Castles Of Sand

‘It’s not really my job, is it, Malcolm?’ Ashley reminded him tautly, feeling mean, but needing the time to think. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

‘I’m sure you will, my dear.’

Malcolm’s words were intended to be conciliatory, but Ashley couldn’t forget the insensitivity he had just displayed. He had said he cared about her, but all he really cared about was the school, and the significance of her meeting with Andrew was lost on him. He thought she should dismiss the fact that she had just met her son for the first time, and carry on as if nothing untoward had happened. He expected her to go into the school tomorrow and help organise the domestic staff while he concerned himself with names and addresses. Addresses!

Her hand shook so much she could hardly grip the receiver, but she managed to hold on. ‘By the way,’ she said, as he was about to ring off, ‘did you have an address for—for the Gauthiers?’

There was silence for a moment, then Malcolm said rather doubtfully: ‘Yes. Why?’

Ashley took a deep breath. ‘Alain—he forgot to give me the address to write to, about—about this job I mentioned. Whether I decide to take it or not, I’ve got to let him know, but—–’

‘Oh, I see.’ Malcolm sounded relieved, and she heard him riffling through the papers on his desk. ‘Yes. Yes, here it is. I thought you’d have known it. It’s the Askar Palace in Khadesh.’

Ashley’s momentary excitement dispersed. ‘No,’ she exclaimed, ‘I—I meant in England. Wh-where is he staying?’

Malcolm checked again. ‘That’s the only address I have. Besides, as he’s flying back to Murad tomorrow, I hardly see—–’

‘Tomorrow!’ Ashley’s hand flew over the mouthpiece of the telephone to prevent Malcolm from overhearing her horrified exclamation. Then: ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right. I—I’ll contact him there.’

‘That’s the best idea,’ Malcolm approved. ‘And—Ashley?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t do anything you might afterwards—regret.’

He rang off before she could ask him what he meant, but it made her see he was not indifferent to her state of mind. He knew she was distraite, and he was trying to tell her not to do anything foolish.

Pacing the flat later, she wondered whether he was not right, after all. She was considering action which, by any standards, could be regarded as reckless. She could conceivably hurt herself more than she was likely to hurt Alain, with Andrew the innocent pawn in the middle. But then she remembered her son’s smiling face, and knew that whatever happened she had to make the attempt.

But how? How? If Alain was planning to leave the following day, he could have no intention of agreeing to her suggestion. He had only agreed to think it over to placate her. His determination to remove the boy from temptation had not faltered.

Straddling a chair by the window, she draped her arm along its back and rested her chin on her wrist. Where was he likely to be staying in London? Not the apartment. She shivered. He had given that up after—well, when she married Hassan. And if the Gauthier organisation had any other property, she was not aware of its whereabouts. Which only left hotels …

Getting up, she rescued the commercial edition of the telephone directory, and turned to the relevant section. There were dozens of hotels in and around the London area, but she knew Alain would choose somewhere exclusive, and quiet. Running her finger down the list, she jotted the numbers of half a dozen of the more elegant establishments on to a pad, then picked up the telephone receiver.

Half an hour later she was no further forward. Even when she claimed kinship with the family, none of the receptionists would admit that Prince Alain was staying at their hotel, and while she suspected they might not tell her even if he was, the suspicion was growing that he was staying elsewhere. But where? With relatives? With friends? Or in some other apartment, high above Regent’s Park, with a magnificent view over the city?

Sighing, she got up from the couch again and trudged into her bedroom. Her passport was in the drawer of the cabinet beside her bed, and pulling it out, she assured herself of its validity. The last entry in it had been stamped when she went to Paris in the spring, one of the staff accompanying a school party of a dozen older boys. It had been a successful trip and the boys had enjoyed it. And if she had felt a pang at the French capital’s association with Alain, and subsequently with her son, she had succeeded in keeping it at bay …

Closing the passport again, she tapped it on her palm. She knew, without looking, that she needed no special inoculations before visiting Murad. Like Egypt, it only demanded smallpox and cholera certificates and an injection against yellow fever, if she was coming from an infected area, and unlike Egypt, a visa was not necessary. If she could get on the flight, she could leave for Murad tomorrow, too, with only currency providing any difficulties. It might even be the same flight that Alain and Andrew were taking …

With a nervous gesture she dropped the passport back into the drawer and closed it quickly. What was she thinking of? She was still obliged to honour her contract with Brede. How could she consider flying off to the Middle East, without positive proof that Alain would even acknowledge her, let alone employ her?

Nibbling at her thumb, she went back into the living room, unable to remain in one place for any length of time. What time was it? she asked herself unsteadily, and discovering it was after five o’clock, she determinedly marched into the kitchen to prepare herself some food.

But even a plate of soup defeated her, and after swallowing several mouthfuls, she was on her feet again. If only she could get in touch with Alain, she thought bitterly. If only she had asked him where he was staying before all this blew up.

By bedtime, she had forced herself to the realisation that unless Alain contacted her, there was nothing she could do. Once again the Gauthiers had had the last word, and the tears she had been stifling all day soaked her pillow. Oh, Alain, she breathed, at the last, how could you do this to me? And she had no satisfactory explanation for the pain that tore her apart.

In the morning, things looked marginally better. With an autumn sun streaming through her kitchen windows, Ashley felt almost resigned as she prepared her toast and coffee, and carrying the morning newspaper to the dining room table she propped it against the marmalade pot as she buttered her toast.

There were the usual headlines—another strike in the Midlands, an escape from custody of a wanted criminal, more unpopular governmental decisions—and after skipping through these, Ashley turned to the gossip columns. It was a relief to read about someone else’s problems, she thought, sympathising with the fight an actress was having in establishing her rights as a famous actor’s common-law wife. Without the security of a wedding ring, a woman had few privileges, she acknowledged flatly, and even with one, a man always had the ascendancy.

Her lips tightened. It wasn’t fair, she fretted, her eyes registering a mute protest. Andrew was her son! Was he to grow to manhood without even speaking a word to the woman who had borne him in her body for nine whole months?

The telephone bell interrupted her melancholy abstraction, and it rang several times before she stirred herself to go and answer it. She didn’t feel like talking to anybody right now, and she lifted the receiver with dour reluctance.

‘Yes?’

‘Ashley?’

Her knees gave out on her, and she sank down weakly on to the couch. ‘Al-Alain?’

‘You did not expect me to ring?’

‘No—yes. I mean—–’ Ashley struggled to shake off her apathy. ‘Why are you calling? To let me know you’re leaving today? I know that already—Malcolm told me. He said you’d definitely withdrawn Andrew’s name from the register, and as you conveniently forgot to give me your address, I suppose you’re ringing to flaunt your advantage—–’

‘Do you want to hear what I have to say, or do you not?’ Alain interposed curtly, cutting into her babbling tirade. ‘I told you I would consider your proposition, and I have. Where I am staying in London does not seem of great relevance.’

Ashley’s jaw shook. ‘Well, all right. What have you decided? That I won’t do? That I’m not suitable? That you couldn’t possibly employ a woman to teach the boy, and that in any case your father would never agree to it?’

‘Will you stop trying to pre-empt me?’ Alain’s voice betrayed his irritation now. ‘In the name of Allah, you seem to be doing your best to persuade me that you are not suitable!’

Ashley faltered, ‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you think I mean?’

Ashley’s palms were moist. ‘You can’t mean—you don’t mean—–’ Her voice shook. ‘Oh, Alain! You wouldn’t tease me, would you?’

‘No,’ he said flatly, ‘I would not tease you. And you have yet to decide whether what I have to say is acceptable to you.’

Ashley swallowed convulsively. ‘Go on.’

Alain hesitated, then he said briefly: ‘Your initial contract will be made for a probationary period of a month. If, at the end of that time, the arrangement has proved—unsatisfactory—to either party, it can be terminated forthwith.’

Ashley breathed out quickly: ‘All right.’

‘This is to be a business arrangement only,’ Alain continued. ‘With certain—clauses inserted, relevant to the situation.’

Ashley quivered. ‘What clauses?’

Alain paused. ‘A sworn undertaking from you that you will not, at any time, and to anybody, divulge your relationship to Hussein.’

Ashley’s stomach churned. ‘Is that all?’

‘No. In addition, I shall want your written agreement that you handed over Hussein independently, and of your own free will, and that you have no intention of asserting your rights as his mother in the future.’

‘No!’ Ashley’s voice broke on the word. ‘Alain, you’re unreasonable. You can’t make me sign something like that.’

‘Then you must do what you can to gain your own ends,’ he declared roughly. ‘There is nothing more to be said.’

‘Wait!’ Ashley could not let him go like that. ‘Alain, give me a few moments, at least. Let me think!’

‘I do not have much time, Ashley. We leave for the airport in less than half an hour.’

‘You’re leaving?’ she gasped, in consternation.

‘You said you knew,’ he reminded her.

‘Well, yes, but—–’ Ashley sought for words. ‘I thought—now—–’

‘If you decide to accept the position, you will follow us, after you have completed your term of notice,’ he replied smoothly. ‘It is better this way. It will enable me to prepare the ground, as you might say. And give you time to resign yourself to the situation.’

Ashley shook her head. ‘You—you’re inhuman!’

‘Merely practical,’ he amended dryly. ‘Well? Have you reached a decision?’

Ashley tipped back her head, as if her neck ached. It was too much. How could she sign away her child’s birthright? But if she did not, she might never see him again. Was the one any worse than the other?

‘And—and who will be his guardian?’ she asked huskily. ‘Who—who has custody of him?’

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