And yet, she argued logically, couldn’t this have happened just as easily in New York? Rachid was not bound by the conventions and limitations which had restricted his ancestors. He was a man of the twentieth century. He flew all over the world on business for his father. He looked like a European, and he dressed like a European, and only in his own country did he shed the trappings of the Western world.
Nevertheless, Abby knew that the chances of her encountering Rachid in New York had to be less likely. Her work there had not afforded her the same opportunities she had as Brad’s secretary, and besides, so far as she knew, Rachid did not know where she was. All correspondence between them had been through her father’s house in London, and he had distinct orders not to give her address to anyone without first consulting her.
The door behind her opened and she swung round apprehensively, half afraid that Rachid had seen where she had gone and followed her. But it was Liz Forster who came into the room, viewing her friend with wry knowing eyes. She was a tall girl, about Abby’s height of five feet seven inches, with narrow bones and slightly angular features. She did not have Abby’s smoothness or roundness, for although Abby was slim—too slim, her father thought—she retained a lissom grace, that was evident in the curve of her hips and the fullness of her breasts.
Now Liz closed the door behind her, and leaning back against it, folded her arms. ‘Don’t tell me,’ she said, as Abby’s lips parted in involuntary protest. ‘You’ve seen him!’ She shook her head. ‘Is that why you’re skulking out here?’
‘I am not skulking,’ declared Abby, straightening up from the sink, and rubbing her chilled palms together. ‘I am merely trying to decide why you should do such a thing.’
Liz sighed, pushing herself away from the door. ‘You’re angry,’ she said flatly.
‘Did you expect anything else?’
Liz shrugged. ‘I suppose not.’
Abby gazed at her helplessly. ‘Liz, you must have known how I would react. That’s why you didn’t tell me, isn’t it? Why you let me stand there like a lemon, when Damon brought him in.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘No.’ Abby pressed her lips together. ‘At least, I don’t think he did. You can never be absolutely sure with Rachid. He has the eyes of a hawk!’
‘A desert hawk,’ replied Liz dryly. Then: ‘I’m sorry, Abby, but I had to do it.’
‘Why? Why did you have to?’ Abby could not accept that. ‘You could have warned me, at least.’
‘And then you wouldn’t have come,’ Liz exclaimed, reminding her of her own words. ‘Abby, does it really matter? I mean, you have to meet him some time, don’t you? Even if it’s only in the divorce court.’
Abby’s lips thinned. ‘Don’t you know?’ she taunted bitterly. ‘Muslims don’t have to do anything so boringly official. All Rachid has to do is say the words of repudiation and he’s a free man. Besides, why should he do that? He’s allowed four wives anyway.’
‘Abby!’ Liz came towards her, putting a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. ‘Rachid’s a Christian. You told me so yourself—’
‘Is he?’ Abby moved away from her.
‘Abby, you know—’
‘I’d really rather not talk about it, Liz.’ She moved her head jerkily, feeling the weight of her hair heavy at her nape. ‘And if you don’t mind, I’d like to leave—as soon as possible. Would you get my coat? It’s in the bedroom. I’ll just slip out the back way—’
‘Speak to him, at least,’ Liz protested, appalled. ‘What’s the matter? You’re surely not afraid of him, are you? Heavens, you were married for almost three years! Doesn’t that entitle him to five minutes of your time?’
Abby’s eyes blazed. ‘Rachid’s entitled to nothing from me, nothing!’ she declared fiercely. ‘I don’t know what kind of moral blackmail he used on you to get you to invite him here—’
‘Damon asked if he could bring a friend,’ retorted Liz crossly. Damon Hunter was her boss at the agency. ‘How did I know—’
‘You mean, you didn’t?’ Abby looked at her sceptically, and even Liz could not sustain that challenging gaze.
‘Oh, all right,’ she said, picking up a canapé from a half empty tray and biting into it delicately. ‘Damon told me who it was. But I didn’t know you were going to throw a fit of hysterics, did I?’
Abby bent her head. ‘Will you get my coat?’
‘Abby, please—’
Liz looked at her imploringly, and Abby heaved a sigh. ‘I can’t stay here,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m not hysterical, and I’m not afraid of seeing Rachid again, I just—don’t want to—to speak to him.’
Liz shook her head. ‘Damon’s going to be furious!’
‘Damon is?’ Abby was confused.
‘Yes.’ Liz moved her shoulders awkwardly. ‘Oh, if you must know, he asked me to give this party, to invite you here. Rachid—’
‘You mean Rachid arranged it?’ Abby demanded angrily. ‘Oh, Liz, how could you?’
Liz grimaced. ‘I didn’t have much choice, did I? Damon is my boss!’
Abby clenched her fists. ‘I won’t do it, Liz. I won’t!’
‘All right, all right.’ Liz made a deprecatory gesture. ‘No one can force you.’
‘No.’ But Abby was not completely convinced. She knew her husband. She knew his capacity for coercion and for the first time she wondered why he particularly wanted to see her now, just when she was beginning to feel secure once more.
‘I’ll get your coat,’ said Liz suddenly, walking towards the door. ‘You wait here. I won’t be long.’
‘And if Damon—’
‘Leave it to me,’ replied Liz quietly, and Abby fretted uneasily until she came back again, carrying the pigskin coat that Abby had arrived in. ‘Here you are,’ she said, helping her on with it. ‘You can leave by the service door. There’s no lift, I’m afraid, but the stairs will bring you out on to Gresham Place.’
‘Thanks.’ Abby curled the soft fur collar up about her ears, its darkness complementing her extreme fairness. ‘I’m sorry about this, Liz, but I can’t face Rachid. Not tonight.’
Liz shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
‘You do understand, don’t you?’
Liz hesitated. ‘Not entirely.’ She paused, and then seeing Abby’s anxious expression, she went on: ‘Darling, Rachid’s a dish, in anyone’s vocabulary. I could never understand why not having a baby meant that much to you. I mean—heaps of couples—’
Abby moved towards the service door. ‘You’re right, Liz,’ she said tightly. ‘You don’t understand. Anyway …’ she made an awkward movement of her shoulders, ‘I must go. Goodnight, and—and thank you.’
‘I’ll ring you next week,’ said Liz, following her to the door, and Abby nodded.
‘Yes, do that,’ she agreed, and with a faint smile she let herself out on to the concrete hallway that gave access to the rear of the flats.
Liz’s flat was on the seventh floor, and Abby was relieved when she finally reached the door on to the street. Fourteen flights of stairs had seemed interminable, and she expelled her breath weakly as she emerged from the building.
It was a chilly October evening, with a thin mist rising from the river. Drifts of fallen