Engaged To The Doctor Sheikh

‘But what is it all? You must tell me,’ she said, moving around the table to see each dish more clearly. ‘Olives I know, although the pink ones are different. And the little white balls—cheeses? Hallie, my foster mother, made labneh—cheese from yoghurt—but it was a little dull.’

But there was tension beneath the flow of words, and Tariq realised that the young woman had been hit by so much information and so many new and emotional experiences in the few hours since she’d arrived that she was running on adrenalin.

‘Sit,’ he ordered, and tired as he was he stood up, selected a brightly patterned plate and began to place an array of small delicacies on it.

He handed it to her, laid a napkin on her knee and said, ‘Try a little of each. You’ll soon learn what you like and what you don’t. And I’m sure you’ll recognise tastes you’re familiar with, though they may be delivered differently.’

She took the plate from him and looked up into his face.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, simply, her dark eyes smiling now, the lips he’d seen behind his eyelids curving slightly.

He definitely should have taken her to the apartment at the hospital!

CHAPTER THREE (#u9a1fc234-ad9c-5a35-a103-e936184e1400)

LILA WATCHED HER HOST, pouring cool lemon drinks into tall glasses.

‘Can you tell me about my mother?’ she asked, when he finally settled back in a fat-cushioned cane chair. ‘Well, about Nalini, who might be my mother?’

He hesitated, tipped his head to one side as if the question might be better seen from another angle, then finally replied, ‘What would you like to know?’

‘What would I like to know?’ she demanded. ‘Everything, of course.’

He smiled.

‘Tall order for over lunch,’ he said, still obviously hesitant.

‘Well, anything at all,’ Lila suggested. ‘What made you think I was related to her? Something must have, as you said her name.’

Another smile, small but there—a reminiscent smile...

‘You are very like her, not only in looks but in some of your mannerisms, or movements, something I cannot explain, although I could see it when I looked at you.’

Lila felt the words drop into the empty space inside her. They didn’t fill the space, of course, but it did feel a little less empty.

‘But who was she?’ And why do you think she stole the Ta’wiz?’

No smile this time.

‘Nalini was my father’s second wife’s sister, if you can follow that. To make it more complicated, in Karuba we talk about the wives as mothers, so my mother—my father’s first wife—is First Mother, while Nalini’s sister is Second Mother. Nalini was the younger sister and she came to live in the palace as Second Mother’s companion. And, truthfully, when she arrived it was if a light had been switched on, and all the old shadows in the palace disappeared, bringing the place back to life because she was such fun.’

He paused and Lila knew he was back in that time, seeing pictures in his head.

‘We loved her, all of us,’ he added simply.

‘So why would she leave? And why would you think her a thief?’

He shrugged.

‘I was a child so I cannot answer that for you. You must realise that the theft—and Nalini’s link to it—brought shame to Second Mother and she never forgave her sister for that. You will hear many stories and not all of them will be good ones, so you will have to sift them through for yourself. One of them, perhaps it was true, was that my father had arranged a marriage for her and she didn’t wish to marry whoever it was—didn’t want to be forced into an arranged marriage. This would have angered my father, and infuriated Second Mother, who was jealous of her sister’s popularity and would have been pleased to see her go. But I can tell you that Nalini was beautiful, and she brought joy to many people.’

Again that hesitation, then he added, ‘I was eight, and I loved her.’

Lila closed her eyes, trying to picture her mother—to picture the man beside her as a child. She tucked the words ‘beautiful’ and ‘joy’ into the empty space and accepted that she’d hear little more from this man now.

Some other time she’d ask again, but in the meantime, living here in what he’d called the women’s house, she did not doubt she’d hear the other stories he’d spoken of.

Not all of them would be good, he’d also said, but maybe they would help her put together a picture of the woman who’d become her mother.

In the meantime...

Should she ask?

But how else to find out?

‘And my father?’

He shook his head, as if sorry this conversation had begun. Not that a headshake was going to stop her.

She waited, her eyes on his face. He’d taken off his headscarf before meeting them in the arbour, and without it casting shadows on his face she could see the lines of weariness.

But doctors often looked like that...

‘We really don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘There was a lot of talk—speculation—but there was also the fact that she might have gone away on her own. No one knew.’

He bowed his head, as if suddenly overwhelmed by exhaustion.

‘I need to sleep,’ he said. ‘It was a long night.’

‘Is there a problem at the hospital?’ she asked. ‘When we video chatted, you seemed so positive. You sounded excited that things going well enough for you to begin the outreach programme you want to run.’

Dark eyes met hers—not dark dark, but with a greenish tinge, and framed by eyelashes most women would die for.

‘The hospital is working well, the outreach programme ready to begin, but...’

He looked so shattered it was all she could do not to reach out and touch him—to offer comfort.

‘It is my brother,’ he explained, his voice deepened by despair. ‘He’s been battling leukaemia for four years and just when we think it’s gone for good, he comes out of remission. He has had an autologous stem cell transplant and an allogenic one from me, and some other close members of his family, but there’s a kink...’

He paused then added, ‘There’s a kink—that’s a very unprofessional explanation but it’s how I think of it—just some slight difference in a chromosome that makes the sibling matches not quite right. I’ve been searching worldwide donor bases to see if I can find a match.’

Leukaemia, she knew, came in so many forms, so many sub-types and deviations and, as Tariq had said, there were many chromosomal differences that made both treatment and likely outcomes very difficult to predict.

‘How old is he?’ she asked, thinking that the younger a child was diagnosed, the more chance he had.

‘Eighteen now. He has been ill for three years—well, ill, then in remission, then ill again. You must know how it goes.’

Tariq’s voice told her of his despair and she knew he understood just how little chance his brother had of a full recovery.