Page 4 of Under the Arabian Sky

My microscope:

My theodolite:

A collapsible tripod and two dozen sample cannisters with blank labels:

A small daypack to take on excursions out to the desert:

And last of all, my trusty old SLR camera that I hadn’t used in years.

Andrew had bought it for me at a second-hand market stall on the Portobello Road. It was his way of trying to turn me into an adventurer, but he ended up using it more than I did. I still had a picture of him in my wallet, taken on that very camera. He had been on an expedition with his glaciology team taking samples at the foot of a giant, slowly moving ice shelf, while I was back in Oxford, sorting through research papers and running computer diagnostics from the latest samples that Henderson had sent from the Patagonian Desert.

Yes, I was the homebody.

Andrew was the adventurer.

These days, I kept my adventures small and manageable.

I survived rainy days at the office.

I battled the bus system to and from work, more often than not in my anorak and Wellies.

I managed to keep myself fed and alive, although those first few months after Andrew’s death were hard.

Now my Samsonite was gone, and so was my Andrew.

I sighed and finished packing my battered old suitcase.

I gave the leaves of the orchid and the fig a good spray of fresh water and fed them a little fertiliser.

I made a neat pile of clothes to wear on my journey and left them on my dresser for the morning. I placed my boots beside the bedroom door.

As I slid beneath my thick, warm blankets, the rain still pounding on my window, I stared at my boots and wondered… on the day that Andrew died, did he know he was pulling his boots on for the last time?

Did he know those were the shoes he would die in?

CHAPTER3

I dare saythat Roger Cavendish most certainly knew which boots he wanted to die in. If you’re going to walk into the desert and disappear forever, I suppose you want to be wearing the right shoes.

I had met Roger only twice, once in Oxford and once in London at a meeting for the International Sand Collectors Society. He was gentle, charming in a quiet sort of way, and rather quirky if I remember correctly. He wore a tweed suit and bowtie on both occasions and carried a fob watch, and I distinctly recall he had a penchant for calling everyone ‘old chap.’

Andrew had attended the London gathering as my guest.

In a stately hall, academics swigged wine and cognac while the band played Cole Porter. Leaning against the bar, Andrew joked that one day I’d be an old fuddy-duddy carrying a fob watch too.

“Why not?” I teased back. “You know I love antiques.”

“That’s because youarean antique… even though you’re only twenty-eight years old. But that’s what I love about you.” He smirked and stole a kiss while none of the ‘old fuddy-duddies’ were looking.

“I think what you’re trying to say in your own clumsy way is that I’m an old soul,” I smiled back.

“Are you telling me this isn’t your first time around? That you’ve lived countless lives before? Sounds rather trampy.”

I laughed. “Takes one to know one.”

“Rest assured, my wild days are over. You’ve seen to that.”

“How exactly?”

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