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
