Run, Mummy, Run. Cathy Glass
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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