‘It’s been lovely meeting you,’ Belinda enthused, seeing Aisha to the door. ‘I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve done my homework; Monday at the latest.’
Aisha thanked her again and said goodbye; then went back down the stairs, past the antique shop, which was now closed and night-lit, and out onto the street. Her shoes clipped a newfound confidence on the pavement as she headed towards the tube, a lightness, a little risqué freedom, which hadn’t been there on the inward journey. Before she went down into the tunnels and lost the signal on her mobile, she phoned her mother. ‘Sorry, I was held up in a meeting. I’ll be home in an hour.’ Which was all she intended saying now or in the future, to save them all embarrassment, and her parents the futile job of trying to dissuade her from going ahead.
Chapter Five
‘It’s a Miss Mayhew,’ Aisha’s PA said, her hand covering the mouthpiece of the phone.
Aisha glanced up from the printout she was studying. ‘From which company?’
‘She said it was personal.’
Aisha frowned, puzzled, and took the phone from Grace. ‘Hello,’ she said, and was surprised to hear Belinda’s voice. She hadn’t known Belinda’s surname, and it was not her lunch hour yet, and only the day after the interview. ‘Just a moment,’ she said into the phone. Then to Grace: ‘Can you give me five minutes, please?’
She waited until Grace had left her office and closed the door behind her. ‘Hello Belinda. What can I do for you?’
‘I’ll be quick because I know you’re busy, but I just had to tell you. I have an introduction for you! Already!’
Aisha heard the excitement in Belinda’s voice and knew she should have felt it too. ‘Yes?’ she asked tentatively.
‘Let me explain. By the time you left yesterday evening I already had three gentlemen in mind. All absolutely charming and meeting your criteria. So, in keeping with my usual policy, I telephoned each of them with a few details about yourself, and from that I was able to proceed and select one. He’s so right, Aisha, so absolutely right! Perfect. You’re very lucky indeed.’
Aisha admired the diplomatic way Belinda passed off the rejection of her details by the other two; they were probably looking for someone younger, she thought, or more vibrant, or both.
‘Now, before I go any further,’ Belinda continued, ‘there’s something I need to clarify with you first. I am right in thinking you are happy meeting someone from a different ethnic background? That is what you said, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘Good. I wanted to be certain because it’s obviously important.’
‘It could be to some,’ Aisha said, and felt the familiar niggle of irritation. ‘Is he white?’
‘Yes. Now let me tell you a bit about him. He’s thirty-six, a bit older than you, as you requested. He’s a graduate engineer, and tall – you said you like tall men. He works for a large multinational in the City, in fact not far from where you work. He sometimes travels on business, but he’s more than happy to take his partner whenever possible. Don’t worry though, I’ve already explained it would be difficult for you with your career. He has his own house. His car is a BMW, which he changes every year. Without doubt he’s completely sincere in his wish to have someone important in his life again, and is over the break-up of his marriage, which I understand wasn’t his fault. He loves what I’ve told him about you and hopes you will allow him to telephone you. This will be his first introduction, Aisha. Like you, he’s very particular about the type of person he is looking for.’
Belinda stopped and Aisha latched on to the one sentence she would rather not have heard: the break-up of his marriage. ‘He’s been married before then?’ she asked.
‘A long while ago, when he was young. Too young, he told me. As I said yesterday, Aisha, men of his age will have either been married or have cohabited in a long-term relationship, and if they haven’t, I would hear alarm bells ringing. It could suggest commitment issues.’
Aisha wound the telephone wire around her little finger as she pictured the look on her parents’ faces if she were to introduce a divorcee, regardless of how long ago it was, or whose fault it had been. Divorce didn’t happen in her family in India, and given the choice, her parents would have doubtless preferred a never-married doctor or accountant from Gujarat, but her father no longer had those connections so that wasn’t an option.
‘Does he have children?’ Aisha asked.
‘Two, but he doesn’t see them. His wife remarried straight after the divorce and encouraged the children to look on her new husband as their father. He told me he didn’t want the children upset by a court battle so he left them in peace. Which I think was highly commendable, don’t you?’
‘I suppose so,’ Aisha said and let the telephone wire go with a twang. ‘Why did the marriage break up? Did he tell you?’
‘He said he would like to discuss that with you personally, but I understand his wife was having an affair.’ Belinda seemed to hear Aisha’s hesitation. ‘Aisha, you can’t possibly make a decision until you have met him. And when you do, I’m sure you’ll be as impressed as I was. He’s charming, absolutely charming. In fact, if I wasn’t happily married I’d be quite tempted myself.’ She gave a little giggle.
Aisha hadn’t thought of Belinda as married, and it was heartening to have this first-hand example of a woman combining a career and marriage so successfully; no one at her level at the bank seemed to have managed it.
‘Well? What do you say?’ Belinda asked. ‘I’ve put a lot of work into this, Aisha, and I wouldn’t have suggested him if I didn’t think he was absolutely right.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry. I understand. So, what happens now?’
‘I’ll give him your phone number and he’ll call for a chat.’
‘And he won’t mind if we don’t go ahead and meet?’ Aisha asked, needing a get-out clause.
‘No, of course not. But you must give it a chance.’
‘All right then,’ Aisha said. ‘There’s no harm in us having a chat.’
‘Excellent. His name is Mark. I’ll tell him to phone your office. Tomorrow lunchtime?’
‘Yes, between one and two o’clock, please.’
They said goodbye and she hung up. Mark, she thought. No surnames at this stage, only first names. Mark. She tried to picture him, but beyond him being tall and white it was impossible, for in truth Belinda had given her very few details.
The rest of the day was very busy and that evening she had a report to write for a meeting the following morning so there was little time for worrying or idle speculation. It was only when she was alone in bed and drifting off to sleep that her thoughts turned to Belinda and Mark, and with it came the inherent worry of what she had committed to. Oh well, I can always wind up the conversation with an excuse, she thought; that’s assuming he phones at all. And the more she considered the chances of him phoning the less likely it seemed he would.
The following day her morning meeting overran and by the time she arrived back at her desk it was one fifteen. She asked Grace if there had been any phone calls; Grace said there had been four, but when Aisha looked at the note Grace handed her she saw they were all business calls. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or disappointed. Aisha asked Grace to switch the phone line through to her office while she went to lunch as she usually did. She then sat at her desk, took her sandwich box from her bag, opened the carton of orange juice, and tried to concentrate on the correspondence Grace had left for her. The phone rang almost immediately and she sprang to answer it, but it was a disgruntled customer who had asked to speak to the manager. Eager to clear the line Aisha apologized profusely for the banking error and promised to look into it personally. With the customer pacified she replaced the receiver. Two minutes later the phone rang again with another unhappy customer. Aisha again apologized and said she would look into it. Ten minutes passed before the phone rang again and when Aisha answered she knew straight away it was different. A friendly warm male voice, not
complaining – far from it, a little hesitant, she thought. ‘Is it possible to speak to Aisha, please?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Hello Aisha, this is Mark. I hope you’re expecting my call?’
‘Yes, I am, Mark. Hello.’
She heard his small sigh of relief and the pause before he said: ‘Good. Excellent. Now, where do I go from here? I don’t know about you, but all this is new to me. Maybe I should start by telling you a bit about myself? That’s what Belinda said I should do.’
‘Yes, please do,’ Aisha said, and smiled to herself at the image of this grown man taking his instructions from Belinda.
‘Well, I’m six foot one, so you won’t lose me in a crowd,’ he joked, ‘and I like the usual things – theatre, cinema, travelling, a drink in a country pub. I enjoy my work and it takes up a lot of my time. But when I can, I play squash, and I swim. I’m a member of my local gym, but I don’t use it as much as I should. Occasionally I watch television, the late-night films mainly – they help me to unwind. I like most food, but I’m particularly partial to Italian and Indian. There are some excellent restaurants close to where I live and they’re not helping my waistline at all.’
He gave a little laugh then paused, and Aisha knew it was her turn. Her heart thumped and her mouth went dry. How to make it snappy and interesting as he had done?
‘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 th
e 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.