Chapter 30

Janna

As the days pass, I’m glad I confided in Sunny. Now her twisted relationship had ended, and without causing ructions with the band, we’ve returned to sharing everything with each other again. The only one to know the precise state of my relationship with Jasim, she has my back. When I zone out, my thoughts returning to the desert, she covers my slips and diverts attention from me.

When the video is posted on YouTube, it becomes a massive hit, generating new interest in Anarchy Rules. Our gigs are full to bursting, and we start to attract serious attention from wannabe agents and managers. A record contract is offered, and we jump at the chance. Arena gigs follow, and slowly days turn into weeks, and weeks into months. And still, no word from Jasim. Before I know it, almost quarter of the year has gone by.

I play like I used to, but my heart isn’t in it. Sometimes the only way I can perform is to imagine he’s out there in the audience, and every note and riff is for him. I encourage Ben to fly on his own, stepping more into the background as he takes the lead. I’m pulling away from the band, and I think everyone knows it, but no one wants to mention it aloud. Neither do they gloat on the fact my husband seems to have abandoned me, apparently putting the marriage down to a temporary aberration caused by the desert heat.

Three months and one day later—not that I’m counting—when I’m starting at last to move forward, my phone rings.

“Hello,” I answer cautiously, not recognising the number, ready to end the call as soon as I’m questioned about a non-existent, not-my-fault accident that I’d apparently had.

“Janna?” The deep velvety voice stuns me.

“Um, hang on.” Taking this call when everyone’s sitting around listening is not what I want. I get to my feet and hurry to the privacy of my own room. “Jasim! I didn’t expect you to call.”

“I’m sorry to bother you after all this time. I hope you are well?”

After I murmur something non-comital, he continues, “I need to ask if you’ll to do a favour for me.” Even though he can’t see me, I nod for him to go on. Just the sound of his voice makes memories slam into me. His scent, his touch. I shiver. At the other end of the line, he clears his throat, “I’ve been following Anarchy Rules. You’ve got an amazing number of hits on that video. It came out well, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, the band’s doing great.” I’m surprised I can get words out of my mouth, I’m so stunned to be talking to him. As he hadn’t kept in touch, I just expected divorce papers to arrive in the post.

“Look, the thing is, I hate to bring it up, but we are still married and Kadar’s up in my business, reminding me of my promise. That we make this look real, at least for a reasonable time.”

Really? I thought he’d forgotten and had just let matters drop. What’s he going to suggest? “Jasim. I’ve picked up my life, I can’t walk out on the band.” And the last thing I want to do is to see him. To re-open the wound that’s only just started healing.

“I got that message when you left without talking to me. Don’t worry, Janna. I’m not going to interrupt your life. It’s only a small favour. I just need to ask if you’ll come to an embassy function with me. People are asking questions why my wife’s not around. Janna, will, can you, come and put on a show? Just be my escort for the night, to stop tongues wagging? I’m not going to ask you to move in with me or anything. Just be seen by my side for a few hours.”

Could I do that? Pretend he’s my loving husband just for the night? War waging inside me, I recall exactly what I’d agreed to when it was a ruse to rescue Sally, but can I do it all these weeks later, when I’ve begun to get him out of my mind? Have I? Have I really? It’s not actually possible, is it?

I’ve been silent too long, he fills in the gap, “I’m sorry, I’ll tell Kadar to go fuck himself. Not like I haven’t done it before.” He laughs, then the mirth disappears and his voice deepens again. “You’ve moved on, haven’t you, Janna? Have you found a new man? Do you want me to initiate the divorce?”

There’s no one else. Despite Sunny’s machinations to set me up, I’ve not had the faintest interest in anyone else I’ve met.

“No,” I deny it. “I’m still a free woman.”

“Not a free woman, not when you’re tied to me.”

His words hover in the air for a moment, they could be taken in any number of ways. The fact he’d expected me to get on with my life without him probably means he already has. I wonder how many women he’s tortured since I last saw him. The thought makes me feel ill.

I shouldn’t see him. I should let him move on, and then do so myself. My mind’s blocking out what I don’t want to accept.

“It’s alright, Janna. I’ll start the divorce.”

“No.” The word comes out before I have second thoughts, “No, I’ll come to the embassy do.”

I hear a sigh of relief, “Are you sure?”

“Yes. What should I wear?” A woman’s perennial problem.

“Just a cocktail dress would be fine. You have something like that?”

I’ll have to go shopping. “Yes, I can find something. When is it, Jasim?”

“Next Tuesday. I’ll come pick you up. You’re still at the same address?”

“I am. What time?”

We finalise the arrangements, and then end the call.

Finding a suitable cocktail dress isn’t difficult. Getting one that fits me is. I end up buying a size larger than normal, one that’s still snug over my breasts but a little too loose over my flat stomach and hips, making me recall how my appetite seems to have fled since I returned from Amahad. If I’m going to lose weight, why can’t the loss be equal all over?

Surprisingly, the boys took it in their stride that I’m going out with Jasim tonight. I’d expected an argument, but they seemed more relieved he’s contacted me at long last. I’d told them to butt out of what I described as our complicated relationship, explaining if they wanted me in the band, my sacrifice was living apart from my husband while he performed the duties his country required of him. As Mickey sighed and gave me a hug, I saw a twinge of guilt in his eyes, as if he believed he and the rest of Anarchy Rules were the only reason for Jasim and I being apart.

Sunny fusses over me, doing my hair and what I’ve got to pass for nails—long on my right hand, short on my left, the hazards of playing guitar. She evens them out as best she can, and paints them a discreet pink. She helps me with my make-up, a lot less than I’d wear on stage. The end result, as I look in the mirror, is someone I think would pass for a diplomat’s wife.

“There!” she says with a flourish, presenting me with an evening bag she’s dug out of her wardrobe, “You look perfect.”

I think I’m far from perfection, but hopefully have done enough that I won’t embarrass my husband. The nerves churning inside me seem to leach blood from my complexion, and I’m biting my lips, making them red.

“You’ll be fine.” Sunny assures me, and I reply with a little nod. I’m not worried about going to the embassy, I’m wondering how the hell I can pretend to play the part of a loving partner, and not risk being deceived into thinking it’s real.

At seven on the dot, the limo arrives and Jasim gets out of the back. Dressed in a tuxedo, he takes my breath away, making me realise all over again that this is a mistake. But it’s too late to back out now. We don’t say a word as he stretches out his hand. I take it, and soon I’m seated beside him. The awkwardness stretches out between us.

“You are well?” It’s a polite enquiry, a million miles away from the way he’d addressed me in the heat of the desert.

“Yes.” It’s a small lie, but one which will do for now. “And you?” I’m equally well-mannered.

“I’m doing okay.”

There’s something in his voice that makes me turn to look at him, to really see him for the first time in three months. I draw in a breath, and can’t stop reaching out my hand to touch a still healing scar marring the side of his cheek. “You’ve been hurt.”

He captures my hand, and holds it tight, “Got into some trouble in the desert when I was inspecting the pipeline. It’s nothing.”

“What happened?” I gasp, horrified at the thought. He’d been injured and nobody told me.

His eyes stare into mine, as if divining whether I really want to know, or I’m just making conversation. To show I really am interested, I phrase it slightly differently, “Please, tell me what happened? I don’t like the idea of you being hurt.”

He jerks his chin and sits forward, his hands clasped between his knees, “Ah, my habiti. Always with a soft heart.” A quick glance at me, and then back down toward his hands. “The attack came out of nowhere. First, Ryan was shot.”

“Attack? Shot? Ryan? Is he alright? He’s not…”

“No,” his hand reaches for mine again, “It was touch and go for a while as he’d lost so much blood, but he’ll make a full recovery.”

“What about you?” I stare at him as though there are injuries I can’t see. Something tells me there’s more than he’s telling me.

“I took a bullet too. In my back.” He pauses and laughs, “Knocked me off my feet and against a rock,” he points to his face, “Split my cheek open.”

I go cold, realizing that all the time he’d been in my thoughts, I’d never for a moment imagined him in danger. “Jasim…”

“I’m alright, Janna. Nothing vital was hit.” His fingers wipe a tear from my eye that I hadn’t known had escaped. “I’m well, now, habiti.” When he adds the Arabic endearment for the second time, I admit how much missed hearing that word.

Sitting up straighter, I watch the streets of London go by, wet roads flashing under the streetlamps, missing the stars of the desert and the easy companionship that had been between us there. Despite his slip up in calling me ‘my love’, which I knew from having looked the Arab word up on Google, he seems as distant as he’d been that night we’d first met. This man isn’t my husband. He’s a stranger. His life since we last met, is outside of my comprehension. He’d been hurt and I hadn’t known. It can’t have been serious. He seems alright now.

He’s dismissed my concern as unnecessary, so I turn to a more immediate worry. “What do you need me to do tonight?”

A shrug, “Just be yourself. You will be by my side.”

“What if I’m asked what I do?”

“Tell them the truth. That you play in a band. There’s nothing to hide.”

“Except our fake marriage.”

He grimaces. “Well, there’s that, of course. Janna, I’ve looked into it. We’ll have to stay married a year. But I won’t tie you down.”

I wish you would. Tamping down my traitorous thoughts, which just prove the time we spent apart has done nothing to dull his effect on my libido, I try to get more information, “Who will be there?”

“Diplomats, people from the oil industry. And it won’t be for long, it’s a reception, not a dinner. Drinks and canapes. We’ll leave as soon as we can.” He pauses and looks at me, “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you’re doing this. There’s been some gossip about us not being seen together.”

“It’s hardly a chore.” I try to summon a smile. Just being here with him, knowing we’ve lost that easy intimacy between us, trying to act like it doesn’t matter is perhaps one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. The memory of riding with him in the desert comes into my mind, such a stark contrast to riding in this limousine.

“I haven’t heard anything about Sally. Do you know what happened at the end of her month?”

“I do.” He grins. And teases me by keeping silent for a moment. When I’m about to prompt him, he continues, “Nijad went to an exhibition in Al Qur’ah. Sally’s been busy and was exhibiting some of her photographs there. Fadi set it up for her.”

“Was he with her?”

He laughs, “Yes, he was. And completely besotted. Let’s just say, Sally has captured her sheikh.”

Unlike me. “I’m pleased for her,” I manage to say indifferently, while thinking some of the weirdest arrangements have a way of working themselves out.

We pull up outside the doors of the Amahadian Embassy, and wait for the chauffeur to open the doors. Once outside, Jasim links his arm with mine, and leads me inside. His closeness awakens sensations which should stay dormant. I can do this. I can pretend, I can have him touch me and still keep my bruised heart intact. I have to.

That Jasim’s the guest of honour is apparent when we step inside. Men in smart suits vie for his attention. I stand at his side, doing my best to keep a pleasant smile on my face. To all intents and purposes, I’m ignored by the men, but subjected to various glances from the women around. My facial muscles start hurting after being frozen in place for so long, as I wonder whether any of the females have had the pleasure of being his sub. Oh, I can read their expressions, they’re curious about the woman who’s managed to snag the bachelor sheikh.

I take a glass of champagne when it’s offered but put it down after one sip. And don’t partake of the Amahadian delicacies that are offered to me, knowing they’d only form a lump in my already fragile stomach.

I didn’t appreciate how hard it would be to pretend as I overhear Jasim’s discussions, recognizing what a true diplomat he is. He’s committing to nothing, even though it’s obvious several people have come to persuade him. Letting them all down gently, with various suggestions of ‘I’ll consider your proposal’ or ‘Please contact my office and I’ll be happy to look at it’. It soon becomes clear everyone wants a part of him tonight.

And all the time he’s touching me. A hand to the small of my back. His fingers on my arm. A touch to my wrist. And each occasion he does so, I get a tingle inside. At one point he turns, checking I’m alright, and there’s a flare in his dark eyes as I offer a wan smile back.

It seems like forever, but at last he signals we can leave. A multitude of goodbyes, then we’re heading outside. The limousine pulls up in front of us, before I can consider how I’m getting home.

He sits me inside. The car doesn’t move.