Strangers (18 page)

Damien didn’t know what had made him accept the invitation to the party. Ever since he’d said goodbye to Amy at the airport, he had felt restless and unsettled. He’d made several attempts to contact Majid, but his calls had gone unanswered. And everything had gone quiet–ominously quiet–on the Haroun Patel front.

He cast a quick, professional eye over his surroundings. The house was a temple to the gods of conspicuous consumption. The room in which the party was held was vast, two storeys opening up to a glass roof with a gallery running round above. Picture windows opened on to the garden where the swimming pool was already in use.

The noise was rising as the guests took advantage of the availability of champagne. The consultant’s wife–he checked his mental inventory and retrieved her name: Cordelia–greeted him effusively. Damien returned her kiss, reflecting that
his avoidance of much ex-pat socializing and his integration with the Saudis gave him novelty value. Cordelia Bradshaw clearly saw his presence as some kind of coup and kept him with her for a while, introducing him to various guests. ‘Damien has been here longer than any of us. If you want to know what’s really going on, he’s the man to ask,’ she said.

Damien turned down the offer of champagne and politely disengaged himself. He moved through the room, greeting people, checking out the groups, getting the feel of the place. The party looked sedate enough, which was a relief.

In the days when ex-pats could party with impunity, young, rootless people with more money than they had ever dreamed of indulged themselves with a contemptuous disregard for the mores of their hosts. And, to be fair, the wealthy among the hosts partied too. The parties, fuelled by drugs and alcohol, spiralled into excess until death brought everything to a sudden halt.

A young woman had died in, it was claimed, a drunken fall from a balcony, but darker stories of rape, murder and cover-up had circulated, and even now, a quarter of a century later, the scandal lingered. The dead woman remained unburied, her cadaver stored in a morgue in the UK, as her father searched fruitlessly and hopelessly for the truth of what had happened.

Then Damien saw someone he hadn’t expected to see: Arshak Nazarian. He was deep
in conversation. Damien moved round to see who he was talking to.

Roisin Massey. There was no sign of her husband.

The house amazed Roisin. She had thought their own house was large, but now she realized that she and Joe had been slumming it by Saudi standards. The front door led on to an atrium with a high glass ceiling and an expanse of wooden floor. There was an open staircase with wrought-iron balustrades. Carefully tended houseplants tumbled over the railing. At the far side of the atrium, double doors opened on to a huge room with a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on to the garden where the pool reflected the evening sky.

The room was already full of guests and the hum of conversation filled the air. She could hear music, and some couples were dancing, but the lights were dim and she couldn’t make out the faces. This was very different from the ex-pat parties she was familiar with. She could smell spices in the air and the fragrance of incense.

A Filipina in a maid’s uniform was waiting to greet her. She glanced quickly at Roisin’s invitation and said, ‘Mrs Massey. Welcome. May I take your coat?’

Roisin handed over her abaya, and the maid ushered her across the room to where a skeletally thin, impeccably dressed woman was holding court. ‘Mrs Massey,’ she said.

The woman’s smile was perfectly tuned to the appropriate wattage for the wife of a junior consultant as she greeted Roisin. ‘Cordelia Bradshaw. So pleased to see you.’

‘Thank you for inviting us. I’m afraid my husband got held up at work. He’s on his way.’

‘Oh, men,’ Cordelia Bradshaw said. ‘Always working. Sunanda!’ She summoned one of the maids. ‘Find Mrs Massey a drink.’ Roisin was gently eased out of the central group.

Amused, she turned to the Filipina maid, who was holding out a tray of drinks, and took a glass. ‘Thank you.’ The rumours were true. It was real champagne. She thought about drinking champagne with Amy–and now Amy had gone again. It would have been fun if she’d been here–they could have talked about Cordelia Bradshaw, about the extravagant luxury of the house. She suspected Amy had an entertaining take on the ex-pat wives:
the Stepford Wives
, she’d called them…

‘Mrs Massey?’

She turned round. A dark, heavy-set man with shrewd eyes in a strong, intelligent face was smiling down at her. He held out his hand, which engulfed Roisin’s when she clasped it lightly with hers. ‘Yes?’

‘My name is Arshak Nazarian. I am Yasmin’s father.’

‘Yasmin’s…How is she? How’s her baby?’

His face was serious. ‘The baby is not well, not well at all.’

‘What’s wrong?’

He shook his head. ‘The doctors–they seem to be baffled. He was well, then suddenly he was ill. I saw him after he was born–a beautiful boy. Now I am not allowed near.’

‘I’m so sorry. Tell her…Give her my love.’

‘Of course. Yasmin has spoken very warmly of you.’ He looked round the room. ‘I should not be here, I suppose, but I have colleagues who expect me to–what is the phrase?–put in the appearance. Is your husband not with you tonight?’

‘He’s been called out to an emergency. He’s coming later.’

Nazarian nodded. ‘Good. That’s good. I would like to meet him.’

‘Of course.’ Joe’s department would have done any lab tests. The last thing Joe would want tonight would be an interrogation by an anxious grandfather.

He smiled, a rather bleak smile that she could understand in the circumstances. ‘We may talk later.’ He excused himself and vanished into the crowd.

Another man appeared beside her. ‘Hello. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m David Morley.’ He was young and attractive, and was studying her with approval that he didn’t try to conceal. Before her conversation with Nazarian, she would have enjoyed a mildly flirtatious chat with a good-looking stranger, but her party mood, already at a low ebb, had evaporated.

‘Roisin Massey,’ she said.

‘What brings you to the magic kingdom?’

She told him a bit about her work at the university. ‘And you?’ she finished. ‘What do you do?’

He worked for one of the major oil companies and she listened politely as he told her stories about the entanglements that awaited the unwary visitor to the Kingdom, checking her watch discreetly while making interested noises. Half an hour. It was too early to expect Joe. Gradually she began to get involved in his stories, and found herself laughing at some of the bureaucratic mix-ups he described. The champagne was starting to kick in. Some fifties rock started on the sound system and her feet wanted to move to the music. David took her hand and whirled her out on to the dance floor among the jiving couples.

She could see the lights in the garden, a warm orange glow over banks of flowers and, in the centre, the pool lights reflected from below the water. As she watched, the surface shattered into a thousand dancing images as a man dived in. She could see his body snaking through the water.

‘Have a dip later, if you want,’ David said. His arm tightened round her waist as he swung her through a complicated step then released her again.

When the music ended, she excused herself. ‘Would you mind if I phone my husband? I want to find out what’s happening.’

A door off the main room opened on to a quiet
corridor. She went through and pulled it closed behind her to make the call, but she got Joe’s messaging service. A door at the end of the corridor opened into the garden, and she went out, the air suddenly warm on her arms after the chill of the air-con. The fragrance of the flowers mixed uneasily with the smell of incense. She thought she could see people moving in the shadows beyond the lights, but decided that her eyes must be playing tricks.

She went back in and leaned against the wall. There was no sign of David. She listened to the voices around her, the chatter of the women, the deeper voices of the men, sudden bursts of laughter. She’d probably had enough champagne. She was out of practice with alcohol.

A man stopped in front of her. His eyes were slightly unfocused. ‘Hey, Blondie, why haven’t I seen you before? Come on out into the garden. The fun’s just starting.’

‘Sorry, got to go.’ She moved away from him. The room was more crowded now and she had to push through a group of men who were talking with the loud voices of people on the edge of drunkenness. She tried not to listen to what they were saying as she made her way through them: ‘…used to go for R and R in Bangkok. Bang-cock. Good name.’ The sound of male laughter drowned him out for a moment.

‘Listen. First time I went, there was this group of them standing outside one of the bars. And this
little one, she was just wearing a thong, and when our truck went past she waved at us and turned round, and she had the sweetest little ass like…And she’d written “fuck me” on one cheek, and “American soldiers” on the other…So we stopped the truck, right…’

The exchange vanished into the general noise of other voices. The crowd was denser now, and she kept snagging on the people she passed. The unfamiliar faces swirled round her.

She felt her phone buzz in her bag. She retreated to the side of the room where it was quieter and took it out. ‘Joe?’

‘Roisin? Listen, sweetheart, there’s a problem here. I’ve got to sort out some stuff. I’m going to be a bit of time. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s OK. I’m feeling a bit tired. I think I might get a car and just go home. Do you mind?’

His voice sharpened with anxiety. ‘Are you all right? Roisin?’

‘I’m fine. I just don’t feel like a party any more.’

His voice was grim. ‘Me neither,’ he said.

‘What’s happened?’

‘It’s complicated. I’ll tell you later.’

‘OK. I’ll see you at home.’

‘Can’t be too soon for me. Take care, sweetheart.’

‘I will.’ She moved away from the crowds to a quiet corner near the door, scooping up another drink as she passed the bar. There was a settee and she sank down in its cream leather softness,
and called the number she always used for taxis.
Thirty minute
, the voice said abruptly, and hung up. She lifted her glass to her lips, and dumped it on the side table after one swallow. It wasn’t champagne, it was the ubiquitous home-distilled spirit,
rat
.

She leaned her head back against the cushions, looking at the ceiling. She could almost be in London on a summer’s night, sitting outside a bar in Soho with Joe as people pushed past along the narrow streets, music blaring out of bars, shouting, laughter…A pang of homesickness went through her, so sharp it was almost like a physical pain.

‘Roisin.’ The voice from behind her made her jump.

She tipped her head back and saw Damien O’Neill. ‘Damien. Hello.’

He came and sat next to her on the arm of the couch. ‘I wouldn’t have expected to see you here,’ he said. ‘Where’s your husband?’

‘He got called back to the hospital–some kind of emergency.’

His eyebrow lifted. ‘It wasn’t a…’ He stopped what he was about to say and looked at her glass. ‘You don’t have to drink that muck.’ He lifted his hand and a waiter appeared with a tray. He swapped the glass for another. ‘Here.’

Roisin took it. This time, it was champagne. ‘Thank you. It wasn’t what?’

‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘It’s no big deal. What are you doing here?’

‘I’m just waiting for my taxi–then I’m leaving. I’m not really in a party mood.’

She could see David, the man she’d been dancing with, watching her from across the room. She smiled and waved, and after a moment, he waved back.

‘A friend of yours?’ O’Neill asked.

‘I was dancing with him earlier.’ The noise was getting louder. ‘I think I’ll go and wait outside,’ she said. ‘It’s quieter out there.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ he said. ‘I could do with some air. Then I think I’ll get off myself.’

‘Not your kind of party?’ she said.

‘Please.’ He walked with her to the door, clearing a way through for her. ‘Have you got a jacket? And your abaya?’

‘Someone took it.’

‘Wait there. I’ll go and find it.’

After the noise of the party, the space and silence of the atrium felt wonderful. At first she thought she was alone, then she saw a couple half obscured by one of the hanging vines. A man was talking in low, urgent tones to a woman. He was holding her arms and thrusting his head forward. She was pulling back, but the man was too drunk–or too thick-skinned–to pay any heed to the clear signals of rejection he was getting. As Roisin watched, he grabbed her shoulder and started shaking her backwards and forwards.

Roisin’s reaction was instinctive. She grabbed his arm. ‘Stop that! Leave her alone!’

His bleary eyes focused on her. ‘Blondie…’ he said. She recognized him as the man who had spoken to her earlier. He looked even more drunk now.

The girl had freed herself and was clutching her bag close to her as if it offered some kind of protection. She looked terrified. ‘Are you all right?’ Roisin touched her shoulder, but the girl moved away quickly. ‘It’s OK…’

The drunken man grabbed Roisin’s wrist and jerked her back. ‘Keep out of this. This is between her and me.’

Christ, where was everybody? ‘I said, leave her alone.’ She yanked her wrist free, staggering back as she broke his grip. She almost fell, but someone caught her and moved her to one side. Suddenly Damien O’Neill was in front of the man, turning him firmly back towards the party, talking in a quiet voice, his hands on the man’s shoulders as he propelled him forward. The man seemed to protest, cast a dark look at Roisin, then straightened his jacket and stalked away.

Roisin blew out the breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. O’Neill looked round for the girl, but she must have taken advantage of the distraction to make her escape. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes. What about…?’ She looked round, but there was no sign of the girl. ‘Is she going to be all right?’

‘I think she must be one of the maids. She’s probably worried about getting into trouble–I’ll
have a word with the Bradshaws. Let’s get out of here.’