Seventeen

At ten minutes to ten, Hicham Omary went up to his private study and took a call from his senior editor, as he did every night of the week.

He might have taken it on his mobile, but he wanted a little space and solitude. And, besides, he was tiring of the great and the good of Casablanca society.

The editor had gone over the news agenda for the main bulletin of the night. It was a formality, one that even Omary – as owner of the channel – was not expected to change in any way.

Putting down the receiver, he paced over to the window, and watched as Ghita strolled through the crowd. She was showing off a colossal diamond set on a band of Russian gold.

Beside her was her beloved Mustapha, whose good looks were matched only by his confidence, and by the size of his father’s bank balance.

There was a knock at the oak door and Hamza Harass, father of the groom to be, swept in. In his hand was a Cohiba cigar, a luxury he clung to despite a chronic heart condition.

‘Thought I’d find you in here,’ he said.

Omary mumbled something indistinct. Stepping across to a bookcase lined with leather-bound volumes, he pushed a secret button made of brass. It was mounted to the underside of one of the shelves, and transformed the unit into a well-stocked bar. Omary poured two tumblers of Glendullan. He handed one to Harass, his closest friend, a man with a seat on his company’s board.

They clinked glasses.

‘To a union between our families,’ said Omary, peering towards the window again.

‘You certainly know how to throw a party,’ Harass replied.

‘I didn’t do anything. Just found the band.’ He paused, then smiled. ‘And I wrote a few cheques as well.’

‘They make a wonderful couple. So in love.’

Omary cupped the single malt in his hand, warming it.

‘I worry about her – I worry about Ghita,’ he said.

‘Look at her, you’ve given her everything. She’s elegant, beautiful, intelligent.’

‘But she’s not street-wise,’ Omary sighed, taking a gulp of his Scotch. ‘She’s never been touched by the real world. Never taken a taxi let alone a bus, never had to rough it – never even gone shopping for food, or anything, except for luxuries and designer brands.’ Omary fell silent, and sighed again. ‘She has never starved,’ he said.

‘And is there shame in that?’ Harass asked.

‘Perhaps not. But it weakens her, and leaves her open to attack.’