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The Plight of My Plighted Troth
Some things that happen to you make you feel really strange. You know the moments I mean - those moments where the world is standing on its head and everything suddenly seems unreal. Like, for instance, the time I discovered that my innocent little sister Ella had for years been conducting an illicit affair behind her family’s back. Or the time a gentleman I had been dancing with at a ball complimented me on what good a dancer I was, after I had trampled on his feet the whole evening. Or the time my aunt actually, once in her life, said something nice to me in front of witnesses.
But none of these strange and mysterious occurrences, inexplicable and awe-inspiring though no doubt they were, could in any way compete with what was happening right now. None of these events had made me feel half as strange as I felt walking down the corridor of the Hotel Luxor in a dark red silk dress, a sparkling wedding ring on my finger and a darkly handsome Rikkard Ambrose on my arm.
Oh dear, merciful God… What is happening to me?
But if I had thought it would be strange to just be walking beside Mr Ambrose, I hadn’t reckoned with the real trouble: having other people see me walk beside him. A lot of people.
After a few more yards, the corridor widened into a hallway. Passing a few potted plants obscuring our view, we stepped onto the landing of a broad, sweeping staircase that led down into a gigantic room, canopied by an ornate glass roof and countless palms, high ferns and papyrus plants, growing in gleaming copper bowls. In the gaps of the roof of green above, I could just make out a few stars twinkling in the slowly falling night outside.
It was when I looked down from the stars that I noticed the people for the first time.
Oh my God… Please, let me die! Let me die now!
People. Hundreds of them. And not just any kinds of people - high society, as high as you could get! Ladies in exquisite dresses, bedecked with jewellery, gentlemen in sleek black tailcoats, with golden watches and monocles tucked into their eyes. They were all sitting around tables, chatting, laughing, and… feasting. There really was no other word for it. The meals looked delicious. The platters, cutlery and glasses twinkled in the candlelight, shining with jewels and precious metals. If there had been a few camels and djinns, it would have looked like a scene from the Arabian Nights!
‘How much did a reservation in this place cost, exactly?’ I asked out of the corner of my mouth, my eyes wide.
‘Too much,’ came the dark reply from Mr Ambrose’s direction. ‘Don’t remind me. Keep walking. And smile.’
I smiled as sweetly as a fairy godmother with a sugar addiction.
‘Yes, Dick, my dear. Of course, Dick, my dear.’
A noise came from the back of his throat. It was somewhere between a volcano rumbling and a breaking iceberg. ‘When this is all over, we’re going to have a long talk, you and I!’
‘I look forward to it, Dick, my dear.’
‘Walk! And smile!’
We reached the top of the staircase. Talk down in the dining room sank to a murmur, and faces turned towards us. Only a few at first - but the moment the first female caught an eyeful of Mr Ambrose, her jaw dropped onto her plate. Without bothering to fish it out of her soup, she tapped her friend on the shoulder, and as she turned, so did the lady beside her. The ripple spread through the great hall. By the time we were halfway down the stairs, most of the women in the room were staring at us, and a goodly portion of the gentlemen.
The wedding ring on my finger was like a burning brand. I held my breath, waiting for someone to scream ‘Imposter!’ - but nothing happened. Well, nothing except most of the women in the room undressing Mr Ambrose with one look and wishing me dead with the next.
I leaned towards Mr Ambrose. ‘Congratulations. So far we seem to be very inconspicuous. I think the entire room is staring at us, with the possible exception of that old lady in the corner, who is probably deaf and half-blind.’
‘Lillian, my love…’ The words were ice shards, his eyes threatening maelstroms of dark colour. ‘Hold your tongue and smile, will you?’
Why the heck did that make me want to grab him by the ears again and kiss him senseless?
‘Why, certainly, Dick. Oh, by the way, my friends call me “Lilly”. You may, too. We are married, after all.’
He cocked his head, and regarded me like a lion ready to swallow me whole. ‘Thank you - Lillian.’
A waiter appeared in front of us, and bowed deeply enough for the Emperor of China.
‘Welcome to the dining room, Mr and Mrs Thomson.’
Who the bloody hell was he tal-? Oh, right! I was Mrs Thomson! Straightening, I clutched Mr Ambrose more tightly and lifted my chin in the air, trying to look as married as possible.
‘Do you wish a particular table, Sir, Madam?’
Mr Ambrose gave a curt nod. ‘On the terrace, if there’s one free.’
‘Certainly, Sir. Please follow me, Sir, Madam.’
Unbending himself, the waiter started across the dining room, weaving through the tables with ease. We followed, until we came to a large set of ornate double doors, opening on a luxurious terrace from which one could still see the sun, sinking in the distance over the ocean. The play of fiery colours upon the waves was a sight to see.
