The Lost Letter from Morocco

Omar picks up Addy’s suitcase and slings the black nylon tripod bag and the brown leather overnight bag over his shoulder. The wine bottles clink and Addy winces.

‘Who’s Amine?’

‘It’s my nephew.’ Mohammed opens the blue door, waving them to enter. ‘He work in my restaurant. He serve you the lunch today.’

‘Oh, yes. He seemed very nice, although Omar ran him off his feet.’

Mohammed furrows his forehead and asks Omar something in Tamazight. Omar shrugs.

‘Excuse me, madame. Amine still have his feet.’

Addy laughs as she swings the camera bag over her shoulder. ‘I mean Omar kept him busy. Ran him off his feet is just an expression.’

Mohammed nods. ‘I run Amine off his feet every day. It’s good to learn English well.’

Addy stands on the veranda and waves at the two men as they trek down the gravel path towards the village. Golden light from the waning sun falls across the sides of the mountains. Somewhere in the village a dog barks. A clatter of metal against metal. Sharp feedback from a microphone slices through the stillness. ‘Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.’ The amplified voice of the village’s muezzin echoes around the valley as he recites the call to prayer: God is great. Addy listens until the last words dissipate on the cooling air.

The night is drawing in fast. The sun has turned fat and orange, and streaks of red splay across the darkening sky. She wanders back into the house. The large whitewashed living room is furnished with low, round wooden tables. Banquettes strewn with colourful striped cushions line two of the walls and pierced tin lanterns hang from the beamed ceiling. A thick white wool rug marked with crossed black diamonds covers the polished grey concrete floor.

She enters the larger of the two cool white bedrooms. The solid wooden bed is draped in a blue-and-green striped bedcover and a filmy white mosquito net bunches on the floor around the bed. Addy opens her overnight bag and pulls out a plastic duty-free bag. She unwraps the two bottles of white wine. Good French Chablis. Luckily screw top.

In a kitchen cupboard Addy finds a water glass and pours out a generous serving. She kicks off her sandals and crosses the cool concrete leading out to the veranda. She feels like a butterfly shrugging off its chrysalis. Free of London. Free of Philippa. Free of Nigel. Free of cancer. The scar on her left breast throbs and she touches the coin-sized divot in her flesh.

She leans against a stone pillar and gazes out over the branches of the olive trees towards the mountains. What’s she going to do about Omar? She’d be an idiot to get involved with him. She was probably just one of a slew of women he’s charmed over the years. Yes, it would be diverting. Fun. But she had too much to do and only three months to do it in. A fling isn’t what she’s come here for. No, she has to nip that in the bud. She takes a sip of wine and watches the sun set.

Chapter Eight (#ulink_55c2b0a5-5a5d-5039-b8f0-483957326aa1)

Zitoune, Morocco – April 2009

‘Philippa?’

‘Addy. Wait. I’m reading my online Tarot cards.’

Addy tucks her phone under her chin. She props her bare feet on the wooden table, careful not to knock off the stack of research notes.

‘How’s the job going for that banker couple in Fulham, Pips?’

‘Don’t get me bloody started. They’ve gone and bought sofas from the Ugly Sofa Company. They’re covered with that leatherette rubbish that takes your skin off when you sit on it. Burgundy. When was burgundy ever fashionable? I’ll tell you when. Never. Bloody humungous things. What in the name of Nicky Haslam am I supposed to do with those?’

‘Maybe call it tongue–in-cheek chic.’

‘Oh, ha ha. That’d be my career down the loo. I swear this interior design rubbish isn’t getting any easier. Damn. The Tower card. That’s not good. Probably something to do with the Russians. How is everything, anyway? You’re still alive at least.’

Addy lets the cell phone slip from under her chin into her hand. ‘Still alive. The Internet’s finally working. Well, mostly working. I’ve had to get a dongle thingy. The water supply’s a bit iffy, so I’ve been washing with bottled water for the past two days. There’s nothing on TV except reruns of Desperate Housewives in Arabic and Turkish soap operas, so that’s not a distraction. I’ve managed to stock up on some food from the local market and I’ve still got a bottle of wine from duty-free. So, aside from desperately needing a shower, I’m fine.’

‘Good. Good.’

Addy sifts through the stack of research notes and slides out the Polaroid of Gus and Hanane that she’s tucked into his unfinished letter. She examines Gus’s face.

‘Pippa, do you remember when Dad spent those two years working for the oil company down in Nigeria?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Are you listening?’

‘What? Nigeria? Yes, yes. Sorry, I’m just trying to remember what the Three of Swords means. I’d just married Alessandro, more fool me. Dad stopped by London on his way back to Canada to wish us well. Too little too late if you ask me.’

‘What was he like when you saw him in London? Did he seem happy?’

‘How am I supposed to remember that? I can barely remember my phone number.’ Philippa sighs heavily into the phone. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘Nothing. He was away so much when I was growing up. Just trying to fill in the dots.’

‘Well, he wasn’t all that keen on Alessandro, I can tell you. Maybe I should’ve taken the hint. They argued a lot. Dad was very touchy. I remember that. Our father fancied himself as some kind of bloody adventurer. He loved to say he had gypsy blood. I honestly don’t know why he ever married your mother. She was such a little homebody.’

Addy grimaces. ‘You know what they say. Opposites attract.’

Her pretty red-haired mother, Hazel, packing a suitcase for Addy’s peripatetic father. One of Addy’s strongest memories of her mother. The big, old Victorian house on the Vancouver Island shore that was never enough for him. Hazel and Addy were never enough for him, even though Addy had tried hard to be Daddy’s girl when he was home. Digging in the spring bulbs with him in the autumn, sitting with him watching for the black triangles of the orcas’ dorsal fins skimming along the surface of the Strait through the telescope he’d set up on the veranda. He’d promise that he’d stay. But then the suitcase would come out and he’d be gone again. Another postcard to add to her collection.

Addy swings her legs off the table and slides her feet into her new turquoise leather babouches.

‘I found some old photos Dad took in Morocco in the stuff you gave me. He must have spent some time here after Nigeria. Lots of pictures of donkeys, monkeys, mosques, palm trees, camels, that kind of thing. I’m using them as inspiration for the travel book. Following in Dad’s footsteps. It’s a nice hook, don’t you think?’

‘You live in the clouds. You’re going to end up broke again. You’re just like your father.’

‘Your father, too.’

‘Ha! The closest I had to a father was Grandfather’s valet.’

Addy stares at her father’s smiling face in the Polaroid. At least she’d had a doting mother until she was thirteen, and a loving, if often absent, father. Philippa had had a huge stately home to rattle around in, but only Essie’s elderly father and a handful of servants for company when she wasn’t away at boarding school. A runaway father and a drug-addled mother. It explained a few things.

‘Didn’t he write you? Call you?’

‘It’s not the same thing, Addy.’

Addy folds the blue letter around the Polaroid and slides it under the pile of papers.

‘Anyway, I’ve finished the book outline and plotted out the places I need to photograph based on Dad’s photos. Marrakech, a fishing village called Essaouira, Casablanca, the desert.’

‘Desert? Which desert?’

‘The Sahara.’

‘Is that where the Sahara desert is?’

Addy rolls her eyes. The line goes silent.

‘What card did you just turn over?’