AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“And I shall have to answer for that,” the king said. “I give you my word, though—”
“Your words mean little and still less to me,” Bashir said, taking his bag and stalking off. Misha followed. He still remembered where his rooms were—or at least, where they would be, if she hadn’t changed everything around by now. That was usually what new wives did, at least according to all of the old story books. And at this point, given how his father had tricked and misled him, there was probably more truth in the stories than there as in the entire palace.
***
He dismissed Misha after they put their bags in his rooms—like his other siblings, he had his own small suite of rooms, and he asked one of the servants to make up a bed in his study for the bodyguard. “You can have the rest of our time in Bahrain off,” he said. He wanted to be alone, the better to contemplate his next moves before and after the wedding. There was no way he would have this stain on his name, and if it meant the end of a cushy trust-fund life, then so be it.
For perhaps the first time in his entire life the Russian frowned, confused. “Are you sure, sir?” he asked.
“Yes—I know, you signed a contract, but trust me, if anything gets past the miles of scorching desert, through the armed guards, and then through this rat hole of hallways and tunnels, I’ll be the first to let you know. So go—relax by our pool. Have a margarita. I know it’s a Muslim house, but someone here will know how to mix one.”
After his bodyguard left, Bashir reminded himself that he had to look up how Misha was being paid—whether the money was coming out of his trust money or if his father had included the bodyguard’s salary in his list of expenditures. His trust fund had paid for his apartment in London and gave him a budget of about 2000 dinar a month for spending as he liked, but if he was going to make a clean break with his father, then he would have to pay Misha himself. He’d never been a target of an assassination attempt, but he’d been roughed up by football hooligans in the Tube simply for being a well-dressed man. He didn’t want to think what would have happened if they’d known he was a prince.
There was, too, the risk that his father would decide to cut off his trust fund altogether, which wasn’t an immediate problem, but it would complicate matters immensely—he’d need to find a job. He was reasonably certain someone with a background like his—fluent in Arabic, French, and English, with a degree in international law—would be able to find something, but that would mean changing his visa, which would in turn mean more fine print and legalese that he just didn’t want to deal with. But he could deal with it—he could break away from his father and his trust fund and even Misha if it came to that.
But, he had to admit, life would be a lot easier if it didn’t.
There was a knock at his door. He looked up and saw his youngest sister standing at the door. “Bashir,” she said, grinning.
“Miriam,” he said.
They hugged. “You never come back anymore,” she said, pouting. She was the prettiest of his sisters—so he’d always maintained—but she always said he had a fool’s idea of beauty. He didn’t know what she meant—she had large, bright eyes, and her lips had a natural deep redness to them, and she had a natural elegance in her choice of abayas.
“I know, I’m a bad brother,” he said now.
“It’s not fair—why do you get to live in London?” she asked, sitting on his bed.
“I’m not married,” he said, grinning. “How is Omar and my nieces?”
“Omar is Omar,” she sighed, rolling her eyes at the mention of her husband. He was a good match for her—his family (distant relatives of the King of Jordan) was very modern and they were carving out the equivalent of Silicon Valley in the Sinai. She wasn’t unhappy—her children certainly seemed to to drive them both happily crazy—but Bashir could tell that she wasn’t content.
“I can’t believe he’s marrying her,” she exploded, suddenly, her voice brittle with an anger that she hadn’t dared speak of.
“Is there anybody else at the wedding?” he asked. “Any of us, I mean,” he added, before she could remind him that it wouldn’t be a wedding in Bahrain with less than 500 people.
She shook her head. “Malakar and Salamin refused to come. Lena and her husband are moving to Morocco next month and they’re in Manama for the next few days to get their visas and stuff taken care of. So it’s just you and me, little brother.”
“We have more fun together anyway,” Bashir said, winking.
She grinned. “Remember that one time,” she began, “with the jalebis—”
“—and how sick Salamin got—”
“And then Papa had to yell at us and Salamin threw up all over Papa’s brand new Italian shoes—”
They cackled together for a while, remembering the sorts of mischief the five of them had gotten up to. But it was sad, too, because it seemed that for every memory they had of a servant running after them, yelling, they also had a memory of saying good-bye to their brothers and sisters, as one by one they got married and went off to fulfill their roles as ambassadors, board members of corporations, doctors, and university professors, in Miriam’s case.
“Come on down for dinner,” Miriam said, getting up.
“We could stay here for dinner,” he offered, gesturing to the little balcony outside his French windows. “I’m sure Muharra—” the oldest servant “—still has a folding table and chairs that I can take, and we can have the kitchen send our portions here—”
“Bashir,” she said, sadly. “No.”
“You cannnot seriously want to eat dinner with that bitch,” Bashir said in disbelief.
“Father loves her,” she said. “He’ll be hurt if we don’t come.”
“He should have thought of that before he brought her into our house.”
