Would she ever get used to living steeped in hypothetical menace? Finn strode past her to the far side of the car. He was required to sit on the right, directly behind his bodyguard, something Miranda had learned when she once tried to climb into his side of the car. She hadn’t yet earned the right to her own bodyguard, so her protection wasn’t officially important.
Climbing up into the armored car was impossible to do gracefully, but finally Miranda managed to haul herself and her trailing skirts through the open door. Not until their seat belts were fastened did Ali start the car. “Masa al-kheer,” he said politely. “Masa anoor!” she and Finn chorused back.
Finn was cheerful in the car, chatting in effortless Arabic to Ali and Mukhtar. Miranda’s Arabic was slowly improving, but she still understood only about half of what was said. She caught “sun” and “England” and “weather.” Apparently some of the men had just returned from a training course in the UK. “There was sun in England, but it had no heat,” Finn translated for her. She smiled.
Miranda was preoccupied. This was the first time she and Finn had ever been out in public as a couple. It felt momentous. Almost as momentous as Finn telling his staff about her earlier in the week. Miranda had been sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him change out of his suit after work. “What did you say?” she asked. “ ‘Just in case any of you were worried, I’m finally getting laid’?”
“Um,” he said, turning from the closet lined with dress shirts organized by color and fabric, looking slightly embarrassed. “I’m afraid I told them we were engaged.”
Miranda looked at him, startled. “We are? You’ve known me what, five months?”
“Six. Nearly seven. About as long as you’ve known me.”
“It’s just—I don’t remember a proposal. Did you do it while I was sleeping?”
“Well, it just seemed the easiest way to say it.”
“Huh.”
“Huh?”
“It was easier to say we were engaged than to say we were seeing each other.”
“I wanted them to take it seriously. I don’t want to look like I’m behaving frivolously.” He looked at her anxiously. “Are you cross?”
Miranda was quiet for a moment, studying him as he stood before her in plaid boxers and a slightly creased white dress shirt. His pale, bare legs made him look terribly vulnerable. “No one even knew you were seeing me, and now you tell them we’re engaged? Don’t you think that’s bound to strike someone as odd?”
“Not anyone here—the Mazrooqis regularly marry people they haven’t ever met.”
“But the Brits don’t. At least, not as far as I know….Aren’t you going to look rash? Or if not rash then secretive, for not having disclosed our alleged courtship?”
Finn frowned. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Hadn’t you?”
“I’m sorry, love, I thought I was doing the right thing.” He came and sat beside her, taking her hands in his.
Miranda sighed. “Well, what did they say?”
“Mabrouk, for the most part. Congratulations. The local staff said mabrouk. I don’t think it struck any of them as odd in the least. And my British staff were all very polite about it.”
“Of course they were. You’re their boss.”
“Are you sure you’re not mad?”
“It’s just…Would you mind letting me know if we’ve set a date? I mean, just so I can get it on my calendar?”
“Miranda…” He pulled her down onto the bed so they lay side by side, facing each other. “It’s just, I know already. I’ve never felt this way. I know I will marry you. That is, if you’re willing.”
“Is this a proposal?”
“Absolutely not. I’d like to try to arrange something a bit more elaborate. Think of it as a kind of pre-proposal. A testing of the waters.”
Miranda smiled. “Well, I’d hate to make you a liar….I guess you could say the water’s warm enough for wading.”
The ride to the hotel felt endless. Through the window she watched the oversized mansions of the elite fly by, their heft squeezing out any hope of gardens. The Mazrooqis had an odd aversion to outdoor spaces; they built their homes with neither yards nor courtyards. How ugly it was here, in the wealthy end of town. Yet the Mazrooqis were proud to live here, proud to have escaped the claustrophobia of their city’s ancient, rocky heart. Nadia once confessed that she had never been to the Old City before she began visiting Miranda. Unfathomable, to live so close to perfect beauty and to shun it.
Her mind strayed to who would be there tonight. Some of her friends from the Old City, certainly, as most of them were so desperate for evening entertainment they would attend the launch of a paper airplane. Mosi and Madina might come. But she didn’t know who else was invited. Many ambassadors probably had more prestigious things to do with their evening. Or maybe not. It wasn’t such a hopping town that there were swank social gatherings every night. They had chosen the event carefully. It wasn’t political, wasn’t diplomatic, wasn’t high-profile. It was a low-key celebration of a local company, a comfortable place for them to come out as a couple.
The guard at the entrance to the hotel’s parking lot waved them right through. This didn’t happen when Miranda arrived by taxi (as she had many times, to swim at the pool or meet a friend for lunch). When she arrived alone, the guards stopped the car for ten minutes or so while they ran mirrors attached to the ends of sticks under the engine, checking for secreted explosives. Not that she minded; she was all in favor of security measures. But it was fairly time-consuming, so eventually she just had taxis let her off down the road from the hotel and walked the rest of the way.
Tonight they were driven right to the entrance. A doorman ushered them from the car through the revolving doors, directing them to a small herd of white-robed men who surged toward Finn, kissing him and shaking his hand. Miranda had never felt so invisible. “Sa’adat assafir! Ahlan wa sahlan!” Your Excellency! Welcome! Finn vigorously resisted being called Your Excellency, but the Mazrooqis clung to honorifics. They surrounded them, picking them up in their current and wafting them toward the elevator. Finn made an attempt to introduce her but was interrupted by new arrivals slipping in at the last minute and thrusting their hands at him.
She was relieved when the elevator disgorged them on the eighth floor, opening into a small front room lined with buffet tables. A pa
ir of swans sculpted from butter gazed imperiously down on dozens of salads, spreads, cheeses, and fruit. Miranda looked longingly at the cheese. But they were swept along with the crowd, into an enormous ballroom crowded with people in various forms of evening dress. Mazen, the Lebanese hotel manager, greeted them just inside the door. “Tonight for your special pleasure we have a belly dancer,” he said. “From Helsinki!”
“They have belly dancing in Finland?” Miranda wondered if it were ever warm enough in Finland to shed the requisite layers of clothing.
“She has trained in Cairo. She has been working at the Marriott there.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” said Finn. “I’ve never seen a belly dancer.”
Eagerly, Miranda scanned the faces for someone she knew. Crimson-draped tables clustered around the dance floor, most of them nearly full. “Ahlan wa sahlan!” A man dressed in white slacks and a blazer made his way to her from across the room.
“Halim!” She smiled, relieved to see him. The owner of a resort on one of the Red Sea islands, largely responsible for the launch of the new company, Halim was an old friend. She and Vícenta had met him during their first year, when they’d stayed in one of his grass huts. He kissed her on both cheeks before turning to Finn. “You must be the ambassador,” he said, his round brown face radiant with welcome.
“How did you know?” Finn and Halim had never met, and Miranda had confessed her romance to no one but her housemates.
“This is a small country,” he said. “Everyone knows everything.”
“God, I hope not!” said Miranda, immediately regretting taking the Lord’s name in vain. But Halim didn’t seem to have noticed, or if he had, didn’t care. The two men chatted happily while Miranda continued to gaze around. She spotted Morgane, a friend from her weekly treks, whose husband, Sebastian, worked for the German development organization. They were sitting with Kaia and Stéphane (here courtesy of BNP Paribas), who were also avid hikers. Morgane and Kaia spent their time exploring, mountaineering, and studying Arabic. Suddenly, Miranda was excited to introduce them to Finn. Finally, finally, they could stop hiding. He could know all of her friends, and she could know his. This was marvelous. She tugged at his sleeve.
“Halim, would you mind if I borrowed Finn for a moment? I want to introduce him to some other friends.”
“Only if you promise to come stay with us. On the house! We will be so happy to host you.”
“Thank you, Halim. But you realize that if we come, you’ll be getting ten extra guys with guns. You may want to think about that.”
Halim stretched his arms wide. “You are all welcome! But there is no need for protection on my island. We are peaceful there.”
“I’m sure you are. I’ve been there, remember? But ambassadors have an awful lot of rules.”
“So you will come?”
“We’ll come, Halim. Someday.” She kissed his cheeks again and led Finn away.
—
IT WAS AT least an hour before they got to the buffet. After chatting with the French and Norwegians, Miranda had introduced Finn to Mosi and Madina, who had settled into a back table, where Madina was busy flirting with some young Arabic students while Mosi sat in his customary regal silence, smiling indulgently. Madina had given Finn her most dazzling smile and talked nonstop at him until Miranda finally led him away to the food. By the time they joined the buffet line the butter swans were beginning to wilt, their long necks drooping toward the basket of flour-dusted rolls. Miranda blissfully filled a plate with cheese and accepted a glass of red wine from a passing waiter. By the time she was on her second glass, the band had started and the belly dancer had begun a slow slither across the floor.
Somewhat predictably, the belly dancer was pale, a chalky white. Slender and narrow-hipped, she lacked the grounding heft of the belly dancers Miranda had seen in Egypt. Still, there was enough fat over her belly to jiggle as she shimmied. Miranda found it more entertaining to watch the men in the audience, who stared fixedly at the long-haired girl, their mouths hanging slightly open. “I wouldn’t say it’s my favorite dance form,” said a disappointed Finn. “But maybe it’s better in Egypt?”
When the belly dancer had left the stage, the band struck up “Come On, Eileen,” and there was a stampede to the dance floor. Miranda was about to pull Finn into the fray when across the room she caught sight of Leslie, Finn’s deputy, with his wife, Camilla. Miranda had immediately liked Leslie, a stout, warm man with a hearty laugh. He had arrived in the country a month before his wife, and Miranda had enjoyed chatting with him at parties. She was less sure about Camilla, a tall, stork-like woman with short, straw-dry hair and liver-spotted, leathery skin suggestive of a life spent by the side of a pool clutching a gin and tonic. She and Leslie had done postings in Kiev, Sierra Leone, Athens, Zimbabwe, and Tortola, places with no shortage of sun or alcohol. As far as Miranda knew, Camilla had never had a job. She had been friendly enough when first introduced to Miranda, but in that high-pitched, overly polite British way that doesn’t convey true warmth. They must have seen Miranda and Finn, but they hadn’t come over. She tugged Finn’s sleeve. “Shouldn’t you say hello to Leslie?”
“Oh, is he here? Of course.” As they walked over, Miranda tried to remember if Leslie and Camilla had seen them together. “Does Leslie know?” she asked.
“I told him earlier this week, before I told the rest of the staff. Um…” Finn paused for moment.
“What?”
“It’s just, they’ll be polite I’m sure, but I wouldn’t expect Camilla to be overjoyed that you’re on the verge of outranking her.”
Miranda raised an eyebrow. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“Sweetheart, if all goes according to plan, you’re going to be an ambassador’s wife. That may not go down well with women who have been waiting thirty years, suffering through innumerable posts in uncomfortable places, for their husbands to be made head of post.”
“I see.”
“You kind of cheated.”
“It never occurred to me that women actually aspired to be ambassadors’ wives. As if that were a profession in itself. I mean, I can see aspiring to be an ambassador. But an ambassador’s accessory?”
“Do me a favor? Don’t say anything like that to anyone but me?”
“Are people going to hate me?”
Finn hesitated. “Well, hate is kind of a strong word.”
Anxiety clutched at her abdomen. “I think you had better fill me in later on the various expectations people will have of an ambassador’s wife. Perhaps before the wedding.”
“Certainly. Right. Are you ready? Deep breath…”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Camilla stood up as they approached, still clutching her glass of white wine. She was at least three inches taller than Miranda, and slightly unsteady on her feet. “Hello, darling! I hear congratulations are in order,” she said, with a wide smile that didn’t quite communicate joy. Her lips were dry, flaking lipstick the color of orange sherbet. “That was quick, wasn’t it? We hadn’t even known you two were a couple! Though of course, there have been rumors…”
Miranda smiled back. “Yes. Well, thank you.”
Leslie stood and gave her a warm hug. “Mabrouk,” he said. “And good luck.”
“Will I need it?”
“Every married couple needs it.”
“I hope you know what you’re getting into,” said Camilla, her smile stretching even wider.
“I’m sure I don’t,” said Miranda. “But isn’t that the fun of it? Come on, darling,” she said, turning to Finn. “They’re playing our song.” They were, in fact, playing something in Arabic she’d never heard before. But it would do.
On the dance floor, Finn surprised her with his abandon. He took her hands and spun her into his arms and back into the fray. At first, the floor was crowded with other couples and groups of people, laughing and swaying. Through the crowd, Miranda could see Finn’s team watching them, their ha
nds ever-ready at their waists. Was there a chance that he’d be offed by a sniper on the dance floor? She closed her eyes and shook the thought from her head. Sweat ran down the sides of Finn’s face and drenched the back of his shirt. Miranda shrugged off her shawl and felt grateful for her bare arms. She could not remember the last time she’d danced like this, felt the visceral delirium of disappearing into the music. When Finn spun her close again, she responded instinctively, kissing him. The moment their lips touched, he drew back quickly. “Not here,” he murmured. “We shouldn’t…” The cheese and wine curdled in her stomach. She had forgotten, for a fleeting moment, where they were. “I’m sorry!” she said in abject apology. He smiled and said it was all right, but she wasn’t sure it was. She didn’t feel like dancing anymore. It was late anyway, and the band would soon be stopping.
They gathered their things from their table and started to make their way to the door, stopping every few steps to say good-bye to the dozens of men stretching their hands to catch Finn and kiss him. “I’m beginning to get jealous,” she muttered. The guys followed them, unsmiling. She tried to remember if they usually smiled when they were working. Mukhtar helped her into the car without speaking. That was definitely unusual. No one said a word for the entire ride home. Miranda stared out the window, feeling miserable. Finn reached for her hand and pressed it.
As soon as the heavy door of the Residence had swung shut behind them, Finn turned to her in the hallway, under the watchful gaze of Elizabeth II at her coronation. “How bizarre!”
“What?” She slid the shawl off her shoulders and stepped out of her shoes, sticky with spilled wine, leaving them by the hall table.
“The close protection team. They were so quiet the whole way home. Completely taciturn.”
“Because we were dancing?”
“I don’t know. They usually natter away the whole journey.”
“Was it because they saw us kiss? Is that why Mukhtar wasn’t speaking to me?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. I had better make an honest woman of you fast. They’ll get over it.”
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