The ceremony was brief – just a few words in the presence of some staff – and they filled in forms with their full names. Callie was amused to see that her new husband signed as
Tobias Obediah Lloyd-Jones. Toby was not amused. ‘No kid should be burdened with such handles. Don’t ever tell a soul.’
The Med was choppy and she felt sick for half the crossing, lying in their little cabin, holding her stomach. It was not the most glamorous honeymoon but luxury didn’t matter when you were
in love, she thought, admiring her wedding band. It had given them time together just to make love, to wander the decks looking out towards their new destination.
Now, seeing the harbour alive with porters and ships, carts and passengers, she sighed with pleasure. This was for real and not some dream. There was another long train journey to Cairo ahead.
Already she could feel the morning heat searing her face and she went to find her hat with a brim. They had little luggage. What was there to take but clothes and documents?
Soon they were mobbed by street sellers pushing their goods, by porters, by drink sellers. Callie felt a panic at the crush. Scents assaulting her nostrils, flies bombed her face and sweat was
trickling down between her breasts. They were guided onto the Cairo train, which was steaming up to depart. The sight of the big black engine was familiar and calming. She could see there was some
civilization here: a mixture of old and new, tramways and caravans of camels alongside street cars and donkey carts. Women, head to toe in black coverings, sauntered in the shade, and European
girls like herself in short dresses and picture hats walked with parasols.
Toby swatted off the
guli guli
men. ‘If you give to beggars and street fakirs, you’ll be flooded with them. They don’t take no for an answer.’
They sat in a compartment, staring out over a sea of scrub and sand until they reached a greener delta of shrubs and palms, and the beginnings of the road into the city.
‘See how the villas are taking over the desert. The garden suburbs are full of potential for development.’ He pointed to the sprawl of bungalows shimmering in the desert heat.
‘Is this where we’ll be living?’ Callie asked, assuming Toby had a home waiting to receive her.
‘’Fraid not . . . just a hotel for the moment, but we’ll start house hunting and you can make it just as you wish,’ he replied.
Callie smiled, trying to hide her disappointment. They’d been living out of a suitcase for three weeks and all her clothes were filthy and crumpled. This was not how she imagined arriving,
but there was plenty of time now to begin a new life here and it was too hot to rush about. A hotel would have a bath and laundry service, and ready dinners. It would give her time to adjust to the
heat and city. Living with Toby was not quite what she had expected. He was a restless soul, pacing on deck, writing letters of introduction, chain smoking. He never picked up a book or paper
except for the business pages, looking at currency rates and market news. The rest of the headlines he ignored. He was so dedicated to his work, she thought with pride.
They were living off her savings. She drew out every penny she could find from her bank accounts without arousing suspicion. She’d even had to buy the wedding ring as they’d spent
too much on expensive meals and rent in Marseilles. Toby promised he would make it up to her when he got back to his office.
‘I’m looking forward to meeting your colleagues,’ she said.
‘I’ve always worked alone, but I have useful contacts in the city and clubs.’
‘So what exactly will you be doing here?’ Callie realized she knew very little about his professional life.
‘I help people find good investments in properties and land.’
She was puzzled. ‘I thought you were in investments like a broker?’
‘Oh, I am. I invest in people’s dreams to get rich by investing in land abroad with the promise of good returns. I do some buying and selling for other people who don’t want
others to know how wealthy and interested they are. I get commission for introducing clients to clients, that sort of thing.’
‘Is that why you wanted names of my friends?’ she asked with not a little concern.
‘Sort of. Contacts among the rich and famous are always useful, and if you don’t ask you don’t get,’ he dismissed her question. ‘Your crowd was full of good
connections.’
‘They’re not my crowd. I hardly knew most of them,’ she said.
‘But you were all school chums.’
‘Not really. I only met Pam and Clemmie at finishing school. I went to a girls’ boarding school near Arbroath. It seems ages and ages ago, another world. I wonder what they think of
us running off in the night.’
‘I’m sure they think us very romantic. You young girls are all for romance,’ he laughed. ‘Anyway, who cares what they think? You’ll be fine here, a prime asset to
me with your looks and charm. I’m sure you’ll make lots of girlfriends and get me lots of introductions.’ Toby smiled, showing his line of straight teeth. ‘Who can resist
those pale English rose looks when most of the girls here have skin like leather? People will love you and make me the luckiest man in town.’
Callie thought this a strangely worded compliment. She was more than a business asset, she was his new wife. Sometimes she found his flattering words just a tiny bit false. She shrugged and
turned away to stare out of the window, exhausted with the heat and the travelling.
Toby hired a smart gharry, a horse-drawn carriage, so they could drive slowly through Cairo and take in the sights. ‘They call it the Paris of the Nile,’ he said, pointing out
gracious stone buildings with château-like flourishes: banks, theatres, apartment blocks. Callie saw only jams of donkey carts mixed with saloon cars, men running in and out trying to sell
them fly swatters and cups of water. There was a pungent sickly smell of toilets, dung and rotten fruit. She felt increasingly frightened at the strangeness of it all. How would she ever make her
way in this exotic city?
As if to make up for their unglamorous journey they booked into the smart Continental Hotel and dined most nights either in the roof-top garden or in Shepheard’s Hotel. It had a tiled
Moorish hall dining room, and here she caught her first glimpse of the wealthy Cairenes, a cosmopolitan group of French, army officers and well-dressed British women and men with loud voices and
haughty manners.
‘Welcome to your new home, darling. Take a look round. No one here can hold a candle to you. You look so fresh and untarnished.’ Toby raised his glass to her and her spirits lifted
with the wine and delicious dishes. ‘It’s going to be a wonderful experience. We’ll tour the pyramids on camels’ backs, sail down the Nile in a felucca, dance each night at
the Gezira Club. I’ll take you to the Khan el-Khalili souk. We’ll watch the Sufi whirling dervishes. I’m promising you the time of your life.’
All this was ahead of them – their whole lives together – and she smiled, relieved that Toby did love her for herself and not her connections. He wanted her to be happy, knowing that
she had fled from everyone she knew to be with him. What must Kitty and Marthe, dear Maisie think of all this? Phee would be furious and embarrassed by their elopement. Prim, Pam and Clemmie would
be so jealous. She would send postcards to all of them in due course, but tonight she was just going to relax and soak in the magic that was Egypt.
The house they found to rent was a modern European-style bungalow with a veranda on the sides out of the sun. It had three bedrooms, each with a hook in the ceiling for the mosquito nets that
must cover them every night. It was furnished with green bamboo cane furniture and cushions. Hassan came with the property. He would clean and cook, and a man tended all the gardens on the estate.
The garden was shady with palms, a fig tree, and lots of dusty green plants Callie couldn’t name. Cicadas screeched in the heat and she saw ants on their trail to a corner she must avoid.
Hassan warned of snakes coiled in the shrubbery, but there was a hammock where she could lie safely and admire the pale coffee stucco walls and cream paintwork of the wooden shutters. This was her
very first home and she was so proud choosing kelim rugs for the tiled floors, soft drapes for their bedroom from Cicurel, the renowned department store, where she also bought cotton lawn to be
made up into thin shirts and day dresses. The only disappointment was that Toby never got round to taking her to all the places whose names he’d wafted before her when they first arrived. She
didn’t venture far on her own. Her French came to good use but she felt unnerved by the vibrant bustle of the streets. The European women she saw in shops and restaurants made her think of
London and the Thursday tearoom gossips with a pang of yearning.
She did go to matins in the cathedral, hoping for introductions, but Toby wouldn’t step over the door. ‘I hate those places,’ he said with such venom that she didn’t ask
why.
One day, returning from a trip into the city, Callie found a letter waiting for her. The handwriting was familiar, and she opened it in trepidation, thinking it would be a reprimand from Phee,
but the news it contained took the feet from under her and she ran to the privacy of her bedroom to try to make sense of it all. That evening, Toby found her in tears, lying on their bed.
‘Aunt Maisie died on the very night we left and I never went to say goodbye,’ she sobbed. ‘It was so mean of me.’
Toby picked up the letter in surprise. ‘I told you not to send our address to anyone just yet, not until you’re more settled. Letters from home only upset you.’
‘You’d better read the rest of it,’ Callie snapped. ‘What does she mean about the Cavendish Hotel?’
‘How did your aunt know about that?’ he replied.
‘Well, she went and met the manager, Miss Lewis. Why didn’t you tell me you never paid your bill?’
‘How dare she interfere, the nosy old bat . . .?’
‘Toby, she’s my—’ Callie stopped, seeing how angry he was. ‘What happened? I’m your wife – you can tell me.’
‘It was all just a mistake. I wrote a cheque. I suppose it bounced. I didn’t want you to find out.’
‘Is that why we had to leave in such a rush? Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped.’
‘That’s not the way it works, darling. My credit was a bit stretched, not enough commission came through. It’s not important now.’
‘But it means people know you’re in trouble. People talk. We must pay that bill.’
‘Oh, don’t go on. It was only a temporary blip. I’m fine now, and we’ve got a house and are all set up to entertain. I’ve got guests tomorrow night, can you put on
a show?’
‘Of course,’ Callie said, wiping her eyes. ‘I’ll rustle up something I learned in Belgium.’
‘Not mussels and chips, I hope,’ he laughed.
‘Toby! I mean real French cuisine, but I’ll need Hassan to wait on table, and I must have a decent dress. There’s nothing in my wardrobe but day dresses.’
‘You get what you need. If this goes well we’ll be set up. Dress to impress, my darling.’
Next morning, Callie tried to push Phee’s letter to the back of her mind. There would be time enough to reply when things were on a sounder footing, and she would insist that the bill be
paid from her allowance somehow.
Hassan was sent to the open market for fresh vegetables and spices. Callie took a gharry to Lappas grocery store for the rest of her ingredients and treated herself to fresh flowers. Then she
trailed round looking for a suitable frock, but found a silk two-piece pant and loose oriental kaftan top, which she thought daring and very modern. There would be time for a bath and to restyle
her hair in a loose chignon with a flower behind her ear while the
poulet aux fines herbes
was simmering. She also bought a delicate
tarte aux pruneaux
from Groppi, the famous
patisserie. Countess van Grooten herself would be proud of the dining-table arrangements. It was such fun being a hostess that Callie almost forgot about Toby’s cheating on his bill.
Phee’s letter had ‘I told you so’ written between the lines.
Her mother wouldn’t understand the vagaries of business, the expensive dinners necessary to garner clients. At least now she knew she would keep a good eye on their spending. Tonight was
the exception and she looked forward to meeting new couples, making friends and supporting Toby in everything he did to make their life out here a success.
Now everything was ready, the house sparkled, Hassan was wearing a smart new tunic and Callie poured herself the first drink of the evening to steady her nerves. Would they like what she had
cooked? She mustn’t let her husband down.
She had drunk her gin, and no one had yet arrived. She waited and waited as the clock ticked long past the appointed hour, but still no one came. Her nerves had now been replaced by worry, and
she paced the room, wondering what she should do.
Toby was late, very late, and she feared the worst. Eventually, with a rush of relief, she heard his car door slam. There were noises in the hall and in he fell with two very drunk young men,
who leered up at her with interest.
‘You sly devil, where’ve you been hiding her away?’ said one, eyeing her with interest.
‘Darling, sorry we’re a bit late . . . took a detour onto a houseboat club . . . just for a snifter. Time just flew by . . . it all smells delicious.’
Callie tried to stay calm; the perfect hostess never shows her fury. ‘The casserole is almost dry. Hassan will serve it now before it’s ruined.’ She pointed to the dining room,
trying not to shake. ‘Toby, where are the wives?’ she whispered. ‘I’ve set for eight . . .’
‘Sorry, darling, no wives this time, Ollie and Pinky haven’t caught any yet, but I’ve rich pickings here,’ he whispered back. ‘Be nice to them, old girl.’ His
speech was slurred and, when they passed her, Ollie managed to slide his hand down her thigh. Pinky saw the hors d’oeuvres, turned green and dashed for the bathroom to be sick. After that, he
sat slumped, unable to eat anything but managed to knock her new china plates onto the tiled floor.
No one ate much nor had any conversation. They sat drinking whisky, then fell asleep on the sofa. Callie couldn’t wait to see the back of them as they staggered into a gharry to be taken
home in the small hours.