The lounge, or saloon, occupied the entire front section of the boat. Curving windows gave a magnificent view of the city, its high-rise hotels and minarets and bridges blossoming with lights, and glass doors opened onto the deck. Waiters were circulating with trays of glasses. The beverage of choice that evening appeared to be champagne. Since I do not care for champagne, and since I wanted to get rid of Sweet for a few minutes – he had been talking incessantly, about God knows what – I accepted his offer to get me something else from the bar.

Bright and I settled down at a table. He smiled bashfully at me and tugged at his grizzled moustache, which was as luxuriant as his hair. Either it was real or the fixative was more effective than the stuff he used on his head.

I inspected the other guests with unconcealed interest. They were doing the same. There were only thirty of us, and we would be in close company for several weeks.

I had been warned that this crowd would probably dress more formally than was usual on such cruises. People who are embarrassingly rich like to show off. My mail-order cocktail dress looked pretty insignificant next to the designer gowns many of the other women were sporting, and the dazzle of diamonds dimmed my faux gold locket. Many of the men wore tuxes or dinner jackets.

Jen and her new daughter-in-law were sitting at a table on the other side of the room, with two other people – a married couple, I cleverly deduced. The woman’s pink hair matched her dress and his bald head. When she caught my eye Jen waved and gave me a tight-lipped smile. John wasn’t with them, but as I returned Jen’s wave he came sauntering towards their table, as infuriatingly casual as always. He looked very much the bridegroom, with a flower in his buttonhole and a matching crimson cummerbund. Catching me in mid-wave he raised an eyebrow, nodded distantly, and sat down with his back to me.

Sweet returned with a glass of chablis and a man stepped up onto the podium in the centre of the floor. At the sight of him I forgot Bright, Sweet, and John. The tux set off his lean body and broad shoulders, but he ought to have been wearing flowing robes and a snowy bedouin headdress that would frame his walnut-brown skin, hawklike nose, and sharply cut features. His black eyes were fringed with lashes so thick they looked artificial.

A chorus of involuntary sighs came from every woman in the room. Some of them looked old enough to have seen the original Rudolph Valentino film. I wasn’t old enough, but I had read the book. I have read every soppy sentimental novel ever written. To look at her, you wouldn’t think my sharp-tongued, practical grandma had an ounce of romance in her soul, but she owned all the old novels. In her day, The Sheik had been pretty hot stuff. ‘‘‘Ahmed, mon bel Arabe,” she murmured yearningly,’ I murmured.