The Storyteller of Casablanca (47)
Suzette taps her long red fingernails impatiently against the side of her glass. ‘Initiatives like that are well meaning, I’m sure, but really do you think we should be encouraging these people? Surely they’d be better off back in their own countries instead of putting a burden on others when they can’t support themselves.’
Very carefully, so that I won’t spill my drink because my hands are suddenly shaking with anger, I place my glass on a coaster on the side table next to me and then turn to face her. Rein it in, I tell myself silently, and when I speak I try to keep my voice level.
‘It’s impossible for them to stay in their own countries. They’ve lost what family they once had there – often having witnessed them being brutalised and murdered. Can you imagine how terrified you’d have to be to risk a journey of thousands of miles, on the run with nothing and no one to help you and knowing the dangers?’
She raises one over-plucked eyebrow, clearly annoyed that the new girl has had the temerity to voice an opinion that runs contrary to hers. ‘What happens in those countries isn’t our business though, is it, Zoe? We can’t be responsible for the messes other people get themselves into. They’re illegal aliens in Morocco. They know they’re breaking the law by coming here.’
There’s something condescending in the way she deliberately uses my name, putting me in my place. I realise my hands are now clenched into tight fists, the half-healed creases of my fingers cracking open again with the tension.
‘I think we all know the problems the refugee crisis brings with it, Suzette,’ I reply. Two can play the name-game, after all. ‘But when we’re faced with the immediate consequences, day in, day out, surely we who have so much can afford to give something to those who have lost everything. Even if it’s simply a few books and a little kindness, it can help take their minds off the terrible things they’ve seen and experienced for a while. Maybe even help to give them back a little faith in humanity.’
Her smile is as tight as my clenched fists and for a moment I picture the mask of her face cracking open too with her own anger. ‘It just seems such a futile gesture when you put it like that, doesn’t it? A drop in the ocean. Perhaps our efforts could be put to better use elsewhere.’
‘Surely even a drop in the ocean is better than none at all, though?’ Monsieur Habib’s words come back to me. ‘It might not be a solution to the underlying problem, but we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t try to do what we can, would we?’
Suzette’s smile fades and her eyes narrow for a moment. But then she turns away, having had enough of this fruitless conversation, and animatedly greets two men who have come to top up their drinks from the array of bottles set out on an elegant oval table on the other side of the sofa.
May puts a reassuring hand on my arm and says quietly, ‘Don’t be minding her now. It takes all sorts, you know.’ Then, more loudly, she continues, ‘Well, I’d like to meet your Madame Habib sometime. Kate and I do a bit of fundraising, one way and another, and it sounds like a project we could maybe help support.’
I smile at her gratefully and pick up my glass again, now that the risk of either spilling it down myself or chucking it at Suzette’s smug face has receded. ‘Thank you. The centre’s a good place – you should see how much help they give to the women and children there, even with such limited resources.’
‘Now,’ she says, ‘tell us how you’re getting on with that quilt you’re making. Kate says it’s going to be a real work of art . . .’
Thankfully – and I’m sure the feeling is mutual – Suzette and I are seated at opposite ends of Claudine’s mahogany dining table, although Tom sits immediately to her right. He’s attentive, filling her wine glass and then topping up his own. I notice how she repeatedly touches his arm with her manicured fingertips, deep in conversation, inclining her blonde head towards his, drinking in his every word. Her eyes never leave his face and yet I somehow know she’s aware of the effect this must be having on me. From where I’m sitting, it looks like an act. But it’s one Tom seems to find very convincing. Kate sits on the other side of him and she catches my eye at one point and smiles. I wonder if she’s enjoying the evening or whether she finds it as much of an ordeal as I do. As I watch, Tom turns away from Suzette and fixes his attention on Kate. She reaches for the salt but he leans over and passes it to her with mock chivalry, making her laugh. For a moment, it looks as if his fingers brush hers as he hands it over, but it’s so fleeting that I think I must have imagined it. I shake myself, mentally, and silently tell myself to stop being so paranoid every time he even so much as talks to another woman. Kate’s my friend, after all.
With an effort, I turn my attention to the lamb cutlets on the plate in front of me and attempt to listen to Théo’s description of the latest attack on one of the company’s ships by Somali pirates. I feel guilty at my lack of gratitude for the evening. I know it means a lot to Tom to have been invited, but I feel like a fish out of water. The whole thing just seems to emphasise how ill-suited I am to being a corporate wife, as I force myself to swallow the food and wine, which sit in my stomach like lumps of lead.
I watch the hands of the long-case clock in the corner of the dining room inch round painfully slowly, and wish I was back at home. There, where I can kick off my ill-fitting shoes and tiptoe up to the attic room to kiss the forehead of my daughter where she sleeps beneath the tent of mosquito netting, safe from all the unkindness and injustice in this world.