happened. Early the next morning Pan Am flew him back to New York — first class. When Hamid emerged from the airport terminal, his wife jumped out of the car and threw her arms around him.
Nadim wound the window down and declared, “You were wrong, Papa. A fortnight turns out to be fifteen days.”
Hamid grinned at his son, but his daughter burst into tears, and not because their car had come to a sudden halt. It was just that she was horrified to see her mother hugging a strange man.
Chunnel Vision*
Whenever I’m in New York, I always try to have dinner with an old friend of mine called Duncan McPherson. We are opposites, and so naturally we attract. In fact, Duncan and I have only one thing in common: we are both writers.
But even then there’s a difference, because Duncan specialises in screenplays, which he writes in the intervals between his occasional articles for Newsweek and the New Yorker, whereas I prefer novels and short stories.
One of the other differences between us is the fact that I have been married to the same woman for twenty-eight years, while Duncan seems to have a different girlfriend every time I visit New York — not bad going, as I average at least a couple of trips a year. The girls are always attractive, lively and bright, and there are various levels of intensity — depending on what stage the relationship is at. In the past I’ve been around at the beginning (very physical) and in the middle (starting to cool off), but this trip was to be the first time I experienced an ending.
I phoned Duncan from my hotel on Fifth Avenue to let him know I was in town to promote my new novel, and he immediately asked me over for dinner the following evening. I assumed, as in the past, that it would be at his apartment. Another opposite: unlike me, he’s a quite superlative cook.
“I can’t wait to see you,” he said. “I’ve come up with an idea for a novel at last, and I want to try the plot out on you.”
“Delighted,” I replied. “Look forward to hearing all about it tomorrow night. And may I ask …” I hesitated.
“Christabel,” he said.
“Christabel …” I repeated, trying to recall if I had ever met her.
“But there’s no need for you to remember anything about her,” he added. “Because she’s about to be given the heave-ho, to use one of your English expressions. I’ve just met a new one — Karen. She’s absolutely sensational. You’ll adore her.”
I didn’t feel this was the appropriate moment to point out to Duncan that I had adored them all. I merely asked which one was likely to be joining us for dinner.
“Depends if Christabel has finished packing,” Duncan replied. “If she has, it will be Karen. We haven’t slept together yet, and I’d been planning on that for tomorrow night. But as you’re in town, it will have to be postponed.”
I laughed.
“I could wait,” I assured him. “After all, I’m here for at least a week.”
“No, no. In any case, I must tell you about my idea for a novel. That’s far more important. So why don’t you come to my place tomorrow evening. Shall we say around seven thirty?”
Before I left the hotel, I wrapped up a copy of my latest book, and wrote “Hope you enjoy it” on the outside.
Duncan lives in one of those apartment blocks on 72nd and Park, and though I’ve been there many times, it always takes me a few minutes to locate the entrance to the building. And, like Duncan’s girlfriends, the doorman seems to change with every trip.
The new doorman grunted when I gave my name, and directed me to the elevator on the far side of the hall. I slid the grille doors across and pressed the button for the fourteenth floor. It was one of those top floors that could not be described as a penthouse even by the most imaginative of estate agents.
I pulled back the doors and stepped out onto the landing, rehearsing the appropriate smiles for Christabel (goodbye) and Karen (hello). As I walked towards Duncan’s front door I could hear raised voices — a very British expression, born of understatement; let’s be frank and admit that they were screaming at each other at the tops of their voices. I concluded that this had to be the end of Christabel, rather than the beginning of Karen.
I was already a few minutes late, so there was no turning back.
I pressed the doorbell, and to my relief the voices immediately fell silent. Duncan opened the door, and although his cheeks were scarlet with rage, he still managed a casual grin. Which reminds me that I forgot to tell you about a few more opposites — the damn man has a mop of boyish dark curly hair, the rugged features of his Irish ancestors, and the build of a champion tennis player.
“Come on in,” he said. “This is Christabel, by the way — if you hadn’t already guessed.”
I’m not by nature a man who likes other people’s cast-offs, but I’m bound to confess I would have been happy to make Christabel the exception. She had an oval face, deep blue eyes, and an angelic smile. She was also graced with that fine fair hair that only the Nordic races are born with, and the type of figure that slimming advertisements make their profits out of. She wore a cashmere sweater and tapered white jeans that left little to the imagination.
Christabel shook me by the hand, and apologised for looking a little scruffy. “I’ve been packing all afternoon,” she explained.
The proof of her labours was there for all to see — three large suitcases and two cardboard boxes full of books standing by the door. On the top of one of the boxes lay a copy of a Dorothy L. Sayers murder mystery with a torn red dustjacket.
I was becoming acutely aware that I couldn’t have chosen a worse evening for a reunion with my old friend. “l’m afraid we’re going to have to eat out for a change,” Duncan said. “It’s been” — he paused — “a busy day. I haven’t had a chance to visit the local store. Good thing, actually,” he added. “It’ll give me more time to take you through the plot of my novel.”
“Congratulations,” Christabel said.
I turned to face her.
“Your novel,” she said. “Number one on the
“Yes, congratulations,” said Duncan. “I haven’t got round to reading it yet, so don’t tell me anything about it. It wasn’t on sale in Bosnia,” he added with a laugh.
I handed him my little gift.
“Thank you,” he said, and placed it on the hall table. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“I’ve read it,” said Christabel.
Duncan bit his lip. “Let’s go,” he said, and was about to turn and say goodbye to Christabel when she asked me, “Would you mind if I joined you? I’m starving, and as Duncan said, there’s absolutely nothing in the icebox.”
I could see that Duncan was about to protest, but by then Christabel had passed him, and was already in the corridor and heading for the elevator.
“We can walk to the restaurant,” Duncan said as we trundled down to the ground floor. “It’s only Californians who need a car to take them one block.” As we strolled west on 72nd Street Duncan told me that he had chosen a fancy new French restaurant to take me to.
I began to protest, not just because I’ve never really cared for ornate French food, but I was also aware of Duncan’s unpredictable pecuniary circumstances. Sometimes he was flush with money, at other times stony broke. I just hoped that he’d had an advance on the novel.
“No, like you, I normally wouldn’t bother,” he said. “But it’s only just opened, and the
