‘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.
All it now needed was a fitting or two and the seams could be completed, the length tweaked and the finishing touches made. And all Khaled had to do was agree to her request to allow her just one hour with the bride, instead of continually frustrating her with excuses and deferments.
He’d hardly spoken to her since that strange night a week ago in the gardens when his barely restrained fury had been a palpable thing and his cryptic words still haunted her. For some reason she’d upped the ante on his emotions that night in a way that made her feel that somehow, in some strange and inexplicable way, she was responsible for the death of his parents.
But that was crazy. She’d grown up on the other side of the world. She’d never had anything to do with the royal family of Jebbai. It didn’t make sense.
She tried to push these thoughts aside as she sat at her desk, writing postcards in the hour before lunch. She’d sent her staff home early as, until Khaled agreed to a fitting, there was nothing more for them to do. She’d already completed brief greetings for her family, her mother and sisters back in Australia. It was the last postcard she wavered over.
What should she say to Paolo?
Her mobile phone was useless out here and in a way she was glad. She wanted Paolo to contact her first. But he hadn’t made any attempt. They hadn’t spoken since their argument in Milan and somehow ‘the weather’s fine, wish you were here’ didn’t cut it. So why couldn’t she think of anything to write?
Part of her wanted to reach out and repair the damage to their relationship. The other part of her was still angry with him. He’d scared her half mad with his predictions of disaster in Jebbai, done his best to put her off going. And without offering a shred of evidence to support his crazy claims.
Without a doubt Khaled was a force to be reckoned with. Certainly he had issues with the tragic death of his parents, but was that so unusual?