The Lost Letter from Morocco. Adrienne Chinn

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.’

       Chapter Nine

       Zitoune, Morocco – April 2009

      ‘It’s working?’

      Omar’s mother, Aicha, flicks through the TV remote but the images on the large flat-screen TV wobble and fizz like the European soft drinks Omar brings them from Azaghar for the Eid al-Adha celebration dinner.

      Aicha walks through the archway from the living room and yells up the steps to the roof. ‘Laa! Not yet!’

      Fatima pops her head around the kitchen door. ‘Maybe it’s not a good television. It’s not new like the one Yassine bought for his wife.’

      ‘Yassine never bought it for Khadija, one hundred per cent.’ Omar’s head appears in the patch of blue sky over the open courtyard. ‘He only buys stuff for himself, you have to know about it. Anyway, this is a good television. It’s a bit new. You’ll be able to watch your Turkish shows better.’ Omar’s head disappears from view. ‘Yamma, try now!’ he yells. ‘I fixed the satellite with the clothesline.’

      Aicha hands the remote to Fatima. ‘You do it, Fatima. It’s too complicated for me.’ She heads up the rough grey concrete steps to the roof of the