ANNE WEALE - Desert Honeymoon

In her jet-lagged state she was strongly tempted to turn tail and go back inside the airport, especially as none of the placards with European names on them that were being brandished by some of the men behind the barricades had her name written on it.

Reluctantly making her way to the opening in the barrier through which other newly arrived foreigners were passing ahead of her, she braced herself to hang on to her luggage until whoever was meeting her materialised.

Then, with profound relief, she saw a familiar figure making his way towards her. She was so glad to see him, her face lit up with delight.

Towering over the crowd, Alex Strathallen was also noticeable for his air of complete relaxation in a situation fraught with the tension of too many porters and drivers competing for too few customers.

While everyone else was shoving and pushing, he moved through the crush with the ease of a tall and commanding figure to whom smaller, less assured people automatically gave way. But his expression, she noticed, was not the chilly hauteur to be seen in old sepia photographs of the British who had run India during the Raj. He was smiling as he moved through the press, exchanging friendly words with those who let him pass.

‘A bit of a madhouse, isn’t it?’ he said, when he reached her.

‘A bit,’ she agreed, with a smile. ‘I’m glad I have someone meeting me.’

‘Let’s get you out of this maelstrom. Our driver will take your case—’ he indicated an Indian who had come through the crush behind him ‘—and I’ll take your backpack.’

He slipped the straps from her shoulders rather in the manner of a grown-up divesting a small child of its coast Then, with it slung by one strap over his own broader, more powerful shoulder, he led the way through the multitude who now made no further attempts to impose themselves on her.

A few moments later she was in the back of a taxi and Alex was folding his long legs to fit the space beside her.

‘How was the flight? Did you get any sleep?’ he asked.

‘Not a lot...but otherwise it was great. I enjoyed it. Very nice food...two good movies.’

‘Who did you have sitting next to you?’

‘An elderly couple celebrating their golden wedding with a trip to see the Taj Mahal.’

Perhaps it was only her imagination, but it seemed to her that, for a moment, something strange happened... like a shutter coming down. He was sitting beside her, but his mind was somewhere else.

She wasn’t sure why, but his silence made her uneasy. After some moments, she asked, ‘How are we getting to Karangarh? By train?’

‘By air...but not till tomorrow. I have some business in Delhi and you need to break your journey. We’ll fly to Karangarh after breakfast. Tonight we’re staying at the Imperial, an oasis of calm right in the centre of Delhi.’

There were placid-looking pale grey cattle standing about, unattended, on the verges of the wide tree-lined road to the city. Near a roundabout where there seemed to be a hair-raisingly casual attitude to traffic lanes, Nicole noticed a slogan pasted on a hoarding. Be not anxious about what you have, but about what you are.

It reminded her of Rosemary’s bitter disapproval of this undertaking. Her stepmother had been careful not to express it again in her husband’s presence, but had found several opportunities to upbraid Nicole in private.

Am I being selfish? she wondered, for the umpteenth time. Saying goodbye to Dan had been agony. She could still feel his arms round her neck as they exchanged their last hug at the London airport where, with her father, he had seen her off.

If there had been tears in his eyes when they drew apart, she didn’t think she could have left him. But Dan, already keenly looking forward to his own flight to India in twelve weeks’ time, had been cheerful rather than dejected.

She had had to seem cheerful too. Only in the privacy of a cubicle in the washroom on the airside of the security and customs barriers had she cried, but only briefly. Then she had washed her face, braced herself and joined the rest of the passengers waiting for flights to places even more distant than where she was going.

Beside her, Strathallen said, ‘You’ll feel better when you’ve had a bath. Then, if I were you, I’d go to bed until lunchtime. If you didn’t nap on the plane, there’s no way you can stay awake until bedtime tonight’

‘Whatever you say. You’re the expert. How many times have you flown from Europe to India?’

Tve lost count I’ve been coming here a long time. For me the culture shock is at that end, not this.’

Nicole’s first impression of Delhi was of chaotic traffic and swarms of people. Then their taxi turned through a gateway where a short avenue of tall palms led to the porticoed entrance to a building.

The rear passenger door was opened for her by a massively built bearded and turbanned doorman. ‘Good morning, madam.’

‘Good morning. Thank you.’

When Strathallen came round the back of the taxi and took hold of her arm to escort her up the steps, it was the polite gesture of a man who at some stage of his life had been trained in traditional courtesies. But all the way up the entrance stairs and through the imposing lobby to the lift, she was conscious of the light touch of his fingers just above her elbow.

‘Shouldn’t I register?’ she asked, at the door of the lift.

He released his hold. ‘They can take your passport details later.”

‘But the room key...’

‘The door will be open.’

From the lift they entered a wide corridor decorated and thickly carpeted in a soft shade of apple-green. At the far end she saw her luggage being wheeled through a door by one of the hotel staff.

Moments later, to her surprise, she found the room he had entered was not her bedroom but an ante-room leading into a large and elegantly appointed sitting room.

‘This is Prince Kesri’s suite,’ Strathallen explained. ‘The hotel is full tonight. There’s a large wedding party staying here.’

The luggage porter reappeared through the door of an adjoining room. He smiled and bowed to Nicole. Strathallen gave him a tip and was handed the room key.

When the man had gone, he said, ‘Would you like some coffee or tea before you have your shower?’

‘What I’d really like is some water.’

‘It’s in here.’ Showing her that what she would have taken for an elegant sideboard was actually a luxury version of a mini-bar with glasses in one section and an ice-box in the other, he put some ice in a tall glass and opened the seal on a bottle of water with an effortless turn of his strong wrist. ‘If there’s anything else you need, call Room Service or Reception. The switchboard operator will give you a wake-up call if you want one. I’ll be back about one. We’ll have lunch in the garden. See you later.’

As he strode to the door, Nicole said, ‘Thank you for meeting me. I hope it wasn’t too inconvenient’

As he opened the door, he turned. ‘Not inconvenient at all. It was a pleasure.’ He gave her one of his rare and charming smiles.

She was woken, as she had requested, at half past twelve. For some minutes she lay taking in the unaccustomed opulence of her surroundings. This bedroom was many times larger than her room in her father’s house, with a lofty ceiling from which hung a large electric fan.

She had already unpacked fresh underwear and a change of clothes more suitable for lunch in a grand hotel than the combat trousers, shirt and zip-up fleece she had travelled in.

When she had dressed and put on a little light make-up, she went back to the sitting room to drink another glass of water. It was only then that she noticed there was another door opposite the entrance to the bedroom. Perhaps it was another bedroom for the use of the Prince’s wife if he had one. So far she knew very little about her employer, although his forebears were mentioned in more than one of the books on the reading list she had received from Strathallen.