This Stream of Dreams (Mirella, Rashid and Adam Book 2) (20 page)

“Great idea.”

Brindley patted her naked bottom and then jumped out of bed. He showered while she bathed. As Deena watched his blurred silhouette through the glass shower walls, her happiness suddenly lost its sharp outline too. Brindley was much younger than she was. He was still a young man, she was thirty-eight.

He stepped from the shower and dried himself with a huge fluffy bath towel and, walking up to the bath, laughingly said, “You will miss towels like this in England. And showers like that simply do not exist.”

“I’ll bring my own towels. Even the shower,” she said rather flatly.

“How clever you are, a simple solution. An Englishman would never think of importing his towels from the States, let alone a shower.”

“What would an Englishman do?” she asked again in that same rather flat voice.

Brindley caught her tone and eyed her with prompt concern. Something was wrong, and he didn’t know what or how to respond. He dropped the bath sheet on the bathroom carpet, took a smaller towel and wrapped it around him, tying it at his waist. Then he went directly to her and sat on the edge of the tub.

“An Englishman would go to Harrods and buy the best towels he could find there. That is, if he were an extravagant
Englishman. But most of them would do as I would: forget about it and use a rough old towel that has seen better days but is not yet tatty enough to throw away. We English are not so much mean about money as frugal.”

“But I’m extravagant,” she all but wailed.

“So? I’m not marrying you to change you. I’m only telling you the English are frugal and not consumption-crazy like the Americans. You have the courage to be extravagant, to change all the time. We English prefer less change. You and I are very different — our backgrounds, our culture, our religions even. But I embrace that difference in you. It adds to my life. You expand my life.”

He bent forward to kiss Deena, but her hand on his arm stopped him. “Brinn, how old are you?”

“Thirty. And you?”

“Brinn, I’m much older than you are. I’m thirty-eight.”

Deena watched for a sign, any sign, no matter how slight, or shock or retreat. She saw nothing but a smile break across his face.

“Brinn, I love you, I want to marry you, but if that makes a difference to you, please, I beg you, let’s finish it, call it off, right now before it’s too late, and the pain of losing you too great for me to cope with. I will understand.”

“You are not too old, just too dramatic. Don’t be so stupid, it’s too late for us even now.”

Then he leaned over the tub from where he sat on the edge and pulled her up to him, and they kissed, as he slipped slowly over the edge into the hot foamy water beside her.

Deena sat staring across the table at Brindley, who was busy reading the menu to her. Never had she been so sure of anything as she was that they were going to have a wonderful life together. Her moment of anxiety over their age difference would be the first and last she would allow herself of insecurity where she and Brindley were concerned. Once that decision was made she reverted to her own happy, positive self, and vowed never to look back.

“ ‘
Raviolis de Homard et Son Jus, Tagliatelles de Legumes
.’ That’s raviolis of lobster served with its juices, scented with caraway seeds, and set on a bed of juliennes of vegetables. That sounds delicious, don’t you think? Or would you rather have something else?”

“No, nothing else. That sounds perfect.”

“All right,” he said, passing the menu to Deena. “Now you choose the main course and I’ll choose the wine.”

Deena chose for them both a dish of sweetbreads roasted and served with their juices enriched with a hazelnut butter spiked with almonds, pine kernels, and pistachios, called
Pomme de Ris de Veau Rôti aux Amandes, Pistaches, et Pignons de Pin
.

Over the superb meal and two bottles of an exquisite Richebourg 1969, Burgundy’s best, the lovers began to get to know each other. The overwhelming delight at being in love gave them the courage they needed to face the enormous changes they were about to confront.

“I want you to promise me something, Deena,” Brindley asked. But not in a way that showed concern. It was more in the manner of an attorney cautioning a client. It amused Deena and she answered, “Yes, dear.” They both smiled because they were a little tipsy and because the endearment, though new to them, charmed.

“If you are ever unhappy, even for one day in England, or lonely — and I am sure you will be for a long while after a life in New York — you will tell me, so that we can work it out together.”

Deena agreed. She wanted to tell Brindley that for her this was like a new life, a great adventure, a chance to have love, and marriage, and children, and a partner to share it with — all the things she had missed while climbing up the success ladder — what’s a little loneliness in exchange for all that? But she said nothing.

She scrutinized his handsome, still boyish face, listened closely to his educated upper-class accent, thinking he could not be anything else but English. The cut of his hair, and his Savile Row clothes, the highly polished bespoke shoes, the navy blue and white silk polka-dot hankie cascading decoratively from his jacket pocket. The old-fashioned pocket watch he carried. His quiet, calm, control in public. And she loved all of it, and all of him, and for once in her life she had the answer to the question she secretly asked herself time and again. What was it all about, this struggle to be alive, and for what? For love. To love. To be loved. That was what it was for.

13

A
dam had not been successful in Geneva. His timing had been off. The person he wanted to see was in an all-day meeting at the Swiss Credit Bank in Zug. He took a helicopter to Zug, only to miss his elusive white knight yet again. The Sudan. He might find the person he was after in Khartoum in a week’s time, he was told. After that, in Addis Ababa until the end of August.

From Zug, Adam called Mirella aboard Rashid’s yacht — not the
Azziz
, his schooner, but his ocean-going cruiser
Topkapi
. He was surprised at how much the sound of Mirella’s voice dissolved the frustrations of his day and warmed his heart. He felt joyful rather than sentimental about her.

“Is Rashid treating you well?”

“Yes, very well. He’s being his usual extravagant self, lavishing attention on me — flowers, extravagant gifts, a pair of diamond bracelets. I hope you like them, because I am pledged to wear them always in the name of our friendship,” she said bravely to her husband, the man she loved.

Adam smiled to himself and answered, “Rashid has impeccable taste. Of course I will like them, and a pledge is a pledge.”

Their conversation was brief because Adam wanted to be on his way. Rashid was put on the line, then the captain, who gave Adam the course the
Topkapi
was taking through the Aegean Sea to Mykonos and Delos. He replaced the telephone receiver on its rocker, pleased and proud of the way Mirella had handled the call.

He was relieved to think that the three of them could cope with this unusual and delicate relationship with an unspoken truthfulness, respect for one another, and above all discretion. The guidelines have been drawn, he thought, and they would not breach them. He knew that was true from the way each of them had handled this first and most important separation. No side of their triangle had suffered or broken.

In Athens he said good-bye to Josh, who took the company
plane on to Istanbul. Adam boarded his small helicopter, and the pilot and he whirled up into the hot, smog-bound atmosphere that hung low over Athens.

Permission granted, they flew low across the sprawling white city that roasted under the hot sun, over Athens’s ancient cemetery. It was dotted with white marble monuments and shaded by tall, elegant cypresses. Over the remains of the Olympieum, still overwhelming in size with its Corinthian capitals and enormous columns, the vast column-drums lying on the ground. Adam’s heart began to race in anticipation of what was to come. And there it was as they flew over Hadrian’s Arch — the Acropolis.

They circled once, twice, a third time before the pilot was allowed to dip down over the theater of Herodes Atticus. They hovered there for a few minutes. Even empty and silent, the excavated ruins of the huge, ancient open-air theater once so splendiferous with its walls of dressed poros covered in marble slabs, with its floors, staircases, and anterooms of mosaic. Its façade alone, which had stood ninety-two feet high, stirred a sense of the wonders of Greece. And then the pilot whirled off to the Agora, where they lingered for several minutes before swinging away from the ancient Greek architectural treasures, across the city and out over the sea, heading for a rendezvous with the
Topkapi
somewhere among the Cycladic islands.

They hugged close to the mainland as far as Sounion, circled the temple once, and then made out to sea. They crossed the tip of the island of Kea, and as dusk was approaching followed the coastline around the island of Syros, where they began searching the sea for the
Topkapi
.

The sun was just dropping below the horizon line — a flaming orange disk diving into the glorious blue Aegean and pulling darkness down behind her — when they spotted the yacht several miles ahead of them, sailing toward Mykonos.

Adam took over the controls. They were about five miles from the
Topkapi
when the circle of lights around the landing pad on the uppermost aft deck was switched on. They made radio contact. The captain cut the yacht’s motors, and Adam landed the copter just as the last drop of light turned the day into night.

Mirella and Adam’s reunion could not have gone smoother.
Rashid cleverly busied himself with the dozen or so other guests on board, after welcoming Adam on the helicopter pad and leading him to Mirella. He even made a joke about it.

“It seems to me, Adam, I am always leading you to your wife when I am not leading your wife to you.” They both laughed, and then Adam and Mirella were together.

Dinner that evening was very elegant: black tie for the men, and the women in long dresses and dazzling jewels. The food was sublime, an all-Greek cuisine, but the chef was French, which turned the food into a gourmet miracle. The wines were impeccable, and the people all at their conversationally brilliant best.

The wind was down and the sea unusually calm for Mykonos. The party took their after-dinner drinks on deck to watch the twinkling lights on shore.

“It has been a wonderful evening, Rashid, and your yacht most elegant, dinner and the company the same,” complimented Mirella.

“Well, at last a Corey who doesn’t think the
Topkapi
is — to quote your husband, dear lady — a vulgar floating gin palace.”

“Adam, oh, please, you couldn’t have been so rude.”

“I can be, could be, and have been. And had you been in Greece last year for Rashid’s birthday celebrations, you might very well have agreed.”

There were complimentary words said about the notorious birthday party by some guests, blushing embarrassment from others. Rashid only laughed.

“It was a one-time-only event, I grant you,” he said, adding archly, “more what I think you would expect from a Greek millionaire shipowner than a sophisticated Turk like myself. But one must not always take to heart Adam’s opinions. He had always preferred the
Azziz
. He simply likes sailing ships and small parties better. But indeed, Mirella, I do wish I had known you then and you had been present. It was my birthday party cruise through the Greek and Turkish islands. The cruise guests arrived from various parts of the world and took up residence aboard
Topkapi
. All the fifteen double staterooms were occupied, with a varied cross section of old friends, and business acquaintances. The other guests, who were invited only to my birthday celebrations, were put up for three days at the Astir Palace Hotel. The plan was to spend three days with the hundred-odd invited friends in and around
Athens, ending with a spectacular birthday party for five hundred guests.

“There were daytime excursions to Delphi and Sounion and Epidaurus. The evenings were spent dining at exquisite parties given in my honor by a couple of Greek shipowners, friends of mine since my Oxford days. But all that was just the prelude to the gala reception I arranged on board the
Topkapi
as my official birthday party.

“It began at midnight, or to be more accurate, one minute into the day I was born. The hundred guests were all brought on board from
Topkapi
’s private dock near the hotel for a sit-down dinner. As we sailed away, we were treated to a spectacular fireworks display, set off from hundreds of small craft lining the water’s edge all along the coast for miles. The
Topkapi
anchored two miles offshore at Vouliagmeni, and we watched the display, which went on for an hour.

“Afterward, the black-tied men and bejweled women sat down to a sumptuous feast organized by Mme. Point, this famous restaurateur who had flown in her entire staff for the occasion from La Résidence de la Pyramide at Vienne. After the gourmet delicacies and a feast of after-dinner wit in the speeches, the guests danced to two orchestras playing near the swimming pools on the fore and aft decks of the
Topkapi
.

“Oh, Mirella, I wish you could have seen it. The
Topkapi
was transformed into a floating paradise of flowers, its lights pouring over the water turned the Aegean to silver, and the twinkling lanterns on the dozens of boats — caïques and rowboats and motor launches constantly circling the cruiser — was a sight to see. It looked more like a constellation of stars, bright against a black sky, than a yacht with a cordon of security boats.

“At three in the morning a signal of three loud blasts was sounded from the
Topkapi
, and a flotilla of small speedboats set out from shore for the yacht bringing four hundred guests. Dazzlingly pretty girls in glorious gowns and handsome men in formal dress arrived to dance and drink champagne, eat birthday cake — ah, and what a birthday cake it was — and to watch the sun rise. They stayed for breakfast of scrambled eggs and caviar and croissants, served until eight in the morning when the
Topkapi
was to set sail on its cruise.

“Of course, Adam didn’t like it. It was the sort of evening Adam rarely attends. It was too jet-set, Greek-millionairish
for him. Or, to put it bluntly, too Turkish-playboyish for him — which is, of course, what I am. It was a larger-than-life extravaganza that could turn great hospitality into sensational vulgarity, not at all your husband’s style. He is much too grand for that. Not me, my dear Mirella, I enjoy a touch of the base, the common, the crude — even the animal — in me and in others. A touch of the vulgar can be diverting, even exciting.”

Rashid wanted to add, “But you know that, don’t you? It is, after all, one of the things that you find attractive about me.”

It was true. Had she not admitted the very night before to loving that part of him, of herself, and to being attracted to Rashid for some of those very qualities. She liked rubbing up against his rough edge. Yet, as soon as Adam appeared any feeling she had for Rashid, other than as a close friend who adored and desired her erotically as she did him, seemed to melt away. Adam’s presence had always done that for her. When with Adam, she simply wanted no one but him. Rashid saw no point in hinting anything of that to her, and so he continued telling her about his party.

“It was a jet-set party like all the other jet-set parties described by all the gossip columnists in the world. The kind of party the papparazzi make fortunes stealing photographs of. I gave them their pictures. I designed it like a cinema production of a megamillionaire’s party. The sort of party young, would-be actresses try to gate-crash, or handsome gigolos have to swing an invitation to in order to hook themselves a wealthy, middle-aged lady for the season. I made it a show that businessmen needed to be seen at because it could be good for future deals; that politicians needed for the vote; society for obvious reasons; friends because friends are after all friends; and family out of respect. Has-been actresses and actors, because that is what is left for them. The odd opera star, ballet dancer for that illusion of culture. The painter, the sculptor, the odd academic because they enjoy my patronage — and I am not altogether frivolous, as you very well know.

“In spite of all the vulgarity, the noise and intrigues, there did remain an air of class, which comes not only from money but from good taste, style, and fun. Even you have to admit that, Adam. If I remember correctly, you got caught up in the
enjoyment with your family and friends who were there for the evening.”

“You are quite right, Rashid. No one can make more of a splash with a party than you. There is something agreeably abandoned about the parties you give, and I have to admit that your birthday bash was one of your best, only surpassed by the one you threw for our wedding. But you will admit, old boy, the evening had its dramatic moments. The papparazzo who skipped through the security net and got picked up by one of your bodyguards and thrown overboard, camera and all.”

“I detest having my privacy infringed,” said Rashid defensively, and everyone laughed.

“And what about that unfortunate public scene,” Adam asked, “between the Greek lady, her husband, and his baby-faced mistress that turned into a screaming match?”

The memory raised smiles. One of the female guests sitting near Adam said to Mirella, “After the party crashers arrived the silly young men began throwing the silly young women in swimming pools all over the yacht. The orgy discovered during the security check, to make sure everyone was ashore who was supposed to be before we set sail for the cruise, was made even more dramatic because all the participants were male, and their clothes had been thrown out of the portholes.”

“What went a trifle beyond the norm,” said Adam, “was the famous, expensive French hooker who had to be rushed ashore to a hospital under very tight wraps after an Arab prince had bitten off her nipple.”

“True, and a little unfortunate,” said Rashid, “but accidents like that do happen, Adam. However you must admit there were other things to make the night memorable. Touching things, sentimental moments, that did not go unnoticed.”

“No, that’s quite true, Rashid, I remember the old Cretan dressed in his traditional clothes who climbed aboard from one of the launches, carrying a huge country basket whose contents were covered in white cloth stitched neatly all around the rim. Olives from his grove, a gift to you, Rashid, for your birthday from a man whose son’s life you had saved. The six little schoolgirls and their headmistress who arrived with the mayor of their village from the south of France, carrying baskets filled with rose and heather, geranium and carnation petals with which they showered the guests like
confetti. Their way of wishing Rashid a happy birthday and thanking him for the village school and the endowment he made. That was one of the nicer moments of the party, Mirella.” Rashid winced with embarrassment, at having been caught out being the good guy.

“I remember the fisherman from Kos who arrived with a whole basket of
oktapodi
, a man from Samos with a crate of his best wine, and the rumpus caused by a shepherd who had traveled for days to bring Rashid two live black sheep. All of them wanting to say thank you for this man’s past favors. A stream of old-timers kept arriving, not only from Greece, which is compliment enough to a Turk, because their hatred of Turkey has never diminished, and never will. But there were also the poor Turkish peasants who came from different parts of his country to pay homage to their fellow countryman who had owned their villages and had helped them all his adult life, bearing their simple gifts proudly. You have to remember, darling, to them Rashid is their number-one glamour son. To them he signifies international fame and fortune.”