Nineteen

At the back of the Omary Mansion, the empty bottles were piled up, the catering staff gorging themselves on leftover canapés. The last of the guests were stumbling out to their cars, a little the worse for wear after all the chilled Cristal.

Ghita stood at the gate, kissing cheeks and giving thanks. She was irritated that Mustapha had left early amid a whirlwind of excuses. The owner of the catering firm moved cautiously from the shadows and received the full force of Ghita’s wrath. It was late and there was no one else to savage. But, having been in the business for many decades, he knew how to sidestep the insecurities of the city’s nouveaux riches.

Stooping to the point of grovelling, he kissed her hand, and declared:

‘Miss Omary, allow me to say that you were a radiant princess tonight.’

Her vanity never quite satiated, Ghita’s wrath melted. She blushed, the colour lost to the darkness.

‘Do you really think so?’ she giggled.

There was a crash of bottles in the distance and the caterer slunk off to bark orders at his team. All alone for the first time that night, Ghita strode into the mansion, slipped off her stilettos, and searched for her father.

She found him in his study nursing a second glass of Glendullan, his bow tie undone. He seemed a little depressed, but it never occurred to Ghita to ask why.

‘They have all gone, Baba,’ she said. ‘I think it went well.’

Hicham Omary’s eyes creased in a smile. He wasn’t listening.

‘For the wedding we will definitely use another caterer,’ said Ghita. ‘Mr. Hamood and his band of merry men were incompetence personified.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Omary distantly, staring into mid-air.

‘The caterers... they’re imbeciles. And they’re liars and they’re thieves. I shall insist that they are all fired. It’ll teach them a good lesson.’

Hicham Omary took a sip of his whisky. His eyes slowly focusing, he took in his daughter, who had slumped down in a leather armchair across from him.

‘Do you ever think of the families they support?’ he said softly.

Ghita frowned.

‘Their lying, thieving relatives? Why should I spare a thought for them?’ she said, rubbing a hand over her heel. ‘Damn those shoes. You’d think that Louboutin could design shoes that didn’t pinch.’

Again, Omary sipped. He patted the place on the sofa beside him.

‘Come and sit with me,’ he said.

‘Oh, but I’m tired, Baba. I think I shall go to bed.’

Omary patted a second time, repeating his request a little more forcefully.

‘There’s something I want to ask you.’

Ghita crossed the room and sat down on the sofa.

‘What is it, Baba?’

‘Tell me something...’

‘What?’

‘What is the greatest suffering you have ever known?’

Ghita pressed her hands together, touching a fingertip to her lips.

‘Is this a joke?’ she asked, a little confused.

‘No, just a question.’

‘Well, if you are asking, I’ll tell you. It’s enduring that terrible car you gave me. It’s made me a laughing-stock. It almost broke down again last week. And that chauffeur you gave me is a scoundrel.’

‘Which car?’

‘The white one... the one with those little silver rings on the front, like the Olympics.’

‘An Audi.’

‘That’s it. It’s German, and quite unreliable.’

‘Ghita, can I tell you something?’ said Omary, resting the empty glass on the table to his left.

‘Yes, Baba. Oh, is it a surprise? You’re giving me a new car? Well, would you give me a new driver at the same time? Tawfik’s such a wretch.’

Ghita’s eyes lit up.

‘Oh! Thank you! Thank you!’ she exclaimed, kissing her father’s cheek, and leaving another smudge of Rouge Allure.

‘Listen to me,’ her father said coldly. ‘When I was your age I had holes in my shoes. I had never taken a taxi. My feet were covered in blood from walking. I was thin as a pole.’

‘Poor Baba.’ She leaned forwards and kissed him again.

‘I don’t want sympathy,’ he said. ‘I just want you to understand.’

‘To understand what?’

‘The value of money.’

Ghita sat up straight.

‘Oh, I do,’ she said. ‘I know the cost of all sorts of things and think it’s bordering on the criminal what they charge. I was just looking at a jacket at Gucci’s. They’re asking a king’s ransom.’

‘And the cost of milk? How much is milk?’

Ghita shrugged.

‘Well I suppose it depends on how much you buy.’

‘A litre. For a litre of milk.’

Another shrug.

‘A few dirhams, I suppose.’

‘How much exactly?’

‘Dearest Baba,’ Ghita giggled. ‘I’ve never bought milk.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because there are people to do that.’ She yawned. ‘Now, I’m tired, so terribly tired. I shall go to bed.’

Omary stood up, and walked to the window. He peered down into the darkness, where the strands of coloured lights were being taken down, and the trestle tables folded away.

‘How would you survive without all of this?’ he asked.

‘Without what, Baba?’

‘Without the luxuries you take for granted every moment of the day?’

Again, Ghita giggled, a giggle tinged with apprehension. She wondered what her father was getting at.

‘I am quite sure I would survive very well, Baba.’

Hicham Omary turned slowly to face his daughter. He looked at her hard, taking in the tiara and the jewels, the couture gown and the perfect manicure.

‘Without me bankrolling your lifestyle and your whims, I’d give you five minutes out there in the real world,’ he said.

Ghita emitted a faint squeak – the seed of a giggle. Then she fell silent, realizing her father was for once deadly serious.

‘I don’t need money to survive,’ she said faintly. ‘But it just makes life, well... nicer.’

‘So you are telling me that you would survive quite happily out there without the funds I provide – funds you plough through without a second thought.’

‘Of course I could survive, dearest Baba.’

‘But for how long?’

Ghita touched an index finger to her lower lip, the nail polished in rosebud red.

‘For ages, I suppose.’

‘For a day... a week... a month?’

‘Yes, yes... at least that long.’

Omary took a step closer to the sofa.

‘For a month?’

Ghita widened her eyes and nodded very gently.

‘Yes, I’m sure I could survive for a month. After all, how hard could it be?’

‘I don’t believe it!’ shouted Hicham Omary, slamming his palm down on the sofa’s wooden arm. ‘I don’t believe you could survive without my money or your fancy friends.’

A tear rolled down Ghita’s cheek, as her face flushed with emotion. She had never seen her father angry before, let alone annoyed at her – and on this most special of nights.

‘Then I’ll prove it!’ she exclaimed.

‘How?’

‘I’ll go downtown.’

‘And?’

‘And I’ll... I’ll...’

‘You’ll what?’

‘I’ll live there.’

‘For an afternoon?’

‘No... for longer. For much longer. For...’

‘For...?’

‘For a month!’

Ghita’s father said nothing. He turned his back on the sofa, gazing out to the garden again.

‘You don’t even know where downtown is,’ he said gently.

‘Yes, I do... it’s near the port... somewhere there, near all those ugly old streets.’

Omary had a flash of memory.

A young Berber kid playing soccer in the medina’s filth. The other boys were taunting him because his shoe had ripped open, and because his family came from down in the desert. The taunts led to a brawl, a brawl that ended with blood.

He turned round.

As he did so, Ghita stood up. She strode over to him. Her eyes were dark and serious, her breathing deep.

‘I shall do it,’ she said. ‘I shall go and live downtown for a month without any luxury or funds. I swear on Mama’s grave I shall do it.’