Sandstorm by Anne Mather

me. So be it.' He moved his shoulders in a weary, defeated gesture. 'Saida!'
    Abby heard his footsteps receding down the corridor, and then she sank down at her desk, her legs shaking so much they would not support her. He had gone. He had gone! It should be a relief. But it wasn't. Resting her elbows on the desk, she buried her face in her hands. Dear God, she couldn't love him after the way he had treated her, could she? But if she didn't, what was this terrible emotion that was tearing her apart?
    'Abby!'
    Brad's anxious voice broke into her tormented reverie, and with a startled jerk of her shoulders she quickly took refuge in blowing her nose on a tissue from the box she kept on her desk. She guessed it must be fifteen minutes since Rachid departed, and her emotional outburst had left her eyes red and puffy and hopelessly revealing.
    'I—I must be getting a cold,' she mumbled, hoping Brad would take the hint and leave her, but he didn't; he leant over the desk and lifted her chin, his expression hardening as it took in the evident marks of her tears.
    'In God's name, what's been happening here?' he demanded angrily. 'Who's done this to you? Just tell me and‑-'
    'Nobody's done anything to me, Brad,' she protested, pulling herself away from him. 'I just felt—depressed, that's all.'
    Brad gave her a sceptical look. 'Pull the other one,' he retorted shortly. 'It's Rachid, isn't it? I should have guessed. When I spoke to you the other morning I knew that something was wrong, but it didn't immediately occur to me that your ex-husband might be in town.'
    'He's not my ex-husband,' replied Abby pragmatically, and then flushed beneath Brad's cynical appraisal. 'Well, it's true! If he was, it might be easier.'
    'You mean he's making a nuisance of himself?'
    Abby sniffed. Making a nuisance of himself! That must be the understatement of the year.
    'Oh, you know Rachid,' she said now, blowing her nose again. 'He doesn't like to think I have a mind of my own.' She shrugged. 'Don't worry, I think he's got the message.'
    'So why are you crying?' enquired Brad irritably. 'What has he been saying to you?'
    'Oh, Brad, leave it, will you?' Abby didn't think she could take any more. 'I'll be all right. Just let me get on with my work. That's the best panacea.'
    'You're sure you're up to it?'
    'Heavens, yes.' Abby forced a faint smile. 'I've typed those contracts you wanted, and they're on your desk. You did want me to make a copy for Tom Halliday, didn't you?'
    Brad hesitated, but without her co-operation there was nothing more he could say. He had to content himself with gaining an assurance from her that if she wanted anything— anything at all—she would let him know.
    That evening she found she had had good reason for regretting her impulsive disclosure to Liz Forster. The evening paper carried an article about Rachid's impending return to Abarein, and included the information that he had been in London on a private visit, consulting his solicitors concerning a divorce from his English wife.
    It was half supposition, and Abby's stomach tightened as she read the malicious comments. Obviously Liz had overlooked her behaviour at the party, and her friend's betrayal added to the weight of depression that was bearing down on her. Maybe Liz really believed that Abby's reactions were only defensive, that secredy Rachid was divorcing her because of her inability to conceive. Whatever, Abby decided bitterly that she didn't care what anybody thought, just so long as she was left alone.
    Her father viewed the situation differently, however.
    'How did they get to know, that's what I'd like to hear,' he exclaimed, slapping the copy of the newspaper down on the table, and Abby quietly confessed that she had been to blame.‑,
    'Well, I'd never have thought it of Liz,' said Professor Gillespie, shocked, taking off his spectacles and polishing them on the hem of his cardigan. 'I thought she was a friend of yours.'
    'So did I,' agreed Abby dryly,