Читать книгу The Lost Letter from Morocco - Adrienne Chinn - Страница 14

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.’

‘Have you slept with him?’

‘Pippa! I just got here.’

‘Why not just be on your own for a while? You’re always looking for a man to rescue you.’

‘I’m not!’

‘Really? When was the last time you were single?’

‘I was single in Canada.’

‘Twenty years ago. Don’t you think it’s time for you to stand on your own two feet instead of going after inaccessible men?’

‘I am standing on my own two feet! I’m in Morocco, aren’t I?’

‘Running away, more like.’ Philippa huffs into the phone. ‘What’s a Berber, anyway?’

Addy sighs and shifts the phone to her right ear. ‘I’ve been doing some research online for my travel book.’ She shuffles through her papers and pulls out a piece of paper covered in scribbled notes. ‘Berbers, or Imazighen as they call themselves – Amazigh singular – are the indigenous population of North Africa. The Arabs converted them to Islam in the eighth century. Before that they practised everything from paganism to Christianity and Judaism.’

‘The Fool. Bloody hell. I want the Lovers, not the Fool. That one’s probably meant for you.’

‘You’re not listening.’ Addy sips her coffee. It’s gone stone-cold. She sets down the mug and peers out over the railings.

‘It’s all very interesting, Addy. Good research for your book.’

A donkey emerges from the olive grove ridden by a bare-footed boy. Amine. The boy with vitiligo from the restaurant. He smiles and waves at her as he passes by. She waves back.

‘What do you think I should do, Pippa? About the man, I mean.’

‘You can’t seriously be considering a relationship with a Moroccan goatherd. It’s not so bad being on your own. Look at me. Divorced twenty years and I couldn’t be happier. Free as a bird. I can tango every night till dawn if I want to. If only the knees would hold up.’

‘C’mon. You’re always talking about wanting to find a man.’ Addy picks up the mug and pads over the cool stones into the house. ‘You’re glued to that house in Chelsea. The world’s a bigger place than Redcliffe Road. You should travel more.’ She dumps the cold coffee in the kitchen sink and turns on the tap to rinse the cup. The pipes groan. ‘Bugger.’

‘Bugger? There’s nothing wrong with Redcliffe Road. It’s a very good address.’

‘No water.’

‘Exactly. How can you live like that? You want my advice? Get on the first plane back to London and sort out your life. As for men, well, I’ve given up on the whole bloody lot of them. Everybody my age wants a twenty-year-old bimbette or someone to nurse them through their dotage. Once you hit forty you’re done for, Addy. I may as well have “Danger, Radioactive” tattooed on my forehead. Thank God I’ve got a career.’

‘What about the tango guys?’ Addy heads across the living room’s cool concrete floor back to the veranda.

‘A bunch of mummy’s boys and sexual deviants. But at least I get to touch a man, otherwise it’s just me and the neighbour’s cat. The Wheel of Fortune. That’s more like it.’

Addy flops into the chair. ‘That can go up or down.’

‘Let’s say it’s on the way up, shall we? Seriously, this Omar person probably makes eyes at all the girls. Though you’re way past the girl phase.’

‘I don’t think he’s like that.’

‘He’s a mountain guide. In Morocco. Of course he’s like that.’

‘He’s a university graduate.’

‘Really?’

‘In English literature.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘And you believed him.’

‘Well …’

‘You’re naive. That’s part of your problem. You trust people. Everyone’s out for themselves. It’s a Me! Me! Me! world.’

Addy massages her forehead with her fingertips. ‘What do you mean “part of my problem”?’

‘You have terrible taste in men.’

An image of her ex-fiancé, Nigel, plants itself in Addy’s head. Floppy brown hair, ‘trust me’ hazel eyes, the teasing grin. Despite how much he’d hurt her, she couldn’t help but feel some lingering affection towards him. They’d had some fun together, when Nigel wasn’t off somewhere climbing the ladder to a legal career. They’d play hooky to catch a mid-week movie matinee at the Clapham Picture House, or check out a band at the Brixton Dome. All that petered out as Nigel got busier with work. But then she’d been busy with her photography studio too. It had just all gone wrong at the end. Badly wrong.

‘Nigel wasn’t so bad. He was under a lot of pressure at work. He was trying to get taken on as a partner at the law firm. My cancer was hard on him. It couldn’t have been easy holding my bald head over the toilet while I puked my guts out.’

‘My heart bleeds. Did I ever tell you he used to come crying on my shoulder when you were sick? I was completely taken in. I was the one who pulled strings to get him into that law firm in the first place. More fool me. He’s a bastard for fooling around when your hair fell out.’

Finding the bill from The Ivy was a shock. Dinner for two. But it wasn’t as bad as finding the hotel invoice. Both dated the night she was in hospital having the blood transfusion. Nigel should’ve been more careful. Shoving the receipts in an envelope on their shared desk was stupid. Cancer did strange things to people. There was a lot of collateral damage.

‘I guess.’

‘I don’t mean to upset you. It’s just that when I think of Nigel, I want to poke his eyes out with a burning poker. I hate being taken for a fool.’

‘Never mind about Nigel. That’s over. Mashy mushkey.’

‘Mashy what?’

‘It means no problem.’

‘So, now you’re speaking Moroccan.’

‘Darija, actually.’

The rooster rends the air with an ear-splitting crow. Addy watches him strut across the path. He stops and stares at her with a cold black eye. Thrusting out his red feathered chest, he bellows out another piercing crow.

‘Good God, what a racket. The Devil card. Addy, that one’s definitely for you.’