had had a huge stately home to rattle around in, but only Essie’s elderly father and a handful of servants for company when she wasn’t away at boarding school. A runaway father and a drug-addled mother. It explained a few things.
‘Didn’t he write you? Call you?’
‘It’s not the same thing, Addy.’
Addy folds the blue letter around the Polaroid and slides it under the pile of papers.
‘Anyway, I’ve finished the book outline and plotted out the places I need to photograph based on Dad’s photos. Marrakech, a fishing village called Essaouira, Casablanca, the desert.’
‘Desert? Which desert?’
‘The Sahara.’
‘Is that where the Sahara desert is?’
Addy rolls her eyes. The line goes silent.
‘What card did you just turn over?’
‘The Ten of Swords. It’s a dead body full of swords. I’ll have to look it up. I bought a Tarot book.’
‘I don’t think Tarot cards are meant to be literal.’
The sound of shuffling cards.
‘Can’t you get the book done any faster than three months, Addy? I need you to photograph a penthouse I’ve just finished in Mayfair for some Chinese clients. Never met them. Did it all through their PA. A million pounds on the interiors and they’re only going to use it for a week at Christmas. Apparently, it’s an investment.’
Addy swats at a fly. ‘The visa lasts for three months and I need the time to do this book. And …’
‘And what?’
Addy sighs. ‘Oh, Pippa. I met someone. I don’t know what to think. He’s a Berber mountain guide. Well, Amazigh, actually. He’s very nice. A bit younger than me.’
‘Oh, good grief. Define younger.’
‘Thirty-ish. Nothing’s happened. It’s just … I don’t know.’
‘My sister, the cougar.’
Addy watches a black-and-white cat slink across the gravel path as it eyes a rooster strutting under the olive tree with a harem of chickens.
‘Don’t worry. I’ve been avoiding him. I’ve still got Nigel to deal with. But then sometimes I think maybe a fling would do me a world of good. I mean, what’s the harm, Pips? It’s not like it’d ever be a long-term relationship.’
‘You don’t want to know what’s inside my mind. It’s a dustbin in there.’ The cat pounces. The rooster and chickens scrabble, flapping away in a cloud of dust and ear-splitting cackles. ‘What’s that racket?’
‘A cat chasing some chickens. His name’s Omar.’
‘The cat?’
‘No. The Berber guide.’
‘Have you slept with him?’
‘Pippa! I just got here.’
‘Why not just be on your own for a while? You’re always looking for a man to rescue you.’
‘I’m not!’
‘Really? When was the last time you were single?’
‘I was single in Canada.’
‘Twenty years ago. Don’t you think it’s time for you to stand on your own two feet instead of going after inaccessible men?’
‘I am standing on my own two feet! I’m in Morocco, aren’t I?’
‘Running away, more like.’ Philippa huffs into the phone. ‘What’s a Berber, anyway?’
Addy sighs and shifts the phone to her right ear. ‘I’ve been doing some research online for my travel book.’ She shuffles through her papers and pulls out a piece of paper covered in scribbled notes. ‘Berbers, or Imazighen as they call themselves – Amazigh singular – are the indigenous population of North Africa. The Arabs converted them to Islam in the eighth century. Before that they practised everything from paganism to Christianity and Judaism.’
‘The Fool. Bloody hell. I want the Lovers, not the Fool. That one’s probably meant for you.’
‘You’re not listening.’ Addy sips her coffee. It’s gone stone-cold. She sets down the mug and peers out over the railings.
‘It’s all very interesting, Addy. Good research for your book.’
A donkey emerges from the olive grove ridden by a bare-footed boy. Amine. The boy with vitiligo from the restaurant. He smiles and waves at her as he passes by. She waves back.
‘What do you think I should do, Pippa? About the man, I mean.’
‘You can’t seriously be considering a relationship with a Moroccan goatherd. It’s not so bad being on your own. Look at me. Divorced twenty years and I couldn’t be happier. Free as a bird. I can tango every night till dawn if I want to. If only the knees would hold up.’
‘C’mon. You’re always talking about wanting to find a man.’ Addy picks up the mug and pads over the cool stones into the house. ‘You’re glued to that house in Chelsea. The world’s a bigger place than Redcliffe Road. You should travel more.’ She dumps the cold coffee in the kitchen sink and turns on the tap to rinse the cup. The pipes groan. ‘Bugger.’
‘Bugger? There’s nothing wrong with Redcliffe Road. It’s a very good address.’
‘No water.’
‘Exactly. How can you live like that? You want my advice? Get on the first plane back to London and sort out your life. As for men, well, I’ve given up on the whole bloody lot of them. Everybody my age wants a twenty-year-old bimbette or someone to nurse them through their dotage. Once you hit forty you’re done for, Addy. I may as well have “Danger, Radioactive” tattooed on my forehead. Thank God I’ve got a career.’
‘What about the tango guys?’ Addy heads across the living room’s cool concrete floor back to the veranda.
‘A bunch of mummy’s boys and sexual deviants. But at least I get to touch a man, otherwise it’s just me and the neighbour’s cat. The Wheel of Fortune. That’s more like it.’
Addy flops into the chair. ‘That can go up or down.’
‘Let’s say it’s on the way up, shall we? Seriously, this Omar person probably makes eyes at all the girls. Though you’re way past the girl phase.’
‘I don’t think he’s like that.’
‘He’s a mountain guide. In Morocco. Of course he’s like that.’
‘He’s a university graduate.’
‘Really?’
