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Genuinely curious, she asked, ‘What’s your connection to Al-Omar?’
Arkim’s jaw tightened. ‘This is where my mother is from—hence my name. The land belonged to a distant ancestor. She grew up in B’harani; her father was an advisor to the old Sultan, before Sadiq took over.’
‘And do you see any of your family here?’
Before he’d even answered Sylvie might have guessed the truth from the way his face became stern again.
‘They disowned my mother when she brought shame on the family name—in their eyes. They’ve never expressed any interest in meeting me.’
Sylvie felt a surge of emotion and said quietly, ‘I’m sorry that she had to go through that. She must have felt lonely.’
How bigoted and cruel of them, to just leave her. But she didn’t think Arkim would appreciate any further discussion on the subject, or hearing her saying she felt sorry for him.
She looked out of the window and took the opportunity to move things on to a less contentious footing. ‘It is beautiful here...so different to anything I’ve ever seen before.’
There was a mocking tone to his voice. ‘You don’t miss the shops? Clubs? Busy city life?’
She immediately felt defensive. ‘I love living in Paris, yes. But I actually hate shopping. And I work late almost every night, so on the nights I do have off the last thing I want to do is go out to a club.’
Arkim seemed to consider this for a moment. Then he settled back into his seat and angled his body towards her, one hand relaxed on the wheel and the other on his thigh.
‘So tell me something else about yourself, then... How did you end up in Paris at seventeen?’
Sylvie cursed herself. She’d asked for it, hadn’t she? By changing the subject. She looked at him and there was something different about him—something almost conciliatory. As if he was making an effort.
Because he wants you in his bed.
She ignored the mocking voice. ‘I left home at seventeen because I was never the most academic student and I wanted to dance.’
She deliberately avoided going into any more detail.
‘So why not dance in the UK? Why did you have to go to Paris? Surely your aspirations were a little higher?’
Arkim sounded genuinely mystified instead of condemning, and Sylvie felt a rush of emotion when she remembered those tumultuous days. Her hands clenched into fists in her lap without her realising what they were doing.
Suddenly one of his hands covered hers. He was frowning at her. ‘What is it?’
Shocked at the gesture, she looked at him. The warmth of his hand made her speak without really thinking. ‘I was just remembering... It was not...an easy time.’
Arkim took his hand away to put it on the wheel again, in order to navigate an uneven part of the road. When they were through it, he said, ‘Go on.’
Sylvie faced forward, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She’d never spoken of this with anyone—not really. And to find that she was about to speak of it now, to this man, was a little mind-boggling.
Yet even his judgement could never amount to the self-recrimination she felt for behaving so reactively. Even though she couldn’t really regret it. She’d learnt so much about herself in the process.
‘As is pretty obvious, my stepmother and I don’t get on. We never have since she married my father. And my father... Our relationship is strained. I rebelled quite a bit—against both of them. And Catherine, my stepmother, was making life...difficult for me.’
‘How?’ Arkim’s voice was sharp.
‘She wanted me to be sent to a finishing school in Switzerland—a way to get rid of me. So I left. I went to Paris to find some old contacts of my mother’s. I’d always wanted to dance, and I’d taken lessons as a child... But after my mother died my father lost interest. And when Catherine came along she insisted that dance classes weren’t appropriate. She had issues with keeping my mother’s memory alive.’
That was putting it mildly. Her father had had issues too, and his had had more far-reaching consequences for Sylvie. Her stepmother was just a jealous, insecure woman. She’d never known Sylvie well enough for her rejection to really hurt. But her father had known her.
‘So you took off to Paris on your own and started working at the revue?’
Sylvie nodded and settled back into her seat, the luxurious confines of the vehicle making it seductively easy to relax a little more. ‘I had about one hundred pounds in my pocket when I met up with Pierre and found a home at the revue. I had to pay my way, of course. He let me take dance classes, but only if I cleaned in my spare time.’
‘You took no money from your father?’
