Caged Nightingale

Part 9- Saara

The sound of voices is unmistakable as I descend the stairs to the open hallway. After a week of silence, it seems novel. It's coming from the dinning room to my left. from the other side of the door, I can hear men talking in low tones. I consider going in, but then stop. I hesitate, looking down at my pajamas, I'm not dressed to greet anyone. Over the past week, I have reconciled myself to looking acceptable in my nightwear, but now that I know there are other people here, the thought of walking around in my night clothes seems proposterous.
Stalling outside the morning room, I am just turning away, when the door opens and I see the light flood into the darkened corridor at my feet. Instantly, I freeze.

There's a light cough behind me and I straighten my shoulders back and hold my head higher as I turn around with as much dignity as I can muster under the circumstances.
Despite the shadowed silhouette, i recognise the man who is atleast a foot taller, looking down at me. He is one of the men I saw yesterday near the jeep. slowly, he moves aside in the doorway to let me pass into the room. It's the same man from the car! The one that bought me here- I remember.   As I turn to him with a questioning look, lifting a finger- he smiles politely, nods and leaves the room.   I stare after him. It is him!

"Good you're awake!" Atif is sat at the head of the table reading a paper, he turns to look at me and then gestures to the seat beside him. There are different dishes set out on the table in front of him and my tummy rumbles in response. It would be rude for me not to join him now. Even dressed as I am, I should try and make an effort for my host.

I start to fill my plate with fruit and a slice of toast, trying to feign some sense of decorum. But it is difficult to concentrate, especially when I can see Atif is dressed in a navy linen suit with an open cream shirt. He looks cool and polished whilst I'm sat in pale pink toile de jour pajamas. I force myself to lean forward and pour some tea and then as a polite gesture I offer him some. He lowers his newspaper and nods, then lifts his cup and saucer to me.
It's a strange feeling, to be serving this man whom i know nothing about.

We eat in silence and i try not to think about the burning questions that I have for him. There will be time for that later. At the moment we should eat and me amiable. this man is here to help me, at the very least i should extend him the courtesy of good company. All the while I try my best to aviod looking directly at him. One of my eyes is still bloody inside and quite frightful, some of the bruises have begun to heal but have still left yellow green decaying marks on my chin, cheeks and neck. I wish I had left my hair open and not tied it back to mask some of the cuts and scars on my face. It would be too conspicuous to undo it now. 'Mmm this jam is delicious!" I say, as I spoon the syrupy rose petals onto my bread.

'Amina makes it from out own roses.' Atif replies from behind the paper.  'You should try the plum, its better.'

From the corner of the my eye, I try and take in the man I'm dining with. As he lowers the paper to pick up his tea cu, I catch a glimpse of his bronzed skin, which is taught over chiselled cheek bones. A sharp jaw offsets deep set, black eyes that are hooded with long black lashes. Short back and sides-a no messing about hair cut, but thick on top. He is good looking, I concede. In a bad-boy, dangerous sort of way.  There is something corse about about him which I can't quite pin point. His manner is a little abrupt. Of all the people I've ever met, there are very few, who you come across, who are exactly as dangerous or ruthless as they seem. Atif is definietly one of them.  There is something arrogantly calculated about him. An unreachable assurance in his voice . I've been around successful men all my life. This man may have wealth and influence but he has an edge to him that suggests he isn't below getting his hands dirty if he has to. That makes him formidable and more worryingly- unpredictable.
I think about the photos in his study. You don't have friends like that unless you have something they want or need. Just because i may trust him doesnt mean he is trustworthy. This man also knows power. If I've ever learnt anything, it's that those who have it -never give it away freely. I'm sat at his table. Not by my choice, but by his.

'I've arranged for some clothes to be bought to you this morning," he says without looking at me. "Zain's going to collect them this morning. If you need anything else you can let Amina know before he leaves. Zain will pick it up for you." I nod in appreciation. "we can talk in my study after breakfast. We have matters to discuss.' His voice is clipped and he gives me a cursory glance from just over the top of his newspaper before snapping it back to rigid form, to return to his reading.

His off-hand manner may have been rude in any other circumstances but considering the way I'm dressed and the way I look. It puts me at ease. There's only so much dignity you can feign when you look like road kill.