‘I am honoured to be attended by a prince,’ Fran murmured.

She saw him smile, and guessed what he was thinking: this woman had fallen for his line, just like all the others. Well, if he thought that, he was in for a shock.

A heated trolley stood nearby, and he ladled a pale yellow liquid into a dish. It was thick, like porridge, mixed with rice, and it tasted delicious.

‘Pumpkin soup,’ Ali explained. ‘I have a weakness for it, so when I’m here my chef keeps some permanently ready.’ He served himself and sat facing her. The table was small, so even on opposite sides they were still close. ‘Have you ever tasted Arabic food before?’ he asked.

‘A little. There’s a restaurant I sometimes go to. It has the most delicious chicken with dates and honey, and I can’t resist it. But the surroundings are vulgar. The walls are covered with murals of the desert, with oases that light up in neon.’

Ali winced. ‘I know the kind of place you mean. They make a great play of the desert, but none of them knows what the desert is really like.’

‘What is it like?’ Fran asked eagerly. ‘Tell me about the desert.’

‘How shall I know what to say? There are so many deserts. There is the desert in the evening when the sun turns to blood and is swallowed up by the sand. In England you have long twilights, but in my country it can be broad daylight, and then pitch darkness a few minutes later.

‘Then, in the early hours, dawn lays a cool light on the land for a few moments, then rises in pale glory, and we all give thanks for the renewed blessing. But at noon the desert can be a enemy, and the sun turns to a furnace, driving you back into the sand.

‘But they all have one thing in common, and that is the silence: a deeper silence than you can imagine. Until you have stood in the desert and watched the stars wheel overhead, you have never heard the silence of the earth as it spins on its axis.’