He reached up alongside her and plucked one of the oranges from the tree and handed the heavy fruit to her solemnly.
‘The best oranges either side of the Tigris,’ he said before he twisted off another for himself, studying it, weighing it in his hands as he talked.
‘This was my mother’s favourite place. My father had it planted for her as a wedding present.’
She looked up at him. It was the first time he’d ever referred to his parents. Apart from Saleem, she knew nothing at all of his family. She touched his forearm gently.
‘Tell me about them.’
Even in the muted light, she saw the darkness swirl in his eyes, felt the tension in his corded arm, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t going to respond. Then he uttered a deep sigh and turned down the path, taking her with him.
‘My mother was a Frenchwoman, a model turned successful actress. And very, very beautiful. My father saw her on the screen and fell in love with her at first sight. He went to Paris and wooed her and brought her back to be his wife.’
A French mother. An Arab father. And no doubt a university education in Europe somewhere. His blend of accents suddenly made sense. No wonder he’d been so difficult to place.
‘What happened to your mother’s film career? Did she continue making movies?’
‘Not once she married my father.’
‘She gave it all up? She left everything behind, her career, her stardom, to come here and be someone’s wife?’
‘Does that surprise you? My father was a very good-looking man. He was also very persuasive and he wanted her.’
‘But what about what she wanted? Times might have been different then, but didn’t she get some say in it?’
‘She wasn’t a prisoner here. She could have left any time. But she fell in love with my father and they were married. They were very happy together. Very happy.’
She matched his steps along the marble flagstones, marvelling at the constantly changing views at each turn, feeling the magic of the garden permeate her soul. It was so peaceful here, so beautiful. Was it enough, though, to make someone abandon their former life?
‘She must have loved him very much,’ she said at last and he nodded silently, seemingly lost in his own thoughts.
Yet for all the apparent romance, there was clearly no happy ending to this story. She could sense it in his mounting tension, she could sense it in the air that fairly crackled around him.
‘What happened to them?’
He brought her to a halt alongside a large tiered fountain, staring without focus at the marble animals, the deer and antelope, the birds and the fish, playfully squirting streams of water from their mouths. It was a work of art but she could tell he saw nothing of the artisans’ skill, nothing of the beauty of the piece as his mind fixed on another event, another time. ‘They were killed by an avalanche,’ he said, his voice strangely flat. ‘They were supposed to be in London but there was a sudden change of plan.’ He paused. ‘They ended up going to the Alps instead…’
His words trailed off, lost in the burble of the fountain.
‘That’s terrible,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She knew it was painfully inadequate but there was nothing more she could offer.
‘They should have been in London,’ he asserted, the volume in his voice rising. ‘If they’d been in London, they would never have been swept away. They would never have been killed.’
His vehemence tipped her off. For whatever reason Khaled obviously held himself responsible for his parents’ change of plan. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ she offered.
His eyes blasted cold fury down onto her, his face all brutal angles and harsh planes in the soft light from the torches.
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he muttered through clenched teeth. ‘It’s not me that I blame.’
He turned and stormed off, leaving the sharp tang of orange peel piercing the turbulent air in his wake. A flash of colour on the ground caught her eye. It was his orange. She picked it up, assuming he’d dropped it in his rush to get away.
Until she saw the imprints left by his fingers, the angry wounds caused by his nails, puncturing the skin and pulverising the flesh with such force that, compared to hers, the inside of his orange was no more than pulp.
It had been a mistake to take her there. Instead of making her feel more at ease with him, all he’d done was dredge up the hate from deep inside him until it spilled over, fetid and rank.
But he would have his revenge. It was now so close he could taste it. And it would be sweeter than he’d ever imagined.
The dress was nearing completion. It was going to be magnificent, without a doubt the most beautiful wedding dress she’d designed. Even the champagnecoloured silk dress she’d whipped up for her own sister, Opal’s, wedding in Sydney two years ago and that she’d been so proud of couldn’t hold a candle to this design.