Zitoune, Morocco – April 2009
‘Philippa?’
‘Addy. Wait. I’m reading my online Tarot cards.’
Addy tucks her phone under her chin. She props her bare feet on the wooden table, careful not to knock off the stack of research notes.
‘How’s the job going for that banker couple in Fulham, Pips?’
‘Don’t get me bloody started. They’ve gone and bought sofas from the Ugly Sofa Company. They’re covered with that leatherette rubbish that takes your skin off when you sit on it. Burgundy. When was burgundy ever fashionable? I’ll tell you when. Never. Bloody humungous things. What in the name of Nicky Haslam am I supposed to do with those?’
‘Maybe call it tongue–in-cheek chic.’
‘Oh, ha ha. That’d be my career down the loo. I swear this interior design rubbish isn’t getting any easier. Damn. The Tower card. That’s not good. Probably something to do with the Russians. How is everything, anyway? You’re still alive at least.’
Addy lets the cell phone slip from under her chin into her hand. ‘Still alive. The Internet’s finally working. Well, mostly working. I’ve had to get a dongle thingy. The water supply’s a bit iffy, so I’ve been washing with bottled water for the past two days. There’s nothing on TV except reruns of Desperate Housewives in Arabic and Turkish soap operas, so that’s not a distraction. I’ve managed to stock up on some food from the local market and I’ve still got a bottle of wine from duty-free. So, aside from desperately needing a shower, I’m fine.’
‘Good. Good.’
Addy sifts through the stack of research notes and slides out the Polaroid of Gus and Hanane that she’s tucked into his unfinished letter. She examines Gus’s face.
‘Pippa, do you remember when Dad spent those two years working for the oil company down in Nigeria?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Are you listening?’
‘What? Nigeria? Yes, yes. Sorry, I’m just trying to remember what the Three of Swords means. I’d just married Alessandro, more fool me. Dad stopped by London on his way back to Canada to wish us well. Too little too late if you ask me.’
‘What was he like when you saw him in London? Did he seem happy?’
‘How am I supposed to remember that? I can barely remember my phone number.’ Philippa sighs heavily into the phone. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘Nothing. He was away so much when I was growing up. Just trying to fill in the dots.’
‘Well, he wasn’t all that keen on Alessandro, I can tell you. Maybe I should’ve taken the hint. They argued a lot. Dad was very touchy. I remember that. Our father fancied himself as some kind of bloody adventurer. He loved to say he had gypsy blood. I honestly don’t know why he ever married your mother. She was such a little homebody.’
Addy grimaces. ‘You know what they say. Opposites attract.’
Her pretty red-haired mother, Hazel, packing a suitcase for Addy’s peripatetic father. One of Addy’s strongest memories of her mother. The big, old Victorian house on the Vancouver Island shore that was never enough for him. Hazel and Addy were never enough for him, even though Addy had tried hard to be Daddy’s girl when he was home. Digging in the spring bulbs with him in the autumn, sitting with him watching for the black triangles of the orcas’ dorsal fins skimming along the surface of the Strait through the telescope he’d set up on the veranda. He’d promise that he’d stay. But then the suitcase would come out and he’d be gone again. Another postcard to add to her collection.
Addy swings her legs off the table and slides her feet into her new turquoise leather babouches.
‘I found some old photos Dad took in Morocco in the stuff you gave me. He must have spent some time here after Nigeria. Lots of pictures of donkeys, monkeys, mosques, palm trees, camels, that kind of thing. I’m using them as inspiration for the travel book. Following in Dad’s footsteps. It’s a nice hook, don’t you think?’
‘You live in the clouds. You’re going to end up broke again. You’re just like your father.’
‘Your father, too.’
‘Ha! The closest I had to a father was Grandfather’s valet.’
Addy stares at her father’s smiling face in the Polaroid. At least she’d had a doting mother until she was thirteen, and a loving, if often absent, father. Philippa had had a huge stately home to rattle around in, but only Essie’s elderly father and a handful of servants for company when she wasn’t away at boarding school. A runaway father and a drug-addled mother. It explained a few things.
‘Didn’t he write you? Call you?’
‘It’s not the same thing, Addy.’
Addy folds the blue letter around the Polaroid and slides it under the pile of papers.
‘Anyway, I’ve finished the book outline and plotted out the places I need to photograph based on Dad’s photos. Marrakech, a fishing village called Essaouira, Casablanca, the desert.’
‘Desert? Which desert?’
‘The Sahara.’
‘Is that where the Sahara desert is?’
Addy rolls her eyes. The line goes silent.
‘What card did you just turn over?’
‘The Ten of Swords. It’s a dead body full of swords. I’ll have to look it up. I bought a Tarot book.’
‘I don’t think Tarot cards are meant to be literal.’
The sound of shuffling cards.
‘Can’t you get the book done any faster than three months, Addy? I need you to photograph a penthouse I’ve just finished in Mayfair for some Chinese clients. Never met them. Did it all through their PA. A million pounds on the interiors and they’re only going to use it for a week at Christmas. Apparently, it’s an investment.’
Addy swats at a fly. ‘The visa lasts for three months and I need the time to do this book. And …’
‘And what?’
Addy sighs. ‘Oh, Pippa. I met someone. I don’t know what to think. He’s a Berber mountain guide. Well, Amazigh, actually. He’s very nice. A bit younger than me.’
‘Oh, good grief. Define younger.’
‘Thirty-ish. Nothing’s happened. It’s just … I don’t know.’
‘My sister, the cougar.’
Addy watches a black-and-white cat slink across the gravel path as it eyes a rooster strutting under the olive tree with a harem of chickens.
‘Don’t worry. I’ve been avoiding him. I’ve still got Nigel to deal with. But then sometimes I think maybe a fling would do me a world of good. I mean, what’s the harm, Pips? It’s not like it’d ever be a long-term relationship.’
‘You don’t want to know what’s inside my mind. It’s a dustbin in there.’ The cat pounces. The rooster and chickens scrabble, flapping away in a cloud of dust and ear-splitting cackles. ‘What’s that racket?’
‘A cat chasing some chickens. His name’s Omar.’
‘The cat?’
‘No. The Berber guide.’