She hesitated to reveal too much in the way of intimate details. She had to keep reminding herself that this was a work occasion. She was not yet ready to tell him about her two marriages. Later, perhaps.
She shook her head. ‘No aristocrats, no medals, no luxury brands. Oh, wait. One of Dad’s books was a bestseller. It was called Pioneer Wives: Women on the American Frontier. It sold a million copies. We were famous for almost a year.’
‘And yet this allegedly ordinary American family produced – you.’
That was a compliment, she saw. And it was not just idle flattery. He seemed to mean it.
Dinner was over but it was too early to go home. She surprised herself by saying: ‘Do you want to dance?’
There was a club in the basement of the hotel. It was staid by comparison with clubs in Chicago or even Boston, but it was the hottest spot in N’Djamena.
Tab said: ‘Sure. I’m a terrible dancer, but I love it.’
‘Terrible? How?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve been told I look silly.’
It was hard to imagine this poised and elegant man doing something silly. Tamara looked forward to seeing it.
Tab called for the bill and they split it.
They went down in the elevator. Before the doors opened they heard the seismic thud of bass and drums, a sound that always gave Tamara itchy feet. The club was packed with affluent young Chadians in skimpy clothing. The girls’ short skirts made Tamara’s outfit look middle-aged.
Tamara led Tab straight to the dance floor, moving to the beat even before they got there.
Tab was an endearingly bad dancer. His arms and legs flailed to no particular rhythm, but he clearly enjoyed it. Tamara liked dancing with him. The casually sexy atmosphere of a club put her in a mildly amorous mood.
After an hour they got Cokes and took a break. Reclining on a couch in the chill-out room, Tab said: ‘Have you ever tried marc?’
‘Is that a drug?’
‘It’s a brandy made from the skins of the grapes after the juice has been squeezed out. It started as a cheap alternative to cognac, but it’s become a refined tipple in its own right. You can even get marc de Champagne.’
‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘You’ve got a bottle at home.’
‘You’re telepathic.’
‘All women are telepathic.’
‘So you know that I want to take you home for a nightcap.’
She was flattered. He had already decided that this was more than a professional relationship.
But she had not. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a great time, but I don’t want to stay up late.’
‘Okay.’
They went out. She felt a bit down, and wished she had not refused his offer of a nightcap.
He asked the doorman to fetch his car and offered her a lift. She declined and phoned the car service.
While they were waiting he said: ‘I enjoyed talking to you so much. Could we have dinner again? With or without marc de Champagne afterwards?’
‘Okay,’ she said.
‘We could go somewhere more laid-back next time. A Chadian restaurant, perhaps.’
‘Nice idea. Call me.’
‘Okay.’
Her car came and he held the door for her. She pecked his cheek. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Sleep well.’
The car took her to the embassy and she went to her room.
She liked him a lot, she realized as she got undressed; then she reminded herself that she was very bad at picking men.
She had married Stephen while still at the University of Chicago. It was not until after the ceremony that she discovered he did not feel the vows should stop him from sleeping with anyone else he fancied, and they had split after six months. She had not spoken to him since and never wanted to see him again.
After Chicago she had done a master’s degree in International Relations, specializing in the Middle East, at the Paris university called Sciences Po. There she had met and married an American called Jonathan, who was a different kind of mistake. He was kind, clever and amusing. The sex had been a bit vanilla, but they had been happy together. Eventually, they both realized that Jonathan was gay. They had a friendly divorce, and she was still fond of him. They talked on the phone three or four times a year.
Part of her trouble was that so many men were attracted to her. She was nice-looking and vivacious and sexy, she knew, and it was easy for her to catch a man’s eye. Her difficulty was figuring out which were the good ones.
She got into bed and turned out the light, still thinking about Tab. He certainly looked good. She closed her eyes and pictured him. He was tall and slim, his hair was made to be stroked, and he had deep brown eyes that she wanted to stare into. His clothes seemed to cling to him lovingly, whether he was dressed in a suit, as tonight, or casually. Tamara had wondered how he could afford such well-cut clothes, but he had explained it: his family was wealthy.