Fourteen

Arm in arm, Ghita and Aicha glided down the curved marble staircase and into the crowd.

For Ghita it was a moment to savour. All eyes were on her, the most eligible young woman in all Casablanca. And there was nothing she relished more than being the centre of attention.

A waiter hastened up, glasses arranged over the burnished surface of his tray. Ghita took a flute of Cristal. She sipped, then almost spat.

‘This champagne is warm!’ she scowled.

‘I shall have it chilled at once, Mademoiselle.’

‘Have the bottle poured away!’

‘At once, Mademoiselle.’

‘These people are so incompetent!’ Ghita hissed at her friend.

‘They don’t understand about hot and cold,’ Aicha replied.

‘I know they don’t, and that’s why they’re poor.’

At that moment, the sound of a massive engine revving broke above the strains of the musicians from Jajouka.

Ghita’s eyes lit up.

‘Mustapha’s Ferrari...’

A moment later, the two women were standing at the great iron gates of the Omary Mansion. Smoothing her gown after the gallop, Ghita regained her composure and straightened her tiara.

Just before the car’s door opened, a little girl stepped in from the street. Standing between Ghita and the scarlet Ferrari, she was barefoot and dressed in rags.

‘Shoo! Get away at once, you nasty little thing!’

The child didn’t move. Ghita motioned to one of the security guards, who stepped forwards and snatched the child out the way.

‘What an embarrassment,’ Ghita exclaimed under her breath.

The Ferrari’s door opened, and a slim man with designer stubble and slicked back hair stepped out. He was moist with expensive aftershave, as though he had just been hosed down with it.

‘Your knight in shining armour,’ Aicha laughed.

Mustapha stepped forwards and pressed his lips to Ghita’s knuckles.

‘I’ve been waiting half an hour for you,’ she said crossly.

Mustapha smoothed a hand down over his lacquered hair.

‘And I have been waiting for you my entire life,’ he replied.