last night.’
Or too much champagne, Alim thought, but made no comment as his father spoke on. ‘It is just as well for I wish to speak to you alone. With all I told you last night there is a lot to discuss.’
‘Very well.’
A gleaming walnut table had been laid and a feast prepared. Alim looked over to where it stood waiting on a large silver trolley.
There were no staff present, Alim noted, as was the case when formal business was to be discussed.
Alim was not really in the mood for a breakfast briefing but given his father’s illness he knew there would be a lot to sort out.
If they’d been in Zethlehan, there might be an elder present in case sensitive issues were raised, but for now it was just the two of them.
Alim first served his father and then himself.
Oman preferred fruit, and usually so too did Alim, but this morning he helped himself to a generous serving of shakshuka—baked eggs in a rich and spicy sauce. There were several chefs at the Grande Lucia, including two from Zethlehan that Alim had brought over. He made light conversation with his father as he sat down.
‘The Middle Eastern brunch at this hotel is becoming increasingly popular. Now people have to book in advance.’
Oman made no comment; he did not approve of Alim having investments overseas, and he particularly loathed his son’s passion for this one.
And then Oman said it.
He did not look up; he said it as easily as he might ask for more mint tea.
‘For some time now I have been considering invoking the pre-marital diktat.’
Alim, who had anticipated many things for the year ahead, had never envisaged this.
Never.
His father loathed the diktat, since it had been forced upon him, and Alim could not believe that he would bring this harsh ruling to bear on his son.
‘There is no need for that.’ Alim kept his voice calm, though he was rarely unsettled.
‘It would seem that there is. I have been asking to choose your bride for many years.’
‘And I have told you—’ Alim’s voice was still silk, but laced with threat ‘—that I shall never be pushed into marriage.’
Alim stared at his father. Not only was this unexpected, it was vindictive. ‘You loathe that diktat,’ Alim pointed out.
‘It has its merits. My father chose well for me—your mother is an exemplary queen and our people adore her. We have raised three heirs...’
‘And you hate it that you could not marry Fleur.’
He’d said her name out loud.
Now was not the time for reticence.
‘You hate that your first born bears no title and that the woman you love gets no recognition.’ Alim tried to stare down his father but Oman refused to meet his glare. ‘You cannot do this.’
‘It is done,’ Oman told him. ‘I informed the elders this morning. As of now you are Sultan Elect.’
This meant Alim was a sultan in choosing.
From this point on he must remain celibate for he could bring no shame on any future bride. There could be no release save from discreet times in the desert.
Alim stood, his appetite totally gone.
‘You cannot force me into marriage.’
He said it again, loudly this time, and Alim never shouted.
Ever.
But this morning he did.
Oman did not flinch. In fact, vindictive had been the right word to describe his father’s mood for the Sultan of Sultans’ smile was black when he offered his response.
‘I can make single life hell for you, though. You’ve had your fun, Alim. It’s time to grow up.’
* * *
A year.
Gabi had stamped her way home through the slush and cold, furious at his suggestion.
But her flat was cold when she entered and she thought of the warmth she had left and the bliss of last night.
It should be over with by now.
Right now, Gabi thought, she should be accepting that, though amazing, her time with Alim was done.
Yet her mind danced with the hope of more.
Even before she had made a quick coffee, Bernadetta called.
‘I have a meeting with a bride this afternoon but my vertigo has come on and I’m not going to be able to get there...’
Gabi closed her eyes as Bernadetta dragged out one of her tired excuses.
‘Can it be moved to tomorrow?’ Gabi asked.
Aside from all that had happened with Alim, Gabi had worked through to midnight and still had a lot to get done today.
She had to take the gramophone and record back to the grandparents, which was a considerable drive, and there were the outfits to collect, and a hundred other jobs that would go unnoticed but ensured that yesterday’s wedding was seamless for the family.
‘I don’t want to let down a prospective client,’ Bernadetta said. ‘Gabi, I really haven’t got the energy for debate. It’s a summer wedding to be held at the Grande Lucia; you’re going to be there today anyway.’
‘I don’t have a suit,’ Gabi reminded her boss. ‘Bernadetta...’ Gabi paused. She was about to say no to her, Gabi realised. She had been about to stand up to Bernadetta and not just on the strength of Alim’s offer this morning. Their conversation last night had resonated. She was tired of being pushed around and knew she was worth a whole lot more than the treatment Bernadetta served, but for now Gabi held her tongue.
Her next step required careful thought, and so, instead of standing her ground, Gabi brushed down her skirt and did the best repair job that she could on the torn seam of her jacket and then headed back to the Grande Lucia.
There was a lot of activity in the foyer as huge brass trolleys filled with expensive luggage were being moved out.
‘Gabi!’
She turned and smiled when she saw that it was the photographer. ‘How did things go with you last night?’ Gabi asked.
‘Probably not as well as you,’ he said, and Gabi frowned as he held out one of his cameras. ‘I left this running in the gallery,’ he explained. ‘I set it to take intermittent photos up until midnight.’
Now Gabi
