Lies and Weddings(68)
V
LE PALAIS RHOUL
PALMERAIE, MARRAKECH ? MIDNIGHT
Arriving at the magnificent Greco-Roman–style guest palace that Martha had rented out for herself and her entourage, John announced he was retiring for the night, leaving Martha and Rufus to partake in the sybaritic pleasures of a late-night massage in the palace’s private spa. After they had been pounded, pulverized, exfoliated with charcoal gloves, and spritzed with orange water, they lay on opposite ends of the octagonal pool deep within the candlelit hammam. The intoxicating aroma of oud filled the air as the sound of gently trickling water echoed sensually through the decadently marble-clad space.
“How was your massage?” Martha asked through the unfurling steam.
“Funny you should ask. I went into my treatment room, and this huge man with a gigantic belly protruding over his loincloth told me to take off all my clothes and lie on the ground. So I obeyed. Then he pressed my face to the cold, wet marble and proceeded to twist me around like a rag doll and cracked every bone in my body, bones I didn’t even know I possessed. I feel like minced meat and I think I’m scarred for life.”
Martha laughed heartily. “You’re the most intriguing man I’ve met in a long time, Master Rufus Gresham.”
“In England, only little boys are called ‘master.’?”
“I know. I’m using it for old times’ sake. Reminds me of the Enid Blyton books I used to read.”
“I loved Enid Blyton! The Barney mysteries were my favorite.”
“That explains a lot. You’re a lot like Barney—mysterious and intriguing.”
“I always thought I was more like Snubby. How am I intriguing?”
Martha paused for a moment, pondering. “Every guy I meet either wants to seduce me, marry me, or sell me something, but you…I’m still trying to figure you out.”
“How do you know I’m not trying to seduce you?”
“Ha! You would have done it long ago. I can read the room.”
“Maybe I’m just waiting for some sensation to return to my limbs.”
Martha laughed again. “You’re very kind to humor me, but I do have some degree of self-awareness.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“A guy like you would never normally go for a girl like me.”
“That’s simply not true—” Rufus began.
“Stop it! What did your last three girlfriends look like? Let me guess…they were all tall, blond, and had a more than passing resemblance to Hailey Bieber?”
“My most recent girlfriend was blond, and fairly tall, but she wasn’t a hot model type, more like a hot art historian type.”
“Still, she was hot. The only thing that guys find hot about me is my money, and I can always smell that kind of guy from a mile away. You’re trying to charm me, I know, but you’re not actually interested in my money. You seem like a man who’s conflicted. It’s like you want something from me, but you don’t really quite know what.”
Rufus paused for a moment, surprised by her acuity. “My aunt wants me to get to know you. To be honest, she wants me to seduce and charm you.”
“Why is Rosina Leung so intent on seeing me seduced? Is she wanting to throw me off guard so that her husband or her creepy sons can make a play on one of my companies?”
Rufus chuckled. “They are a rather creepy lot, aren’t they? No, it’s nothing like that at all. Rosina is trying to help me. My family’s in a bit of a bind, and she thinks you’re the solution.”
“Ah. How much of a bind?”
“Around half a billion pounds, I think.”
“That’s a lotta dough to spend on one guy, however charming.”
“Well, she thought we’d get married, and you wouldn’t have a problem spending that kind of dough on your husband. Of course, that’s her idea, not mine—she entrapped me on her plane and ambushed me with her plan. I would never marry for money.”
“I know you wouldn’t,” Martha said, before letting out a deep sigh. “Why the hell does every Chinese auntie think I need to get married? It’s like they are all brainwashed into this reverse sexism. A Chinese man who’s wealthy and successful can be single forever or have a hundred girlfriends. But I’m a woman, so that means I’ll never be acceptable until I get married and start producing babies. My own mother is obsessed with finding me a man and has never acknowledged a single thing I’ve accomplished. Every time I talk to her, it’s the same. Are you dating anyone? Stop working so much, it’s giving you wrinkles. It’s time to get married—you’re already an old maid. You’re going to die alone, and the servants will steal all your Chanel handbags when you’re on your deathbed.”
“Sounds like she’s projecting her own fears onto you.”
“Absolutely. I told her, ‘Mom, when I’m on my deathbed, I’m not going to be thinking about Chanel handbags. I don’t even own one!’?”
“My mum tells me that I need to give her grandchildren before my sperm get too old and my kids turn out, in her words, ‘not normal.’?”
“Do we have the same mother? I’ve heard similar things about my eggs.”