Glamour (23 page)

But it was nothing like what they were paying for.

What fools, she thought. Demeaning another people, a great people, just because they saw them as poorer. It was an instructive lesson in manners.

As they went through the motions, paying with a credit card, filling out customs forms, Haya drank her tea, and drank in her surroundings. Beautiful carpets . . . impressive. And that Ahmed had a good business, she could see. Large offices, a staff, a comfortable house, prosperity, and servants.

But she thought about herself. Now she was his wife . . . they were a team; they could be more.

She was here, and married, very happily. Against the odds. She had never thought it could happen. Her parents’ choice . . . far more importantly, her own.

But she had tasted fun and independence in America, as well as romance in Egypt.Why give that up? Why put all those dollars spent on her education to waste?

Haya didn’t see why Ahmed should stay here, comfortable, prosperous, a man trading well within his limits. She admired him. And even if Haya was Ahmed’s, in his arms, outside them, she was her own woman. His wife. Couldn’t he be more?

Better, couldn’t
they
be more?

The fat Germans left, talking loudly in their own language; Haya didn’t know the words, but she recognized the tone . . . the same sneering contempt they had walked in with. Probably laughing at how they had ripped off the poor little carpet merchant....

She was surprised to find a sudden surge of anger, almost violent loathing, ripping through her. She wanted to kill them. No . . . she wanted to
show
them.

“So what did you think?”

Ahmed, slipping back into Arabic, came over to his wife, grinning. “Happy customers, no? And so generous. Five thousand, in the end, for that 500-mark kilim.”

“You are a wonderful businessman.” She leaned across, put her lips up to his, and kissed him. “And your carpets are magnificent.”

“Thank you, darling.”

Haya ran her hand possessively over his sleeve.

“Do you think I could be involved?”

“Involved?”

“Help you.With the business. I have better English . . . I know America. My father could get some contacts. Maybe you could export.”

Ahmed, surprised, smiled back at her.

“That would be good. I’d like you to take an interest.” He slid his hands up and down her waist, resting his fingertips on the underside of her breasts, stroking lightly.

Haya shuddered with pleasure, but pulled away, glancing downstairs in case one of the workers came up.

“That way you could be with me all day.” He released her breasts, but laid a hand casually against the flat of her stomach, letting her know he could feel the warm blood pooling there, hot under the skin, her belly tense with desire. Ahmed bent down and placed his mouth against her ear, and Haya pressed herself against his hand, her knees buckling.

“Please,” she murmured, “take me home. . . .”

“I should make you wait,” he whispered.

“Please, Ahmed . . .”

He straightened, and called to his staff that they were going home for lunch.

“Working together. An excellent plan.” He grinned.

He left her at three, bemoaning his lack of self-control. But Ahmed was so slow, so patient, a master at heating her and reheating her. He could awake desire when Haya thought she was drained. The Lord only knew when, exactly, they would do
business
. . .

Haya was excited at the prospect. The last of her doubts had lifted with it. Now she would go to America, too, see her family and her old friends. A wave of guilt ran through her at her immolation here, lost in Ahmed to the exclusion of all else. But since he was the first, the only man in her life, the other girls would understand, wouldn’t they? It had only been a few months. Extended honeymoon, if you like.

Haya dialed Jane’s number, squaring her shoulders, preparing to get a blast for being out of touch for so long. She knew she deserved it!

“The number you have called is not in service,” said a tinny American voice. “Please check the number and dial again.”

She did. Same message. Damn it, Haya thought. Jane had changed her phone number? Was it the holidays—had it transferred back to the embassy in Washington?

Never mind, Sally would know. She rang Green Gables. This time the phone did ring.

“Waterford residence. May I help you?”

“I’m sorry; I must have the wrong number. I was looking for the Lassiter residence.”

There was a pause.

“They don’t have this number any longer, ma’am.”

Haya blinked. “Okay—sorry—”

But the caller had hung up.

She felt bad. Just a few months and both her friends had changed numbers? It was Haya’s own fault for not staying in touch . . . okay, first she’d been embarrassed, but once she’d fallen in love with Ahmed, decided to stay married . . .

Haya thought for a moment, then dialed the British Embassy in Washington.

“I’m looking for Jane Morgan . . . daughter of Ambassador Thomas Morgan . . . I’m a friend of hers.”

“We have no information on her whereabouts.”

Haya tried again.This was fruitless.

“Look—I went to school with her at Miss Milton’s in Los Angeles. I’ve been out of touch . . . I got married. I’m in Egypt. She’s not at her house they rent in Malibu. I called our friend Sally Lassiter. . . .”

“Just a second please.”

Haya waited. There was a click, and another voice came on the line; cool, modulated English tones.

“This is Emmeline Berkley. I was Ambassador Morgan’s private secretary. Can I help you?”

Haya explained.

“Yes . . . I remember Miss Morgan mentioning you. And you left the country . . .”

“Three months ago.”

There was a sigh.

“I regret to have to tell you,” Ms. Berkley said, not unkindly, “that Ambassador Morgan committed suicide. Miss Morgan had herself legally emancipated as an adult, and after that the embassy lost track of her, since at that point we had no responsibility for her. I believe she is somewhere in Los Angeles still, but I have no contact information. I’m sorry.”

“Oh. I see. Poor Jane,” Haya gasped. Now she really did feel low. “I have to find her . . . I’ll contact Sally . . .”

“Sally Lassiter? That was Miss Morgan’s close friend?”

“Yes,” Haya said anxiously, not liking her tone.

“Then you might not have heard . . . Mr. Lassiter’s oil company collapsed, and I’m afraid he had a heart attack.The government confiscated the assets; it was rather a big scandal.”

Haya’s knuckles tightened around the phone. Sally had been close to her father, very close.

“And where are Mrs. Lassiter and Sally?”

“The press reports said they went to Texas.” There was a touch of real sympathy in the firm tones now. “I’m sorry, that’s all I know.”

“Thanks for your help,” Haya said, hanging up.

Well—there was nothing she could do now. Nothing she could do from Egypt, anyway. Haya was wracked with guilt. Both her friends had lost a parent . . . not that Jane’s had been much use. And Sally, glorious confident Sally, how on earth would she cope? Life without money . . . Haya couldn’t imagine it. Sally had her own personal limo and chauffeur, did she even know how to drive?

She gave herself a little shake. No point in beating herself up, she had to get on with it now, travel back to the States and find them. She could set up some contacts for Ahmed while she was about it. Haya was convinced of her husband’s eye, his drive and talent. He needed to swim in a bigger pond. And she needed to find her friends.

Haya took it slowly at first. A week or two meeting the staff, getting to know Ahmed’s stock, his prices, how he found his carpets. Brushing up on her written Arabic, learning how he kept his books: the old-fashioned way, in leather-bound volumes. Her husband was a visionary, and in love with the beauty of the things he sold. Haya’s first move was to buy a computer, enter all his data onto spreadsheets, and start filing on his customer base. Ahmed didn’t like it much, but she ignored him, and kept plugging away. And within a few days he was staring, amazed, at the simple, easy system she had set up, and then trying to use it himself.

Haya called her father. They had a long, stilted conversation. She decided to avoid talking about the marriage. What was the use? He would only act defensive. Instead, Haya demanded her father’s assistance.

That was the price of forgiveness. She didn’t say it openly, but they both understood it just the same.

Baba, chastened by her tone, promised he would help. He could set up some meetings, talk to some people who knew people, that sort of thing. There were exhibitions—trade fairs. Retailers, although many of them already had suppliers . . .

“We will undercut their suppliers,” Haya said, ruthlessly. “Tell them that.”

Ahmed, overhearing, grinned.“And once they’re hooked, the price goes up.”

He kissed his wife on the forehead. She was intelligent, and now she was a true help to him. No more long nights grappling with his books in the fading light. No more riffling through his papers to find the right number. She had even helped him with his taxes.

He liked it. Last week,Ahmed had gone on an acquisition trip to Fez and, without rushing things the way he was used to, had picked up better stock at lower prices.

And it turned him on to see his intelligent, dark-haired wife, the scarf draped modestly over her hair, concentrating on the figures, her fingers flashing over the keyboard. She was not one to stay at home, or spend her days gossiping with friends. She engaged with the world, and her spirit was fiery, the same fire that clawed at him and writhed under him in their marriage bed....

It was his business, of course; he was in charge. But Haya argued her case, and Ahmed listened to her.

“I have some ideas,” Haya said one evening after a fine sale. Ahmed had won an order from an Egyptian hotel chain in Sharm el-Sheik, a large order for its lobbies and conference rooms; he had supplied pieces worth forty thousand dollars.They were flush with cash. He had been half expecting her to pounce on it.

“What do you mean?”

“Business ideas. I think you should change.”

“Change?” Ahmed blinked. “Change what? This works, my love. I’ve been doing it since I was younger than you.”

“Not the goods . . . well, maybe. Maybe we could diversify.” Ahmed frowned at that, so she hurried on. “But I think you should find a new way to sell. Don’t deal with these little people. They are not worth your time, my sweetheart.” She kissed his arm through the fabric of his shirt. “You need to do it differently . . . to sell these beautiful carpets the way they are meant to be sold. Each individually. Displayed like a jewel.We need to find more customers like the hotels, and fewer like Begum Sistani.” The rich, fat widow of the interior minister, who always came back to them when she bought a new villa or Parisian apartment, probably with ill-gotten gains from the taxpayer.

Ahmed was listening, she saw. Emboldened, she plowed on. “And given space in windows . . . and each one selling for many, many thousands. Why should you not be like the owner of a gallery?” Her Arabic was rough, but she continued. “They give stories to their artwork. Provenance . . . catalogues. You can sell your carpets that way. They are all unique. Why should arrogant tourists from Europe, with no appreciation of them, buy them and place them in their homes?”

He smiled, intrigued.

“And how would you propose to do this?”

“We must export,” she said, confidently. “To America. To the quality stores. Perhaps first to a gallery. Somewhere very expensive.” Haya switched to English. “You know that American expression? ‘Sell the sizzle, not the steak.’ My friend Sally taught me that.”

He chuckled. “I like that.”

“I can help,” she insisted.“I speak perfect English. I also know them . . . the richest Americans; what they want, what sells to them. Let me be your export director. Let me work for you.”

Ahmed’s arm stole around her waist. “You
do
work for me.”

“That’s not work.”

“And I told you, I don’t want you leaving me for the States. Even for a week.”

“Then come with me,” she said persuasively.“Come with me. I can teach you better English.The same way you teach me Arabic . . . and I know people. I’ve spoken to my father. . . .”

He thought about it. “You really think I could sell these better?”

“No question,” she said confidently.

Ahmed leaned down and kissed her, hard, on the lips. “Then let us try it,” he said.

He believed in his wife. She was young, but she was brilliant. There was that core in her that a man could rely on.

They could be partners in business, as well as in life. Let her give him that start, and he would take over. Soon, anyway, she would be preoccupied in the nursery.

“Can I call home again?” Haya said, beaming.

He was mildly offended. “I’ve never stopped you.”

“Then you have no objection. I can tell Baba we’re coming?”

Ahmed leaned in to her. “Since almost the first night, I believed in you, Haya. Let’s try it.”

CHAPTER 7