The Sheikh’s Bargain Bride(20)

“I know. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Saying it three times won’t make it any better.”

Anna looked up into Fatima’s eyes, reflected back at her in the mirror, and realized that she’d really hurt her. She groped for her hand behind her. “I’m your younger sister, right? And sometimes younger sisters can be stupid.”

“You are my elder sister don’t forget. Which, according to your logic, makes me the stupid one.” Fatima squeezed Anna’s hand. “Now tell me what this is really about.” Fatima drew up a seat beside Anna.

Anna rested her elbows on the dressing table in front of the mirror and rubbed the heels of her palms into her eyes, smudging the black make-up all around her eyes.

“I can’t help thinking of Abduallah.”

“Ahh,” Fatima sat down then as if all had been explained. “Abduallah. He was such a fun boy, always getting up to mischief and so beautiful.”

Anna’s eyes dropped. “Not so beautiful at the end.” She was going to continue until she saw Fatima’s hurt frown. “Look, I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m being silly. Perhaps I just need a little time to myself.”

Fatima nodded, her thoughts obviously still lingering over Anna’s words. “You have five minutes and then we will be back.”

Anna smiled. “Just five minutes and then I promise I’ll behave, but no foundation.”

Fatima shrugged. “You want to look as pale as a lily on your wedding day, that’s up to you.”

Anna nodded. “It is.”

Fatima’s smile was different to most people’s, Anna thought. It started in the eyes and spread down her rounded cheeks and made her lips curl last of all. It was like Zahir’s, except that Zahir’s smile stayed in his eyes and went nowhere else. He’d spent too long keeping an impassive face to the world to allow the sweet lip curl that Fatima displayed.

As the door closed quietly shut, Anna slipped to the cool floor and leant against the wall. She closed her eyes and let the memories that wouldn’t stay put, wouldn’t do as they were told, flood her mind.

Memories of Abduallah, the last time she’d seen him, as he’d drifted into a stupor from which he couldn’t be roused. If Fatima thought she looked pale, then she wouldn’t have recognized Abduallah. His skin had turned a grey parchment color and had sunk dryly into his skull. She couldn’t even remember his eyes because he always kept them closed to her. Closed to life.

She forced herself to remember the real Abduallah, the one she’d met at a party, so charming and kind, so handsome and, she’d thought, so honest. It was only after the brief registry office wedding that he’d told her the truth—that he needed Anna to show to his family that he was straight. Except he wasn’t.

She’d swiftly organized a divorce but her affection for him hadn’t faded and she agreed to present a united front to meet his brother. And afterwards, when Abduallah had seen the baby he’d never asked her who the father was—although she suspected he knew—and he had been thrilled, adored the boy.

But not enough to stop the slow downward spiral. She’d tried to save him, to tell him not to give up, that there was a life for him. But the image of his unforgiving world was deeply ingrained and he did give up.

And that was the image before her now: his face, ravaged by drugs and despair. And it was not one she was able to share with his family.

She hadn’t noticed Fatima enter until she felt her light touch on her shoulder.

“Don’t cry, Anna. It will be all right. Abduallah wouldn’t want you to be unhappy.”

Anna shakily brought her hand up to her eyes, trying to hide her grief from Fatima. She’d kept it hidden for so long; tied up tight within her so that Matta wouldn’t see, so that no-one would see. But Fatima pulled Anna’s hand down. “Don’t hide from me, Anna. Your sadness is my sadness. We are family.”

But for some reason that made Anna cry more. Fatima knelt down to face Anna and drew her to her, bringing her arms around her and let Anna sob into her shoulder.

After a few minutes, when the sobbing had subsided, Fatima pushed Anna away and looked at her critically. She pulled her to standing and sat her down in front of the mirror.

Anna smiled—a watery kind of smile—at Fatima.

“Thank you.”

“So you should,” Fatima joked as she opened the door for the others to re-enter. “Ladies,” she sighed heavily and theatrically, “I’m afraid we’ll have to start again.”





Anna had been inside the palace mosque before but not when it was full of people dressed in their most extravagant clothes and jewels, not when all the attention was focussed on one person: her.