Dark Oil (12 page)

She showered, holding a towel over her face so she wouldn't get any amoebae-laden water in her eyes or mouth. The drops, cool and soothing, ran down her body, gathering in a deeper and deeper puddle at her feet. The drain still hadn't been fixed. And what was that smell? Sewerage problems, she guessed.

She threw on an ankle-length, black skirt and a long-sleeved, white, cotton blouse. It was open at the neck, nothing that would be considered outrageous or even remotely sexy back home, but she thought it might be too much in Negala. Better to be over-zealous and too hot in her clothes than disrespectful. She tied a silk scarf around her neck, neatly tucking it in to hide her décolletage.

The make-up routine was easy here. Nothing stayed on your skin. It all slid off once the temperature climbed over forty five degrees. A little tinted sunscreen and clear lip-gloss was what worked best and it had the added bonus of being quick to apply. She slicked back her golden mane, fastening it in a ponytail.

As she picked up the ornate gold hair clasp she had chosen, a lump formed in her throat. Tim had bought it for her, for no particular reason, years ago. Following with her finger the pattern of vines encrusted with semi-precious stones, she recalled the exquisite wrapping, the silver bow, and how she'd gasped when she'd opened the present.

He used to do things like that. He left her notes, bought her flowers, brought her breakfast in bed. When was the last time he'd done that? She couldn't remember. Eight years ago? Maybe nine.

Then again, when did she ever do things like that anymore? It wasn't just Tim and his work. It happened to everyone. She was as guilty as the next person, she told herself. It was easy to get caught up in work, chores, life. That's right, it wasn't just Tim's fault. The important thing was he loved her. He still did, didn't he?

It was true, she had planned an exquisitely romantic evening for their wedding anniversary. She wouldn't be feeling this way if she hadn't had to cancel it to go to Negala. It was such a shame they'd had to take a raincheck.

Still, she was going to make an effort to put the romance back into their lives when she got home, and not just for anniversary celebrations. For starters, she wouldn't let Tim fall asleep on the couch five nights a week any more.

She glanced at her watch. It was nearly seven. She quickly finished her hair, sliding a bobby pin in to hold stray strands and hurried downstairs. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the house and she realised she was famished.

Eggs, tomatoes and toast would be wonderful. A little luxury always made you feel better, even in a barren place. Shame they couldn't get hash browns here, it would have been the perfect breakfast.

Martin sat at the kitchen table like a car in neutral, his face completely expressionless. He probably hadn't had enough coffee. Jack, in a frilly apron that barely reached his hips, was dishing up the eggs.

“Ah, Madame Beckham. Perfect timing. Two eggs?” His lips curled up slightly more to the left in that disarming smile of his.

“Yes, please.” Lara sat down. “This is nice. Much better than a bowl of cereal.” She turned to Martin. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mmm, until half past three. I couldn't go back after that.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I'm not usually this jet-lagged. I don't know why I am this time.”

Lara poured herself a cup of tea. “I was so exhausted I couldn't wake up. And you, Jack? Did you sleep?” She looked up at him as he effortlessly slid the eggs and tomato onto her plate and she guessed he'd done this often, cooked for others—probably a million girlfriends.

He nodded. “Mostly. . .” He gazed into her eyes before continuing. “Although there were a few things I couldn't get off my mind.” His arm brushed against hers as he finished serving and she froze, hoping neither Jack nor Martin would notice how her heart was leaping out of her chest, how troubled she was at the slightest contact with Jack.

So this was what pure physical attraction was like: an instant fire burning out of control as soon as you got close enough to get a spark. It meant nothing, though, she told herself. It was a bodily reaction defined by the laws of physics. It happened the way gravity made water go down a drain and leaves fall from trees to the ground.

That's what it was. That's all it could possibly be and would ever be, because she was with Tim. There was no doubt in her mind about that. She changed the subject, in the conversation and her thoughts. That's what she would do now, whenever this happened. She'd move away and change the subject.

“I'm glad we're meeting the Minister this morning. It's a good sign, don't you think?” She looked at Martin, wanting to ignore Jack at least for a little while.

“I think so. Although we'll see what they have to say. It's not over ‘til it's over.”

She nodded. That was already clear to her, but she wanted to believe in the best possible outcome. She wanted to believe she'd be home soon.

They finished their breakfast, cleared the table together, piling up the dishes for Bengali, and sat down again with another cup of coffee.

“Here's how it went with Alan”. Martin took a deep breath and his eyes wandered to the left, then to the right, as if he didn't know how to start. “He's asked two things: that we fix everything and we fix it now.”

He sighed. “I told him we were hoping to see the Minister today. He thought we should push for it. He said that securing a meeting was the main thing as we should be able to sway things our way.” Martin shrugged. “At least we've secured the meeting. I'm not so sure about the outcome. What I do know is that if things don't go well, heads won't just roll, they'll fly. I'm afraid that was the gist of the conversation.”

He looked away, his gaze distant. He was right in the line of fire, the soldier who would receive the first angry bullet, if anything went wrong. That had to be terrifying.

Lara felt sorry for him. He was certainly a pain to work with, but deep down he was a decent man. She believed that. She could always see the good in people. “It's going to be fine.” She wanted to reassure him. She knew, though, that there was a good chance things wouldn't turn out that way. “We can talk the Minister around. At the very least, we should be able to find out what's behind all this, why they sent us the letter.”

There was no need for further details—they all knew which letter. It was the one from the Minister's cabinet advising Global Oil its exploration permit was being withdrawn. It had been the only in-house topic of conversation for weeks now.

The lawyers—including the ones who'd been dismissed—the commercial managers, the public relations team and everyone else in the company had discussed it until their tongues had dried out and their brains had gone numb.

It had been analysed, translated, pulled apart word by word, read front to back and back to front and just about finger-printed. It was ambiguous in more ways than one. Did the President himself endorse it? Was he even aware of it? Did it mean the title was withdrawn there and then or would it be happening in the future? Was it based on mining law, criminal law, company law, some other legislation or on the pure whim of the writer? Was the Production Sharing Contract being terminated as well, or not?

Lara had read it over and over, looking for answers she hadn't found. It was African-style writing, with the vagueness that entailed. Much of it was, she suspected, purposely loose. It allowed room to move, room for debate, room to switch angles and tactics and, if necessary, room to deny.

“There's still hope,” she continued. Martin nodded, thanking her with a softened glance, a fleeting smile.

Jack put down his cup of coffee. “Did you mention to Alan that Hammy's leaving tomorrow?”

“I foreshadowed it.”

“What do you mean? Either you told him or you didn't.” Jack was frowning now, his voice colder. He didn't operate the way Martin did and Lara could tell that was a constant source of friction between them, although she guessed not the main one.

“I said there was a possibility he'd be going overseas. You know what these guys are like. One minute they tell you they're going, the next they're not.”

Jack turned up his chin and grunted, to Lara's relief apparently accepting Martin's explanation. “So what was Alan's reaction to that?” she asked softly. She didn't want to annoy Martin, but she had to find out.

Would they be stuck there waiting weeks on end for another meeting, sitting around in the heat, eating sandy meals, with no idea when they'd be going home? She didn't think she could cope with that. And what about Tim? How would he take it if that happened?

Martin shrugged. “We stay until it's fixed. Those were his words.”

Lara gasped. Even if they secured a meeting, even if the talks didn't break down, it could be weeks before they really got to the point with the Minister. And it would probably take longer than that to resolve the issue completely. She could see it coming. It had “protracted negotiations”, in lawyer jargon, written all over it.

She shook her head. “We have to sort it out today. There's no other way.”

Jack tapped his fingertips on the table. “We'll give it our best shot. I don't want to be stuck here anymore than you do. Anyway, I'm sure we'll be home before we know it. Alan's many things but he's not completely unreasonable.”

Martin raised his eyebrows, then without a word stood up.

“Do I have time to make a quick call?” Lara jumped to her feet, ready to scatter off to the satellite phone.

Martin shook his head. “I don't think so. We're leaving in five minutes.”

Jack glared at him. “They'll be an hour late, so what's the hurry? Of course you can make a call, Lara.”

Martin, his upper lip twisting into a snarl, took one giant step towards Jack. “Don't do that again,” he hissed.

Lara hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs, before Martin had a chance to call her back, or Jack gave in and agreed it would be better to leave right now. She had to speak to Tim, she just had to. A sentence, a few words of comfort. That was all she wanted.

She hadn't left her husband before. Being without him in this country of dust and danger was hard enough, but being here wondering about Tim's feelings was torture. And she had to admit, no matter how many times she told herself it was silly, no matter how much she wanted to trust Tim, no matter how forcefully and repeatedly she pushed the thought aside, she was having doubts.

Out of breath from running up the stairs two at a time, she picked up the receiver, dialling the five digit code and the thirteen digit phone number she knew so well. It rang. At least she wasn't having any problems getting a connection today.

It rang again and again, and she checked her watch. What was she doing? It was close to five in the afternoon over there. The answering machine came on and she blurted out she'd try getting hold of Tim at work.

There must have been quite a few messages on the machine for the phone to ring that long before the recording was activated. She knew Tim. He'd probably leave them on it until she came home.

There were things like that he never did. They had become her job by unspoken mutual understanding, just as putting petrol in the car and clearing the gutters were his. That's what married couples did, she reasoned—they were a team with a division of labour to ensure each member was depended upon.

She smiled to herself. Yes, Tim needed her, just as much as she needed him. She dialled her husband's office and heard Martha's tired drawl as she answered after just one ring.

“Hi, Martha. It's Lara. Lara Beckham,” she added, just in case Martha really was as useless as Tim kept saying.

“What can I do for you?”

“I'm trying to get hold of Tim. Is he there?”

“Hmm. . .just a minute.”

Lara felt her shoulders relax. She was finally being put through. It had taken her forever to get hold of her husband and she realised then, in that brief moment before finally crossing the winning line, that the effort of putting on a brave face had been taking its toll.

Just as she sighed with relief, a continuous beeping sounded in her ear. “I can't believe it!” she exclaimed, holding her forehead. She had been cut off.

“Are you coming?” called Martin, the impatience in his voice growing.

“Sorry. One minute.” She dialled Tim's mobile. He didn't always have it on, often he even forgot it, on purpose, she suspected, to get away from work, but it was her last hope.

It rang three times and her heart sank. She knew that on the fourth ring tone it would go to Tim's message bank.

“Hello?”

“Tim, my darling!” she gushed, her heart thumping, not expecting he'd finally pick up the call. “It's so nice to hear your voice. Where are you?”

“In the car. Going to music, remember.”

She smiled to herself. The band, of course. Why hadn't she thought of that? It was Wednesday here, but Tuesday back home and he always left work early on Tuesdays. “Oh, yes, I forgot. You're hard to get hold of.”

“No, I'm not.” His voice was harsh and unforgiving. It silenced her for a moment. She was a child shunned by her best friend, hurt, in shock.

She shook herself and carried on. “Sorry, that didn't come out right. I wasn't accusing you of anything. It's that with the time difference and both of us busy with work. . .anyway, I miss you. So much.”

She heard him take a deep breath. “Is everything going well over there?” he asked.

“Hard to say. We're meeting the government this morning. Hopefully I'll know a bit more later today. I'm hanging onto the thought we'll be coming home very soon. Fingers crossed.”

“Oh.” He paused and Lara wasn't sure what he was thinking. Was he annoyed, happy, neutral? It was the first time she really couldn't tell. “Any idea when?” he finally asked.