Twelve

Poised on the marble steps that led down to the terrace, Ghita surveyed the guests with her best friend, Aicha.

They were both dressed in couture gowns, every inch of visible skin laden with cut jewels and gold. Ghita’s neck was hidden beneath a fabulous sapphire and diamond necklace, a matching tiara weighing down her chestnut hair.

‘You’ve got the whole zoo here tonight,’ said Aicha, sipping her champagne.

‘And to think that this is just the engagement,’ Ghita added.

‘Sweet of your father to roll out the red carpet.’

Ghita turned to face her friend, a glint of annoyance in her eye.

‘And what’s wrong with that? As I’ve told him so often, he mustn’t be shy about blowing a little small change if he wants to be respected by society.’

A waiter swanned up, a silver tray of canapés in hand. Aicha took one. Foie gras on a bed of Beluga from the Persian side of the Caspian.

‘This is divine. Where d’you get them?’

Ghita’s glance moved dreamily through the guests below.

‘I sent the jet to Paris this morning,’ she said. ‘We emptied half of Fauchon. But if you’re serving Cristal, how can you have anything but the best caviar?’ Ghita shrugged. ‘Anyway, it’s just money,’ she said, ‘and Baba can always make some more of that.’