simple, elegant villa, on an island in the middle of the serene Tyrrhenian Sea, was the most perfect refuge she could imagine.
Rahim took her into the villa, through a central hallway with Roman-style mosaic floors which led straight through the ground floor of the house to a long loggia at the back, its glassed-in high windows giving spectacular views over the sea below. Belinda divested herself of the jacket and snap-on ski trousers, but shook her head when Rahim suggested she go upstairs to change.
‘Tea first,’ she said, managing a watery smile. ‘Tea and biscuits for shock. It’s the English way.’
‘The English way, but Moroccan tea,’ Rahim said, smiling back. ‘It is the perfect blend of you and me, darling.’ His grin deepened. ‘I know what you would say if you were more yourself – you would tease me and tell me to stop being such a flowery Arab. But I can’t help it sometimes. I like to say poetic things, you know.’
A servant was holding the back of a delicate velvet armchair, waiting for Belinda to seat herself. He pushed in her chair as Rahim poured tea from a clear glass pot, fresh mint leaves steeped in hot, not boiling water, pale green aromatic steam rising from its surface. Rahim trickled a little thyme honey into each cup, stirred them well, and then handed one to his lover. The servant had retreated discreetly: Belinda, very gratefully, reached for the plate of fluted, sugar-topped lemon biscuits and started to work her way through it. She had never had to watch her weight, having always been very physically active; she had skied and ridden horses all through her teens, and had actually met Prince Oliver not, as the press had reported initially, working as a chalet girl in Verbier, but teaching beginners to ski on the nursery slopes.
Rahim watched her with great approval; he liked a woman with a healthy appetite.
‘We will spend some weeks here,’ he said to her. ‘Or, if you wish, I will leave you to be alone, as long as you need.’
Belinda, her mouth full of biscuit, shook her head so vigorously that some sugar crumbs sprayed out onto her ski suit. Normally, she would have been mortified by this breach of good manners, but as she looked down at the crumbs, she realized that she didn’t give a damn. She was no longer a princess. She wasn’t even Lady Belinda Lindsey-Crofter any more. She had no idea, in fact,
who
she was.
So all she did was dust the crumbs onto the floor, swallow the rest of her bite, and say vehemently: ‘I don’t want you to go. Stay with me. I couldn’t cope on my own, not at all.’
‘Good.’ He looked very grave. ‘But Belinda, you must take this time to decide if this is really what you want. It is still not too late to go back. It will be a scandal, yes, but we can manage that. We will say that you were frightened for your life – which is no more than the truth – but that you could not bear to never see your children again.’
‘I don’t know if I
can
bear it,’ Belinda said quietly. ‘I honestly don’t. But Oliver would have killed me if I’d stayed. I know he’s tried once already. And if I admit to something as wild as staging my own death in an avalanche, that’ll be
exactly
what he needs to make me look completely bonkers. It’d be even easier for him to try again. Slip me an overdose and say that I popped too many pills by accident.’
Rahim nodded slowly, taking in her words. Belinda had desperately hoped that her divorce from her ex-husband, Prince Oliver, heir to the British throne, would protect her from his malice; but Oliver had been violently opposed to the divorce, had fought tooth and nail to convince her to stay married to him. If anything, his anger towards her had worsened after they were no longer man and wife; he had been terrified that she would spill his secrets, despite a condition of her divorce settlement being utter discretion about his private life. An aide of his had come to her, in absolute terror, to
Rahim took her into the villa, through a central hallway with Roman-style mosaic floors which led straight through the ground floor of the house to a long loggia at the back, its glassed-in high windows giving spectacular views over the sea below. Belinda divested herself of the jacket and snap-on ski trousers, but shook her head when Rahim suggested she go upstairs to change.
‘Tea first,’ she said, managing a watery smile. ‘Tea and biscuits for shock. It’s the English way.’
‘The English way, but Moroccan tea,’ Rahim said, smiling back. ‘It is the perfect blend of you and me, darling.’ His grin deepened. ‘I know what you would say if you were more yourself – you would tease me and tell me to stop being such a flowery Arab. But I can’t help it sometimes. I like to say poetic things, you know.’
A servant was holding the back of a delicate velvet armchair, waiting for Belinda to seat herself. He pushed in her chair as Rahim poured tea from a clear glass pot, fresh mint leaves steeped in hot, not boiling water, pale green aromatic steam rising from its surface. Rahim trickled a little thyme honey into each cup, stirred them well, and then handed one to his lover. The servant had retreated discreetly: Belinda, very gratefully, reached for the plate of fluted, sugar-topped lemon biscuits and started to work her way through it. She had never had to watch her weight, having always been very physically active; she had skied and ridden horses all through her teens, and had actually met Prince Oliver not, as the press had reported initially, working as a chalet girl in Verbier, but teaching beginners to ski on the nursery slopes.
Rahim watched her with great approval; he liked a woman with a healthy appetite.
‘We will spend some weeks here,’ he said to her. ‘Or, if you wish, I will leave you to be alone, as long as you need.’
Belinda, her mouth full of biscuit, shook her head so vigorously that some sugar crumbs sprayed out onto her ski suit. Normally, she would have been mortified by this breach of good manners, but as she looked down at the crumbs, she realized that she didn’t give a damn. She was no longer a princess. She wasn’t even Lady Belinda Lindsey-Crofter any more. She had no idea, in fact,
who
she was.
So all she did was dust the crumbs onto the floor, swallow the rest of her bite, and say vehemently: ‘I don’t want you to go. Stay with me. I couldn’t cope on my own, not at all.’
‘Good.’ He looked very grave. ‘But Belinda, you must take this time to decide if this is really what you want. It is still not too late to go back. It will be a scandal, yes, but we can manage that. We will say that you were frightened for your life – which is no more than the truth – but that you could not bear to never see your children again.’
‘I don’t know if I
can
bear it,’ Belinda said quietly. ‘I honestly don’t. But Oliver would have killed me if I’d stayed. I know he’s tried once already. And if I admit to something as wild as staging my own death in an avalanche, that’ll be
exactly
what he needs to make me look completely bonkers. It’d be even easier for him to try again. Slip me an overdose and say that I popped too many pills by accident.’
Rahim nodded slowly, taking in her words. Belinda had desperately hoped that her divorce from her ex-husband, Prince Oliver, heir to the British throne, would protect her from his malice; but Oliver had been violently opposed to the divorce, had fought tooth and nail to convince her to stay married to him. If anything, his anger towards her had worsened after they were no longer man and wife; he had been terrified that she would spill his secrets, despite a condition of her divorce settlement being utter discretion about his private life. An aide of his had come to her, in absolute terror, to
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