She wasn’t crawling back into her rut. She’d allowed herself to love someone and the world hadn’t fallen apart. She’d seen the universe and she’d been inspired.
‘Thank you, James, but I can do that.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Miss Metcalfe, but the number on the card is a direct line to my office. Give me a call if I can help.’
Zahir found his mother sitting in her garden. Kissed her cheek, took her hand.
‘Are you well?’ he asked, sitting beside her.
‘By the will of Allah,’ she said. ‘And you, Zahir?’
‘By the will of Allah,’ he replied.
She smiled up at him. ‘You look happy. I can see that you have made your decision.’
‘I have. It was not easy but the woman who has won my heart has warmth, sweetness, honour. She has courage too. And family is everything to her.’
‘Then it seems that I have found you a paragon!’
‘No man could…’ or would, he thought ‘…live with a paragon. Except my father,’ he added swiftly. ‘The women you chose were all equally charming and any one of them would make a perfect wife. For someone else.’
Her smile faded. ‘Zahir…’
‘When I was young, I had Hanif to speak for me, talk to my father, persuade him to let me take my own path, even though it was not the one chosen for me. Have I failed you, have I brought dishonour on my family?’
‘My son…’ She shook her head. Laid a hand over his.
‘Now I am a man and I must speak for myself. I honour you and my father, as I have always honoured you. Will you not trust me in this greatest of all decisions to know my own heart?’
Alone in the house, Diana hadn’t put the light on but had curled up in bed, hugging the cat for comfort.
She’d woken early-she’d just about adjusted to Ramal Hamrah time-and, because the alternative was lying there thinking about Zahir standing under that canopy with some perfect match his family had found for him, she got up and set about making a plan.
No. Not the canopy. He’d said that traditional weddings took place in the bride’s home. Well, obviously, he’d been thinking about it…
She concentrated on the list of things to do. First thing she’d call the Public Carriage Office and talk to someone about getting back on track with her ‘appearances’-the tests of her knowledge of the quickest routes in London.
Then she’d go to the library and use the computer to follow up the stuff James Pierce had mentioned, check on the possibility of a start-up grant.
A princess.
She’d bet they’d found him a princess to marry.
Well, that was how it was in real life. Princes married princesses while Cinderella…got the frog.
She called Sadie.
‘It’s quiet here. No one at Capitol is prepared to talk and the media was reduced to printing a fuzzy school photograph of you.’
‘Oh, terrific. One minute I’m hanging off the arm of a sheikh in the hat from hell, the next the world sees me in pigtails!’
‘You looked cute.’
‘I’m twenty-three. Cute is not a good look!’ Then, ‘I just hope that whoever sold it to them made them pay through the nose.’
She got a couple of startled looks from the neighbours as she walked down the street, but she just smiled and said, ‘Gorgeous day!’ and walked on. Called in at the bank to make an appointment. Visited the library.
She thought she was home clear when a journalist caught up with her in the supermarket.
‘Nice tan, Diana. Been somewhere nice?’
‘Do I know you?’
‘Jack Harding.
‘And you would know that how?’ she asked.
It was surreal but she refused to duck and run. She would not hide. Instead, she carried on shopping, bought cheese, eggs, apples.
By the time she reached the checkout there were three of them.
‘Will you be seeing the Sheikh again?’
‘Can you pass me down that jar of tomato paste.’ she replied.
‘Are you going back to work?’
‘Haven’t you lot got a supermodel to harass?’ she asked, losing patience.
‘She’s in rehab. And Cinderella is a much better story.’
‘It’s a fairy tale,’ she replied. Then, ‘Are you lot going to follow me home?’
‘Will you make us a cup of tea and tell us your life story if we do?’
‘No, but you could make yourself useful,’ she said, pointing at her shopping. ‘Carry that.’ She didn’t wait to see whether any of them picked up her bags, but just walked out.
She let them follow her up to the front door before she retrieved the carriers with a smile. ‘Thank you.’ Then, as she slipped the key into the lock, she glanced back. ‘Will you be here tomorrow?’
‘What’s happening tomorrow?’
‘Nothing. But the grass needs cutting and because of you lot Dad isn’t here to do it.’
They laughed, but with the embarrassment of men who’d been caught out misbehaving.
‘No? Well, sorry guys, but that’s as exciting as it’s going to get around here.’ And with that she stepped inside, closed the door on them and leaned back against it, shaking like a leaf. So much for it all being over.
But she’d survived. And as soon as they realised there really was nothing in it for them, they’d drift away. A week from now no one would even remember that she’d danced with a sheikh in Berkeley Square.
Well, except for whoever made a little cash selling an old school photograph.
And her.
Her fairy tale prince might be unattainable, but he was unforgettable. And he had made the magic happen, had brought the world into focus, had reminded her that dreaming was allowed. That anyone could do it. That she could do anything…
Next year she’d have her own taxi. A pink, sparkly one that would turn heads, make people smile. And every day when she drove it around London, she’d thank him for hauling her out of the deep rut she had been digging for herself, had been hiding in.
She drew in a deep breath and walked through to the kitchen. Dumped her bags on the table.
The cat rubbed against her leg, then crossed to the door and, refusing to submit to the indignity of the cat flap when there was a human on hand to open the door, waited to be let out.
‘You are such a princess,’ Diana said, opening the door with a mock curtsey. And found herself staring at her fantasy.
The desert prince she had expected when she’d dashed to the City Airport. The whole white robes, gold- trimmed cloak, headdress thingy.
But it wasn’t his robes that held her. She’d recognised what he was even in the most casual clothes. Now, as then, it was Zahir’s dark eyes that drained the power of speech as she relived that moment when she’d first set eyes on him. But this time she recognised it for what it was.
The prelude to pain…
Ten minutes ago her life had seemed so simple. Her sights fixed on an attainable goal. Her heart safely back behind locked doors.
Now…
‘Your Aunt Alice was kind enough to let me come through her garden,’ he said, answering the what-the-hell- are-you-doing-here? question she’d been unable to frame. He shrugged. Smiled. Just with his eyes.
Oh, no…
‘Aunt Alice!’ she exploded. ‘Why did you bother coming in the back way if you’re going to come dressed like Lawrence of…’ she struggled to keep the expletive in check ‘…of Arabia?’ She made a wild gesture that took in his
