Run, Mummy, Run

‘Well,’ she began, twiddling the phone wire, ‘I expect Belinda has told you I’m also busy with my work, but when I have free time I like to read, or go for a walk in the country. I find a country walk quite relaxing. I go to the theatre every so often, and eat out, but not as much as I’d like to. Sometimes I take my parents to the cinema.’ She stopped. Don’t get too cosy and domestic, she told herself. He won’t want to know that. ‘But more often I take work home,’ she added, ‘which I do while listening to music. Mozart and Tchaikovsky are among my favourites, but I like some jazz as well as some modern music.’

‘I have eclectic tastes in music too,’ Mark said. ‘What about country and western, do you like that?’

‘Yes, some, the old favourites – Patsy Cline, Johnny Cash, Tammy Wynette.’

As the exchange of information continued and then developed into a conversation, Aisha found it wasn’t as difficult as she had thought and indeed she was quite enjoying herself; she wondered what she had been afraid of. Mark took the lead in the conversation, steered it, and filled in any gaps. Fifteen minutes later when he finally broke off and said, ‘I’m sorry, I’m going to have to go. I’m due in a meeting soon,’ she felt a pang of disappointment. Then he added: ‘Shall we continue this in person and meet?’

‘Yes, I’d like that,’ she replied without hesitation.

‘How about Friday? After work? We could go for a bite to eat perhaps?’

‘That would be lovely. I usually finish about six on a Friday.’

‘OK. I’ll have my car with me but we can use the tube if you prefer. Can I suggest you wait near the main entrance of Harrods? Say six thirty? I’ll collect you and we’ll take it from there?’

‘Yes, that’s fine with me.’

‘Good. I drive a metallic silver BMW with personalized number plates. If you’ve got a pen handy, I’ll give you the registration. I don’t want you running off with the wrong man.’

Aisha laughed easily and reached for her notepad and pen.

‘MAR K12,’ he said and she wrote it down. ‘I’ll be wearing a navy suit. The jacket will be hanging in the rear window of the car. I always hang it there when I’m driving. But don’t worry, I’ll recognize you first because Belinda has told me you’ve got the most amazingly long black hair. Is it true you haven’t cut it since you were a child?’

Unused to personal compliments, Aisha felt herself blush and was pleased Mark couldn’t see her. ‘I have it trimmed, but my mother believes it brings bad luck for a girl to cut off her long hair before she’s married.’ Immediately she could have kicked herself for introducing such a personal note so soon; it sounded as though marriage was the only thing on her mind and she was desperate.

‘I can’t wait to see it,’ Mark said. ‘Until Friday then. Have a good week.’

‘And you. Thank you for phoning.’

‘My pleasure.’

That evening after dinner, Aisha went straight to her bedroom, shut the door and sat at her dressing table mirror. The face that looked back at her had hardly changed since she was a teenager and, Aisha thought, was as plain and unsophisticated now as it had been then. There was nothing interesting in it, no intrigue, no signs of having lived, no experience; in fact nothing to distinguish it from that of countless other women her age, apart from maybe the colour, and that hardly singled her out in London. But it was the face Mark was going to see outside Harrods and then later across a table in a restaurant. The one that he would either want to see again for another meeting or politely reject.

Perhaps I could start by wearing some make-up, she thought, something that would define my features. That might help. She opened the top drawer of her dressing table and found a kohl pencil and lipstick which she’d bought a year or so ago but had never used. Widening her eyes, she drew a thin line with the kohl pencil under the bottom lids; then placing the pencil to one side, unscrewed the lipstick. Tightening her lips, she ran the lipstick lightly over her lips and to the corner of her mouth and looked in the mirror. The result she had to admit was more the expression of a surprised clown than an attractive woman. Aisha sat back in the chair and scrutinized her head and shoulders. Perhaps it was her hair that made her so plain? Although it was in good condition and shone she always wore it drawn straight back off her face in a plait.

Aisha undid the plait and shook her hair free; it fell to her waist. It was certainly long and black as Belinda had told Mark but Aisha wasn’t sure about the ‘amazing’. Taking her hairbrush from the drawer she gave her hair a good brush and then arranged it loosely around her shoulders. But the sheer length and volume made her look more like a woman possessed than attractive or even seductive. Stoically, Aisha re-plaited her hair and wiped off the kohl and lipstick. She was naturally plain, that was all there was to it, and if Mark didn’t like it, well, he simply wouldn’t ask to see her again, which in many ways would be something of a relief.

Standing, she moved away from the dressing table and picked up the banking journal that was on her beside table. Propping herself on the bed she buried herself in the comparative safety of the London Stock Exchange. At least here graphs predicted outcomes and a negative forecast could be acted on to minimize loss. Pity life wasn’t as controlled and predictable, she thought. But then again hers probably had been, which was why at nearly thirty she was living at home with her parents with nothing beyond work to look forward to.

Chapter Six

It was raining hard on Friday evening so Aisha sheltered in the doorway of Harrods. Other shoppers and tourists were doing the same, hoping the rain would ease. It hadn’t been raining when she’d left home that morning and she wished she’d thought to bring an umbrella just in case. Trying to stay dry under the canopy of the store she leaned forwards and, peering out, surveyed the traffic for any sign of Mark. She then checked her watch again – it was nearly six twenty-five; she’d arrived early, there was still time for him to come.

A few minutes later at exactly six thirty she began to think that Mark wouldn’t be coming. There were all sorts of reasons that could have stopped him from meeting her: the rain, the traffic, an unexpected appointment, or more simply he’d just changed his mind. She’d just decided she would give him until six forty and then head for home when she saw what she thought could be his car and her heart lurched. Half a dozen cars back, there was a metallic silver BMW, shimmering with rain in the street lamps. Was it him? She couldn’t be certain until it drew closer. She moved further forwards for a better view, careful to stay under the store’s canopy and out of the rain. She watched and waited, peered out through the drizzle and round the heads of passers-by, monitoring the car’s painfully slow progress in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Then she saw the silhouette of the driver, male and large, and yes, there was a jacket swinging in the nearside rear window. Her heart set up a queer little rhythm as the car drew close enough for her to read the number plate – MAR K12 – yes, it was definitely him.

Aisha stayed where she was as the car pulled in to the kerb. She saw him lean over and peer through the passenger window, looking across the pavement, searching for her. Then the driver’s door opened and he got out. He was tall, yes; she could easily see him looking over the roof of the car towards the store, scanning the pavement. Umbrellas got in the way as Aisha moved out onto the pavement and into the rain. She gave a little wave, her hand flicking nervously from her side and back again. For a moment she thought he hadn’t seen her as his gaze continued past her, and she stood there feeling foolishly exposed. Then his eyes returned to her, and with a small nod of recognition he moved towards her, his large strides bringing him easily onto the pavement and up to her.

‘Aisha?’

‘Yes, hello Mark.’ She smiled.

‘I’m so very pleased to meet you, very pleased.’ He shook her hand. ‘The traffic is appalling, I hope you haven’t been waiting long?’

‘No, not long.’ She smiled again and noticed how blue his eyes were and how they sparkled as he spoke, and that he seemed genuinely pleased to see her.

‘Good. Come on, get in or you’ll be drenched.’

He cupped her elbow and steered her protectively across the crowded pavement to his car. She felt pleasantly conspicuous as he opened the passenger door and then waited while she got in. He unhooked her seat belt and draped it over her shoulder and into her lap; then closed the door. Aisha watched as he crossed in front of the bonnet – took in his well-defined features: the firm angular jaw suggesting confidence; his upright manner; his slightly thinning fair hair. He wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense, she thought, more rugged: a man with presence who was at ease with himself. A man’s man, she thought.

The driver’s door opened with a rush of cold air and the interior light flickered on as Mark got in. ‘What a dreadful night,’ he said. ‘I do hope you haven’t got wet.’

‘No,’ she said, and ran her hands over her plaited hair, which was only slightly damp.

She glanced sideways at him and saw the little patches of rain on his shirt and a few beads of rain glistening on his forehead. He smiled and, reaching behind her for his jacket, took a freshly laundered and pressed cotton handkerchief from the pocket and dabbed the moisture from his face. She watched, transfixed – the act appearing intimate and magnified in the confines of the car. Briefly checking the result in the interior mirror he stretched out his legs and pushed the handkerchief into his trouser pocket. A car horn sounded behind them.

‘Patience,’ Mark said evenly. ‘A little patience goes a long way.’

Which, Aisha realized, was exactly the type of thing her father would have said; he had a maxim for every occasion.

Mark clicked on the indicator, but before pulling out suddenly turned to her, concerned. ‘Aisha, you are happy about using my car, aren’t you? Say if you’re not, and I’ll park and we can get a taxi.’

She smiled, and dispelling any reservation she may or should have felt said, ‘Yes, Belinda said it was OK, although I would like to know where you’re taking me.’

He laughed. ‘I’m sorry, I should have said. I thought we’d get out of the city. Do you know The Crooked Chimney, just off the A1? Coming from North London, I thought you might. It’s had some excellent write-ups.’

‘Yes, I do,’ she said, and felt comfortable that they were going somewhere she knew. ‘It’s not so far from where I live. I’ve never eaten there though.’ Another horn sounded and Mark looked over his shoulder and began to pull out.

‘I used to go there regularly, a while back,’ he said, straightening the wheel. ‘The menu’s a bit conservative, but not at all bad.’ He glanced at her. ‘You do like English food, don’t you? You know, meat and veg?’

‘Yes, I was born here,’ she said. And she knew straight away she shouldn’t have said it – that quick retort her father chided her about: ‘You’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself one day, Aisha,’ he said.

‘I didn’t mean—’ Mark began.

‘No, neither did I. Sorry. It’s just that I’m used to the question, and often put a lot less subtly. I love English food, and Italian, and Indian. In fact, I eat almost anything.’

‘Great! That’s settled then,’ Mark said and then fell silent as he concentrated on manoeuvring across the two lanes of traffic to turn right. ‘Now,’ he said after a moment. ‘Belinda suggested we should talk about our childhoods as a safe topic to begin with. Best not disappoint her?’

‘No, indeed,’ Aisha laughed, and glanced sideways at him again. ‘But you go first, Mark, I’m sure your childhood was a lot more interesting than mine.’

‘I doubt it, but if you insist … Stop me when you’ve had enough, I don’t want to bore you to death on our first date.’

First date, she thought, suggesting he was already thinking of more. She settled herself back in her seat and looked through the windscreen. The wipers continued their steady, almost hypnotic rhythm as she listened to Mark’s rich, mellow voice. He told her about his early years in Perth with his parents and younger brother, their move south of the border, and eventually to London. She was pleased he’d suggested using the car, with just the two of them cocooned in the semi-darkness, and Mark having to concentrate on his driving. It gave her time to adjust and relax rather than suddenly being on display in the stark illumination of the underground, or opposite him in a restaurant close to where they worked. When Mark reached his teenage years in his life story, they were on the A1. He stopped talking and glanced at her. ‘I’m sure you’ve heard plenty now. I could go on all night. Your turn.’

Aisha smiled and briefly met his eyes. ‘My childhood was very different from yours, a world away. It might help if I tell you a bit about my parents first.’

Mark nodded. ‘Yes, I’d like that. I’d be very interested.’

‘They were born in Gujarat,’ she began, ‘which is on the west coast of India, in a village not far from the port of Okha. Their families were poor but my father had his sights set on coming to England, right from an early age. He had a very menial job first, working in one of the government’s offices, but he worked his way up in their accounts department. Much of his money went to supporting his younger brothers and sisters but eventually he managed to save enough for the plane ticket here. He tells how he arrived with all his belongings in one bag and trekked the streets until he found a job as a clerk with a firm of accountants. He studied in his spare time, and once he had a decent income and a permanent address, he sent for my mother. They were married in a registry office and I was born a year later. My father made a lot of sacrifices to get where he is now and he is a very proud man. He’s strict with me and so is my mother – she wants me to do the right thing. My father would give my mother and me anything, but he’s frugal. I suppose it comes from knowing what real poverty is. He won’t ever buy anything unless he has the money.’