of me as your papa, my little bird. I couldn’t love you more,’ Papa would reply.
It was true and Dominique knew it. But once she became a confused and difficult teenager with hormones screaming round her body, the onslaught of questions about her father began all over again. She was constantly at war with Maman and screaming at Papa.
‘You are not my real father. You can’t tell me what to do!’
Mostly, Papa was patient but one day he had had enough.
‘Dominique, stop this! It is pointless and cruel to constantly bully your mother for answers she does not have. Stop making yourself miserable. Just accept that your biological father was a good-looking, nice young man Maman knew little about. She cannot change what happened. Isn’t it enough that you are beautiful and much loved? You are making us all miserable … especially Gabby, is that what you want?’
I never doubted Maman loved Dominique but she was hard on her when she reached puberty. Sometimes, when I look back, I wonder if, subconsciously, Maman was punishing Dominique for her own mistakes. Papa and I both tried to protect her from Maman’s tongue, even though Dominique pretended she did not care.
My feisty, stunning sister was a free spirit. Her beauty made her stand out as she grew up. She drew everyone to her like a magnet. It was not hard to see why Maman was terrified that life would repeat itself.
I can still see Maman out in the orchard with her dark hair pinned back in a neat plait only the French can manage. She could look chic even in wellington boots. She was slim and always wore blue denim jeans or white shorts, with crisp cotton shirts, topped with a navy guernsey; like a sort of uniform.
She would pick the apples from the ground, wary of wasps, and turn them carefully searching for bruises, placing them on old wooden trays so they did not touch, like they used to do in Loveday’s time. Every now and then she would smile and lift her head and gaze out to the blue sea shimmering sinuously below the house. It was as if she could not quite believe she was here, in this garden, in this safe place that had become her whole world.
This world was small and insular but she was a loved and respected teacher. She had standing in the village and I sensed, even when I was small, that Maman would fight like a lioness if anything ever threatened her home, her family, or the life she loved.
Karachi, 2009
The Shalimar lies on the edge of Karachi. The large windows of Mike’s apartment look across tree-lined roads that surround the hotel from two sides. There is the distant roar of traffic hurtling towards the centre of the city and I can glimpse cranes rising from the docks on the skyline where the sea lies invisible.
The hotel is having a facelift so half the floors have been modernized but Mike’s apartment is in the old wing at the top of the building.
As we come out of the lift and walk across the reception area for breakfast Rana calls out, ‘Assalam-o-alaikum, Mr and Mrs Michael! Good morning! Good morning!’
Two breakfast waiters are standing by the door of the restaurant like sentinels. They rush over to Mike and usher him to a table by the window.
‘Good morning, Naseem. Good morning, Baseer,’ Mike says.
‘Good morning, sir. Good morning, mem.’
I can see this is a morning ritual. Mike grins as both Naseem and Baseer shadow me around the abundant islands of food laid out on crisp tablecloths. Fruit cascades among glittering ice. Bread and croissants nestle in baskets. On a separate island there are heated containers.
‘This, halwa puri cholay, mem,’ Naseem tells me. ‘It is Pakistani breakfast. Sweet halwa, spicy chickpeas, hot crunchy puris …’
I smile at him. ‘I don’t think I’m quite ready for a Pakistani breakfast yet, Naseem.’
Naseem smiles back. Like Noor, he has the startling green eyes of a Pashtun. I choose fruit, fresh yogurt and order a delicious coriander omelette.
I seem to be the only woman in the restaurant this morning. I am conscious of curious eyes of both waiters and businessmen following me around. It makes me self-conscious. Mike glances at me.
‘Anyone new and foreign is interesting for the staff here. You’ll get used to it …’
The restaurant looks down on the garden where an empty swimming pool glitters invitingly. Small tables are dotted about under the trees in the shade.
I watch a pool boy below us fishing leaves out of the pool with a long net. The garden is empty and the scene as peaceful as a painting.
When we go down the steps into the garden the pool boy rushes over with towels to place on our loungers.
‘This is Zakawi,’ Mike says.
Zakawi beams at me. ‘Mem, you like shade?’
‘Please.’ I smile as he fusses with the towels and the angle of the lounger.
‘Let’s swim while it’s early and the pool’s empty. The garden will fill up later and I know you have reservations about baring your limbs.’
I walk across the grass to the changing room. I do have reservations. Mike has told me that although diplomats and embassy staff come to swim, Muslim women stay covered and out of the water. I bought a very conservative black swimsuit, not unlike the one I wore at school. I cover up again in my linen trousers and top to walk back across the grass. By the time I reach Mike I am so hot nothing would have stopped me jumping into the water.
‘Wrap yourself in your towel and leave it on the edge of the pool,’ Mike says, encouragingly.
I move as fast as I can into the water and sigh as it envelops me.
‘Bliss. Oh bliss.’
Mike swims away from me and turns on his back and looks at his watch.
‘It’s only nine fifteen and humid already. It’s going to be baking. You will have to be careful, Gabby.’
We swim contentedly up and down the small pool stopping to chat every now and then. All feels so well with my world. I close my eyes against the blue, blue cloudless sky and smile. I so nearly did not come.
Mike climbs out and stands on the steps of the pool and wraps my towel around me. Why couldn’t he have shown me these small acts of affection in front of Will and Matteo? It would have reassured them.
Mike says, ‘Dry off and then we should go inside. You need to get used to the heat slowly. We’ll come back down after four when the temperature has dropped.’
I last another half an hour and then we make a dash for the air-conditioning. Mike has a meeting with two of his colleagues in the coffee lounge and I answer work emails and Skype Will and Matteo.
It is New Year’s Eve and I see they have a houseful already. I check Emily is staying over, as we arranged. The boys do not resent this as they consider Emily cool.
‘What
