Iris and Ruby (2 page)

Then the man with the cigarette moved his chair so the light from one of the candle lanterns threw his face into
relief. There was a blare of music from the band and a burst of applause as a dance finished. I looked at him and forgot whatever remark I had been on the point of uttering, not that it mattered. Cairo party conversation was profoundly superficial.

The man’s eyes were bright with amusement. He was dark-haired, dark-skinned. He might have appeared saturnine if there hadn’t been so much fun in his face.

He leaned across the table. I saw the way his mouth formed a smile. ‘Don’t dance with Allardyce. And if it’s a choice between Jessie and me – well, that’s not really a choice at all, is it?’

‘
Alexander.
’ Jessie pouted.

‘Not now, dear,’ the man said. He drew back my chair and I stood up, he put his hand under my arm.

‘Xan Molyneux,’ he said calmly. We walked across the lawn together, under the branches of the trees. The heat-withered grass smelled acrid, nothing like an English garden. I had never felt so far from home, yet so happily and entirely not homesick.

‘I’m Iris.’

‘I know. Faria did introduce you. Is she a friend of yours?’

‘Yes. We share the same flat. Sarah Walker-Wilson lives there too. I suppose you know her?’

I can’t bear it, I thought. Every man in Cairo adores Sarah. In the six weeks since I had moved in, Sarah had not spent a single evening at home.

Xan inclined his head until his cheek almost touched mine.

‘The three flowers of Garden City,’ he murmured. Garden City was the quarter of Cairo where we lived. I wasn’t sure if he was making a joke or not.

We reached the dance floor. Xan’s expression was serene and he was humming the tune as he took me in his arms. He didn’t enquire whether or not I thought it was a jolly
band, or if I was going to Mrs Diaz’s shindig in Heliopolis tomorrow night. We just danced. He was a good dancer, but I had had other partners who were better. It was more that Xan gave the steps and the music and me all his attention, which made spinning round a crowded floor to the tootling of an Egyptian band seem singular, invested with a kind of magic. Laughter shone in his face and the pleasure that he was obviously taking in this precise, isolated moment radiated out of him. I felt energy beating like a pulse under the black weft of his coat, transmitting itself through my hands and arms and singing between us, and an answering rhythm began to beat in me. We both felt it and we were swept along, becoming more absorbed in the dance and each other. We looked straight into one another’s eyes, not talking but communicating in a language I had never used before.

That first dance seamlessly ran into the next, and the one after that.

I stopped being drunk on champagne and whisky, and grew intoxicated with excitement and the music and Xan Molyneux’s closeness instead. I saw the bandleader glancing over his shoulder at us, and some other couples were eyeing us too, but I didn’t care and Xan was looking only at me. We had exchanged hardly more than a dozen words but I felt that I knew him already, better than anyone I had met in Cairo.

I also felt a clear, absolute certainty that from now on all things were and would be possible. Happiness became wound up with anticipation to a point of tension that was almost unbearable, and it made me suddenly giddy. As Xan swung us in an exuberant circle I tripped and overbalanced on my high heel. A hot skewer of pain stabbed from my ankle up my calf and I would have fallen if he hadn’t wrapped his arm more tightly round my waist.

‘Are you all right?’

I drew in a breath and blew it out hard to stop myself howling.

‘Just … twisted it.’ The dancers formed a circle round us.

‘Here, I’ll carry you.’ He slid his other arm beneath my thighs, ready to lift me off my feet. At that moment I saw Sandy. He came steaming through the dancers towards us, crimson in the face, the studs popping out of his shirt front. His eyes seemed to swivel in opposite directions.

‘What’s going on?’ he shouted. ‘Molyneux. You … what d’you think you’re doing?’

‘Helping Miss Black to a chair,’ Xan drily replied, straightening up. ‘She has twisted her ankle.’

I took a step away from his side and nearly fell over, Xan immediately lunged to my rescue, and we almost toppled in a heap. As we struggled to right ourselves in a tangle of arms and legs I laughed up at him, in spite of the pain in my ankle, and I heard a wounded bellow from Sandy. He came flailing at Xan and caught the collar of his evening coat. Xan let go of me and twisted round to face Sandy who planted a wild punch on his jaw.

‘Leave my girl alone,’ Sandy shouted, but having landed his awkward blow the belligerence was visibly draining out of him. He gazed around at the circle of onlookers but he couldn’t see any ready support. His big, shiny red face seemed to crumple inwards, oozing whisky from every pore. I watched miserably, balancing on one foot, wanting to tell the sticky air – but for Xan to hear – that I wasn’t Sandy’s girl at all, and feeling ashamed of the impulse.

‘You know, I really don’t want to hit you back, Allardyce,’ Xan drawled. One hand slipped into the pocket of his coat. He sounded amused, not at all perturbed. ‘It would make such a mess.’

‘He’s right, it would,’ another voice chipped in. Jessie
James had appeared, with Faria beside him. Her sharp eyes took in everything. She held out her arm and I leaned on it as Sandy caught hold of me on the other side. His hand was hot and damp, and there were little glittering rivulets of sweat running from his hairline to his stiff collar. He jerked his head at Xan and Jessie, but he was already in retreat.

‘It’s not funny.’

‘Are we laughing?’ Jessie innocently asked.

Sandy turned away from them and muttered to me, ‘C’mon, s’get another drink. Be all right.’

Faria clicked her tongue. ‘No it won’t. I’m taking Iris home. Can’t you see she’s hurt?’

The band started playing again and the other dancers turned away, losing interest.

The next minute I was hobbling into the hallway, supported on one side by Faria and with Sandy weaving on the other. A huge crystal chandelier dripped diamonds of light over our heads. I felt rather than saw Xan and Jessie at the back of our ungainly procession as Lady Gibson Pasha came surging towards us, both hands outstretched as if to catch me. Our hostess wore a gold turban and a collar of egg-sized emeralds.

‘My dear, my dear girl, you poor thing. You must put your foot up, we need an ice pack.’

She was clapping her hands, calling at a passing servant to bring ice. I wanted to stay near Xan and to get as far away from Sandy as possible. I was also longing to get home and lie in a dark room to disentangle the chaos and amazement of the evening.

‘It’s nothing, really. I’m so sorry, Lady Gibson. Just a silly sprain.’

‘Daddy’s car and driver are here,’ Faria said. ‘We’ll go home. I’ll make sure Iris is looked after.’

Sandy vehemently nodded his head. He had gone pale
now. Another servant was at hand with Faria’s little swansdown bolero and my mother’s Indian shawl, which was my evening wrap. With Lady Gibson’s instructions floating after us we hobbled out of the front door. Amman Pasha’s chauffeur was waiting at the steps with the big black car. He opened the door and I was handed into the expanse of cream-coloured leather. Sandy collapsed beside me, gasping and tugging at the ends of his tie to undo the bow. Faria slipped in on the other side.

The car began to roll over the gravel. I twisted round to see through the rear window and caught a last glimpse of Xan and Jessie standing side by side at the foot of the steps, black head and blond, watching us go. I couldn’t really see Xan’s face, but I thought he was still smiling.

‘God,’ Sandy groaned. ‘Bloody hell.’ He screwed his black tie into a ball and stuffed it in his pocket before letting his head fall back against the seat cushions.

‘We’ll drop you at the embassy,’ Faria said coolly and leaned forward to give the driver instructions in Arabic. We swept over the Bulaq Bridge and I saw the broken mosaic of yellow and white lights reflected in black water as we turned south past the cathedral.

Faria yawned. ‘Oh dear. I completely forgot to tell the poet we were leaving. Whatever will he think?’

It wasn’t a question that required an answer. Jeremy – known as the poet – was the most fervent of Faria’s admirers, a thin and mournful young man who worked for the British Council. Ali was away and Jeremy had been her escort for the evening. He would think what he presumably always thought: that the exquisite and careless Faria had given him the slip again.

Sandy had passed out. I could hear the breath catching thickly in the back of his throat. Whisky fumes and Faria’s perfume mingled with the smell of leather and the uniquely
Cairene stink of kerosene and incense and animal dung. Faria took a Turkish cigarette out of her bag, clicked her gold lighter and inhaled deeply. I shook my head when she held it out to me. The pain in my ankle was intense and the faint nausea it engendered made my senses keener. I let every turn of the route print itself in my mind, the black silhouette of each dome against the fractionally paler sky, the hooked profile of an old beggar patiently sitting on a step. Every detail was significant and precious. I wanted to absorb each tiny impression and hold it and keep it, because tonight was so important. I never doubted that.

We stopped near the embassy gates and shook Sandy awake. He groaned again and muttered incoherently as he flopped out into the road. The car swept on. Over the top of the embassy building, behind the flagpole with the limp folds of the Union flag, I could see the tops of huge trees shading lawns where I had been paraded for tea parties as a child. I liked to slip away and gaze at the Nile beyond, slow olive-green, flagged with the sails of feluccas.

Later I lay in bed with the wooden shutters latched open and watched the sky. My bandaged ankle throbbed but I didn’t mind that it kept me awake. All I could think of was Xan, whom Faria had hardly noticed and who had left me stricken with desire from the moment I saw him. Shivers of laughter and longing and anticipation ran through me as I lay there, slick with sweat, under my thin cotton sheet. On that first sleepless night I never doubted that Xan and I would meet again. I would tell him I wasn’t and never had been Sandy Allardyce’s girl, and we would claim each other. That was exactly how it was meant to be.

How simple, how innocent it seems. And how joyful.

Garden City was set beside the Nile, an enclave of curving streets with tall cocoa-brown and dirty cream houses and
apartment blocks deep in gardens of thick, dusty greenery. Our apartment belonged to Faria’s parents who lived in a grand house nearby. There were wood-block floors and heavy furniture, and every room had a ceiling fan that lazily circulated the scalding air. There were big metal-finned radiators too, that occasionally emitted hollow clanking noises and dribbled rusty water. Faria never noticed the heat and her black hair stayed like a glossy wing instead of frizzing in the humid blast as mine did, but she was afraid of feeling cold. When she was going out at night she always slipped a little bolero of white feathers or a silk velvet cape over her bare shoulders.

My room was a narrow, high-ceilinged box at the end of a corridor away from the main part of the flat. The furniture was on a humbler scale and there was a view from the window of a jacaranda tree in the next-door garden. I didn’t know Faria and Sarah very well but they were lively company, and I was pleased to have such a comfortable place to live. It was even conveniently close to where I worked, at British Army GHQ, just off Sharia Qasr el Aini. I was clerical and administrative assistant to a lieutenant-colonel in Intelligence called Roderick Boyce, known to everyone as Roddy Boy. Colonel Boyce and my father belonged to the same London club and had hunted together before the war. A letter from my father, and an interview during which my prospective boss reminisced about my father taking a fence on his big bay mare, were enough to gain me the job.

The morning after Xan and I met I got up early to go to work, as I had done on every ordinary day since I had come back to Cairo.

In the stifling mid afternoons the streets cowered under the hammer blow of the sun out of a white sky, but at 8 a.m. it was cool enough to walk the few streets between the flat and the office. That day, with my heavily bandaged
ankle, I had to take a taxi. Roddy Boy looked at me as I half hopped to my desk, supported by a walking stick belonging to Faria’s father.

‘Oh dear. Tennis? Camel racing? Or something more strenuous?’

‘Dancing,’ I replied.

‘Ah. Of course.’ Roddy Boy chose to believe that my social life was much more hectic and glamorous than it really was. ‘But I hope your injury will not impede your typing?’

‘Not at all,’ I said. I rolled a sandwich of requisition forms and carbon paper into my machine and forced myself to concentrate.

When at last I came home again Mamdooh, the
suffragi
who looked after us and the apartment, greeted me in his stately way: ‘Good afternoon, Miss Iris. These were delivered for you an hour ago.’

‘Oh, beautiful.’

There was a big bunch of white lilies, gardenias and tuberoses. I buried my face in the cool blooms. The intense perfume brought back last night even more vividly, candlelight and music and cigars and Xan’s face. Mamdooh beamed. He was pleased for me; usually the bouquets were for Sarah.

I sat down awkwardly and opened the envelope that came with them. There was a plain white card with the words
I hope your ankle will mend soon
. It was signed simply
X
. That was all.

Mamdooh was still standing there in his white
galabiyeh
, waiting for more. Faria complained that he was too familiar and that what time she came in at night was none of his business, but I liked the big man and his broad smiles that were always accompanied by a shrewd glance. Mamdooh missed nothing. Faria’s mother was probably aware of that too.

‘Just from a friend,’ I said.

‘Of course, Miss. I will put in water for you.’