working relationship. You give me a free rein and you’re a good friend. I couldn’t replace that. Yes, I might be efficient at organizing things and running an office, but you’re the one who can instantly spot talent amid the dross. You’re the one who can translate an author into another language yet instinctively keep their true voice. It’s a hell of a skill. That’s why you’re so respected and why I’m still learning from you all the time …’ Emily grins. ‘So, I’ll sit it out and wait until you are too doddery to do the job, then I’ll jump you …’
‘Thank you, Emily.’ I laugh, touched. ‘Come on, I’ll sign these contracts, then I’ll take you out to lunch to celebrate you not leaving.’
‘Done!’ she says.
Christmas is looming and the boys are home. We are all excited and rush about getting small presents we can carry to Oman. I have supper with Kate and Hugh before I leave.
Hugh pecks my cheek. ‘Gosh, you look glowing and happy.’
Kate peers at me. ‘You do. It’s good to see. I thought you were a little down the last time I saw you.’
‘A lot has happened in the last two weeks …’ I grin at them both. ‘After Christmas in Oman with the boys Mike wants me to fly back to Karachi with him for New Year.’
They both look appalled. ‘Is it safe?’ Hugh asks.
‘It is deemed safe unless there is trouble or the situation deteriorates. I have been officially sanctioned by the airline.’
‘It’s a bit sudden, isn’t it? You didn’t mention anything at Laura’s launch,’ Kate says, handing me a glass of wine.
‘I didn’t know then. Mike made friends with the Malaysian manager of the Shalimar Hotel in Karachi. Charlie had an old apartment waiting for a refurbish and he offered it to Mike for a reasonable rent. Mike jumped at it. He moved in straight away. He’d been living out near the airport so he’s thrilled to be in Karachi and he wants me to see where he’s living.’
‘Are Will and Matt going with you?’
‘No, they don’t have visas. Mike applied for mine when he took the job. It’s not possible to roam freely around Karachi sightseeing and more dangerous if you are young and male. Anyway, it’s only a flying visit and after a week with us the boys will be raring to get back to London for New Year with their friends.’
‘How exciting,’ Hugh says. ‘Oman and Karachi. Some people have all the luck …’
‘Wow, what an exotic Christmas and New Year you’re going to have, Gabby,’ Kate says.
I laugh. ‘Mike gleefully announced that the British Deputy High Commission has already earmarked him as a dinner guest. You know what Mike is like.’
‘We do.’ Hugh grins.
We go and sit at the large scrubbed table where I have had so many suppers.
‘Don’t you ever feel jealous of Mike’s glamorous lifestyle?’ Kate asks suddenly. ‘He’s always living another entirely separate life.’
‘Of course I do,’ I say, with a little intake of breath. Kate rarely makes unhelpful comments like this, but we’ve all had quite a lot of wine. ‘But, I’m used to it now. I don’t know anything else. And,’ I add, because Kate and Hugh are watching me across the supper table and I know what they are thinking, ‘after a lifetime of working away, Mike always comes home to me and the boys.’
Kate and Hugh lift their glasses to me and make a Christmas toast but I see Kate place her left hand flat on the reclaimed kitchen table as if she is touching wood.
Oman, Christmas 2009
Stark brown mountains rise up out of a choppy indigo sea. Sunlight falls on rocks making golden veins among the shadows of crevices. Fishing dhows scud across the water. I watch Will and Matteo floating in the aquamarine infinity pool that slides swimmers effortlessly towards the glistening horizon. There is sensory pleasure everywhere. Small tables lit by flickering candles among palm trees. Sunloungers placed on a crystal beach of tiny shells. Our adjoining rooms have small balconies that open out onto the Gulf of Oman and the turquoise Arabian Sea.
On Christmas morning the boys appear in silly hats and wake us. They have filled tiny stockings for us and they sit on the end of our bed watching as we open them. Mike laughs but I can see he is touched by their small student gifts.
We sit in a huge bed facing our lanky sons with their crossed hairy legs and dishevelled hair and Mike says, throwing his arm round me, ‘My God, where did the time go? How did my sons get so enormous? I still see them in those tiny white dressing gowns I bought in Dubai …’
‘I still have those little dressing gowns,’ I say.
This might be the last time the four of us spend Christmas together, without girlfriends, without Will and Matteo itching to be skiing with friends or elsewhere.
In the evening, after we have eaten under the stars, Will and Matteo head off to find other young people at an organized beach party. Mike cautions them about keeping away from anyone doing drugs and stresses the strict penalties in Oman for breaking the law.
Will says, ‘Dad, we’ve been in and out of Muslim countries all our lives … we’re not going to be that stupid.’ And they disappear towards a crowd of noisy young people congregating on the beach.
Mike and I sit watching the decorated camels with elaborate headdresses sitting crouched by the candlelit night stalls. Veiled and silent Saudi women watch their husbands smoking hubble-bubble pipes. I wonder how these women keep their boredom in check. The camels have more fun.
‘Let’s walk,’ Mike says, stretching and taking my hand. We drift among the hibiscus gardens down to the beach path.
There are long, squishy sofas under the palm trees, full of small collapsed children. The last time we were here Will and Matt were six and seven.
‘Where did the time go, Gabby?’ Mike says, echoing my thoughts. ‘It’s hard to accept my sons probably don’t need a lecture on the risks of drug taking in a Muslim country.’
Is Mike mourning the loss of his children or his own lost youth?
‘Oh, I think they do need reminding. They’re still young and not immune from peer pressure.’
I notice the tiredness around his eyes. It has been a lovely Christmas, but Mike seems preoccupied and quiet.
‘How is it going in Karachi?’ I ask. ‘Truthfully.’
‘I’m fine.’ He is abrupt. ‘I want to forget about work for a few days.’ But, he doesn’t. He can’t.
I ask someone to take a couple of photos of us standing with our backs to the Arabian Sea. Later, I see they are too dark. My flash has not worked and we are like ghosts in a landscape of stars. Christmas 2009. Mike and I, not quite real, standing in a backdrop of navy sea.
For the rest of our holiday Mike lies comatose on his lounger, plugged into his music. In the afternoons, he goes back up to the hotel to sleep in the cool. It feels a little as if he is screening us out. I tell myself not to be selfish, that he needs to unwind.
Will and Matteo float between us and the groups of young people who migrate together like starlings. I stay outside under a sun umbrella. I don’t want to miss a moment of sun and sea and mountains.
One afternoon, Matteo, reading beside me, puts his book down. ‘Dad seems a bit played out this holiday. Usually, he wants to hire a boat or do something.’
‘He would never admit it, but I think his job is proving a challenge. He’s weary, Matt.’
Will appears. He