Rose of the Desert (14 page)

They clustered around Julie, fingering every item of her outfit. The lace on her underslip was a particular source of amazement. With cries of admiration and delight they traced it all the way round. Julie looked up to meet Clay's amused glance.

Later they were given scented water to drink and invited to rest on the rugs. The appetizing smell that
Julie
had noticed turned out to be a succulent local dish made mainly from fish. It was with disappointment she learned that the womenfolk were not permitted to partake of the meal, and were committed to their palm wood huts until the finish. A peculiar custom, Julie thought, sitting somewhat tensely amongst twenty or thirty Berbers. The men appeared to be greatly interested in politics, for afterwards she was able to pick out several names on the political scene, from their gabble of Arabic. Unable to summon interest in a language she didn't understand, she slipped quietly away towards the sound of the sea. The sudden realisation that tomorrow would bring and end to all this made her heart dip.

What would Clay be doing tomorrow while she was sitting in her seat high above the earth? It was a bleak thought. The knowledge that every day of her life she would be asking that. She closed her eyes to picture him at the oil camp. Crisp and clean-shaven in the mornings, weary and oil-spattered at night.

And his leaves. Would he be seeing Tamara? Perhaps they might ... She opened her eyes suddenly, glad that she had barked her shin on the stump of a tree. At least it had brought her to her senses. Clay and Tamara were perfectly free to do as they wished. She followed a sandy path that led to the shore, not permitting her thoughts to dwell on anything else but the serene beauty of the island. The sea was crystal clear and myriads of brightly-coloured fish darted beneath its surface.

A soft footfall made her turn from the water's edge. Clay strode lazily into view. He had discarded the linen jacket, and a light breeze snipped at the collar of his open- necked shirt, lifted a lock of the dark hair. Julie turned quickly back to survey the fish.

"Transparent little blighters, aren't they?" He came up behind her, staring down at the transparent shapes, every one offering a fascinating view into the workings of their anatomy.

"There's a big one," Julie pointed. "Isn't he a beauty?

Clay came close to follow her gaze, and she almost lost her balance drawing away from him. With a steadying hand he commented drily,

"The sun's too much for you. Let's get back into the shade." He chose a patch of scrub where palm fronds spilled cool shadows upon the dry earth, and sank down to rest his back against a rock. Julie carefully chose a hillock of ground a little way in front of him. She knew his eyes were upon her. After some moments he said with deliberation,

"The tan suits you."

"I'll soon lose it," she smiled, staring out to sea, "when I get back to that well-known inclement English weather."

"You're in a hurry to get back home. Do you miss your father?"

Julie considered. "It will be nice to see him, but we don't spend all that much time together."

"What happened to your mother?"

"She was killed. My father cabled her to meet him in Geneva after a conference. The plane crashed in the Alps."

"That's tough."

"He's never forgiven himself."

"And having you around doesn't make It any easier for him."

She flicked him a glance. "I've always got on all right by myself."

"But not in the modelling business. Why? Did you take too many knocks?"

She traced a finger along a flattened blade of grass. 'There are a lot of nice girls doing modelling for a living."

"I know. They're usually the dedicated type."

"Meaning I'm not?"

He stirred. "You haven't seen enough of life yet to know what you want."

She turned to him, a light of amusement in the bluebell eyes.

"You know, when I was fifteen I used to think twenty was ancient. Now I'm twenty and being constantly reminded what a schoolgirl I am."

He smiled crookedly.

"A girl who's spent the best part of her life in boarding schools, as I suspect you have, doesn't suddenly grow up overnight. Even the rigours of career girl in London's sophistication wouldn't do that for you. You're still hopelessly immature."

Julie found herself yearning wistfully for some of Tamara's poise, but she managed to say lightly enough,

"I'm learning fast."

An urgent desire to pursue a certain line of thought made her ask casually, "When do you go back to the oil camp?"

"In about ten days' time."

"And in the meantime, I suppose you'll be ... seeing quite a lot of Tamara?"

She had turned back to gaze at the sea, but she didn't miss the lazy smile.

"Tamara's all right. She doesn't cling."

Which was as good a hint as, any Julie thought, that he wanted no truck with cloying females. Her laugh had a brittle quality as she replied,

"Of course, I was forgetting. You're married to the oilfield."

He took out cigarettes and offered her one with an amused glint.

"If I am, there's a divorce pending."

"Oh?"

Julie kept her eyes on the cigarette case, but there was no enlightenment forthcoming. He flicked a flame under her cigarette and after some moments she raised her eyes to find him studying her thoughtfully.

' "How are you with children?"

"I've done an occasional baby-sitting with moderate success. Why?"

"Just a thought."

Julie turned to stare at the horizon. She was still wondering what he had meant by that cryptic remark "A divorce pending". Did he mean he was leaving the oil business? Or at least the oilfield? Obviously he felt no desire to go into details, for hadn't he very neatly changed the subject ?

Swallowing an ache in her throat, she stretched her legs preparatory to rising. Why should Clay discuss his plans with her?

She was merely a girl he had brought out for the day, because he thought she might be lonely. And today was just a filler until her plane time tomorrow. Besides she had been warned off, hadn't she? Tamara doesn't cling, he had said. Any interest Julie showed in his affairs now would put her automatically under the heading "clinging female".

She made to rise and was aware of a stiffness in her shin that made her wince with pain. She sank down again with a quick intake of breath. Clay was beside her. Kneeling, he made a sharp exclamation.

"What's this? There's blood on your leg. Why didn't you tell me you'd injured yourself?"

"Heaven's, it's only a scratch." Julie drew away impatiently. "I knocked it on the stump of a tree. Never gave it another thought."

She got to her feet unsteadily, and tried out a few steps. Much to her disgust the leg would not support her. She tottered, and Clay caught her up into his arms.

"Scratch or not, you'd better not use it until it's been cleaned up."

"Clay, put me down!" Julie struggled. "This is ridiculous! It's only because I had the leg tucked under me. I know it will be all right when I use it."

"Stay put. You obviously don't know the dangers of ignoring open wounds in this climate." He brought his face round to where the fair head rested on his shoulder. The brown eyes were flecked with anger as he growled beneath his breath,

"God knows, you need someone to look after you."

Julie's eyes were suddenly brimming with tears. His arm tightened. He added in softer tones, "You admit it's painful now?"

Julie buried her head in his shoulder. Yes, it was painful. But how could she tell him? It was his nearness that caused the pain. She wanted to curl her arms about his neck, brush
her lips
against that rugged cheek, but she knew she must
hold herself
rigidly in his arms. There must be no betrayal
of feelings
just because he was holding her close. Tamara
doesn
't cling, he had stated pointedly ... and Julie? She
wanted to
... Oh, how she wanted to ... But tomorrow
when she
was winging her way home, it would be some
thing at
least to be able to say "Julie didn't cling."

She struggled out of his arms as they reached the clearing, and the chief and his wife and several others clustered round in gabbling concern. Julie sank down thankfully on to the cushions, as Clay said something tersely. He turned back to Julie, the tanned features a little pale.

"Since you won't let me touch it, the chief's wife will dress it
for
you. Don't worry, they're pretty contemporary when it comes to first aid." He turned on his heel and left.

His absence was the best thing that could have happened. It gave Julie a little time to subdue her churned- up emotions. By the time a casket of various bottles and tins was placed at her side, her heart had resumed its normal rhythm. Gentle fingers massaged a soothing cream around the wound, and once it was covered with a surprisingly neat-looking plaster, Julie found she could walk passably well. Within half an hour the stiffness had almost completely disappeared.

She was walking the length of the clearing for the third time when Clay emerged from one of the huts.

"How's it going?"

"Almost as good as new."

"Too bad. Now I won't have to carry you to the boat." His tone was bantering, but she knew the charm of the afternoon was fast disintegrating. She sensed it in the jut of his chin, the set of his shoulders.

"Shouldn't we be getting back?" She knew a miserable desire to end it all quickly.

"If you want to." He strode away to collect his jacket. At the water's edge the chief took her hand in his. He seemed to have difficulty in conversing with her, though Julie knew he spoke English from his conversations with Clay.

The chiefs goodbye to her was silent, strange, and rather touching. From the folds of his robes he brought out a small bottle, and touched a drop of the contents into each palm of her hand. Rubbing her hands gently together, he cupped them before his face and then with a smile before her own. Julie inhaled with a feeling that she would never know anything like this again. It was as though all the exciting scents and aromas of North Africa had been captured and concentrated in that tiny bottle.

The chief's wife stepped forward and shyly placed a waist long necklace over her head. Overwhelmed, Julie fingered the beaten metal in the shapes of coins and fish, and thanked them profusely. There were embraces and smiles and handshakes for Clay and then they were being rowed back to the mainland.

It was almost sunset when the car pulled up outside the Victoria hotel. Neither had spoken a word since leaving the island, and now Clay strode round and opened the door for her. Her heart thumped as the last precious seconds ran out.

"It's ... been a lovely day, Clay. I don't suppose I'll be seeing you again."

"What time does your plane leave tomorrow?"

"Eleven-fifteen."

"I see." He nodded ignoring the outstretched hand. Instead an arm dropped negligently around her shoulder. With an almost imperceptible tightening of his fingers he murmured, "take care of the leg," and was back in his car cruising away from the curb with a preoccupied air.

Julie walked quickly into the hotel willing herself not to look around. Head high, eyes dry, shoulders square ... at least until she could get to the privacy of her own room.The Victoria hotel didn't boast the luxury of a telephone in every room. The residents had to be content with the one down on the reception desk. Unfortunately the receptionist was in the habit of taking long sojourns away from his place of work and the telephone would often ring shrilly for hours unless someone thought to go down and answer it. It was ringing now as Julie stared at the very last item to be packed.
The
crystalline limestone lay in the palm of her hand, glowing dully in the evening light. She could hear Clay's words, "they call it the rose of the desert" ... its petals turned to stone ... funny, that was the exact description of her heart at the moment. She brushed it with her lips and placed it on top of her clothes. The lid was closed with a final click.

The phone was still ringing. Should she answer it? Better not. It was probably for the two young French boys at the end of the corridor. They seemed to get the most calls. She had just picked up a book when the knock came on her door. A voice heavily accented called, "Telephone for Mees Lamberrrt! " Julie stopped, the book in mid-air. Who on earth could be calling her tonight? Her last night in Tripoli. Weakly she hurried to the phone. It was a woman's voice,

"Hello ... Miss Lambert? You don't know me ... I'm Mrs. Rowland." There was a slight pause and then she hurried on, "I wonder if I sent a car round for you, if you'd care to come to dinner? I would like to talk to you ... you see, I want to know if you would consider staying on in Tripoli"

T
HE
car took the road that led to the airport and turned off along an avenue dotted with palms.
The houses were white and sprawling and set in acres of ground ablaze with flowers. In the pearly glow of evening their colours were almost fluorescent. Julie held her breath as the car turned in along a sweeping drive and stopped outside an open door. Almost at once a small figure stepped out of the lighted doorway and hurried to meet her.

"Miss Lambert? I'm Mrs. Rowland. Steve has told me a lot about you."

Julie felt her hand clasped warmly and looked into the smiling eyes of a dark-haired woman of about thirty-five. She turned to hand some money to the Libyan driver and the car circled and drove off.

"Steve's out with the car, and I don't drive, so it's handy to be able to hire one." She took Julie's arm. "Come on inside and we'll eat straight away. The children are in bed, so we won't have any interruptions."

Through rooms that were furnished in a mixture of American colonial and English contemporary, she was led to the back of the house where french windows opened out on to the garden. They ate in the muted glow of wall lights from dishes served by an angular woman of about fifty. She swung in and out from the kitchen, her iron grey hair frizzing out from a bob, her mouth a thin line.