CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I awoke once more to the magical sound of the muezzin the following morning. I could get used to this, I thought. It was a glorious way to wake up.
I got out of bed and, cursing myself again for being such a bloody idiot, plastered more lotion onto my burnt neck. The lotion that Beatrice had given me was soothing but sadly had not prevented small blisters from forming. It wasn’t a great look. I’d also slept badly, it had been impossible to find a comfortable position.
Unable to bear the weight of my hair on the raw skin, I piled it into a bun and tied a loose, light scarf around my neck. Grabbing my paints and sketch pad I went out onto the small terrace. The morning air was fresh and invigorating. I leant on the parapet and drank in the beauty of the sunrise, letting the fresh morning air cool and soothe me.
The night before had been strained to say the least. Nick had disappeared to eat at a local restaurant but before going he’d asked if he could cook everyone a meal the following evening. He wanted to try out some new recipes and would be delighted if they could be his guinea pigs. Bushara was lending him the kitchen. It was to be his treat. As ever his enthusiasm was infectious and everyone was more than happy to agree to a meal cooked by a chef with a Michelin star.
Everyone except me, that was. I had been planning on going to the big square. I was keen to see it in the evening which, according to Radar, was when it really came alive. But I knew that it would sound churlish if I refused so I had kept quiet.
I’d guessed that Nick was going out mainly because of me and I’d felt guilty and then I’d felt angry that I should be made to feel guilty. I was the bloody victim here and yet somehow I felt that I was the one constantly being judged.
Of course Philippe must have told Beatrice about my sunburn, hence the ointment, and I was mortified at the memory of my pathetic behaviour. Philippe had avoided talking to me throughout the evening and I couldn’t really blame him. He hadn’t mentioned my painting even though I knew he had seen it over my shoulder and for some reason that really irked me. I’d no idea why I felt slighted by his silence, but I did.
I was at sixes and sevens with the world and I felt raw and edgy. It was as if a different Sky had emerged over the last two weeks, it was like living with a stranger. A stranger I was starting to hate.
I shook myself, mentally and physically, and breathing in the crisp air settled down to my painting, hoping it would calm me and bring a measure of peace however temporary.
Nick was back in the market with Ibrahim. He was planning a veritable feast for everyone tonight and was hugely excited. He had spent all yesterday in the kitchen with Bushara and had loved every minute.
He felt slightly guilty about having such a great time when he thought of the real reason he had come to Marrakech, but it seemed impossible to talk to Sky on her own. He had envisioned having a real heart to heart with her, drinking copious amounts of wine, just like the old days and naively he’d convinced himself that somehow they would be able to sort this mess out. He realised now there was no way that was going to happen. He knew of course that she was hurting but he had been unprepared for such undisguised animosity.
He had no idea how to get through to her. The old Sky he knew better than she knew herself, he knew what she was thinking at any given moment, he knew what made her tick, he knew her every nuance, every expression, every heartbeat.
But this new Sky, this cold and distant Sky who was cloaked in aggression, this Sky he had no idea how to deal with. He had never seen her like this and knew that he was responsible for her behaviour. He had lain awake most of the night trying and failing to find a solution.
Philippe wondered how Sky was feeling this morning. She had clearly been suffering last night. He was angry with himself; she was going through a huge personal crisis, she was bound to be emotional and unstable. She deserved sympathy and he was appalled at his lack of sensitivity. He should have been more tactful. He had angered Sky by barging in like that and telling her what to do. She was old enough to look after herself, he had patronised her and made her feel stupid.
He had loved her passion for the gardens, it mirrored his own and he’d loved her enthusiasm. Before falling asleep on the bench he’d watched her painting, he’d seen the intense concentration on her face, smiled at how she constantly bit her bottom lip and the way she occasionally held out her hands, reaching towards the scene she was painting. He had only glanced at her work over her shoulder but it had been enough to make him realise that she was very talented.
He would find the time to apologise to her today, try and patch things up.
Something else had been worrying him all night and that was his beloved Emmaline. He knew that Claude and Celine were due back from holiday today and that meant that Emmie would have to leave the chateau and go back to the ghastly monstrosity her parents had built a few years ago.
She loathed living there. Sausage would certainly never be allowed inside the hallowed gates and it would break her heart to leave the little piglet. He could hardly bear to picture her sweet sad face. He should be there to help her but on the other hand knew that would only make it twice as difficult for both of them.
After the death of his parents in a car accident, Philippe’s younger cousin Claude had lived at the chateau with Philippe and Stephanie. He had grown up with them, he was treated like a son by their parents. It was as much his home as theirs and therefore it had seemed quite natural for Claude to remain living there following his surprise marriage to Celine. The chateau was large, there was plenty of room, in fact they had the whole east wing.
However, a few years ago Celine had suddenly insisted on building their own house. It had made no sense to Philippe, but Celine was adamant and the house had been built half a mile down the road in the grounds, but not in sight, of the chateau. It was big and soulless and nobody bar Celine and Claude liked it and Philippe even had his doubts about Claude.
Emmie in particular hated it. Philippe knew that she felt uneasy in the modern house. In the chateau the furniture was old wood with soft contours and the worn oak floorboards and tatty rugs were comforting underfoot, whereas in the new house the modern furniture was hard and unforgiving and the shiny new floor tiles were cold and treacherous. Emmie was clumsy, unable to see very well without her glasses and was constantly bumping into the sharp corners of the designer furniture Celine had bought. Her legs were always a mass of purple bruises.
He knew how much she disliked her bedroom. The walls were painted a glacial designer grey and she felt claustrophobic in the bunk beds Celine had bought. She had confessed to her uncle her terror that the bed above would give way and crush her but she was not allowed to sleep on the top.
To be fair Philippe knew that Celine and Claude had thought that Emmie would love the little beds and consequently were all the more angry when he mentioned that she was scared. They had cost a small fortune, he was told, so Emmie would just have to learn to live with them. They were certainly not going back to the shop.
The little girl never complained, never moaned or whined. She accepted everything life threw at her with a courage and stoicism that made Philippe desperately proud and desperately protective. He suddenly missed her very much. He swung his legs out of bed, wincing at the pain in his knee. He would ring her now, before she went to school. He would reassure her that she could still see Sausage morning and night and that he would remain her special pet for ever. He would tell her how very much he loved her.
Gail had been awake for most of the night practising endless conversations in her head with Sonny’s father but each one sounded worse than the one before. She couldn’t envisage him being anything other than furious, and if she were honest, with very good reason.
She imagined that he would want to meet Sonny, but how would he react? Come to think of it, which she clearly hadn’t, how would Sonny react?
Was Tariq married by now? Did he have other kids? All these questions went round and round in her head an
d by the time morning came Gail felt physically sick. Her stomach was churning, her head throbbed and she was short of breath.
She was tempted not to go through with it, indeed had almost convinced herself that it was best for all concerned to let sleeping dogs lie, when Sonny stirred in his sleep. She got up to check on him and gazing at his familiar face, a face so similar to that of his father, she knew that she had no right to deny them the chance to get to know each other.
Beatrice was also up and about very early. She had a meeting with her architect this morning to look at the feasibility of extending the riad. She also had details of another property in the coastal town of Essaouira that she wanted to discuss with him. She had a large mug of coffee in front of her and the plans spread out over the study table but she was unable to give them her full attention.
Philippe always joked about her witch-like qualities. She certainly wasn’t a witch but she was highly intuitive and right now her intuition was in overdrive. She had lain awake for a long time trying to interpret her feelings and pull together the threads of the stories unfurling under the roof of the riad.
Despite laughing at Philippe’s notion of her as some sort of sorceress, she knew that her brain worked slightly differently from others’. Her grandmother had been famed for her ability to see into the future and her mother, the wife of an ambassador, had been an ice-cold beauty with an unnerving talent for mind-reading.
She’d taught Beatrice well. ‘Watch their faces, Beatrice,’ she used to tell her daughter. ‘You have to watch for any nuance, watch for the darkening of the eyes, the furrow in the brow, the nervous laugh, the fluttering hand. They give so much away and if you pay attention then you will learn to read them easier than any book.’ And so the young Beatrice had watched, seated on the outskirts of the grand parties her parents were famed for, she had sat and she had watched.
Every so often her mother would flit over and whisper things in her ear. ‘Monsieur Rousseau is having an affair, the lady is in the room, can you guess who it is, Beatrice?’
Her father may have held the title of ambassador but there was no doubt about where the real power lay. Like a lioness watching a herd of antelope, her mother stalked her prey, she found the weakness and she pounced.
And Beatrice had learnt from her, she had learnt to decipher the slight tightening of the jaw, the almost imperceptible twitch in the eye, the tension in the shoulders and the quick flare of the nostrils. Her mother had used her skills to expose people and capitalise on their frailty, and while admitting it must have had its uses in the world her parents inhabited, it wasn’t a quality that Beatrice admired. She had no intention of reading people in order to ruin them.
Hearing a noise outside she tipped back her chair and saw Sky stroking the cat. Even at a distance she could see that her guest looked tired and pale. The sunburn had been bad and Bea doubted she had slept much.
I’d been engrossed in my painting for over two hours, I wasn’t overly happy with it but it was early days and I would continue the following morning. Right now I craved coffee and, if at all possible, some more ointment for my neck. There was no one in the courtyard but as if on cue I heard Beatrice call me.
I walked across to her and hovered in the study doorway.
‘How are you feeling, cheri?’ Beatrice smiled at me gently. ‘Are you still very sore?’
‘I certainly am,’ I admitted. ‘But whatever you gave me helped. I wonder if I could have some more?’
‘Aloe vera mixed with argan oil.’ Beatrice smiled. ‘Argan oil is used here for just about everything. It won’t be long before the rest of the world discovers it, if they haven’t already.’
‘It was extremely stupid of me. You and Philippe must think I’m an idiot.’
‘Philippe should have looked after you better,’ Beatrice said drily.
‘He did try but I ignored him.’
‘That’s probably because he was being high-handed.’
‘You know him very well.’ I laughed. ‘But I can’t let you blame him. It was my fault, I was being very silly.’ I shook my head. ‘I hate having such fair skin and I hate having it pointed out. My sister has inherited my father’s olive complexion but sadly I always burn. One of these days I’ll learn, in fact I think that day may have just arrived,’ I shrugged.
‘You have incredible skin, like a porcelain doll. The envy of many, I’m sure.’
I blushed and to draw her attention away pointed at the plans on the desk. ‘Are you having work done?’
‘I want to put in a roof-top pool and bar area.’ Beatrice stood up and stretched like a cat. ‘I’m having a meeting with my architect today.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Sky, would you like to come and have a look and I’ll show you what we envisage? It would be good to hear your thoughts.’
‘I’d love to, it sounds amazing, but I need a coffee before I can think coherently.’
‘Of course, we’ll both take one up.’
‘Oh, Beatrice, this is going to be fantastic!’
I was standing on the spot where the proposed bar and terrace was going to be. ‘This is breathtaking.’ Spinning around I gazed at the panorama. The snow-capped Atlas Mountains provided the background and in the foreground were the imposing minarets of the mosques interspersed with palm trees and the crowded rooftops of the red city.
‘The view from here is beautiful at any time but I imagine the night time must be very special.’ I was lost in the wonder of it all.
‘I want it to be everything to everyone.’ Beatrice was pacing around pointing out different areas to me. ‘I want seclusion, I want romance, I want warmth and friendliness, I want to create an ambience of peace and tranquility amidst the vibrancy of the city.’ She smiled. ‘Imagine candles and lanterns, soft plump cushions and low, inviting sofas. I want people to be transported to another world.’
‘And they will be,’ I said with absolute sincerity. ‘Your riad is magical, you’ve already created something very special here.’
‘Well, I have had help, I have one of the best architects in Morocco. He is a man with a vision and talent.’
Something was bothering me, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but there was definitely something tugging at the back of my mind. I thought for a moment but nothing came to me. Closing my eyes, I began to visualise the space Beatrice had just depicted.
‘I’m going to paint your rooftop terrace,’ I suddenly shouted. ‘I feel inspired. I’m going to try to put onto paper exactly what you’ve described to me. Would that be OK?’
‘Sky, that would be wonderful.’ Beatrice looked startled but seemed genuinely pleased. ‘But don’t you want to go exploring again today?’
‘No, I’ve promised Gail that I’ll look after Sonny this morning while she searches for his father,’ I said without thinking.
There was a short silence.
‘Bugger, I shouldn’t have said anything.’ I was annoyed with myself. ‘Please, please keep that to yourself.’
‘Of course I will,’ Beatrice replied. ‘I guessed that might be why she was here. I wanted to offer to help but didn’t want to interfere.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Does she know where he lives?’
‘I imagine she has an address for him. His name is Tariq.’’ I broke off suddenly as Beatrice gasped. ‘What is it, Beatrice?’
‘My architect is Tariq.’
‘Bloody hell, it can’t be, can it? That would be just too much of a coincidence.’
‘Sonny did look vaguely familiar, and now I know why,’ Beatrice said, looking equally astonished.
‘And I thought your architect looked familiar in the photo.’ I was shaking. ‘Beatrice, we have to tell her, when is he coming here?’
Beatrice looked at her watch. ‘He’ll be here any minute.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
At the bottom of the stairs, Gail bent down to do up her laces, which had a habit of coming undone, and Sonny scampered on ahead to the far corner of the courtyard where the tortoises cou
ld usually be found.
Busy searching in his bag for his phone, Tariq didn’t notice the small boy running into the courtyard. He located his phone and made his way towards the archway that led to the stairs at exactly the same time that Gail emerged into the courtyard.
They stood looking at each other for what seemed like an eternity.
Gail could feel her heart hammering and the blood pounded in her ears. She was shaking like a leaf and was having difficulty breathing. She wanted to throw herself into his arms at the same time as wanting to turn and run away as fast as possible. However, she was rooted to the spot so neither was an option. Tariq broke the silence first.
‘Gail.’ He stood drinking her in. ‘What are you doing here?’
Her mouth was dry, she licked her lips but no words came out. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Sonny looking around, she had to say something. She tried again. ‘I came to find you.’ The words emerged cracked and hoarse but they sounded beautiful to Tariq. He felt a warmth begin to flow through his veins. Could this really be happening? There had never been a single day in the last five years when he had not thought of her, his English rose, his princess, and now here she was standing right before him.
‘Why?’ he asked softly. ‘Why did you want to find me?’
Beatrice and I burst into the courtyard at precisely the same time as Sonny ran over towards his mother.
I looked from Gail to Tariq. They were both pale. Gail looked as if she had been turned to stone.
Sky's the Limit Page 8
