Page 59 of Never
Shirley looked speculatively at her. ‘You’re very bright-eyed this evening.’
‘I enjoyed helping Nick.’
‘You look as if you’re in love.’
‘With Nick? Of course. We all are.’
‘Hmm,’ said Shirley. She knew when she was getting an evasive answer. ‘I’ve learned to read what silent love hath writ.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Tamara. ‘Shakespeare?’
‘Ten out of ten, and a bonus point for avoiding the original question.’
More guests arrived. Shirley and Nick went to the doorway to meet them. It would take an hour to greet everyone.
Tamara circulated. This was the kind of occasion on which intelligence officers could casually pick up gossip. It was remarkable how quickly people forgot about confidentiality when the drinks were free.
The Chadian women had got out their brightest colours and most vibrant prints. The men were more sombre, except for a few youngsters with a sense of fashion, wearing stylish jackets with T-shirts.
At such affairs Tamara sometimes suffered an uncomfortable flash of realism. Now, drinking champagne and making small talk, she pictured Kiah, desperate to find a way to feed her child, contemplating a life-threatening journey across the desert and the sea in the hope of finding some kind of security in a far country about which she knew so little. It was a strange world.
Tab was late. It was going to be weird, seeing him for the first time since their night together. They had got into his bed, he in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, she in her sweatshirt and panties. He had put his arms around her, she had cuddled up to him, and she had fallen asleep in seconds. The next thing she knew, he was sitting on the edge of the bed in a suit, offering her a cup of coffee, saying: ‘I’m sorry to wake you, but I have a plane to catch, and I didn’t want you to wake up alone.’ He had flown to Mali that morning with one of his bosses from Paris, and he was due to return today. How was she to greet him? He was not her lover, but he was certainly more than a colleague.
She was approached by Bashir Fakhoury, a local journalist she had met before. He was bright and challenging, and she was immediately wary. When she asked how he was he said: ‘I’m writing an in-depth piece about the UFDD.’ He was talking about Chad’s main rebel group, whose ambition was to overthrow the General. ‘What’s your take on them?’
No reason why she should not make use of him, she thought. ‘How are they financed, Bashir? Do you know?’
‘A lot comes from Sudan, our friendly neighbour to the east. What do you think of Sudan? Washington surely believes that Sudan has no right to interfere in Chad?’
‘It’s not my job to comment on local politics, Bashir. You know that.’
‘Oh, don’t worry, we’re off the record. As an American, you must be in favour of democracy.’
Nothing was ever truly off the record, Tamara knew. ‘I often think about America’s long, slow road to democracy,’ she said. ‘We had to fight a war to free ourselves from the king, then another war to abolish slavery, and then it took a hundred years of feminism to establish that women are not second-class citizens.’
This was not the kind of thing he was after. ‘Are you saying that Chadian democrats should be patient?’
‘I’m not saying anything of the kind, Bashir. We’re just chatting at a party.’ She nodded in the direction of a blond young American man conversing with a group in confident French. ‘Speak to Drew Sandberg, he’s the press officer.’
‘I’ve talked to Drew. He doesn’t know much. I want the CIA’s opinion.’
‘What’s the CIA?’ said Tamara.
Bashir laughed ruefully, and Tamara turned away.
She immediately saw Tab. He was near the door, shaking hands with Nick. Tab was wearing a black suit tonight, with a gleaming white shirt and cufflinks. His tie was a dark-purple colour with a faint pattern. He looked good enough to eat.
Tamara was not the only one to think so. She noticed several other women surreptitiously staring at Tab. Keep away, ladies, he’s mine, she thought; but of course he was not hers.
He had given her comfort in distress. He had been charming and considerate and deeply sympathetic, but what did that tell her? Only that he was nice. During his trip to Mali he might have developed commitment panic; men did. He might give her the brush-off with some cliché – it was fun while it was fun, let’s leave it at that, I’m not looking for a relationship, or – worst of all – it’s not you, it’s me.
And thinking about that, she realized that she wanted desperately to have a relationship with him and she would be completely devastated if he felt otherwise.
Tamara turned around again, and Tab stood there. His handsome face startled her as he smiled; it was radiant with love and happiness. Her doubts and fears vanished. She suppressed an urge to throw her arms around his neck. ‘Good evening,’ she said formally.
‘What a great dress!’ He looked as if he might be about to kiss her, so she put out her hand, and he shook it instead.
He was still beaming foolishly.
