Deception on His Mind (7 page)

Sahlah could tell—as Yumn intended—that she felt no misery at her fate. Rather, she revelled in her ability to reproduce and how she could use that ability: to get what she wanted, to do what she desired, to manipulate, cajole, wheedle, and demand. How had her parents come to choose such a wife for their only son? Sahlah wondered. While it was true that Yumn's father had money and her generous dowry had paid for many improvements in the Malik family's business, there had to have been other suitable women available when the elder Maliks had decided it was time to seek a bride for Muhannad. And how could Muhannad bear to touch the woman? Her flesh was like dough and her scent was acrid.

“Tell me, Sahlah,” Yumn murmured, closing her eyes in contentment as Sahlah's fingers kneaded her muscles,
“are
you pleased? It's quite all right to tell me the truth. I won't speak a word to Muhannad about it.”

“Am I pleased about what?” Sahlah reached for more oil, poured it into the bowl of her palm.

“To have escaped doing your duty. Providing sons for a husband and grandchildren for your parents.”

“I've not thought about providing my parents with grandchildren,” Sahlah said. “You're doing that well enough.”

Yumn chuckled. “I can't believe I've gone all these months since Bishr's birth without another on the way. Muhannad only touches me and I usually come up pregnant the next morning. And what sons your brother and I have together. What a man among men Muhannad is.”

Yumn flipped onto her back. She cupped and lifted her heavy breasts. Her nipples were the size of saucers, as dark as the copperas collected from the Nez.

“Just look at what child bearing does to a woman's body,
bahin.
How lucky you are to be slim and untouched, to have escaped this.” She gestured listlessly. “Look at you. No varicose veins, no stretch marks anywhere, no swellings or pains. So virginal, Sahlah. You look so lovely that it makes me wonder if you really wanted to marry at all. I dare say you didn't. You wanted nothing to do with Haytham Querashi. Isn't that right?”

Sahlah forced herself to meet her sister-in-law's challenging stare. Her heartbeat felt as if it was sending blood to her face. “Do you want me to continue with the oil?” she asked. “Or have you had enough?”

Ever so slowly, Yumn smiled. “Enough?” she asked. “Oh no,
bahin.
I've not had enough.”

F
ROM THE LIBRARY
window, Agatha Shaw watched her grandson getting out of his BMW. She looked at her watch. He was half an hour late. She didn't like that. Businessmen were supposed to be punctual, and if Theo wanted to be taken seriously in Balford-le-Nez as the scion of Agatha and Lewis Shaw—and consequently a person to be reckoned with—then he was going to have to learn the importance of wearing a wrist watch instead of that ridiculous slave-thing he favoured. What a ghastly gewgaw. When she was his age, if a twenty-six-year-old man had worn a bracelet, he'd have found himself at the unfortunate end of a lawsuit in which the word
sodomite
was bandied about with rather more frequency than was particularly appealing.

Agatha stepped to the side of the window's embrasure and allowed the curtains to shield her from view. She studied Theo's approach. There were days when everything about the young man set her teeth on edge, and this was one of them. He was too like his mother. The same blond hair, the same fair skin that freckled in summer, the same athletic build. She, thank God, had gone to whatever reward the Almighty reserved for Scandinavian sluts who lose control of cars and kill themselves and their husbands in the process. But Theo's presence in his grandmother's life served always to remind her that she'd lost her youngest and most beloved child twice: first to a marriage that resulted in his disinheritance, and second to a car crash that left her—Agatha—in charge of two unruly boys under the age of ten.

As Theo approached the house, Agatha considered all the aspects of him that prompted her disapproval. His clothes were utterly wrong for his position. He favoured loosely tailored linens: jackets with shoulder pads, shirts with no collars, trousers with pleats. And all of them were always done in pastel colours or fawn or buff. He wore sandals rather than shoes. Whether he put on socks had always been a matter of chance. If all this wasn't enough to prevent potential investors from taking him seriously, since the night of her death he'd worn his execrable mother's chain and gold cross, one of those ghastly, macabre Catholic things with a tiny crucified body stretched out on it. Just the thing to ask an entrepreneur to gaze upon while attempting to convince him to put his money into the restoration, renovation, and renaissance of Balford-le-Nez.

But there was no telling Theo how to dress, how to carry himself, or how to speak when presenting the Shaw plans for the town's redevelopment. “People either believe in the project or they don't, Gran” would be the way he received her suggestions.

The fact that she had to make suggestions in the first place also set her teeth on edge. This was
her
project. This was
her
dream. She'd got herself onto the Balford town council for four successive terms on the strength of her dreams for the future, and it was maddening that now—because of a single blood vessel's audacious rupturing within her brain—she had to step back and regain her strength, allowing her soft-spoken, addle-brained grandson to do her talking for her. The very thought was enough to send her into another seizure, so she tried not to think of it.

She heard the front door open. Theo's sandals slapped against the parquet floor, then were muffled as he reached the first of the Persian carpets. He exchanged a few words with someone in the entry—Mary Ellis, the daily girl, no doubt, whose borderline incompetence made Agatha wish she'd been born at a time when the hired help was flogged as a matter of course. Theo said, “The library?” and came in her direction.

Agatha saw to it that she was upright when her grandson joined her. The tea things were laid out on the table, and she'd left them there with the sandwiches curling up at the edges and a dull-sheened skin forming on the surface of the tea. They would serve as an illustration of the fact that Theo was late again. Agatha grasped the handle of her walking stick with both hands and placed it in front of her so that its three prongs could bear the bulk of her weight. This effort to seem the mistress of her physical functions caused her arms to tremble, and she was grateful that she'd donned a cardigan despite the day's heat. At least the trembling was camouflaged by the thin folds of wool.

Theo paused in the doorway. His face was shiny with perspiration and his linen shirt clung to his torso, emphasising his wiry frame. He didn't speak. Instead, he walked to the tea tray and the three-tiered sandwich stand next to it. He scooped up three egg salad sandwiches, and he ate them in rapid succession without apparent regard for their lack of freshness. He didn't even seem to notice that the tea into which he dropped a lump of sugar hadn't been hot for the last twenty minutes.

“If the summer stays like this, we're in for a good run with the pier and arcade,” Theo said. But his words sounded cautious, as if there was something besides the pier on his mind. Agatha's antennae went up. But she said nothing as he continued. “It's too bad we can't have the restaurant done before August, because we'd be in the black before we knew it. I spoke to Gerry DeVitt about the time line for completion, but he doesn't think there's much hope of hurrying things up a bit. You know Gerry. If it's to be done, it's to be done properly. No cutting corners.” Theo reached for another sandwich, cucumber this time. “And, of course, no cutting costs.”

“Is that why you're late?” Agatha needed to sit—she could feel her legs beginning to tremble along with her arms—but she refused to allow her body to overrule what her mind had dictated for it.

Theo shook his head. He carried his cup of cold tea over to her and gave her a dry kiss on the cheek. “Hullo,” he said. “I'm sorry for ignoring the proprieties. I had no lunch. Aren't you hot in that cardigan, Gran? Do you want a cup of tea?”

“Stop fussing with me. I don't have either foot in the grave no matter how much you might wish it.”

“Don't be stupid, Gran. Here. Sit down. Your cheeks're getting damp and you're shaking. Can't you feel it? Come on. Sit.”

She pulled her arm away from him, saying, “Stop treating me like an imbecile. I'll sit when I'm ready. Why're you acting so strange? What happened at the council meeting?” It was where she herself should have been and would have been had not her stroke supervened ten months before. Heat or no heat, she would have been there, bending that band of myopic misogynists to the power of her will. It had taken ages—not to mention a hefty contribution to their campaign coffers—to talk them into a special town council meeting to consider her redevelopment plans for the seafront, and Theo along with their architect and a city planner imported from Newport, Rhode Island, had been scheduled to make the presentation.

Theo sat, holding his teacup between his knees. He sloshed the liquid round in it, then swallowed it in one fast gulp and placed the cup on the table next to his chair. “You haven't heard, then?”

“Heard what?”

“I went to the meeting. We all went, just as you wanted.”

“I should certainly hope so.”

“But things got derailed and the redevelopment plans didn't come up.”

Agatha forced her legs to take the required steps without faltering. She stood in front of him. “They didn't come up? Why not? Redevelopment was what the bloody meeting was all about.”

“Yes, it was,” he replied. “But there was a … well, a serious disruption, I suppose you might call it.” Theo reached for the signet ring he wore—his father's ring, it was—and played his thumb across its engraved surface. He looked distressed, and Agatha's suspicions were immediately aroused. Theo didn't like conflict, and if he was acting uneasy at the moment, it had to be because he'd failed her. Blast the boy to hell and back. All she'd asked of him was to cope with the politics of a simple presentation and he'd managed to fluff it with his usual flair.

“We're being opposed,” she said. “One of the council opposes us. Who? Malik? Yes, it's Malik, isn't it? That mule-faced upstart provides this town with a single patch of green that he calls a park—
and
names it after one of his heathen relatives—and suddenly he decides he's a man with a vision. It's Akram Malik, isn't it? And the council's backing him instead of falling on their knees and thanking God I've the money, the connections, and the inclination to put Balford back on the map.”

“It wasn't Akram,” Theo said. “And it wasn't about the redevelopment.” For some reason, he looked away for a moment before he met her eyes squarely. It was as if he was gathering the nerve to go on. “I can't believe you didn't hear what happened. It's all over town. It was about this other matter, Gran. About this business on the Nez.”

“Oh, piffle the Nez.” There was
always
something coming up about the Nez, mostly questions having to do with public access to a part of the coastline that was becoming increasingly fragile. But questions about the Nez came up on a regular basis, so why some long-haired ecologist would choose the redevelopment meeting—
her
redevelopment meeting, damn everyone—to blither on about speckle-bellied gorse sitters or some other fanciful form of wildlife was beyond her comprehension. This meeting had been in the works for months. The architect had taken two days from his other projects to be here and the city planner had flown to England at her personal expense. Their presentation had been initiated, calculated, orchestrated, and illustrated to the last detail, and the fact that it could be derailed by anyone's concern about a crumbling promontory of land that could be discussed at any date, in any place, at any time … Agatha felt her trembling heighten. She worked her way to the sofa and lowered herself to it. “How,” she asked her grandson, “did you let this happen? Didn't you object?”

“I couldn't object. The circumstances—”

“What circumstances? The Nez will be there next week, next month, and next year, Theo. I fail to see how a discussion about the Nez was a burning necessity today of all days.”

“It wasn't about the Nez,” Theo said. “It was about this death. The one that occurred out there. A delegation from the Asian community came to the meeting and demanded to be heard. When the council tried to fob them off till another time—”

“Heard about what?”

“About this man who died on the Nez. Come on, Gran. The story was all over the front page of the
Standard.
You must have read it. And I know Mary Ellis must have gossiped about it.”

“I don't listen to gossip.”

He went to the tea table and poured himself another cup of cold Darjeeling. He said, “Be that as it may,” in a tone that told her he didn't believe her for an instant, “when the council tried to turn away the delegation, they took over the hall.”

“They? Who?”

“The Asians, Gran. There were more of them outside, waiting for a sign. When they got it, they started putting on the pressure. Shouting. Brick throwing. It got ugly fast. The police had to settle everyone down.”

“But this was
our
meeting.”

“Right. It was. But it turned into someone else's. There was no getting round it. We'll have to reschedule when things quiet down.”

“Stop sounding so unmercifully reasonable.” Agatha thumped her stick against the carpet. It made virtually no noise, which aggravated her more. What she wanted was a good bout of pan throwing. A few broken pieces of crockery also wouldn't have gone down ill. “‘We'll just have to reschedule …?’ Where do you think that sort of mind set will get you in life, Theodore Michael? This meeting was arranged to accommodate
our
needs. We requested it. We as good as stood in a queue tugging at our forelocks to get it. And now you tell me that a puling group of uneducated coloureds who no doubt didn't even take time to
bathe
before presenting themselves—”

“Gran.” Theo's fair skin was flushing. “The Pakistanis bathe quite as much as we do. And even if they didn't, their hygiene's hardly the point, is it?”