the rear window to see the two black Mercedes struggling to keep up as her father takes the bends at top speed.
The roads climb higher until they finally crest the ridge and see desert mountains stretching out to the horizon. The mountains are the colour of rust, but the soil beside the road is chalky pale and the only plants that grow here are thorn bushes.
Haya can feel her ears about to pop as they descend the mountain roads to a flat stretch of highway that goes all the way to Aqaba, where desert sand at last meets sea.
The Summer House is very simple compared to their palace, sunny and bright with a view over the sea and doors that open out on to the beach. Haya remembers summer days spent here, always in her swimming costume with her feet covered in sand.
The members of the King’s Guard have arrived ahead of them to check that everything is as it should be, and the housekeeper and chef are preparing lunch. Haya and Ali just have time for a swim before the food is ready. It is a feast of ripe tomatoes and hummus and baba ghanoush and tabbouleh, and a dish called upside down, made with aubergines. Haya shows her father shells that she found on the beach after her swim. Her favourite is a white one shaped in a twist like an ice-cream cone.
In the afternoon, Haya takes Ali for a walk in the garden and holds him up to grasp the oranges that grow there and pluck them from the trees.
As she walks back into the kitchen with her arms full of oranges, Haya is about to call out for Mama, expecting her to be here waiting for her, just like she used to be. Then the words choke in her throat as she remembers all of a sudden and the oranges tumble to the floor.
On the drive home the next day Haya is silent. She stares out of the window while her father tells her about Frances. She will be Haya’s new nanny and is arriving tomorrow.
“Frances will live with us just like Grace did,” her father explains.
Haya has never had a new nanny. She keeps looking out of the window as her father tells her how wonderful Frances will be. Haya can taste her tears, salty like the waves at Aqaba.
*
“There she is, Ali, you see?” Haya lifts her little brother up to the window so that he can see Frances getting out of her car and walking to the front door. “That’s her,” Haya tells him. “She’s going to be really nice and love us like Grace did. Grace promised.”
All Haya can see is the top of her head, the auburn hair twisted up into a sleekly groomed beehive. Frances is wearing a navy blue cotton piqué dress and the stiff pleats of her skirt stick out around her. As she walks up the front steps, the two stone lions on either side of the door don’t move. They wouldn’t bother to eat you, Haya thinks. Frances looks very bony, not enough meat for them.
The King is very lucky to have secured Frances’s services at such short notice. Frances has, until recently, been in the service of a family in Zurich where she mixed with a very international set. She can speak English and French, bien sûr, and a little German, but not Arabic so do not even ask her to try. She has worked for the very best people, the cream of society. Haya knows this because she hears Frances telling Zuhair as she walks down the corridors of Al Nadwa, her sensible heels clacking on the marble floors.
Frances informs Zuhair that she is a governess which is altogether different to a nanny and he will please address her as Miss Ramsmead. She explains how she likes her tea: with milk, no lemon, no sugar. The tea itself needs to be brewed for exactly two minutes, no more, no less, and she would like a cup of it right now, please, brought up to her room.
Haya, who has been listening and watching from the upstairs landing, has to duck hastily into her bedroom as Frances breezes straight upstairs ahead of Zuhair.
After a quick glance round Grace’s old room, she pronounces it “adequate” and tells Zuhair he may fetch her suitcases and the tea now.
Zuhair is not used to being spoken to in this manner. Even the Queen never spoke to him like this. But his face does not show a flicker of expression as he says, “Certainly, Miss Ramsmead,” and heads downstairs to get her bags and explain to the kitchen staff the special requirements of the new governess.
Haya is staring at Frances while she rummages distractedly in her handbag, but suddenly her new governess stops and swivels her head round. The Princess ducks behind the door, but it is too late.
“Good afternoon. You must be Her Royal Highness Princess Haya?”
Haya stays hidden behind the door.
Frances sighs. “It is not good manners for a Princess to greet someone like this,” she says. “The correct thing would be to present yourself as I am doing now. I am Miss Ramsmead, but you may call me Frances if you wish.”
She stands expectantly, waiting for Haya to emerge. When at last the Princess steps out on to the landing, Frances’s eyes widen as she takes in dirty shorts, T-shirt and bare feet.
“You look more like a pauper’s son than a King’s daughter,” she says.
Haya doesn’t like to wear dresses – they get in the way when you are playing. She likes to wear shorts, just like Ali. But she has long dark hair to her shoulders and no one else has ever mistaken her for a boy before.
Frances inspects her, looking her up and down, and Haya is suddenly aware that she has not brushed her hair today and she did not have anyone to give her a bath after returning from the trip to the summer house.
“Your previous nanny clearly wasn’t a suitable influence,” Frances says and Haya feels her cheeks go hot. It is the way Frances says it – like Haya is not standing right there in front of her, as if she cannot hear what Frances is saying!
“Is this your room?” Frances gestures over Haya’s shoulder. She walks straight past Haya and into her bedroom. Frances casts a glance around, and spies the photo of Haya and her mother on the dresser.
“I was an acquaintance of Queen Alia, did you know that?” she asks. She holds the picture frame in her hands and Haya has to control the urge to snatch it back from her.
“We met on more than one occasion in Europe,” Frances continues, still holding the picture. “Before you were born, before she married your father. I thought to myself, now there is a young girl from a good family who will go far. Your mother was the epitome of grace, so beautiful …” As she says this, Frances’s eyes lock on Haya’s legs. She is staring at the grass-stained knees poking out of Haya’s shorts.
“My poor girl,” Frances tuts. “The state of you.” She takes a deep breath. “Don’t worry, things will change now that I am here.”
She looks at her watch. “Now what time do you usually begin your lessons?”
“Lessons?”
“Yes,” Frances says. “You know, your studies?”
Haya doesn’t understand. She is only five. Surely that is too young for anything except playing?
At that moment one of the kitchen staff turns up carrying a silver tray with a pot, cup and saucer and a jug of milk. “Tea, Miss Ramsmead,” he says.
Frances lifts the jug with great suspicion, feeling it in her hands. “This milk is warm?”
He
