Liz Fielding: Her Desert Dream

She would have spoken, but the Emir stepped forward. ‘I have listened to your appeal, Lydia Young.’

That she was dismissed, neither of them were in any doubt, but as he turned to leave with her, caring only that she should believe him, the Emir said, ‘I have not heard from you, Kalil al-Zaki.’

She touched his hand, said, ‘Stay.’

‘No…’

‘For heaven’s sake, Kal. This is what you wanted. Your chance. Don’t blow it now.’

Then she turned and walked away.

Lydia had been taken to the Princess’s quarters. She’d been fed and given a change of clothes and then, having asked to be allowed to go straight home, the British Consul had been summoned to provide her with temporary papers since her passport was with her belongings and only Kal knew were they were.

She arrived home to a dozen messages from newspapers wanting her story and one from a famous publicist who warned her to sign nothing until she’d talked to him. And reporters knee-deep on the footpath outside her mother’s flat.

Her mother didn’t say a word. Just hugged her.

Numb until then, she finally broke down and cried.

Rose called to make sure she was really all right. To apologise for the publicity. To thank her.

‘You’ve changed my life, Lydia. Words cannot express my gratitude. You should sell your story, make a mint.’

‘There is no story, Rose.’ Then, ‘Is there any chance of getting my car back soon? I’m due back at work the day after tomorrow.’

‘That’s a bit of a bad news, good news story, I’m afraid. The bad news is that I had a little bit of an accident,’ she confessed.

‘Oh.’ The car had been her pride and joy. It had taken her forever to save up for it…‘Is it in the garage?’

‘Er…a little bit more of an accident than that,’ she admitted. ‘It’s nothing but a cube of metal in a scrapyard, but the good news is that George has arranged a replacement for you. A rather jolly red Beetle. I’ll make sure it’s delivered tomorrow.’

‘Thank you. And Rose. Congratulations. I hope you will be really happy.’

‘I’ll send you and your mother an invitation to the wedding.’

There was nothing from Kal and, since she didn’t want to hear from the reporters, the newspapers or the publicist, she unplugged the phone and turned off her mobile.

She sent an email to the lookalike agency, informing them that she would no longer be available and asking them to take her off their books.

Deleted dozens from newsmen offering interviews, and weirdos who just wanted to be weird.

She didn’t open the door to the manager of the local garage who came to deliver a brand-new red VW Beetle, which she knew cost about three times what she’d paid for her car, until he put a note through the door explaining who he was.

There was no missing the black and gold livery of the Kalzak Air Services courier who pulled up outside and delivered her luggage. All those lovely clothes, the cosmetics, the scent, the four bolts of silk.

She gave her mother and Jennie their gifts.

And then, in the privacy of her room, she cried again all over the cream silk.

The Emir had given Kal a hard time. Made him wait while he consulted his brothers, his sons, his nephews. Hanif had supported him and so, unexpectedly, had Zahir and all the time he had been berating himself for letting Lydia walk away. Fly away.

She had thought he was in trouble and had come to help. Had begged for him.

Only her ‘stay’ had kept him here while members of a family he did not know video-conferenced from all over the world, deciding the fate of his grandfather, eventually deciding that compassion required that he should be allowed to return to Umm al Sama. And that, after his death, his family could use the name Khatib.

Kal told the Emir that he would bring his grandfather home but under those terms they could keep their name. He didn’t want it. Lydia deserved better from him than acceptance of such a mealy-mouthed offer.

And the Emir smiled. ‘I remember him. You are just like him.’

‘You honour me, Excellency.’

At which point His Excellency had thrown up his hands and said, ‘Let the old man have his name and his title.’

‘Will you permit Dena to return to London with me to fetch him, travel back with him and his nurses?’

‘If she is agreeable.’ Then, with heavy irony, ‘Is there anything else you want, Kalil bin Zaki al-Khatib? One of my granddaughters as a bride, perhaps, now that you are a sheikh?’

‘I am very conscious of the honour you bestow, Excellency,’ he replied, ‘but, like my grandfather, I have chosen my own bride. You have had the honour of meeting her.’

And this time the Emir laughed appreciatively.

‘She is all fire, that one. You will have your hands full.’ He did not appear to believe that this was a bad thing.

Since there was no other way to get rid of them, Lydia finally faced the newsmen, standing on the pavement outside her home giving an impromptu press conference, answering their questions.

‘Who was the horseman?’

‘A bodyguard rescuing me from intrusive photographers.’

Laughter.

‘Lady Rose has cut her hair. Will you do that?’

‘No.’

‘When did you meet?’

‘Will you be seeing her?’

‘Have you met her fiancé?’

No. No. No.

She kept a smile pinned to her face, didn’t lose her temper, even at the most intrusive questions, and eventually they ran out of things to ask.

And since she wasn’t Lady Rose, it didn’t take long for the madness to die down. One moment the pavement in front of their flat had been mobbed, the next there was no one.

The agency was still pleading with her to reconsider her decision. They’d been inundated with requests for appearances since Rose had announced her engagement. But the publicist, who’d been so keen to negotiate a contract for her to ‘write’ the story of her career as Rose’s lookalike-with the titillating promise to reveal who had really swept her away on that black stallion and what had happened afterwards-finally accepted that she meant it when she said ‘no’.

With the excitement of Rose’s engagement to occupy the gossip pages, she quickly became old news.

The story about the exiled Sheikh who had been pardoned by the Emir and allowed to return home to die probably wouldn’t have made the news at all, except that Ramal Hamrah was where that very odd incident had taken place, when everyone thought Lady Rose had been kidnapped.

She had heard nothing from Kalil.

No doubt he had his hands full taking care of his grandfather, transferring him to Umm al Sama. Getting to know a whole new family.

She winced as White Christmas began to play for the fiftieth time that week on the seasonal tape. Turned to smile at yet another harassed mother doing her Christmas shop. Reached for yet another turkey.

Kal quietly joined the checkout queue.

All his duties done, he had come straight from the airport to find Lydia. Had gone to her home. He’d met her mother and, with her blessing, he had come to claim his love publicly, in her real world. Wanted her to know that there was no misunderstanding between them. That he knew who she was. That it was not some icon he had fallen in love with but Lydia Young.

Not the aristocrat in the designer suit, but the ordinary girl on the supermarket checkout wearing an overall and a ridiculous hat.

She looked exhausted. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes, her cheeks were hollow and had lost their glow, but the smile never faltered.

She greeted regular customers as friends. Asked what they were doing for the holiday and, as she listened with every appearance of interest, they lost a little of their tension as she swiftly dealt with their purchases. He watched her pack the shopping for one old lady whose hands were crippled with arthritis, helped her count out the money.