Hot Water Man by Deborah Moggach

not like the Middle East. He wants to stick his hotel in the desert because commercial sense tells him that’s where it should be. I’m not saying we don’t need it. But it won’t change anything.’
    Long after that night, after everything had been changed, Duke remembered her turning to him and laying her hand on his arm.
    â€˜As I said, at least you’re honest about it.’
    Despite the intellectual talk this seemed the last moment of simplicity. The three of them mopping up their salad, people moving around, and the shadows leaping against the wall of the hut.
    Eleven o’clock, and the barbecues lay there, three cool tins. The servants were packing up. Many of the guests had left; Aziz and some of his friends were off to the Excelsior Night Spot. There were cries of ‘cheerio’ and
‘wala ale’icum’.
These youngsters never needed sleep. Himself, Duke: he was tired. Beyond the hut he heard engines revving. Headlights swung over the beach as the cars turned.
    A spirit lamp lit the trampled sand. A flashbulb popped.
    â€˜I only just remembered,’ said Donald. ‘Trust me to be too late for the main event. The story of my life.’ Donald, like Duke, had drunk a good deal of Aziz’s excellent Scotch.
    The music had stopped. Duke could hear the waves now, and the barking of dogs further down the beach where the fishing village lay. In the States there was true wilderness but this country was inhabited, every inch.
    Shamime was sitting next to him. She leant over.
    â€˜I thought Uncle Bobby was coming. He thrives on this sort of thing. He thinks he’s so young at heart. It’s a shame; you could’ve met him.’
    Duke was uncertain whether or not it was a shame. He had his principles, hadn’t he? He raised his head to the vaulted sky. The stars made him dizzy. He could usually take his liquor. He could usually take being alone too. But tonight was worse than usual. He could not work out if he was missing Minnie, or lonely because he wasn’t. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and gazed at his gaudy chest.
    Shamime was pushing the sand with her finger. He looked at her profile. With the clarity of drunkenness he realized it was far from perfect: her strong bumpy nose and her full lips. Her feet moved him. They were small-boned and fine as a bird’s, so delicate. He turned his head away. He wondered which of those young men, driving back to town, was her beau.
    Another flash. ‘Sorry,’ said Donald. ‘Kept not working. Shamime put a jinx on it, talking like that about snapshots.’
    Christine hugged her knees tighter. ‘Remember at that mosque? By the time old Cartier-Bresson had fixed his exposure, all the tastefully tattered beggars had gone.’
    â€˜Not gone. Come.’ He bent over the lens. ‘Up to me, to get some money.’
    â€˜Except the women who covered their faces.’
    â€˜I won’t cover mine,’ said Shamime, pushing back her hair and smiling. Duke looked away and the bulb flashed.
    â€˜At least you’re not the home-movies type,’ said Shamime. ‘I don’t think I could take any more ayahs pushing blurred little Habibs in front of the camera.’
    Duke was silent. In fact he happened to be something of a 16mm expert himself. Back home he had a cupboard full of reels: Chester’s sixth birthday, John-John in his cowboy suit shooting the camera. That vacation stop at the Grand Canyon, his little family standing, tense, near the drop. Below them, nothingness. He had stopped the film and called out, ‘Get back from there!’ But there had been no danger, had there?
    â€˜Duke, could you drive me home?’
    Duke paused. ‘Sure.’
    â€˜Aziz has taken his car, and the bearers have taken the things back in mine.’ She paused. ‘You look doubtful.’
    â€˜No,’ he said. ‘Fine. Sure.’
    He climbed to his feet, heavily.