The Sand Men (27 page)

Looking at the assembly, Lea knew that Rachel wouldn’t have been caught dead here. The irony of meeting to discuss fancy dress outfits and table decorations after years spent fighting for women’s rights and equal pay would not have been wasted on her.

‘—don’t you think, Mrs Brook?’ said the lady opposite, and suddenly Lea realised that everyone was looking at her, waiting for an answer.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Lea, ‘I didn’t—’

‘Mrs Garfield just suggested we could hold the dinner in the nursery hall, as it is air-conditioned and would save the cost of a marquee.’

‘Wouldn’t we have to clear it with someone?’ asked Lea, trying to show an interest.

‘Mrs Busabi handed over the responsibility for the hall’s bookings to Mrs Garfield before she left, so I don’t foresee any problems. Plus it has a kitchen, so the catering can be handled on-site.’

‘And it’s preferable to provide a hot food menu,’ said the salad-rinse lady. ‘We wouldn’t want to find ourselves in a Spanish cucumber situation.’

Minutes were taken. Tea was drunk, cakes daintily devoured. The meeting broke into looser groups so that the wives could discuss other topics of the day; gardeners, book clubs, a swimming group, the creation of a weekly newsletter outlining progress.

‘Perhaps you’d like to write that, Mrs Brook? You used to be some sort of writer, didn’t you?’ The woman asking the question was one of the new ones. Dressed by Jaeger, preserved by surgeons and pickled in a kind of venom peculiar to the English Home Counties, she leaned forward with a mean smile on her thin lips, waiting for an answer. This was Mrs Garfield, a career colonial married to a flight lieutenant whose exploits were followed by a ground-crew of reverential military housewives from the other side of the compound.

‘I’ll be happy to help out,’ she heard herself saying.

‘We’d do it ourselves, of course, only we’ll be too busy with the physical arrangements.’

‘Surprisingly, writing is a physical process too,’ Lea said.

‘I’m sure Mrs Garfield didn’t mean to denigrate your abilities,’ said the lady opposite, ‘it’s just that we’re running short of time.’

‘All you have to do is write down who’s doing what in simple, clear terms,’ said Mrs Garfield, as if talking to a particularly dense child. ‘Do you think you could manage that for us?’

‘I’ve done research on your husband’s civilian bombing raids in Afghanistan,’ said Lea, ‘I think I could manage to remind you who’s in charge of cupcakes.’

Savouring the massed floral recoil in the room, she rose and left.

G
ULF
C
OAST
’s WEBSITE
had increased its visitor figures. A glance at the homepage revealed dozens of positive comments posted after the appearance of Lea’s online article. When she rang Andre Pignot, he cautiously committed himself to a new piece. She had already thought of a subject:
The Human Cost Of Building Dream Worlds
.

‘I think we’d need to talk about that title,’ said Andre uncertainly.

‘I can be there in half an hour,’ Lea replied.

Visiting Andre in the Al Qusais area, she headed for the pungent, shabby café below his office on Creek Road. Most of the coffee houses were shut for the duration of Ramadan.

They seated themselves among the crisp linen
thobes
and sparkling
abayas
of the few non-observing Arabs who visited the blue-collar zone. After the bland European cakes and teas at Betty’s house, the pungent aroma of Arabic coffee and honey-coated pastries was intoxicating. Lea ordered
basbousa
with almonds, and another with pistachios.

‘I like your work,’ said Andre, seating himself beside her. ‘I didn’t expect such a good response.’

‘There aren’t many forums where these kinds of discussions can take place,’ she reminded him. ‘There are various ways we can build reader loyalty.’

‘That’s what you want to do? Even though I can’t pay you?’

‘If I stop writing, I’m scared I might go rusty and forget how. You’ll be doing me a favour. It would be interesting to know what people think about the psychology of living here. Nobody mentions that. It’s fine for the locals—whenever someone drives off the road due to lack of sleep it’s
Inshallah
, but nobody talks about how non-Muslims cope.’

‘The will of God governs the land,’ said Andre. ‘We are merely guests here.’

‘Then that’s my angle. Stress is a subject everyone’s interested in.’

‘Fine, so long as we agree not to say that this is simply the fault of DWG. That would be misleading. There are international companies all along the Gulf coastline. A lot of people made their fortunes in the good times, then the ex-pats got trapped in negative equity. They started leaving their houses behind and abandoning their brand-new BMWs at the airport. I don’t want you trying to point the finger of blame at anyone. We could get into serious trouble.’

‘It’s not about apportioning blame. We might be able to do some good.’

Andre thoughtfully sipped his coffee. ‘All right,’ he said finally, ‘but remember, I’m running a lifestyle magazine, not the
Washington Post
.’

‘I’ll find a positive spin, I promise. Maybe list some meditation centres, spas, desert resorts, places where you can go to chill out.’

‘That’s a good idea. I heard you went to interview Leo Hardy.’

‘Who told you?’

‘He called me and suggested that I should reconsider my decision to employ you. He thinks you’re some kind of Bolshevik troublemaker.’

‘I’m afraid Mr Hardy and I got off to a bad start.’

‘You might want to remember that Leo Hardy has the power to end your husband’s contract,’ said Andre. ‘He was Alexei Petrovich’s EPS for ten years.’

‘EPS? What’s that?’

‘Executive Protection Specialist. It’s a fancy title for a bodyguard. He’s a former head of the South African Police. He’s also the godfather of Petrovich’s son.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘So he’s upset that he was never made a director.’ Pignot drew a line on a napkin with his finger. ‘It’s because of the scandal.’

‘What scandal?’

‘The girl they found in the creek,’ said Pignot, not looking up. ‘She was unloaded from his jeep.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘It’s what people said.’

Lea was appalled. ‘But wasn’t anything done?’

‘Hardy said the jeep had been taken the night before. The police met with the directors and after that nothing more was heard.’

‘My husband was just made a director.’

‘Don’t think it entitles him to discuss anything with you. He’ll report only to his fellow directors on the board. It’s dangerous to speak out about such things. And you’re a woman.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘That your opinion is invalid.’

She sat back. ‘So everyone turned a blind eye.’

‘You just arrived here and suddenly you want justice? Such things have gone on for hundreds of years. Go on and write your piece—just remember who we answer to.’

Lea took her leave. Cara was out with Norah and Lauren, and Roy called to warn her he would be working late. Relieved at not having to prepare an evening meal, she stood at the window and studied the lonely rectangle of light cast across the tarmac. Hardly any of the other houses were lit after 11:00pm.

I was never going to be a crusading journalist,
she thought.
Are there even such people anymore? I met Milo and Rachel a handful of times. Really, what did they mean to me? We’re all visitors here. Soon the resort will be open and we’ll be back at home.

She opened another bottle of Vivanco and drank it, the better to be angry with herself.

Distant lights striated the sky. The coastal development was busiest after dark. Trucks rolled back and forth along the promenade in relay, pouring gravel and rock into the giant jack-shaped seabreaks. The stars were obscured by the immense spotlights of the resort, just as the old gods were obliterated by the desires of their earthbound counterparts.

Lea wavered at the window, empty bottle in hand, breath condensing on the glass.
You’ve failed,
she told herself.
Failed as a mother. Failed as a wife. Failed yourself.

Chapter Thirty-Three

The Dedication

F
OR THE
DWG employees, time sped up until it was a blur of heated meetings and deadlines, snatched meals, naps, rising before dawn and returning long after midnight. Roy hardly ever spoke to his wife anymore. His eyes were focussed elsewhere, his mind far away. He heard parts of her sentences and tried to guess conversations, but Lea saw that it was a waste of time and resolved to stay out of his way until the resort was open.

The last of the building rubble was cleared from the site. The remaining planters were filled. The fountains were switched on. The plastic sheets came off the marble flooring. An army of cleaners moved in to dust and polish every brass rail, every gold-plated tap. One million bright blue LEDs were stretched in a plastic trellis over the atrium of the Persiana.

The guest list was confirmed. There were pop singers and football heroes, film stars and politicians, entourages and press agents. Flowers were flown in from Amsterdam, caviar from Russian, fireworks from China. Security reached a new level around the resort, with colour-coded passes and computer-readable ID badges. There were flaws in the system. The barcode readers that were meant to be installed at the gates of Dream Ranches failed to materialise, and extra security guards had to be hired to patrol the resort.

The Dream Ranches Opening Gala Weekend Dinner menu was planned without Lea’s involvement. The compound’s impenetrable pristine houses and immaculate lawns defeated her. The event would take place in the nursery under the guidance of the fearsome Mrs Garfield, who took pleasure in ordering the other wives around like field-troops.

Lea hunted for things to do. A small mountain of boxes and books had accumulated in the spare room since they had arrived, so she enlisted Lastri’s help and together they bundled everything for the trash. As she sorted paperbacks into stacks, planning to take them to the children’s centre, she came across the tattered volume Colette had given her.

She was certain she hadn’t purchased it; she didn’t collect rare books, and had only ever watched the film version. Turning it over, she tried to recall if she had ever seen it before. Either Rachel had confused her with someone else, which seemed unlikely, or she’d been sending her some kind of a message.

There were pictures of the crying old lion and a creepy, bald tin-man. The winged monkeys looked too jolly and Oz was just a castle. There were no soaring emerald towers to remind her of this city.

A terrible thought crossed her mind. Could Rachel have simply lost her wits and committed suicide?

The phone rang, making her jump.

Cara was stranded at the mall. ‘The stupid ATM ate my card,’ she said. ‘Can you come and pick me up?’

‘Oh honey, can’t you take the bus?’

‘I have
no cash
. That’s why I was trying the ATM.’

‘Okay, give me twenty minutes.’ Lea leaned over the bannisters. ‘Lastri, could you keep bagging everything while I pick up Cara?’

It had been a long time since her daughter had asked a favour of her, and she decided that the trip back from the mall would give them time to talk. But Cara proved as uncommunicative as usual, and instead of having a proper heart-to-heart they spoke of clothes and homework. Even the subject of the beach house seemed not to interest her. When they arrived back at the house, Cara headed straight for her bedroom.

‘I’ve got an English essay to finish,’ she called down. ‘I have to imagine that a famous historical figure has written a book for future generations. Could I use Lady Gaga?’

A book by Lady Gaga,
thought Lea with a sigh.
The book.
She ran upstairs to the spare room and searched, but it was gone.

‘Lastri,’ she called, ‘did you take the books that were on the floor?’

‘Yes, Miss.’

‘Where are they?’

‘I take them out to the garbage with the boxes. You want me throw them out, yes?’

She ran downstairs and out into the street. Looking around, she saw that the bins had been emptied. The truck had moved several houses up the road and was about to turn the corner. She ran after it. ‘Wait,’ she called, ‘wait!’ It was picking up speed.

‘Please! Stop!’

The driver saw her coming and slowed down.

‘I need to get something.’ She pointed into the crusher.

‘It is too late,’ said the garbage man riding the rear of the truck, a white worker who sounded Polish. ‘I am not allowed to open the back.’

‘Please, it’s very important.’

She remembered the folded bill she always kept in the pocket of her jeans for tips, and passed it to him. He looked at it, pocketed it and called out to the driver. The truck jerked to a stop. The driver pulled a red steel lever that opened the crushers at the rear of the truck.

The sweet, hot reek of garbage punched out into the still air. She climbed onto the fender and looked inside. There, behind several burst and leaking garbage bags she could see the box of books that she had intended to be taken to the children’s centre.

‘Wait, I’ll get it,’ said the garbage man, climbing inside. ‘You’re not allowed to go in there.’ As he pulled the box toward him, it split. Half of it had already been crushed into a pulp.

‘There,’ she said, pointing, ‘that’s the one I need.’ She could see the book’s faded green cover, but it was soaked in something that looked like vinegar or oil. Half the pages were sodden. Clutching it to her chest, she ran back inside the house. The garbage man looked on in puzzlement.

Lea tried to unstick the reeking pages but they were too wet to pull apart. She saw now that Rachel had written something to her in violet fountain pen on the blank page after the title, but the ink had formed a Rorschach blot that rendered her words indecipherable. She needed to dry it out first, so she placed it in the back of the airing cupboard. After an hour the warmth had turned the page brown and brittle. Taking the volume to her study, she held the page beneath the desk light.