Desert Honeymoon. ANNE WEALE

she probably has as good a chance of being happy as a western bride,’ he said. ‘Most of the people here believe that love is something that grows in a lifetime of living together.’

      ‘Perhaps they’re right,’ said Nicole. ‘I suppose if you grow up with the idea of your parents picking out a husband for you, it doesn’t seem as outlandish as it does to us. Anyway our system isn’t all that successful. But it must make their wedding nights horribly fraught if the brides and grooms barely know each other.’

      ‘It may make them more exciting,’ he commented dryly. ‘It’s no big deal going on a honeymoon with someone you’ve been sleeping with for months.’

      ‘I should think it would be a much better deal,’ said Nicole.

      ‘Was your first time a disappointment?’

      She couldn’t believe he had asked such a personal question on so short an acquaintance. Her cheeks flaming, she said stiffly, ‘I was speaking generally, not personally.’

      He made no comment. She knew he didn’t believe her. What made it all the more annoying was that his guess was correct. It had been the worst disappointment of her life. She had thought that love was the passport to rapture. Perhaps, for some people, it was. But it hadn’t been for her.

      When they reached the lobby, the bride and her attendants had just emerged from the lift and were moving in the direction of a wide corridor leading off the lobby.

      ‘The hotel has a small shopping arcade,’ said Strathallen. ‘The windows might interest you. What did you think of the emporium?’

      Still annoyed by his earlier question, Nicole said, with forced politeness, ‘It was fascinating...a very useful overview of the things being made here. Thank you for thinking of it.’

      ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it. Did you buy anything?’

      ‘I was tempted several times, especially by the cashmere shawls, but I managed to resist them. It’s usually a mistake to shop when you’ve just arrived somewhere.’

      They had come to the first of the window displays he had mentioned. It was full of jewellery and ornaments of the type to appeal to wealthy tourists in search of lavish mementoes. Her taste ran to simpler things. She could see at a glance there was little she liked.

      Again, Strathallen showed uncanny perspicacity. ‘Not your style?’ he asked.

      ‘Not really...and I’m sure you would rather be sitting down with a drink. Was your meeting successful?’

      ‘I don’t know. I was summoned to address a government committee on ways to protect the interests of the nomads. Whether the committee was persuaded by my arguments only time will tell. Did you go anywhere else apart from the bookshop?’

      ‘No, I came back and had my first taste of lassi on the terrace.’

      She did not tell him she had also asked at the desk if the hotel had facilities for sending an email to Dan. They had and, to her delight, when she had keyed in the password to her Yahoo mail box, there had been a message from him, sent the night before when he got home from the airport.

      Dear Mum, Hope you enjoyed the flight. Did you have your own TV screen? Email soon. Lots of love. Dan xxx

      Her reply had been longer. When he printed it out it would cover a couple of pages. She had included messages to her father and Rosemary. Once a week she would send an email for family consumption. The daily messages would be for Dan’s eyes only.

      ‘Did you like it?’ Strathallen asked.

      ‘What...? Oh, the lassi...yes, delicious. When the waiter told me it was made with yogurt, I was sure I would like it I eat a lot of yog as—’ She stopped short, on the brink of saying ‘as my son calls it’.

      Fortunately the bar steward was approaching the corner table where they had just sat down and his arrival distracted Strathallen’s attention from her slight slip of the tongue.

      

      In fact Alex was aware that she had clipped off the end of her remark. He also knew that, for a minute before that, her mind had been miles away from where they were.