HMS Avenger and Prince Andrew 1982

The Falklands war is over. Thankfully we've been spared the jingoistic tabloid headlines back in the UK as it's very small beer here, making only page 14 of the Khaleej Times. However, the men fighting the war and the politicians making it are two very different criteria.

HMS Avenger is in town as part of a post-victory PR tour. HMS Avenger is a naval frigate, rather more famous for one of it's serving officers: Prince Andrew. We are asked if we'll take some of the NCO's out for the evening. which we are delighted to do. We take them to the Nakheel Club then on to a nightclub. I dance with all of them and we finally get home around 6am.


They must have had a good time as they contacted us a few days later saying they wanted to return the favour and invite us aboard as a way of saying thank you. I was very curious to go as this was a famous frigate and was hoping to talk to some of the sailors about the conflict.

I told them I had a job interview at 6pm, did they have ship to shore radio? They said not to worry they would make sure I got back in time. As we pull up at the docks, I see the men are all in their tropical whites. A handsome sight. As we walk up the gangplank, suddenly everyone stands to attention and salutes, the Captain has appeared on deck. It's very impressive. As soon as he's gone, everyone goes back to normal. We're shown a tour of the frigate, it's on three levels. The cabins are claustrobically small. with a tiny bunk bed sleeping arrangement. I'm shown where Prince Andrew slept. There is no difference in area. they told me with great glee that when they were at sea they would shout down the deck 'cooey' after the scandalous fling he had with Koo Stark. A model.

We're taken to the first deck bar where a quite a few sailors are waiting to meet us. I'm poured a very generous drink, then another and another. it's the afternoon. We chat about the war, some of the sailors are less than enthusiastic about the conflict. One of them is crying over some of the action they'd seen. I find it both very moving and powerfully enlightening. They're all good, decent men with wives and families back home. Some of them show their pics, while others seem to have forgotten about their wives and chat me up. Bill is in another bar on the third deck. He comes down and tells me somewhat agitatedly that the men in that bar are becoming impatient for me to visit them. This is all a bit overwhelming, I hadn't expected so much attention and was surprised there were no other Brits there.

I'm feeling a bit intoxicated, in fact quite a lot intoxicated. I ask if I can use their phone to ring Francois. There is no phone. They'd lied, Cunning devils. We leave and head back home. I'm so drunk I know i can't even talk to Francois on the phone until I've stood under a cold shower to sober up a bit. I ring him to apologise but he just laughs and 'says your country needs you more than me, come to my office Sunday 8am'.  I'm stunned.

I turn up and he shows me a picture of his racehorse stabled at Newbury, he's in good mood, his horse has just beaten the Queen's in a race. We talk of this and that but nothing about the job. Eventually he asks if I can type? I tell him no. 'That's not a problem we have people who can do that, gesturing downstairs'. 'Telex?' Err no. Same response from him again.  'Answer the phone?' We both laugh. He waves an arm airily towards a rosewood desk in the next office. It's now mine apparently and start straight away.

I sit at the desk in disbelief, the view is just mindblowing. Looking out over the Corniche. Miles of picturesque landscaping, wonderful fountains,  palm trees and a long sweep of golden sands fringing a turquoise blue Gulf. I feel like bursting into song. 'if they could see me now that little gang of mine.....'

The building is the old US Embassy and circular. I really look forward to going in though starting to tire of just sitting there reading day after day, which he doesn't seem to object to. Think i'm there as a piece of decoration but not complaining. Francois is extremely cultured, a Palestianian, speaks fluent German and French and obviously English. An impressive man.  Very easy to talk to, very interesting and highly intelligent. And fun. Surprised he's not married. Though would imagine not very pleasant to get on the wrong side of. We get on very well. And coincidentally share the same age and birth date. Both Gemini's.

He says he has to go to Paris. He'll be gone for two weeks and suggests it might be interesting for me to learn how to type and use the telex machine. One of the Indians downstairs will show me if I'm interested. I copy the keyboard onto a piece of paper and tape it to the window directly above the golf ball typewriter. For the next two weeks I diligently memorise the qwerty keyboard and slowly start to get the hang of it. I also learn how to use the telex so at least feel more useful.

I look at the filing cabinet next, pull  out  the drawers and decide to tidy it up. I pull out all the hanging files in order to do the job properly and see some brown paper packages stuffed underneath. Curious, I pull them all out. There are a lot of brochures and realise to my horror, they are all for armaments. Tanks, armoured vehicles, flak jackets, rocket launchers, machine guns etc. I can't stop my hands shaking, look round quickly to make sure no-one has seen me take them out. And gingerly put them back exactly as they were.

I never mention this to anyone, not even Bill. As far as I'm concerned they don't exist. Starting to realise this is a very different way of life to the UK. And very dangerous. I'm just a young mum, and starting to feel I'm way out of my depth.

Over the next few months meet many interesting and high-ranking people who come to visit him. Government ministers, billionaire Sheikhs, influential businessmen: all are powerful. For all I know I might even have met Osama Bin Laden, he was on 'our side' then, fighting against the Russians in Afghanistan, the Saudi family name is on many construction site boards here. Having been completely captivated by David Lean's wonderful film 'Lawrence of Arabia' I find I'm surrounded by Omar Sharif's, they are ten a dirham, though sadly no Peter O'Toole's. After the initial shock I really enjoy working for him. He treats me very well and tells me many things. He knows I'm keen to learn more about Middle Eastern politics and imparts a lot of information on the Americans involvement in the various wars going on - mainly though the CIA. That they are evil and corrupt. Obviously I realise there's a certain amount of bias here, but even so, do tend to believe him.

Francois on his return invites us to his penthouse on the Corniche. The view from his balcony is stunning. The shelves are lined with huge expensive looking  books on art.  And the apartment is very tastefully and expensively decorated. Francois arranges a barbecue for Bill me and the kids. It does feel a bit awkward. But he's very patient and kindly towards Toby and Celia. As ever Arabs are great with children, think often it's because they're childlike themselves. Though that's not the case with Francois, he's very sophisticated and articulate.

He expresses a desire to go to the English Bar at the Sheraton, incredibly Arabs aren't allowed in. I find that appalling. We take Francois with us, he gets in solely because he's with us. In the bar we meet an acquaintance of his called Peter. He is quintessentially English, very posh accent. He's an architect and very attractive, witty, articulate and confident. Educated at Cambridge. At the same time as Eleanor Bron and Peter Cook. I'm fascinated by that association and he seems to find me amusing. He suggests meeting for dinner and takes our number.

Francois had enjoyed the evening and wants to repay the compliment. He has ordered one and half kilos of Beluga Caviar and pure Russian Vodka. I have never had caviar, only fish roe that Bill used to bring back from Das Island amongst many other goodies that the guys gave him for the family. The roe was OK except for one thing, Bill comes out of the bog after eating some of it, looking a bit pale and shaken. He's worried and says his poo is an alarming shade of dark green. I laugh as I explain it's the dye in the roe.

We take some of our friends along to sample some of Francois' luxury food. After a while a young Sheikh materialises. He is very young. 19. He complains that the Lamborghini that he's just taken delivery of in London at the Intercontinental is too low slung and hits the ramp as he leaves the underground car park.  I tell him that he should buy a Mini, that you can get them Mink lined. I think this is funny but he doesn't see the funny side. My friends think I'm skating on thin ice and kick me under the table. He expresses an interest in one of the actresses in a Hollywood soap and offers her half a million dollars to sleep with him. She refuses. Respect.

Francois explains later in the office that he wants his young Sheikh to meet English women that are not prostitutes. To have a 'normal' conversation with women that are intelligent. I'm flattered: I think.

My birthday is approaching, Francois suggests we have a joint birthday party held at his penthouse. And can invite all of my friends. I'm looking forward to meeting some of his friends. He says he will organise it all. And meanwhile worry about how to cut the bill for it.

On the night, we arrive to find a magnificent cake, absolutely huge. With a double lot of candles on it, for both of us. There is also a fabulous spread of food. And servants. Lots of champagne, in fact it's quite overwhelming and must have spent a fortune on it all. Amongst our many friends there is John Wells. He is memorable that night for two things. The first is challenging some young blonde to a competition to see who can run fastest, the second is him murmuring an aside to Bill as I'm invited to blow out all the candles. 'I wouldn't be happy if that was my wife!!'

Which turns out to be deliciously ironic as he himself was caught out and jailed as a bigamist two years on. Caught out on his honeymoon when he already had a wife and four children. But still had the gall to say it was a good 'do'. Thats our friends for you.

None of Francois' friends are there and realise he's thrown the party for me. Bill is furious. There is no way anything is going on but suppose it does look iffy. I'm not stupid and have young children, I just wouldn't do anything to harm that. I do like Francois but not that much. We are friends. Maybe it's not possible to have male friends out here. Maybe he's misread my friendship. Maybe he has some sort of feeling for me. He has never made any inappropriate suggestion. Palestianians are very clever but also very crafty.

We are going home on leave soon. Bill tells me when we get back to Abu Dhabi I'm not going to be working for him again.