Twenty-one

At Omary’s mansion, the sprinklers were at work again, rinsing away the footprints and the spilled champagne.

A gardener was planting new flowers around the edge of the lawn, on the instructions of Ghita. She had specified that they were to alternate in royal blue, red and white, and that on no account was there ever to be any pink. A Feng Shui guru in Miami had informed her the week before that pink was her cursed colour, one that could bring nothing but ill-fortune and despair.

In the house, Hicham Omary was stirring a cup of English breakfast tea, his mind on the night before. He rolled his eyes at the thought of high society, all too ready to parade in their jewels, and to take advantage of free entertainment.

His mind turned to the conversation after the party, the conversation that had ended in his daughter’s promise. He jerked up straight, then grinned.

The maid entered with a fresh pot of tea.

‘Meriem, would you please go and wake Ghita, and remind her of the conversation we had last night?’ he said.

‘Yes, sir. At once.’

An hour passed, the grandfather clock in the entrance struck nine times. There was the sound of leather slippers shuffling over polished parquet. Ghita entered, still in her pyjamas, texting a message as she came.

‘Good morning, my dear,’ said Omary brightly.

Ghita sent her text, leant down and kissed the crown of her father’s head.

‘Good morning, Baba. What a night that was!’

Omary cracked his knuckles.

‘A fine morning,’ he said. ‘Looks as though you have good weather for it.’

‘Good weather for what, Baba?’

‘For your grand adventure.’

‘Hmm?’

Ghita frowned sleepily, and began typing another text.

‘Surely you have not forgotten our conversation, and your promise?’

A moment or two passed, then a look of absolute horror descended like a curtain over Ghita’s face. She murmured something unclear, a cross between supplication and apology.

An hour later, she was clothed in a lavender dress with matching shoes from Jimmy Choo. Around her neck was a double string of pearls, the diamond engagement ring weighing down her left hand. Behind her were three gigantic Louis Vuitton suitcases packed with accessories and with clothes. They were so heavy that the butler had had to struggle getting them down the stairs.

Hicham Omary found his daughter standing in the hallway, beside the cases. She was putting on lipstick, while a maid obediently held her iPhone to one ear. Blowing a kiss into the phone, she prepared to beg as much as was necessary to talk her father into seeing sense.

‘I have been a fool, Baba,’ she said unctuously, ‘and have behaved shamefully.’ Dabbing a lace handkerchief to her eye, she nestled her face in her father’s shoulder, and muttered a rivulet of remorse.

Omary stepped back. He tapped his watch.

‘Mehdi’s waiting,’ he said. ‘He has instructions to take you down to Marché Central. And he will come back for you in thirty days.’

Ghita’s nostrils flared with rage. She breathed in deep, felt her toes curl up in her lavender Jimmy Choos. She was about to say something, when her father advanced a pace. Expecting to be hugged, to be told it was all a joke, Ghita breathed out in a sigh. The edge of her nose wrinkled as she smiled.

But Hicham Omary clicked his fingers.

Understanding the instruction, the butler strode up, a polished silver salver balanced upon his palm.

‘For your protection I think it wise to relieve you of some of this,’ Omary said.

Ghita was about to ask what he meant, when her father unclasped the pearl necklace and placed it on the tray. Then, gently, he removed her earrings, her diamond-pavé Chopard and, lastly, her engagement ring. Before she could protest, Omary reached for her iPhone, and placed it on the salver as well.

The butler disappeared.

When he was gone, Ghita’s father motioned to the luggage.

‘You can take one of them,’ he said. ‘And one alone.’

Ghita’s cheeks darkened from plum red to deep maroon. Fuming like she had never fumed before, she concealed the depth of her fury. She motioned to the largest case, a portmanteau. Before she could change her mind, it was whisked away to the car.

Any other girl might have got on her knees and begged a little more, but Ghita’s pride was too strong. Seething, her stomach filled with bile, she pecked her father on the cheek, and walked out to the black Maybach limousine.

A liveried chauffeur was holding open the door. He greeted Ghita but, as always, she ignored him as she got in.

Just before the vehicle moved away, Omary hurried out of the house to the driveway. Again, Ghita sighed, cursed him aloud, imagining that he was coming to call it all off.

She wound down the window and puckered her lips.

Her father held out his hand.

‘I almost forgot,’ he said. ‘I think you’d better leave me your wallet for safekeeping. We wouldn’t want you to get mugged down there, would we?’

Ghita would have burst into tears, but was too enraged to cry. All she could manage was a pained shriek that resembled the call of some exotic parakeet.

‘What will I do without any money at all?!’ she exclaimed.

Omary fumbled in his pocket. He pulled out a ten-dirham coin and passed it to her.

‘That should get you started,’ he said.