‘But is it safe?’ questioned Jane worriedly.
‘I told him I had a black belt in judo.’
‘Oh, Cleo—you didn’t?’
‘Why not? I am actually learning at evening class, so who knows? And anyway.’ Cleo was looking at her thoughtfully. ‘That’s enough about me. Are you going to tell me why you’ve been crying?’
‘I haven’t been crying.’
‘Jane,’ said her sister gently. ‘This is me, remember? I know you and I can hardly believe the state of you. You never cry.’
The trouble was that ever since she’d left Kafalah she couldn’t seem to stop. Tears began to well up in her eyes as she sank onto a sofa while Cleo made her a cup of tea she didn’t really want. And suddenly Jane was glad she’d never had a relationship before now, or had her heart broken. Why had nobody told her it would feel like this?
‘Okay,’ said Cleo solemnly as she sat down on the sofa next to her. ‘The last I heard, you were whooping it up in Washington—wowing the locals and having dinner at the White House. What did I miss?’
More tears spilled down her cheeks before Jane dashed them away and the story came tumbling out. Some of it she told how it was, but much of it she missed out. She didn’t think anyone had the right to know about someone else’s sex-life and even though she was angry with Zayed—angrier than she’d ever been in her entire life—she wasn’t going to betray him by talking about the intimacies of what had gone on in their marital bed.
‘And then I flew back to England,’ she finished, with a sniff.
‘Drink your tea.’ Cleo handed her the mug. ‘So basically, you had a marriage of convenience—the proceeds of which helped bail me out of my predicament and for which I am eternally grateful—and which went wrong when you started to fall in love with him?’
‘I never said I was in love with him.’
‘Oh, Jane. Come on. It’s written all over your face.’ Cleo’s eyes narrowed. ‘And he thinks you’re interested in this guy David.’
‘In a nutshell, yes.’
‘But if Zayed doesn’t love you...then why was he so jealous of some random guy you knew from college?’
‘Because he’s possessive,’ said Jane darkly. ‘He doesn’t want me, but he doesn’t want anyone else to have me.’
‘Masterful,’ breathed Cleo admiringly.
‘Brutish,’ corrected Jane.
‘So what are you going to do about it?’
Jane drew in a deep breath as she put down her untouched mug of tea. She’d thought about this until it had spun in an endless cycle around her head. ‘I have enough money to live on for the time being,’ she said. ‘And I’m going to find myself somewhere to live—somewhere cheap and remote—and then I’m going to write the definitive history of Kafalah.’
‘But...’ Cleo looked slightly confused ‘...if the whole point is to forget Zayed, won’t writing a book about his country make it impossible?’
Jane shook her head, suddenly fired up by her own resolve. ‘It will be cathartic,’ she said firmly. ‘Nobody’s ever done it before, so there’s definitely a gap in the market. And it means I can get that wretched country out of my system once and for all,’ she finished darkly.
‘And what about Zayed? What if he tries to get in touch with you?’
‘He won’t,’ Jane said, hating the instinctive shivering of her skin as she thought of the dark Sheikh turning up on her doorstep out of the blue. ‘If he wants to communicate with me, he can do it through his lawyers. His precious lawyers,’ she finished bitterly.
* * *
In his vast office within the Kafalahian palace, Zayed stared at the painting which hung in pride of place above his desk. A painting not unlike the one he’d donated to his club in London, the one which Jane had recognised on the night he’d taken her to dinner and asked her to become his wife. He looked at the famous three blue towers of Tirabah and realised he’d never once taken her there, so she could see for herself the beautiful vista which so many artists had c
aptured on canvas.
But he didn’t want to think about his omissions as her husband. He wanted to concentrate on her failures as a wife. On the disloyalty she had shown towards him by communicating secretly with another man.
Yet it didn’t seem to matter how many times he tried to convince himself otherwise, deep down he was aware that he had behaved very badly towards his English bride. At least, once he’d allowed his jealousy to disperse and started engaging his brain. And when he thought about it properly, he was appalled at how wrong he’d got it. No way would someone like Jane be flirting with some diplomat when it was abundantly clear that she’d made him, Zayed, the focus of her attention. Could he have asked for any more than she had given him? He thought not. Sexually inventive, stimulating company and a huge hit with his court, she had been an exemplary partner in every way.
He shook his head. He had told her he didn’t need her any more—just as he’d never needed a mother or father when he was growing up. But no matter how much he tried to convince himself that was true, his arguments sounded increasingly empty. How could he miss her so much? Why did everything seem to lack lustre without her, so that even the gilded fittings of the palace looked dull in the desert sunshine? He stood up and went to the wardrobe where her tunics were still hanging. He knew he should ask one of the staff to remove them and donate them to a worthy cause, but he had been reluctant to do so and he couldn’t quite work out why. Was he somehow imagining she might come back? Of course she would never come back—and could he really blame her?