When he awoke from the nightmare, his body was still in it, and his legs where were he’d left them, thrashing around under the sheet; somehow he forced himself up and staggered, naked, into the bathroom. He turned on the basin tap and threw water over his face. Then he turned, staring down at the toilet bowl as he peed. To his relief, he found everything was just about in working order. There was no pain, no blood. He blinked up at the mirror above him. Honestly, he thought, gazing into his haunted face, is this still you, old boy?
Half an hour later, he was in the foyer, in his favourite blue suit, walking towards reception, where he’d been told his clients were waiting, when he saw her walking across his path.
Was she real, or a figment of his imagination? Perhaps a bit of both. She was not much more than thirty-five. Caucasian, but not, he thought, American, and yet there was a candour in her that he found like our friend electric. Suddenly, the tightness in his chest seemed to ease. Listen up, old boy, he told himself, as he hailed his clients in their white robes. You still have it. You can cheat the nightmare.
The cool of the air conditioning hit her as she pushed through the revolving doors.
The foyer was abuzz; slot machines pinged and jittered. And Felicia could sense, with keening relish, the tables filling up with black jackers, poker faces and patsies.
It took Felicia a moment to navigate the complexity of corridors, alcoves and secondary lounges of the Felucca Ride. A pretty young woman in the uniform of the hotel, red shorts and white jacket, Chanel cut, swept by bearing two strawberry daquiris.
A man, who was coming out of the elevator, turned around to gape as she sped off on her skates and bumped into Felicia.
“Excuse me,” said the man, “how unpardonably remiss of me.”
“I am sure,” said Felicia, without missing a beat, “you were looking forward to the daquiri.”
Felicia could not restrain a smile as she slipped past the man, who was looking – she noted – very pukka in a blue suit and suede loafers, into the elevator. She was still smiling as she opened the door to her room.
Surely it couldn’t be her Omar Sharif. What was he doing in her den of iniquity? Had he come back to life? – Or was her imagination playing tricks on her? On second thoughts, perhaps I could ask him for a game of bridge.
With a feeling of mounting excitement, Felicia showered and changed into her black trouser suit. Then she reached under the bed for her heels. If they were bad for her posture, they were good for her self-esteem.
She was still feeling the extra height as she strutted over to reception.
“Good evening, Madamoiselle Portman. – This came for you in the post.”
Felicia turned over the postcard.
It was from Mary.
“Darling, she read, “When are you coming to visit? We do miss you at the cricket…”
To tell the truth, the Oxford Parks seemed a thousand miles away, and as many nights.
Felicia bought some chips and put them, along with the postcard, into her little black mother of pearl handbag. Then she went in search of a game.
Felicia sat down at a table and pushed her chips towards the croupier.
“Place your bets… Mesdames… Messieurs?”
And there he was, sitting opposite her, her Omar Sharif in her blue shirt. He smiled as she clocked his presence and placed his chips on the table.
“Miss Portman. Can I get you another daquiri?” said the waiter
“Absolutely, and one for my friend, Omar Sharif,” she said.
Her favourite actor gave her the winning smile.
“I cannot imagine you as Felicia,” he said. “You’re Cleo.”
“Are you always in the habit of redefining your female companions?”
“If you must know, it’s your hair. Your hair is far more Cleo than Felicia.”
She laughed. “Now you’re being silly.”
“Sorry it’s a little bugbear of mine,” he said. “Underneath it all, however, I am quite serious.”
He looked at her meaningfully.
She could not imagine how they had ended up here – in the bar, which was a little annex with plants hanging down as if they really were in one of those typical inner courtyards so typical of western fantasies of the east. And he had started breathing all over her, but it was not unpleasant.
“Stop it!” she said, laughing.
“What’s the matter?”
“Come on,” she said before he could look away. “Let’s go back to the casino.”
“Now tell me,” he said, as they sat down at the roulette table, “what colour should I put it on? – Red or black. It’s your choice.”
“Red,” she said. “Red is my favourite colour.”
He smiled.
“Red it is.”
“That’s mad,” she said, as the chips came in. “How did you do that?”
“Simple,” he said. “It was a numerical calculation based on your name.”
Over the next three hours, they gambled the money away. But it did not matter. Cleo had already got the bug.
“Felicia.”
“Cleo.”
She laughed. “What now?”
“We must decide whether to do it again.”
“Haven’t we won enough this evening?”
“Quite enough, I think.
“Then let’s go back to the hotel.”
Felicia awoke the next morning full of gambler’s optimism. She was looking forward to the day ahead. Omar had been such a find. He could definitely be her ticket out of here. Not that she really wanted to leave. There were so many upsides to Vegas. And, besides, it was better to leave of one’s own accord.
As was her habit, Felicia put on her swimming costume and robe and headed for the pool.
She chose a lounger near the fountain of the Sphinx, dropped her robe and dived in. She swam the first length with a breaststroke, took the second with a faster crawl and stopped half way through her backstroke on the third to look up at the sky. Swimming had always been her way of forgetting the world and resetting herself. It was always hot in Vegas, and Felicia loved the dry heat. It was the heat of dreams.
It wasn’t, however, until she climbed out of the pool, the world came back to her.
Harry Santoro sat two loungers away. Grey suit. Trilby. Smoking a Camel Light. Fake Rolex glinting in the sunlight like one gold cap too many. The cartoon sleazeball.
Felicia’s heart skipped a beat. She was immediately on the front foot.
“Jesus, Harry, you look like something out of a seventies TV series. One where you can only see everything in spick colour.”
“Good morning, Felicia.”
“What are you doing here so early?”
“Came to watch my investment.”
“Why, you own the Ride?”
“Don’t think so…”
Santoro brushed some ash off his drainpipes and drew on his cigarette.
“I own a piece of your ass, though.”
“You do not own a piece of me, and especially not my ass, as you put it so indelicately.”
“You owe me money, Felicia. Until it’s paid, I own you. Obligatio sum as the Romans used to say.”
“Oh, is that your idea of sophistication? Did a priest teach you that in the confession box? What was he doing to you at the time? And what would your mother say if she saw you in that cheap suit?”
“Leave my mother out of it. Anyway, this was seven ninety-nine at Sears.”
“Gentlemen buy their suits on Saville Row in London.”
“Never been to London.”
“Tell you what, Harry. I’ll take you shopping for a suit in London, and we’ll call it quits.”
“Think you owe me rather more than that.”
Felicia rose on her haunches and strutted past him – flicking water at him from her still wet limbs.
“In your dreams, Harry. In your dreams.”
Waiting for the elevator, Felicia examined herself in the mirror. The dress really was a perfect fit, and the measurements he’d given the shop were exact. This really was progress. How was she going to take things to the next stage? What indeed was the next stage? – Oh, God, Felicia, stop getting ahead of yourself!
She need not have worried. As she entered the bar, Omar threw up his hand and waved her over.
“And this,” he said, turning to two gentlemen in white robes, “is my dear good friend, Cleo.”
“Enchanted to meet you, Cleo,” flashed the two gentlemen in white robes.
“Gentlemen,” Cleo flashed back.
Drinks were ordered.
Glasses clinked.
And Felicia smiled.
She would continue to smile.
Everything was going like a dream. A moment, she thought, to zone out and savour the champagne.
“And what do you do, Cleo? Are you a CEO?”
“Of course, darling, I am actually the CEO. Aren’t we all?”
“Personally, I prefer being the chairman,” said the older man in white robes.
“I’ve tried being the chairman,” she rejoindered, “but there’s too much sitting down.”
“Actually, in my company, I’m the standing up chairman. Do you ride?”
“Only limousines these days.”
Omar chimed in:
“I should add, Felicia, my friend, Mr. Saad has one of the finest collections of Arab horses in the world.”
“Oh, really? – I haven’t ridden properly since boarding school.”
“Really, where did you board?”
“Rodean, darling. Where else?”
Felicia went back to her old favourite. “That’s the one in East Sussex, England.”
Omar laughed and so did the two gentlemen in white robes.
“I’ve never had the pleasure of visiting your old school,” said the one called Ali. “However, you are a charming tribute to its high standards.”
Felicia could not help it; she was always a sucker for these High Society Arab types, and she found herself turning a shade of red.
“Thank you,” she said. Then glanced across at Omar, who suddenly appeared annoyed by Ali’s advances.
She must be careful to play her cards right. That did not mean putting everything on red.
She need not have worried, however. The meal went off without a hitch. She made sure – in spite of their insistence – to refuse the dessert. “No, thank you,” she said. “It interferes with my triathlon training.”
To ram the point home, as she said goodnight by the elevator, she gave Omar’s thigh a light squeeze.
Until the previous day, Felicia had not ventured into the Golden Souk. Omar’s gift of the dress now inspired her to explore the Souk and see what else she could persuade him to invest in. She was admiring some leather trophies of the Milanese variety when she heard a voice behind her:
“Whose account are you buying those off, baby?”
She turned on Santoro, angrily:
“Don’t call me baby!”
“Ok, then, sweetheart… we can always lend you some more money if you find one you really like.”
“I’m bitterly regretting having anything to do with you, Harry.”
“Can’t say the same, sweetheart. The pleasure is all mine.”
Santoro looked at one of the tags on one of the trophies and whistled.
“Three thousand dollars, sweetheart.”
Felicia shrugged:
“Still wouldn’t buy a suit on Saville Row. What do you want now?”
“Listen, Felicia, I wanna talk to you about those Arab boys you were with last night.”
“What Arab boys?”
“The ones with you and Omar.”
“Who’s Omar?”
Felicia’s heart missed a beat. How the fuck did he know about Omar?
Santoro tapped his nose.
“Got my sources.”
“Your sources don’t know shit. All they know how to do is put the ketchup on the plate.”
The witticism was completely lost on Santoro, who added:
“There was four of you. You, Omar, Ali and the other guy. You was having a dinner, and I happen to know you skipped dessert. I approve, by the way, of you watching those calories.”
Felicia was indignant:
“Why the fuck are you spying on me?”
Santoro smiled.
“I told you,” he said. “I’m looking after my investment. You can get free of your debt if you play your cards right.”
“I will get free of my debt, but firstly I need get free of you.”
Danny Feinstein was on the phone.
“Hi, Omar, how are you doing?”
“Daniel, how lovely to hear from you. – How are you getting on?”
“Well, we’ve got a few more investors on board. But we still need the big one. How’s things with Mr. Saad and Mohammed Ali?”
“Good, they came in yesterday. We had a very successful dinner last night. In fact, Mr. Saad likes the hotel so much he wants to build a copy back home.”
“Listen, Omar. I know the hotel people are going to love you for bringing them over here, but how are we going to get them focussed on our energy deal?”
“Patience, patience, Daniel. A game of bridge is never won in the first rubber.”
“Never mind bridge. When are you bringing them down to see us?”
“I’m going to bring them down to see you, Daniel, when the time is right to invest. You must be patient. Your people might be able to conduct a war in six days, but this is going to take a little longer.”
“Listen, Omar, we need to get them down here. When do you think you can do that?”
“I’m glad you ask me, Daniel. I have the most charming companion who is already helping me. She’s called Cleopatra, would you believe, and she’s going to become the Queen of Egypt.”
“You’re fucking kidding me, Omar. Is this someone else I have to cut in on the deal?”
“No, no. I will take care of her. But she is the key to getting this investment.”
“Can you not do this on your own? – I don’t like more people being involved.”
“Daniel, as your father used to say, this is my plan. I can get them down to see you, and she will help me get further investment to take the project into the Middle East.”
Danny did not sound that impressed. In fact, he wasn’t.
“Omar, are you really focussed on this, or are you just playing by the pool?”
“Daniel, there is an art to human persuasion. If playing by the pool is what it takes, that is what I will do. But personally, I know with Cleopatra by my side I can take you all the way down to the Nile.”
If the eternal conflict between Arab and Jew seems a little heated, it is perhaps worth noting that Omar was actually Daniel’s godfather – indeed, the Egyptian Godfather, even though he was actually Lebanese. No dream-coat needed – their families’ friendship forged over a generation had overcome the barriers and created a strange intimacy from which their conversational barbs bounced harmlessly onto confused bystanders.
Felicia was worried, or rather she was worried that Omar was worried. And if Omar was worried, she was worried Omar wasn’t worrying about her, which worried her. Anyway, he hadn’t been his normal jovial self when he called. Something was definitely up, which was worrying.
She’d slipped into a pair of jeans to try and make things a little more informal, but as she checked herself on the way out of the room, she could feel she was still at the top of her game. And it didn’t matter her hair wasn’t quite as she would have liked it. She felt good, and so she was no longer worried.
When she reached the lobby, they told her Omar was in one of the cafes in the Souk. Now she was nervous he would want to share a hookah. As it turned out, it was even worse than that. He’d ordered her coffee.
“Isn’t it a bit close to lunch for coffee?”
Omar smiled faintly.
“I have something I want to discuss with you.”
Felicia’s stomach churned. She began to wonder if Santoro had spilled the beans.
Omar put his hand on hers. She was suddenly quite worried about him again.
“What’s wrong?”
“Cleo,” he said, “I don’t have much time to talk, but I need your help. You know my friends, Ali and Mr. Saad we had dinner with the other night. I’m hosting them on their trip to Las Vegas. For them it is fun, but for me it’s business.”
Omar explained the deal.
“For me there is a most important project they must invest in. If this project is successful, we will take it back to my home in Egypt, and it will help my country.”
“Omar, forgive me, but I don’t want to pry into your business. I don’t see how I can help.”
“Ah, but you can, my dear… Remember what I said. This trip is fun for them, and they were completely enchanted by you at dinner.”
Felicia was indignant.
“What are you suggesting, Omar?”
“My dear, they loved your company, and I would like you to help me accompany them for the remainder of the trip.”
“That’s lovely, Omar. However, as you know, I’m the CEO, and I have a very busy life.”
Omar sighed painfully, and, therefore, as far as Felicia was concerned, promisingly.
Now she was no longer worried.
“What would you need to interrupt your schedule?” he said.
Things were really going according to plan. Omar was now firmly in Felicia’s pocket. They’d moved from the café and coffee to the oyster bar and champagne. Omar had laid out his offer; Felicia had been picking round the edges of it over her olives. On the one hand, she could not believe her luck. On the other hand, she didn’t want to be too keen in case the offer became less generous. The secret of the gift horse was to ride it away before someone else does. But, as Mary would have observed, she should have known the oyster bar was an indulgence, and she should have sealed the deal straight away.
These things are not always obvious in life, but they became very obvious to Felicia when Harry Santoro walked over to their table.
“Felicia, how lovely to see you!”
Felicia rose to try and fend him off, but Santoro grabbed her arm and kissed her on both cheeks.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me?”
Felicia wanted to kick him in the shins, but her carefully faked private-school etiquette kicked in.
“I’m sorry, Omar. – Harry, we were just having a private meeting.”
“Well, don’t mind me.”
But Felicia was as firm as if she was on the playing fields of Rodean with a hockey stick.
“Lovely to see you, Harry. I’ll catch up with you later.”
She turned quite deliberately away from him and looked at Omar.
Santoro was not so easily dissuaded.
He stood there for what seemed like an eternity until Felicia found the oyster on her plate and resumed eating.
Omar studied her intently, but he did not say anything, even when Santoro the gooseberry slunk off into the fruit bar.
Omar sipped his champagne.
He put the glass down on the table. Then he looked up again at Felicia.
The game had now changed.
“Who was that?”
“Somebody I know.”
“Is he a boyfriend?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Someone you do business with?”
Felicia was not quick enough to reply. Her brain was whirring furiously.
“Do you owe him money?”
Felicia flushed and sat back in her chair.
“So that’s it,” he said. “Now I understand. You need this deal as much as I do.”
Omar had organised for them to go Spago’s at the Bellagio – the pretty hotel from Ocean’s Eleven. You know the one with those all those Hollywood stars: Clooney with his hair for ever hen-speckled grey; Brad Pitt wandering around with a lollipop in his mouth and old Elliott Gould making it better just by being there, much like Omar now. He’d asked Felicia to find something to ride in. Felicia loved a pair of jodhpurs almost as much I do, and, it turned out, Ali who had insisted on going with her to choose the gear.
After the store they had gone for cocktails in the lounge where Ali confessed that he didn’t like riding other people horses.
“I will only ride my horse, Philip,” he declared.
“Why do you call him that?”
“I named after one of the Pharaohs, of course.”
Felicia suddenly saw her window of opportunity.
“Why don’t we do something else tomorrow?”
Ali beamed.
“What do you have in mind?”
“What would you do if you were here on your own?”
“Easy Rider. I’d rent a motorcycle and ride into the sunset.”
“I’ve never been on a motorbike before,” she lied.
“That’s settled then. I’ll rent a Harley and we’ll get some leathers.”
Which is precisely what they did, much to Omar’s chagrin when she told him over breakfast the next morning.
“You’re not coming to the ranch then?”
“No,” she said. “That’s not Ali’s thing. Frankly, that’s not mine either.”
“We had a deal. We shook hands. Why are you working against me?”
“Just because we had a deal, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t use my better judgment.”
“I thought I told you. He’s the junior partner, not the decision maker.”
“Mr. Saad relies on him, otherwise he would not have brought him with him. Besides, Ali is the one who will put the deal together.”
“I don’t agree with you. Mr. Saad looks a soft touch, he is anything but. In fact, I know for a fact that he was looking forward to ride with you.”
“I will make it up to him later. Besides a little jealousy goes a long way.”
Felicia rose to go, but Omar put his hand on her arm.
“You can’t leave me with Mr. Saad. It could be very embarrassing.”
“Relax. It’ll all work out. You’ll see.”
Before they left, Ali accidently persuaded Felicia to buy a pair of cowboy boots. They were a piebald of red and white, and they had the stars and stripes on the side. Felicia loved them, and she felt a million and one dollars when she put them on. In her enthusiasm she kissed him on the cheek and then had to check herself when she realised what she had done.
“Shall we go?” she said. “I can’t wait to get on the Harley in these.”
A man pulled up at the hotel on the Harley. He got off and took two helmets out of the panier and handed Ali the keys to the bike and a wadge of paperwork.
The bike posed all chrome and muscles by the sidewalk. When Ali turned the bike over, Felicia jumped and got a little thrill.
“Get on.”
They roared down the Strip past the garish signs and mock images on the fronts of each hotel. Vegas was an illusion even unto itself.
Felicia did not really like wearing the helmet. But as the wind caught up with them, she could feel Ali’s muscular body as she put her arms around his waist.
They ducked and weaved through the traffic and the heat of the desert.
“Where are we going?” she shouted on the intercom.
“Hoover Dam.”
Felicia was impressed. They did the tour, took photos and selfies. One accidentally had them brushing cheeks, but she passed it off with her customary aplomb instilled as she once told me down the corridors of her secondary modern.
“Golly!”, she cried, leaning over the balustrade and staring into the gorge. “Isn’t it deep?”
She thought of all the people working on the dam back in the nineteen thirties. All those poor immigrants and desperately hungry people, caught up in the dust bowl of the depression. And didn’t like the thought of it.
On the way back they stopped at a diner and ordered burgers.
“Not quite as glamorous as Vegas restaurants.”
“But much more American,” said Ali.
“Have you been to America much?”
“Quite a lot,” he said. “I studied here.”
“Where did you study?”
“Georgetown. I did my first law degree there.”
“How long have you been working with Mr. Saad?”
“Our families have done business for generations. I help him out with US based deals as they always need pages of legal work.”
Felicia, who was now on edge, realised Ali was pretty smart. Much too smart to be fooled by her usual brand of simpering and manufactured charm.
“And there was I thinking you were just here for fun.”
“No. I’ve come to check out this Renewables Project. What do you know about it?”
“Oh, look,” she said, “that’s really Omar’s baby, not mine. I’m just here to support him.”
“How long have you known Omar?”
“Omar and I go way back. He’s helped me out so many times, and I return the favour when I can. Much like you and Mr. Saad.”
Felicia knew she was on dangerous ground, but her instinct in such situations was to press the accelerator.
She leaned forward and grabbed his hand.
“Our best projects are sadly under NDAs. Real estate, telecoms and a little bit of technology. And that’s how it was until we discovered renewables.”
“Tell me more,” said Ali. “What’s so good about renewables?”
Felicia wished she’d brought her notes, or could remember a talk she’d been to on wind farms in the dim and distant when she was still a little green.
“Ali, darling,” she said, simpering. “I’m not going to spoil the surprise. Come with us on Thursday, and all will be revealed.”
Felicia told Omar to meet her by the pool. She was hot from the ride on the Harley, and, anyway, there was slightly less chance of bumping into Harry.
When Omar materialised in his blue trunks and little white belt, she was surprised because he seemed to be in a sombre mood. When she tried to pick him up with a friendly greeting, he grunted and flopped on a lounger, so Felicia set off and did some lengths of the pool.
Let him stew, she thought.
Eventually, she climbed out, picked up a towel and went to sit next to him.
“Cat got your tongue.”
“You should have come with us today.”
His tone was reproachful, but Felicia fully intended to breeze it out.
“Why?”
“Mr. Saad was lost without you.”
“No,” she said. “Mr. Saad was lost without Ali. That is the problem.”
“Ali is of no importance.”
“That is where you’re wrong. I have discovered Ali is the lynchpin.”
Omar stopped in his well-grooved tracks.
“What makes you think that?”
“Two reasons. He has two lawyer degrees. And he told me Mr. Saad always uses him to do due diligence in the US.”
Omar shrugged.
“Really… I thought he was just a bag carrier.”
“You must see, Omar. Even if Mr. Saad is the ultimate decision maker, you can’t always look to the older generation.”
“Listen, you young Turks might think you know everything, but trust me, you don’t.”
Omar’s heckles were suddenly up. The last thing Felicia wanted was to tap dance on his ego.
“Let me tell you the good news. They’re coming on Thursday.”
“In that case,” he said. “I must be reassured. I can take a swim, and then play by the pool properly.”
Despite the quip about his age, Omar was in fact rather fit.
Felicia admired his elegant stroke as he rose out of the water and his shoulder muscles rippled. And what’s more, he still had the sculpted torso of a younger man. If there was a hint of flab, it was the kind of flab you wanted to pinch in admiration for the way in which he had managed, over the years, to keep it from spreading.
As they trod water down the other end of the pool, some kids came by on a rubber duck. Omar called out:
“Careful!”
Felicia ducked under the rubber duck. She came up just that little closer to him, and their legs brushed for a second.
“What time are we meeting Daniel?”
“I think we’ll go down for eleven. Maybe we’ll take the helicopter. We could drive, but if we have to come back here, it’s too far.”
“Where is it exactly?”
“The Mojave Desert. I have the details upstairs.”
Felicia dropped down under the water. As she came up for air, she heard a familiar voice that threw her off her game.
“Hey, Felicia!”
There was Harry, legs astride an inflatable shark. He had his ray-bans on and a drink in his hand.
“Sweetheart, I was wondering when I was going to catch up with you again.”
Harry smiled through his teeth.
They were not quite shark’s teeth.
“Let me get you both a drink before you go out to the Mojave Desert. It’s pretty dry out there.”
Omar was enjoying her discomfort.
“Lovely to see you, Harry. I’ll have a Manhattan.”
Felicia rolled her eyes.
“Very well, Harry. I’ll have a daquiri.”
Harry paddled over to the side of the pool to call a waiter.
“Quick,” said Felicia. “Now’s our chance.”
She started swimming back up the other end of the pool.
“What’s the hurry, Felicia?” said Omar. “I think we should stay and listen.”
“Trust me,” she said. “I’ve listened to everything he has to say. It’s not worth staying for.”
Felicia felt Ali and Daniel squaring up, like two prancing scorpions, from the get go. Ali had both his claws and pincers out as if he was searching the spot to apply the sting. Daniel, however, had managed to rein himself in for most of the presentation when Ali’s incessant needling set him off.
“Where did you say you went to college? – Georgetown? For your first law degree? Anyway, who needs a law degree? – It might help if you have a math degree.”
“Where did you get your math degree from then?”
“MIT, where else?”
“That’s not a degree in math. That’s a degree in spying.”
“Listen, you’re visiting me and calling me a spy?”
“Of course, I’ve come to see whether you can legally call yourself a mathematician.”
Daniel was amused, but Felicia could tell – from the vein bulging on his conk – he wasn’t going to let it go.
“Listen, it might say maths on my resume, but what we’re all here for is to change the world for the better and make some money along the way. Just to be clear that’s not math, that’s my heritage. What does a degree from Georgetown say about your heritage?”
“It qualifies me to come over here and understand your investment terms.”
“Oh, please! It’s not just about the terms. Come and take a tour of the facility, and then you can make up your mind about the investment terms.”
If Felicia had been on edge during the Daniel- Ali exchange, Omar was able to put her at her ease. “Trust me,” he said as they toured the plant. “It’s always like this in these meetings. Besides, Ali and Daniel are cut from the same cloth. It’s just a part of normal business.”
In fact, the tour was quite impressive, and Felicia now felt confident to come back to Ali. “See,” she said, “now you know why we like renewables.”
To her surprise, however, it was not Ali who spoke up, but Mr. Saad.
“Daniel,” he said, “I have to say I am really impressed. However, one thing has been on my mind and that is the fact of your heritage. How many of the team are Jewish?”
“There are a quite a few of us, although we have a Ukrainian, several Indians, all with PHDs from Mumbai. But I am an American citizen, as are my colleagues.”
“Be that as it may, Daniel,” Mr. Saad said, keeping his serious face, “if we invest with you, I fully intend to take this technology back to Egypt. In which case, you can understand I may have a problem. Not that I personally have a problem, but there may be a problem of perception.”
“A problem of perception. What does that mean?”
“It’s not a tangible problem. But I am sure you understand it makes it that much harder to get things done.”
Felicia was beginning to feel anxious again, and wondering whether she should do something dramatic, and if so, what? But to her relief, Omar stepped in with his self-assurance and charm.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “As Daniel Feinstein knows, I come from the Lebanon, and we have a lot of experience of changing one perception to another. I know we can lose whatever we want in translation.”
Daniel’s pride caused him to bristle; at which point Omar put his hand on Daniel’s arm. “Patience, my friend,” he said. “You will be the peacemaker.”
Felicia thought they had concluded their visit successfully. However, as they all rose to leave, Omar put his hand on her arm and whispered in her ear:
“We’re staying behind.”
Hardly had the helicopter lifted off than a roadster sportscar pulled up noisily in the carpark.
Omar looked at his watch.
“Well, well, on the hour.”
As he spoke, a man in a pair of goggles jumped out of the roadster and hailed Omar.
“Hey, Mr Pharaoh, how you doin’?”
A hand went up in an ugly approximation of a salute when Felicia clocked Harry – struggling out of the roadster in a tangle of seatbelt and webbing straps.
Oh, God, she thought. How did he get in on the act?
Harry untangled himself and strutted towards them.
“Hey, Mr. P, long to time, no see!”
The boys shook hands warmly all round; inwardly Felicia was fuming. How could men be so obnoxious!
The Biggles character turned to her – his helmet flapping – and held out his hand airily:
“Hi, Felicia. I heard about you. I’m Eddy.”
As they shook hands, he gave her a sharp look.
Felicia’s heart was on the beat, but she would not back down and met his gaze full on.
“You look like Biggles.”
“I’m sorry. Who’s Biggles?”
“He’s a pilot from the First World War.”
“I like that,” he said. “I’m going to get me a bi-plane. Is there a Mrs Biggles?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t read the stories since I was a child.”
“That could be you! – Try mine.”
Felicia backed away from the rather smelly helmet that was proffered in her direction, but Biggles wasn’t put off.
“Tell you what. I’ll get you one. – Harry?”
“Yes, Mr T.”
“Put that down in the book. One flying helmet, Biggles style, and we’ll take that off the other column.”
Felicia was now seething with embarrassment and rage.
“Relax, honey. We’re all good.”
Then he turned to Omar and said:
“What do you say, Mr. P? Let’s go see the King of Israel.”
The meeting with Eddy and Daniel could not have been anymore different from the one with the Egyptians. Eddy asked Daniel a series of searching questions about the practicalities of each installation. Daniel licked his chops and waxed about the science. They began to eye each other with mutual respect, and Felicia had to admit to herself she had been wrong. Biggles may have landed on the wrong note, all crashing cymbals and French horns, but he was showing his worth. Nevertheless, she was still mad at Omar for going behind her back and playing her like a modern-day Marilyn. As for Harry, he was like a gooseberry at a party where there was no custard. And she definitely did not like gooseberry fool.
As the meeting wrapped up, Omar attempted to put his hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off and gave him one of her looks.
“Mrs. Biggles,” said Eddy. “I tell you what. I’ll take you back to the town in the roadster. Harry, you can go look after Omar. And entertain him them one of your Vegas stories.”
Omar laughed and said:
“I can entertain him with some of my Egyptian stories.”
“What do you say, Mrs Biggles. Did I ever tell you about the time I was growing in New Jersey and we ran over a feral pig? We thought it was dead, so we put it in the back of the pick-up. By the time he’d finished, the sonofabitch was in the front of the pick-up and going through the windshield.”
They high-tailed it back to the hotel – Biggles driving like Fast Eddie Felson, or whoever it was Paul Newman played in the movie of the book. Felicia decided to enjoy it, and enjoy it she did, in spite of herself, the noise and the heat, and her lingering annoyance at Omar.
“Well, Mrs Biggles, did you enjoy the ride?
But Felicia was no mood for small talk.
“I’ve had better rides on one trick ponies,” she said, turning away haughtily from his gaze, and walked through to reception to collect her room pass.
When, showered and refreshed, she met Omar later in the lobby, she felt cool and collected.
“You are a complete bastard,” she said, getting straight to the point of outrage. “How could you do that? – More to the point, how could you do that without telling me?”
“Do what?”
“You know perfectly well what you were doing. You went behind my back, like one of my bitchiest girlfriends would. Honestly, I thought you were a gentleman, not someone who thought he could buy me with this evening dress.”
Omar was unruffled.
“Felicia,” he said, raising his eyebrows, “I think we need to calm down here. You and I agreed to work together to close this investment, did we not? – And I fully intend to hold to my side of the bargain.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like that from where I’m standing. In fact, it looks as though I’m being brushed aside.”
“If I wanted to brush you aside, I wouldn’t have made you stay for the second meeting.”
“I thought I told you about Harry. He’s really not a reliable person.”
“I spoke to Harry the other night. We had a very good conversation, and I could see there was an opportunity to bring on an additional investor. Eddy might not be – how do you say – your cup of tea, but he has a track record and he is legitimately interested. In my experience here in the US people like Eddy are not offered these type of investment opportunities. It’s a status thing.”
Felicia was not fully persuaded by his argument or approach.
“So then,” she said, “are they going to invest, or are they just playing footsie under the table?”
“They will invest, but not until the Egyptians do. They want a part of that project, too.”
“And you believe them?”
“I’ll believe them when the deposit is in the bank. But it still brings us back to our first challenge. Namely to get the Egyptians on board, which is where you come in, remember?”
“If that’s the case, what is it you need me to do?”
“Whatever you think is necessary to get the deal closed.”
Felicia was still annoyed.
“What do you want me to do? Sleep with one of them?”
Omar shook his head and wagged his finger.
“Both of them then?”
“Felicia, I’m not telling you anything you need to do. You are very capable and you have good judgment. What you do is up to you. We just need the deal closed, understand.”
“Sometimes, Omar, I think you are a patronising shit.”
“Are you going to help me?”
Felicia was no longer cold and calculating. But she knew better than to let it linger.
She shrugged her shoulders and walked off.
Felicia was all on her own. The plan had been to meet Omar and the Egyptians for cocktails, but just as things stood, she did not feel like it. But once she had changed the dress Omar had given her, she felt re-situated. If I’m going to do this, she told herself, I’m going to do it under my terms.
She picked up her phone and dialled Ali’s number.
“There’s been a change of plan,” she said. “I’ll meet you at the oyster bar.”
“Have you ordered?”
“What would you like?” he said. “A glass of champagne? An oyster platter.”
“Let’s just start with the champagne.”
Felicia was actually quite nervous at the beginning of their chat, and she tried – unconsciously – to un-flutter her eyebrows. When the champagne arrived, her conscience tripped her up and she knocked over her glass. Champagne went all over the crutch of Ali’s crisply ironed trousers.
“Oh, my God! I’m so sorry. – Let me have them cleaned.”
Ali was sanguine about it. “Felicia, my trousers are fine. You, my dear, are nervous. What’s the matter?”
Felicia tried to brush it off and get the conversation back on the investment, but Ali was having none of it. He was more interested in food and dinner and possibly a show afterwards and maybe the result of the basketball that was up on the screen.
Felicia didn’t know what to say, so she went quiet. But Ali seemed keen to fill the silence.
“Felicia,” he said, “there’s more to life than investment.”
“And there was I thinking basketball was more important than me.”
“Frankly, I’m not that interested. I watch it sometimes to distract myself.”
“Why do you need to be distracted?”
“You’re not being your normal self. I was giving myself time to understand why.”
Felicia was suddenly caught off guard. Her gift for conversation deserted her, and she did not know what to say.
But Ali went on:
“Let’s try something by way of experiment. Let’s assume we do the project.”
“Why do we have to assume it? Are you going to do the project?”
Ali shrugged.
“I think it’s likely we will, but we still have to do some work on it.”
Now he began to play with the idea:
“To reiterate, let’s assume for the purposes of this evening, we are going to do the project. On the basis of this assumption, we can surely enjoy the night.”
If Felicia was still not entirely convinced, she smiled and clinked glasses with him.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go and take a Felucca Ride.”
Ali laughed.
“I’ll take you on the real Felucca when we get to Egypt.”
It was late. But Felicia was not ready for bed. Her mind was a whirl of thoughts: the projects, Ali, the business, Omar. And who could blame her? It all sounded so exotic. So tempting, and yet! As you have probably gathered by now, Felicia was a practical, indeed pragmatic soul. If she saw palaces in the sky and an army of turbaned slaves fanning her with palm leaves and offering her sherbet dip (which reminds me of a little sweet shop when I was a child, tucked away in a West Kensington back street, groaning with dip dabs, rainbow drops, fizz wizzes, double dips and refreshers); to a seasoned operator like Felicia, she had not entirely mapped out her own route to the Sheik’s paradise.
Not wanting to go to the bar and having to fend people off, she found a quiet corner with table service. Except the corner was not as quiet as she desired it to be.
“Felicia, may I buy you a drink?”
“Good lord, how did you get back from the desert? By dragon fly?”
“I had my own resources.”
“There was I thinking you were just a gofer, or the chauffeur.”
“Actually, I’m pretty organised when I choose to be.”
“Clap-clap. Reckon you could run a ship, Captain.”
“For your information, I grew up in the desert.”
“Riding camel back.”
“No, selling water. Great business model, selling water in the desert.”
“What are you on about?”
“Came to Vegas seven years ago. Made a living selling bottles of water off the back of my bicycle.”
Harry looked at her with raised eyebrows, daring her to come back at him with some sarky remark.
“A box of water bottles cost six dollars. Sold each bottle at a dollar each. Eighteen bucks a box. Three hundred gross margin, baby. And no overheads.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m telling you. It’s the whole damn truth. Every damn word of it.”
“Not entirely,” said Felicia. “Your overheads were still in your wheels.”
“True, I suppose. However, the real overhead was I used to get arrested every few weeks. And spend a couple of nights in jail. But that isn’t really overheads, when you look at it. It’s two nights board and lodging.”
The story was poignant, but while Felicia felt some empathy for Harry, she did not want to show it.
“Survival in itself,” she said, “is an art form.”
“I appreciate you saying that, Felicia. Not everything I do is to pay the bills.”
“That’s all very well, but I don’t want you paying your bills off my back.”
“Everyone has health problems, but here you got to pay.”
“Fuck you, Harry, and the hospitals who feed on you. You’re all vultures.”
Harry shook his head.
“To sell water in the desert, that’s the answer.”
Felicia did not know what to say to that. There was nothing you could say to it, in fact. Life was a city, like Vegas, of hard knocks, false dawn, medical bills and compromises.
At that moment there was a hail from the direction of the bar.
A loud voice. Loud and obnoxious.
“Hey Harry, where you been?”
The voice trailed off as he saw Felicia.
Or rather Felicia moving at high speed towards the exit.
She found the sliding door on to the pool terrace.
Everything was dark. There was just the light from the hotel behind her.
“Where in the hell has she gone?”
“Well, I did tell her to go and find water in the desert.”
“You moron, what are you doing giving her ideas like that!”
“I didn’t think she’d go poolside.”
Suddenly Harry swore.
He tripped over a sunbed and dropped his shades.
“Fuck! They cost a fortune!”
“And there I was thinking you were a coyote.”
“I’m not a fuckin’ coyote. I’m a mountain lion.”
“Come on. Let’s go get a beer. The broad can wait.”
A few minutes after the terrace had closed behind Harry and Eddy, the door opened again.
A Rubenesque figure could be seen walking through the lobby, shades in one hand, hand bag in the other… leaving a gentle, but persistent trail of water behind her.