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‘You’re saying that your mother came between them.’
‘Yes, I think he would have married Sarah if my mother hadn’t appeared and that when he finally did marry her, she must have felt like second best, however untrue that was. Being forced to bring up her rival’s daughter probably didn’t help. And I’m not sure I’ve ever been fair to her. She was never unkind to me, never spiteful. She just never showed me affection the way she did with her own child.’
‘You’re saying she did her best but couldn’t or wouldn’t fake an affection she didn’t feel for you. Think about something more uplifting.’
‘You never ever mention your mother,’ she remarked. ‘Why is that?’
‘I just don’t like to talk about her. It feels...disloyal.’ Raif turned his head away from her, his profile taut.
An awkward little silence stretched and grated on Claire’s nerves, but she was hurt by his unwillingness to confide in her and it made her wonder what it was he was hiding.
‘How am I going to buy maternity wear when the palace is in mourning? Shopping will be sure to be seen as frivolous at such a time.’ Claire sighed, keen to change the subject to one that would hopefully remove the tension from his lean, strong face. ‘And can I buy salt and vinegar crisps anywhere? If my little kitchen was up and running, I could make my own salty snacks.’
‘The salespeople will come to you. I will organise it,’ Raif told her soothingly. ‘And Shahbaz will find you crisps.’
‘I was making a mountain out of a molehill,’ Claire gathered, and she grinned. ‘I do that sometimes.’
Two and a half months later, Claire beamed at the brilliance of Raif’s smile as he posed on the massive yellow excavator for the cameras aimed at him.
Ground was finally being broken at Rabalissa, the very first step in the creation of the new port to be built on the Arabian Sea. It was a newsworthy event, and the watching crowd was filled with politicians, tribal leaders and the media. Claire was dressed for public viewing but also for practicality and cool in loose trousers and a flowing white tunic top that only hinted at the burgeoning swell of her pregnancy. Nothing dressier would have made sense when she had to trek across the equivalent of a building site.
Once the official period of mourning was over at the palace, their lives had steadily changed. Raif was now out and about most days, meeting and greeting people. Quristan was only just getting used to the idea of a young king on the throne. His father had ruled for a very long time and had only ever been seen in public on holy days and at special ceremonies. Raif was much more low-key and accessible, which went down well with the younger generation. Here in Rabalissa, the wild desolate region his mother had once ruled before her marriage to the late King, Raif was in his element overseeing the first steps in the vast development project he had instigated.
It was hot...really,reallyhot...and her tunic was sticking to her damp skin. For that reason, it was a relief when Raif returned to her side and guided her back across the rough ground into the delicious cool of the large air-conditioned temporary building where a reception was being held for the dignitaries. Raif was quickly drawn from her side to expound on the big model town set on a table in the centre of the room. Mohsin brought her ice-cold water and stuck by her side as interpreter as she made polite conversation with the people who drifted her way. Nahla was unable to travel with her because of her young children.
Raif had tried to dissuade Claire from accompanying him, but she had checked with the palace doctor that travel was fine and she had stayed by Raif’s side, reluctant to let him leave her for more than forty-eight hours. It was true that the journey had been exhausting, and that she was tired and hot, but she enjoyed the rhythm of her life with Raif and knew she was likely to see a lot less of him if she used her pregnancy as an excuse and bowed out of official duties. In addition, people were as curious about her as they were about her husband, and she found it easier to be seen out and about rather than feel as if she was hiding from that interest.
At the palace, now that all the building work on their section of the palace was complete, their daily schedule had fallen into a regular pattern. First thing in the morning they shared the gym, although she was considerably less active than Raif was on the equipment. She made their lunch every day in her pristine new kitchen and, wherever Raif was and whatever he was doing, he tried to join her for that meal. Dinner, breakfast and snacks were provided by the palace chef and when she was bushed, she was grateful for the meals that arrived without any personal effort on her part. Raif agreed to only occasional evening events.
Lottie and her husband, Rob, and three children had come to stay for the weekend the month before and Claire had thoroughly enjoyed their visit, particularly when Raif had taken them all out on a sightseeing visit. Her best friend had raved about Raif and the way he treated Claire.
‘He’s crazy about you,’ Lottie had insisted. ‘He would move a mountain with his bare hands if he thought it would please you!’
And Claire had smiled politely and said nothing. No matter what Raif felt deep down inside, he would be very kind and considerate because that was the sort of man he was. He hid his innermost feelings. She might wonder how often he thought about the unavailable woman he had long loved in silence, but it was probably for the best that she had no idea. What she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her, she consoled herself frequently.
She had emailed her stepmother, Sarah, and invited her and her brother, Tom, out for a visit. Sarah, however, had explained that she was currently caring for her elderly mother and couldn’t leave her, while Tom had a vacation job that he couldn’t abandon. Her half-brother had, however, promised to fly out for a weekend during termtime. Claire had promised to call the next time she was in London, but she didn’t know when that would be because the more pregnant she became, the less keen she was on travelling, particularly if it meant being without Raif.
Raif surveyed his wife from a distance and a dozen bright memories assailed him. Claire with headphones, bopping in time to music in her kitchen while she whipped up some flavoursome concoction for him to eat. Claire, remaining admirably serious when a pompous speaker at a museum event tripped over his own feet. Claire, convulsed with laughter, when he tickled her until the laughter had led into the most incredible session in their bedroom. Claire smiling, when someone enquired after Circe, the palace cat, who now rejoiced in a starring role in a newspaper cartoon. Claire chuckling at one of Mohsin’s jokes, lugubrious, serious Mohsin, who had never once cracked a joke with Raif. The one talent that Claire had in spades was charm, an ability to relax people and make them feel welcome. She was so unspoilt, he sometimes marvelled that he had found a woman so perfect for him.
‘Time for us to depart,’ Raif whispered in her ear as he banded an arm round Claire’s narrow spine. ‘You’re pale and you look very tired.’
‘I am tired. I’m going for a nap as soon as we arrive at your mother’s old home.’
‘You’ll like it. It’s not fancy but it’s comfortable. I lived there for weeks when I was working on this project. It made the perfect base.’
It was an old stone castle on a promontory high above the shoreline, overlooking the sea and a long stretch of white sand. ‘Does it belong to you?’ she asked as the SUV came to a halt outside the entrance.
‘Technically, yes. I inherited it from my mother and she from her father, but when Rabalissa was united with Quristan, everything here supposedly went to the throne of Quristan. My father, however, didn’t use it and my mother never once visited it after their marriage. Even when she was a child, she hated the location because it was so inaccessible. That will change, of course, with the motorway that is finally being built.’
They entered the castle and moved into a hall that was filled with the cosy clutter of yesteryear, fishing rods, baskets and parasols collected in a stand, worn photos in shell frames still adorning the walls. ‘Do you know who all these people are?’
‘Some, but only Umar would know them all. This was his childhood home too,’ he reminded her.
‘Show me your mother,’ she urged.
He pointed to a dark-eyed little girl in a very fussy dress.
‘She was very pretty.’
