Two

On the dot of seven a.m., an automatic sprinkler system turned itself on, and began watering the manicured lawn in front of the Omary Mansion. There was not a blade of grass over an inch and a half, nor a weed in sight.

A pair of imposing wrought iron gates threw long arabesque shadows over the lawn. They rose thirty feet high into the pale blue sky, armoured CCTV cameras mounted above each one.

Behind the grass and the gates, the mansion rose up like a magnificent frosted wedding cake. Gleaming ivory white, it was adorned with Doric columns and Classical mouldings, and reeked of immense affluence: the kind of wealth that only a business empire, corruption – or both – can provide.

Inside, a handsome, well-groomed man of fifty-six was taking breakfast, squinting with half his attention at a pie chart on a laptop screen. His left hand was stirring a porcelain cup of English breakfast tea clockwise when his daughter, Ghita, hurried in.

‘Baba, oh, Baba... What catastrophe! What misery!’

Hicham Omary glanced up, and smiled absently, surprised that his only daughter was awake at such a reasonable hour. He didn’t say a word, because he knew an explanation would be forthcoming: one that would begin in condemnation and end in a solicitation for funds.

‘How can a girl expect to get married with such imbeciles on the payroll?’ Ghita moaned, as a cluster of servants fussed around her. ‘I have had no choice but to fire the lot of them, every last one. We’ll have to start again from scratch. It will cost a little more, but I know you’ll agree to that, won’t you, dearest Baba?’

Her lips stretched wide in a taut smile, Ghita blew a kiss across the table in her father’s direction.

Mr. Omary’s gaze moved back to the graph and, in one continuous movement, out to the landscaped garden that extended far behind the house. The sprinklers were throwing rainbows over the lawns. He was about to ask for a figure, when his daughter held up a finger, and exclaimed:

‘I blame the working class! Damn them! And damn them again!’

‘Excuse me?’ said Ghita’s father, in disbelief.

‘Well, it’s they who are driving up prices! Do you have any idea how much it costs to put on a wedding?’

‘I daren’t ask,’ Omary replied coldly. ‘But, after all, Ghita, it’s only an engagement. How over the top does it need to be?’