When She Was Bad... (29 page)

Harry paused, as though he hadn’t heard her right. ‘What?’

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‘I hope you will give Janice that promotion, Harry. She deserves it, she’s talented. At the very least she’s the best assistant in this shitty company.’

‘I thought you said you were quitting.’

‘I did.’ Lita stared at him with eyes that burned with the white fire of her anger. Harry letting her down was the worst thing that had happened to her in her career. Worse even than losing all her money to tupert’s scam. ‘Goodbye.’

She turned on her heel and walked out. She wasn’t even going to shake his hand.

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Lira walked out of the Doheny offices on to Madison. It was a beautiful day, but she hailed a cab. There was no way she wanted to bump into even one other person entering the building. She thought she hated all of them.

Feeling impotent was worse than the actual theft. In a way, it had

been a bold move of Pete’s. Dating to come into her office. He must have worked pretty fast to get that collage together, copying hers, probably all through lunch. Then making a copy for Harry. But Pete was a weasel, and weasels were smart. She wasn’t as mad about that as she was about Harry. Or having to just stand there and take the abuse that Pete dished out.

She would get him.

The cab driver was muttering to himself and blasting on his horn. Lira

didn’t care. It suited her mood perfectly. She hated the city and everything about it. She hated Pete and the, sniggering secretaries and Mark and every asshole she’d ever worked with. She didn’t hate Harry Weiss, but she felt betrayed by him, which was worse. Lita remembered, suddenly, that two years ago she had also promised to get her revenge on Rupert and that snotty English bitch. The first humiliation came back to her, as fresh as the day it had happened, when she’d stood begging and pleading in that draughty English hall. But she had advanced her career - though not fast enough - and there hadn’t been any time for thinking about revenge.

That would change now.

Lita wasn’t sure exactly what her strategy would be. She had no idea.

But she believed that if you looked hard enough, you could find whatever you want. It wasn’t a question of trusting in the universe, but of trusting herself.

The cabbie dropped her off, and Lita ran upstairs and let herself into

her spotless apartment. It felt so weird to be there in the middle of the day. Her place was clean partly because she was a neat person, but mostly because she was never there. Lita looked around at her sparkling counter-tops, the piles of cushions, the Moroccan lamps in filigree iron,

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the draped silks she had hung from the walls to create the feeling of a palace in a typically compact West Village apartment. She had eaten take-out for the last four days. She got a large plastic trash bag and threw out everything in her fridge that was perishable. The bills had been paid a few days ago, so that was one less thing to worry about. Lita needed a break and she needed it now.

She glanced at one of her gorgeous Moroccan lamps. She had created an exotic atmosphere to fight her stress at work. As far as possible, when

she came home, she liked to be stepping into a different world. But why not do it for real?

Lita packed her Louis Vuitton trunk full of clothes for warm weather, locked up and took a cab straight to JFK. She had all day to wait for a standby. She was going to Marrakech. Where none of the New York Doheny jerks would ever find her.

Lita’s taxi from the tiny airport of Marrakech struggled and bumped along the dusty road, with her thousand-dollar suitcase precariously strapped to the top with a piece of string. She tipped the guy five American dollars, and he opened up, smiling at her with a sun-lined face and cracked teeth.

‘You like hotel? Nice hotel?’

Lita felt a little nervous, but that was the trouble with being

spontaneous - you had no idea where you were going.

‘Yes. Thank you,’ she agreed. ‘Nice hotel.’

‘My brother work. Nice hotel. Help cook. Small, but nice.’ He sighed. ‘Much dollar.’ He blew out air from his cheeks as though this were an unavoidable tragedy. Lta took the hint and gave him another two dollars. She was exhausted after the flight, and even an expensive hotel was a lot better than nothing. From there, she could change some money and find out where there was something more modestly priced. She planned to stay at least a week, maybe longer, and do nothing very particular. Sunbathe, buy some more lamps, get a tan and find a swimming pool. lecharge, and wash the sticky, angry, frustrated feelings off her skin. She leaned back against the hot, sticky leather of the seats and let her eyes close.

The taxi.juddered to a halt twenty minutes liter, and Lira stepped out. ‘Where is this?’

The driver handed her her case. ‘Avenue Yacoub el-Mansour.’ ‘It’s amazing.’

Lita glanced around her. Low-slung buildings that looked as though they had been baked right out of the mud crowded on top of each other. Men in long white robes and women wearing black cotton

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jellabas covered in jewellery made of long, glittering strings of coins pushed past her. There were push-bikes and donkeys drawing carts over the cobbles. There was also the sound of birds and the scent of flowers thick on the air.

Her driver gestured to a nondescript-looking wall with a faded brass

plaque that read ‘Hotel Fatima’ above a black-painted door. He pressed

on a buzzer and then jumped back in the car, roaring off.

Lita waited. She was wearing tight blue jeans and a white T-shirt, and

every man was staring at her. She was beginning to feel very uncomfortable when the door opened. An older man in bagged, faded

burgundy pants and a loose silk shirt bowed slightly.

‘I’d like a room,’ Lita said.

‘Certainly, madame.’ Like the driver, his English was tinged with a

French accent. ‘Come this way.’

She stepped into the courtyard, and he closed the door firmly behind

her.

It was like stepping into an oasis. Lita gasped. The crowded, cramped

bustle of the street had disappeared entirely. Behind the unimpressive doors lay a courtyard laid out in a formal Islamic style. There were four small fountains laid around a rectangular central pool, the paths, walls and fountains decorated with some of the most intricate mosaics that Lita had ever seen. The checkin desk, if that was what it was, was a small mahogany table under a fluted archway, where another man in white had a small book open. The older man had disappeared with her

case, and Lita walked up to the desk. ‘Madame wishes a room?’ Lita nodded. ‘For how long?’

‘A week.’ She wanted to ask the price, but the place was so quiet and

civilized that it felt unseemly to bring up money.

‘Two hundred dollars a week, American.’

That’s it? Lira wondered. Oh, well, maybe the rooms would prove to

be a real flea-pit. But beggars couldn’t be choosers. She pulled out a couple of C-notes and laid them down on a desk. The receptionist solemnly produced two small silver keys.

‘This is for your room. Twenty-four, on the second floor. You will

see it at the top of the stairs. This other one is for the front door, at

night. Welcome to the hotel, madame.’

‘My case,’ Lira asked.

He made a sweeping gesture. ‘All is taken care of. Please, do not have

the concerns.’

‘OK,’ Lita said uncertainly. She took the silver keys and stepped back

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across the lush courtyard, ducking under orange trees and small palms, and walked up some stairs carved out of white stone. The second-floor corridor was full of more of the endless mosaic arches … The repeating pattern somehow very soothing. Lira found her door, curved and carved of gnarled wood. She tried the key - it worked perfectly.

The room was incredible. It showed her just how far offshe’d been in her guesstimation of what a real North African room would look like. She decided that her pad back home was actually the height of tack.

There was a bed with carved posts and cool-looking white sheets. It looked deliciously inviting. The walls were plain white and looked very old, rather like a monk’s cell. There were low stools and a closet and a chest of drawers, all carved from the same dark wood, and tasselled cushions to sit on. She had a small balcony with a view over the courtyard, and a glimpse of something green and lush beyond the hotel’s outer wall. A private bathroom with marble in the tub and by the ornate sink had two tiny lamps in filigree silver, complete with candles, and two arrows in brass on the wall, with ‘Mecca’ written under them. So that she would know which way to pray, Lira realized. Obviously the hotel catered to rich Moroccans as well as Western tourists. She felt elation mix with her exhaustion. Her clothes had been unpacked and were hung neatly in the closet; her cases were laid at the foot of the bed. She peeled herself out of her sticky travelling clothes and headed for the shower. She washed her hair and combed it through, then clambered under the cool sheets and fell into a blissful sleep.

When Lita woke, she felt disorientated. It took her a few seconds to figure out where she was. Groggily, she got out of bed and padded over to the window. It was already dark outside. The courtyard below was lit with candles in the Moroccan filigree lamps, sending glorious, ornate shadows flickering across the trees and the pool. She looked up at the desert sky. The stars glittered, fiercely bright without any neon lights to block them out. The sky was almost savage in its clarity. She opened her latch to let the night air in. It was wonderfully cool, but not too cold. The mists of sleep evaporated; she was suddenly energized. Marrakech felt magic to Lita, as though she could start completely afresh here.

She ran to her closet and selected her uncrushable white rayon dress. It had three light layers, swept to the ground and had long sleeves. Admittedly it had a V-shaped neckline, but it was-one of the most modest items she had with her. Lira picked out an orang chiffon scarf with gold embroidery and looped it around her neck to cover her glorious breasts, but she drew the line at covering her hair. That wasn’t her style. She chose a pair of dangling earrings, citrines set in silver, and a

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pair of stacked sandals, and she was ready to go. She locked up her room, walked downstairs and changed some money.

‘If you wish, madame, the hotel can provide a guide.’

‘I think I’ll just walk,’ Lita said.

The receptionist looked disapproving, but offered her a small map. ‘This is the city. The hotel is here,’ he jabbed his finger, ‘and Place D]emaa el-Fna is here.’

‘Then that’s where I’ll go,’ Lita said. ‘Thank you.’

She left before he could press the hired help upon her. Outside the hotel, it was bedlam, much as it had been before. She slung her purse across her chest. The city must be crawling with pickpockets. Lita walked fast. It was a New York survival reflex. If you strode purposefully enough, you looked like you knew where you were going and people didn’t mess with you. She had a good sense of direction and, besides, everyone seemed to be heading towards the square. The narrow streets were packed. She passed a man selling tiny tortoises, and chameleons that sat chained to a stick, their round eyes staring out at her. Wretched hens, about to be eaten, bloody where they had torn out their own feathers in misery, were stacked six deep in tiny cages. Wagons driven by donkeys clattered past her once in a while. Lita shivered. Obviously animal rights had not hit North Africa yet.

She found Djemaa el-Fna in just a few minutes. It was hard to miss. The narrow street with its hanging carpets and lamp shops twisted sharply to the right, and Lita stopped dead.

It had terminated in a vast, open square, glitering with the combined light of thousands of oil lamps and raw light bulbs strung between hundreds of stalls, an exotic market square with more to sell than waxed apples and tired string beans. There was an actual snake charmer, and to the side a belly dancer covered from head to toe in a light, Islamic costume. The scent that hit her was incredible - perfumes mixed with the aroma of roasting meat and nuts and what seemed like thousands of spices. It made her mouth water. Lita realized, suddenly, that she was starving. The square was surrounded by restaurants, many with terraces. She walked to the left and selected one that had a sign in English under the Arabic. A woman veiled in black from head to toe silently handed

her a menu. Lita pointed upstairs.

‘La haul?’ asked the woman.

Lita started to shake her head, then.realized she was speaking French. Of course. It had been a French colony. Lita’s French was lousy, but she knew a couple of words. ‘Oui, merci,’ she said. The woman nodded, and led her up a narrow, steep, curving flight of stairs in red brick with mosaic inlay. The terrace overlooked the square, the sparkling, fragrant

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bustle of it. Lita couldn’t stop smiling. She pointed to a small table for two that was right at the edge of the terrace and the woman left her there with the menu.

Lita glanced at the place. It was spartan, but even the most spartan place here was covered in ornate, beautiful Islamic art. Miniature orange trees in terracotta pots, ripe with fruit, were dotted around everywhere. The place was packed, mostly with Moroccans in rich-looking robes. That was a good sign, like with the hotel. Lira hadn’t travelled much, but it stood to reason that the best places would be frequented by the locals.

She started to study the menu and blinked. Bastilla… Flaked pigeon pie with salt, almonds and cinnamon. Briouat … Meat and spices in a square pie. Hmm …

‘Excusez-moi, madame.’ The woman was there again, bowing, with a small silver tray. There was a little glass with frosted blue paint and some kind of fragrant hot drink on it. Lita searched, but her lessons had fled her.

‘Uh … I didn’t order this.’ The woman looked blank. ‘It’s OK. It’s complimentary.’