Castles Of Sand. Anne Mather

out—now.’

      Ashley moved her shoulders. ‘Perhaps he’s decided to—employ a private tutor,’ she ventured, hardly daring to hope, but Malcolm’s diagnosis was not encouraging.

      ‘I think he’s decided there are too many temptations for a young boy growing up in this country,’ he remarked sourly. ‘You should know how strictly they cling to the old traditions. I’m more inclined to believe he’ll be sent to one of those military establishments when he’s older, where the discipline is more severe.’

      Ashley could not prevent the involuntary cry of protest that escaped her then, and as if just realising he was speaking to the boy’s mother, Malcolm cursed his reckless tongue. ‘Of course, I don’t mean that the boy will suffer in any way from it,’ he declared hastily. ‘I may be entirely wrong.’ He sighed. ‘In any event, I’m sure his uncle will keep a careful eye upon him.’

      ‘I’m sure he will.’ Ashley’s tone was taut with suppressed emotion.

      ‘So—I’ll see you tomorrow, shall I?’ Malcolm suggested uncomfortably. ‘Nine o’clock, as usual.’

      ‘I don’t know.’ Ashley was confused, and Malcolm made a sound of impatience.

      ‘Oh, come along, Ashley! It’s not the end of the world, you know. I realise seeing the boy must have been a traumatic experience for you, but it’s over now. He’s going back to Murad, and there’s no earthly reason why you shouldn’t continue in your position here.’

      Ashley could feel the tears pricking at her eyes again, and sniffed them back. ‘I—I don’t know what I shall do, Malcolm,’ she said, which was the truth. ‘Right now, I—I’m not feeling very well. I—I may take tomorrow off. It’s not necessary for me to be there, is it? School doesn’t really begin until the next day.’

      ‘No. No, but you know how hectic everything is at the start of the new year. Boys arriving from all over the place, beds to make and allocate, timetables to be explained—–’

      ‘It’s not really my job, is it, Malcolm?’ Ashley reminded him tautly, feeling mean, but needing the time to think. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

      ‘I’m sure you will, my dear.’

      Malcolm’s words were intended to be conciliatory, but Ashley couldn’t forget the insensitivity he had just displayed. He had said he cared about her, but all he really cared about was the school, and the significance of her meeting with Andrew was lost on him. He thought she should dismiss the fact that she had just met her son for the first time, and carry on as if nothing untoward had happened. He expected her to go into the school tomorrow and help organise the domestic staff while he concerned himself with names and addresses. Addresses!

      Her hand shook so much she could hardly grip the receiver, but she managed to hold on. ‘By the way,’ she said, as he was about to ring off, ‘did you have an address for—for the Gauthiers?’

      There was silence for a moment, then Malcolm said rather doubtfully: ‘Yes. Why?’

      Ashley took a deep breath. ‘Alain—he forgot to give me the address to write to, about—about this job I mentioned. Whether I decide to take it or not, I’ve got to let him know, but—–’

      ‘Oh, I see.’ Malcolm sounded relieved, and she heard him riffling through the papers on his desk. ‘Yes. Yes, here it is. I thought you’d have known it. It’s the Askar Palace in Khadesh.’

      Ashley’s momentary excitement dispersed. ‘No,’ she exclaimed, ‘I—I meant in England. Wh-where is he staying?’

      Malcolm checked again. ‘That’s the only address I have. Besides, as he’s flying back to Murad tomorrow, I hardly see—–’

      ‘Tomorrow!’ Ashley’s hand flew over the mouthpiece of the telephone to prevent Malcolm from overhearing her horrified exclamation. Then: ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right. I—I’ll contact him there.’

      ‘That’s the best idea,’ Malcolm approved. ‘And—Ashley?’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘Don’t do anything you might afterwards—regret.’

      He rang off before she could ask him what he meant, but it made her see he was not indifferent to her state of mind. He knew she was distraite, and he was trying to tell her not to do anything foolish.

      Pacing the flat later, she wondered whether he was not right, after all. She was considering action which, by any standards, could be regarded as reckless. She could conceivably hurt herself more than she was likely to hurt Alain, with Andrew the innocent pawn in the middle. But then she remembered her son’s smiling face, and knew that whatever happened she had to make the attempt.

      But how? How? If Alain was planning to leave the following day, he could have no intention of agreeing to her suggestion. He had only agreed to think it over to placate her. His determination to remove the boy from temptation had not faltered.

      Straddling a chair by the window, she draped her arm along its back and rested her chin on her wrist. Where was he likely to be staying in London? Not the apartment. She shivered. He had given that up after—well, when she married Hassan. And if the Gauthier organisation had any other property, she was not aware of its whereabouts. Which only left hotels …

      Getting up, she rescued the commercial edition of the telephone directory, and turned to the relevant section. There were dozens of hotels in and around the London area, but she knew Alain would choose somewhere exclusive, and quiet. Running her finger down the list, she jotted the numbers of half a dozen of the more elegant establishments on to a pad, then picked up the telephone receiver.

      Half an hour later she was no further forward. Even when she claimed kinship with the family, none of the receptionists would admit that Prince Alain was staying at their hotel, and while she suspected they might not tell her even if he was, the suspicion was growing that he was staying elsewhere. But where? With relatives? With friends? Or in some other apartment, high above Regent’s Park, with a magnificent view over the city?

      Sighing, she got up from the couch again and trudged into her bedroom. Her passport was in the drawer of the cabinet beside her bed, and pulling it out, she assured herself of its validity. The last entry in it had been stamped when she went to Paris in the spring, one of the staff accompanying a school party of a dozen older boys. It had been a successful trip and the boys had enjoyed it. And if she had felt a pang at the French capital’s association with Alain, and subsequently with her son, she had succeeded in keeping it at bay …

      Closing the passport again, she tapped it on her palm. She knew, without looking, that she needed no special inoculations before visiting Murad. Like Egypt, it only demanded smallpox and cholera certificates and an injection against yellow fever, if she was coming from an infected area, and unlike Egypt, a visa was not necessary. If she could get on the flight, she could leave for Murad tomorrow, too, with only currency providing any difficulties. It might even be the same flight that Alain and Andrew were taking …

      With a nervous gesture she dropped the passport back into the drawer and closed it quickly. What was she thinking of? She was still obliged to honour her contract with Brede. How could she consider flying off to the Middle East, without positive proof that Alain would even acknowledge her, let alone employ her?

      Nibbling at her thumb, she went back into the living room, unable to remain in one place for any length of time. What time was it? she asked herself unsteadily, and discovering it was after five o’clock, she determinedly marched into the kitchen to prepare herself some food.

      But even a plate of soup defeated her, and after swallowing several mouthfuls, she was on her feet again. If only she could get in touch with Alain, she thought bitterly. If only she had asked him where he was staying before all this blew up.

      By bedtime, she had forced herself to the realisation that unless Alain contacted her, there was nothing she could do. Once again the Gauthiers had had the last word, and the tears