Eight

A pair of size six Jimmy Choo black crocodile stilettos crossed the lawn, the heels sinking down into the grass as they went. Strapped tightly into them, Ghita Omary struggled to stay upright. She reeled towards a group of caterers who were huddling at the far end of the garden.

‘No, no, no! You imbeciles!’ she cried, her arms flailing for balance. ‘What are you doing with those lights? They’re not supposed to be there! And change those tablecloths at once! Where did you get them – from a prison?! I don’t want cotton. I want the finest silk!’

The caterers jerked to attention. They were surrounded by toppled stacks of chairs, piles of trestle tables yet to be assembled, and by miles of crumpled fabrics. One of the men, the bravest and also the most senseless, wagged a finger towards Ghita.

‘We’re just following orders, Miss,’ he said.

The next thing he knew, he was lying on the grass, his thigh having been pierced with a size six Jimmy Choo in black crocodile.

In one slick movement, Ghita withdrew her bloodied weapon, slipped it back on her foot, and turned to greet her father, whose Jaguar was purring into the drive.

‘Baba! Sorry, but you can’t park there,’ she called loudly. ‘The champagne delivery is about to arrive.’

Hicham Omary might have protested, but he was used to being dealt orders by his daughter.

Parking beside the kitchen door, he closed his eyes and found himself in a simple bare-walled apartment in an old Art Deco walk-up somewhere far downtown. For a moment there was silence, and simplicity.

Ghita opened the car door, and her father’s memory vanished.

‘I’m working with idiots, Baba!’ she exclaimed, dabbing a lace handkerchief melodramatically to her eye. ‘I don’t know what to do. One tiny mistake and tongues will wag. You know how they are – like vipers.’

‘Dearest Ghita, it’s only an engagement,’ Omary said as he climbed out of the car, touched with a sense of déjà vu.

‘Only an engagement? And we are just ordinary people, are we?’

Before her father could reply, Ghita clapped her hands, the soft skin of her palms anointed twice daily with a moisturizer from the Savoy Alps.

‘I shall need some cheques, Baba,’ she said, a tone of sternness in her voice.

‘Some?’

Ghita calculated. Maths was never her strong point. She quickly lost count, and then frowned.

‘Just sign me the entire book, and leave them blank... I have lots of people to pay.’

Standing on tiptoes in her Jimmy Choos, she pecked her father on the cheek, her lips leaving a smudge of Chanel Rouge Allure.

‘Baba, what would I ever do without you?’ she said.