Sandstorm. Anne Mather

her father absently. ‘It’s ten o’clock. I think I’ll have a sandwich.’

      ‘I’ll make it,’ Abby assured him, her voice drifting back to him as she walked into the kitchen.

      The Gillespie house was one of a terrace, matching its fellows on either side. Tall and narrow, it stretched up three floors, with the kitchen, the dining room, and her father’s study on the ground floor, and living rooms and bedrooms above. It was easier for Professor Gillespie to work at ground level, even though it would have been quieter on the upper floors, but since his retirement from the University, her father had taken private students, and it was less arduous for him not to have stairs to negotiate every time he had to answer the door.

      He came into the kitchen as Abby was spreading the bread with butter, filching a piece of cheese from the slices she had prepared. Although he was only in his early sixties, he looked older, and Abby knew he had aged considerably since her mother’s death a year ago. Nevertheless, he enjoyed his work, and it had become both a pleasure and a distraction, filling the empty spaces he would otherwise have found unbearable.

      Now he studied his daughter’s bent head with thoughtful eyes, before saying perceptively: ‘What’s happened? Have you and Liz had a row or something? You’re looking very flushed.’

      Abby sighed, turning to the kettle that was starting to boil and lifting out earthenware beakers from the cupboard above. ‘Oh, you know Liz,’ she said, trying to sound inconsequent. ‘She’s not the type to row over anything. She’s far too together for that.’

      Professor Gillespie grimaced. ‘Together!’ he repeated distastefully. ‘Where do young people find these words? Together means in company with someone else.’

      ‘Well, she’s usually that, too,’ remarked Abby, hoping to change the subject, but he was not to be diverted.

      ‘Did something go wrong at the party?’ he persisted, helping himself to a second wedge of cheese, and Abby was forced to accept that she was going to have to tell him the truth.

      ‘Did—er—did you see Rachid while I was working in New York?’ she asked carefully, and Professor Gillespie made a sound of resignation.

      ‘You know, I half guessed that’s what it might be,’ he exclaimed, shaking his head. ‘Come on, you might as well get it off your, chest. Was Rachid at the party?’

      Abby nodded. ‘Liz’s boss—Damon Hunter—he arranged it. I didn’t know anything about it until I saw him coming in.’ She moved her shoulders awkwardly. ‘I got out of there as soon as I possibly could.’

      ‘But not soon enough, obviously,’ observed her father dryly. ‘I gather you and Rachid had some conversation.’

      ‘You could say that.’ The kettle began to sing and she moved to make the cocoa. ‘But not at the party. Rachid brought me home.’

      ‘Did he?’ Her father looked surprised, and Abby hastened to explain.

      ‘He was waiting for me outside. He had two of his muscle men with him, so I couldn’t exactly argue.’

      Professor Gillespie sighed. ‘I suppose he told you, he came to see me just after your mother died?’

      Abby nodded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

      Her father grimaced. ‘I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to worry you. I mean, living in New York, away from all your friends and family—I thought it was unnecessary to alarm you.’

      ‘I did make friends in New York, you know,’ she pointed out quietly. ‘But I know what you mean. If I’d known Rachid was looking for me, I’d probably have anticipated the worst.’

      Professor Gillespie looked troubled. ‘I thought about this for a long time before I asked you to come home,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I knew if you came back to England, Rachid was bound to find out sooner or later, but I felt, rightly or wrongly, that with my backing he might hesitate before upsetting you. But he has upset you, hasn’t he? I can see that. What does he want? A divorce?’

      Abby’s lips trembled, and she caught her lower lip between her teeth so that her father should not see that betraying sign. ‘He wants me to go back to him,’ she said flatly, avoiding his startled gaze. ‘He said that was why he asked you for my address.’

      Professor Gillespie sought one of the tall stools that flanked the narrow breakfast bar, and stared at her aghast. ‘He wants to take you back to Abarein?’

      ‘Yes.’

      The Professor shook his head. ‘But what about his father?’

      ‘Rachid says that his father will accept me.’

      ‘And are you going?’

      Abby gave him the benefit of her violet gaze, her pupils wide and distended. ‘Do you have to ask?’

      Professor Gillespie looked more disturbed than ever. ‘But Abby—’

      ‘I didn’t leave Rachid because of what his father said,’ she retorted. ‘At least, only in part. You know why I left, and that situation has not changed. Nor is it likely to do so.’

      Her father cradled his chin on an anxious hand. ‘I know, my dear, but have you really considered what you are refusing?’

      Abby gasped. ‘Do you want me to go back to him?’

      ‘I want you to be happy,’ her father insisted gently. ‘You know that. And I also know that you love Rachid despite—’

      ‘Loved, Dad, loved!’ she contradicted him tightly. ‘I did love him, you’re right. I—I loved him very much. And I thought he loved me. But the Muslim way of loving is obviously different.’

      ‘Abby, Rachid’s a Christian, you know that. And besides, even if he were not, even if he embraced the faith of his ancesters, nowadays even kings and princes have only one wife at a time.’

      Abby closed her eyes against the pain his words evoked. Even now, the remembrance of Rachid’s treachery hurt, but that would pass. In time, everything passed; even hatred, which was all she felt for Rachid.

      Opening her eyes again, she applied herself to the sandwiches. Then, sensing her father was waiting for a reply, she said: ‘I have no intention of returning to Abarein, or to Rachid, for that matter. I made one mistake, but I don’t intend to make another. Believe it or not, I like my work, I like being independent, and while I appreciate your concern, Dad, I think I know what I want from life better than you do.’

      ‘And what about later on? When you get older? When I’m dead and buried? What then?’

      Abby sighed. ‘There’s always the possibility that I might get married again,’ she said, handing him the plate of sandwiches. ‘But whatever happens, it’s my decision.’

      Professor Gillespie took the plate, but he was still uneasy. ‘Abby, men are not like women,’ he insisted, as they walked back to the warm security of his study. ‘Don’t you think you’re being a little unrealistic?’

      Abby took a deep breath. ‘I thought you were supposed to be on my side.’

      ‘I am, I am.’ Her father sought the comfort of his armchair with a troubled expression engraving deeper lines beside his mouth. ‘But I must admit, I expected something different from Rachid, and his attitude definitely restores a little of my faith in him. Abby, in his country, it must be extremely difficult to sustain continuity without a direct descendant. He’s the eldest son, perhaps unfortunately, and it’s his role to beget an heir.’

      ‘Beget! Beget!’ Abby gave a groan of exasperation. ‘Honestly, Dad, you’re beginning to sound like the book of Genesis! Rachid’s brother has two sons already. Isn’t that direct enough for you?’

      Her father hesitated. ‘If Rachid divorced you, there’s every possibility that he could find a wife who would produce him a son,’ he commented