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“You’re never really alone when you have a bodyguard who’s being paid to shadow you all the time,” he said. She looked over her shoulders as he opened the door of the car for her to get in. “Don’t worry, you won’t see him. Misha’s a pro.”
“Misha?”
“Russian. Big guy. Nice enough.” When he’s not trying to give life advice.
“So do people really try to assassinate you?”
“If they have it’s the first time I’ve ever heard of it,” he said, starting the engine. The Bugatti roared to life. So did his phone. He looked at it, saw that it was his father, and then turned it off.
“Dating a prince sound dangerous,” she said.
“The only thing dangerous about me is my dad’s disapproval,” he said. “And that’s only if you want to get used to living with a trust fund.”
The sun had set when they started out, and as he drove towards Jaffa the sky deepened to the smooth, even purple of the night. “It’s a lovely sunset,” she sighed. The moon, fat and heavy with the promises of the night, rose fat and heavy above the horizon. The land was reluctant to give off the heat of the day, but even as he handed the car to the valet the first chill had sunk into the breeze. She felt it, too, and she clung to his arm with that much more eagerness as they stepped inside.
The Grill was surprisingly modern inside, the chairs covered in smooth black leather while the tablecloths were crisp white linens. They’d changed the walls since the last time Bashir had been there, from a chevron wallpaper that gave him a headache if he looked at it for it too long, to a washed textured paint this time, in cool blues and purples. They’d also strung little Christmas lights in the ceiling, to give the illusion of being outside, under the stars.
The food was exquisite: oysters on the half-shell, soaking in a mix of their juices and a few drops of lemon juice and whiskey. Tiny globes of sour-apple sorbet, served with the thinnest wafer of chocolate and a smear of marshmallow foam. The wait staff were a bit baffled about the wine, though: officially there was no wine list, and if Bashir had been here with his sister, they’d have denied that there was wine in the house at all.
“I am the prince,” Bashir snapped, after some back-and-forth. “And I wish to have wine. If my soul is in mortal danger for it then that’s my business. Yours is to serve us wine.”
Her lips quirked into an odd little smile. “I don’t like to call attention to the fact that I’m the prince,” Bashir grumbled. “But you’d think that a place like this, which is specifically for wealthy people with foreign tastes, wouldn’t give paying customers so much grief.”
“I was surprised to see that there was a liquor cabinet in the palace,” she said.
“We’re not all as holy as some people think,” Bashir said, as the waiter returned with a dusty, well-aged bottle. “That’s better,” he said.
“It will add another fifty dinars to your bill,” the waiter cautioned, but Bashir waved his concerns aside. Melinda smirked happily.
“I’ll bet you’ve never seen a guy waste that much money on a bottle of wine,” he said, as they resumed their meal.
“Oh, I have,” she said. “I’m just amused that it happens.”
“Amused?”
“That men still seem to think it’s impressive.”
“It is impressive,” he protested. “Do you know how many people the owner likely had to bribe to get this bottle?”
She laughed again. The evening was going well. What a shame I have to go back to London tomorrow, he thought, as he caressed her hand across the table. She watched him, a secretive smile playing about her lips. Long-distance relationships can work, he thought. Yes, they can. We can make it work if we really wanted to.
He could only hope that the quiet, sultry looks she was giving him meant that she felt the same way.
***
They drove out to the coast after dinner. He felt rather sheepish, not having had anything planned beyond the dinner, but he didn’t anticipate that she’d actually stay interested in him through the main course, never mind dessert. But they had a good time—they laughed, and talked about their favorite movies. Her father, like his, was worried about her marriage prospects. Her mother was still alive, but he had the impression that they were no longer close.
There was always an odd glow on the horizon over the water, a thin scrim of light that seemed to suggest that there was something bigger out there, more glamorous, better. They walked side by side, leaning into each other for warmth as much as for the company, and the reassurance that the other was still there. “I leave for London tomorrow,” he said, as they walked.
“Do you have to?” she asked.
“I need to defend my thesis soon,” he said. “And I have a committee meeting next week.”
“You could stay.”
“You could come with me.”
But somehow, they both knew that he would not stay, and she would not leave. Living their lives for someone else was something they’d both tried, and they both discovered that it could never work. They weren’t ready for the kinds of sacrifices that people made in the name of love, and yet he found himself wondering—maybe, just maybe, he could be ready for this. He’d refused his father’s pleas to take a wife because he’d have been living based on what his father had said was right—but now, he was doing what he felt was right.
