Jon Grimwood: Effendi

“Fifty million dollars . . . That’s a lot to turn down.”

Behind his dark glasses, Raf blinked. “Money,” he said flatly, “isn’t everything.”

Or was that life?

“Maybe not,” said St. Cloud. “But if ever I need to buy you, I can see it’ll have to be with something other than cash.”

“I’m not for sale.”

“Everyone is for . . .” The Marquis looked at Raf, then shrugged in disgust. “People like you,” he said, “fuck up the bell curve.”

“I’m impressed.”

“I’m not.” Raf looked round the discreetly lit drawing room. The elegant invitations with their gilt edges, china clay surface and hand embossing had given the party’s duration as 2.30–6.30P .M. and it was now just after 10.30P .M. Raf had sobered up somewhat, mostly with the aid of proprietary alcohol inhibitors and, as yet, no one showed much sign of leaving.

“They don’t dare go,” Zara said.

Raf didn’t ask how she knew what he was thinking, just accepted it as something he’d have to get used to. Like the smell of her skin or the fact she looked better in old trousers and a silk cheongsam than any other woman in the room looked in that season’s Dior. And there was a surfeit of that season’s Dior.

There was one other thing about her. At no time had she tried to shoo Hani away, even though Hani had glued herself to Zara’s side from the moment she arrived to the point she dropped in her tracks, dead to the world. And it was Zara’s Chinese silk jacket that now made do as a blanket, covering the small girl who lay curled up on a sofa.

“Marry me,” said Raf.

It was Zara’s turn to blink.

“You want to get married because I gave Hani my coat?” Zara smiled. “I saw you check to see the kid was okay,” she added, by way of explanation. “Then I saw you notice the goose bumps on my arms. You’re not the only one who can play detective.”

“That’s finished,” said Raf. “I resigned ten minutes ago as Chief of Detectives. Ibrahim Osman gets the job. The Khedive will be appointing a new governor in the morning . . .”

“Koenig Pasha?”

“The Khedive seems keen to take the job himself,” said Raf. “Apparently there’s nothing in law that says the city needs a governor.”

“There’s nothing to say it needs a Khedive . . .” Zara’s voice was louder than it should be. With a rawness that he’d missed earlier.

Raf looked at her. “He proposed, didn’t he?” said Raf, suddenly understanding what had been right in front of his face.

“Oh yes.” Zara’s voice was bitter. “Despite the fact I’m apparently your lover. It seems he simply couldn’t help himself . . . One way and another, it’s been quite a night for proposals.”

“Then I take mine back,” Raf said hurriedly.

“No,” said Zara. “Don’t . . . If you do that, I won’t have the satisfaction of turning you down as well.”

“That’s your answer?”

She was about to nod when Hamzah and Madame Rahina jostled their way out of the crowd. Zara’s mother had changed her outfit, but still wore head-to-toe Dior and smelled of some number Chanel that was impossibly difficult to find. She also sported a scowl and an air of barely restrained fury at the way her husband had hooked his arm through her own.

“So what are you two up to?” Hamzah asked brightly.

“Oh”—Raf glanced at Zara—“I was just asking her to marry me.”

Hamzah’s grin died as his wife yanked herself free. Unfortunately, even on tiptoe, she remained too short to spot the Khedive over the heads of her other guests.

“By the window,” said Zara, “sulking.”

“So,” Hamzah asked, “it’s agreed? You’re going to marry Raf . . .”

Zara shook her head. “Not a chance. But Hani’s busy trying to persuade me to move into the al-Mansur madersa.”

Which was the first Raf had heard of it.

Born in Malta and christened in the upturned bell of a ship, Jon Courtenay Grimwood grew up in Britain, the Far East and Scandinavia. Currently working as a freelance journalist and living in London and Winchester, he writes for a number of newspapers and magazines, including the Guardian . He is married to the journalist Sam Baker, editor of UK Cosmopolitan .

Visit the website

www.j-cg.co.uk