by Cathy Glass
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.’
‘There’s nothing wrong in that,’ Mark said. ‘I know too many people sinking under the debt of credit cards. We live in a gotta-have-it-now culture. Never mind if you can afford it. I think your father’s attitude is right.’
It pleased Aisha considerably that Mark agreed with and upheld her father’s principles, and it gave her the confidence to continue.
Presently they turned off the A1 and Mark braked as a sudden squall sheeted against the windscreen and momentarily blocked their vision. He upped the wiper speed. Aisha looked out of the side window at the trees bending over in the wind.
‘I’m glad I’m not driving,’ she confessed. ‘My car is old and doesn’t like the rain. I’m always worried about being stranded with a breakdown or flat tyre.’
‘Don’t worry, you’re safe with me,’ Mark said. ‘She hasn’t let me down yet.’
And, yes, Aisha felt safe sitting beside Mark, his broad shoulders squared into the seat, his large hands covering the steering wheel, she felt very safe indeed. Mark emanated a confidence, an assurance, that whatever befell them he could deal with it. He was someone, she decided, who’d had enough experience of life to be in control of it rather than at its mercy, as she sometimes felt.
The sign for The Crooked Chimney presently appeared out of the trees, swinging in the wind and rain. It had always reminded Aisha of the signboard for The Jamaica Inn – the pub on the edge of Bodmin Moor: the oil painting of the old inn sign creaking as it swung from its tall metal stand. Mark made the left turn then drove a little further along the B road and pulled into the restaurant’s car park. The car’s tyres crunched over the gravel to one of the few remaining spaces on the far side.
‘Stay put and I’ll get the umbrella from the boot,’ he said, cutting the engine, ‘I’ll impress you with my chivalry. And don’t forget to tell Belinda.’
Aisha laughed easily, she felt far more relaxed now. Mark reached behind her, unhooked his jacket from the rear, slipped it on, and threw open his door. The wind and rain sprang to seek refuge inside the car before he slammed the door shut. Aisha heard the boot open and close, and then he was at her window, shaking out a large golfing umbrella, which he pointed into the wind. He opened her door and she got out and stood beside him, close, but not quite touching. With Mark holding the umbrella like a shield into the wind, they began across the car park. Aisha looked down and concentrated on trying to avoid the little potholes that were quickly filling up with water.
‘Who would ever live in this country?’ Mark shouted against the wind. ‘It’s a wonder any of us survive in this climate.’
‘My father would,’ she shouted back. ‘He wouldn’t live anywhere else.’
‘He must be mad!’ he said. ‘But I’m glad for my sake he is, otherwise you wouldn’t be here now.’
The door to the
restaurant was opened from inside as they approached and to Aisha’s small surprise she found that not only was the maitre d’ waiting for them, but that he knew Mark. ‘Nice to see you again, Mr Williams,’ he said with a small nod. They shook hands. ‘It’s been a while. I hope you’ve been keeping well?’
‘Yes, and yourself?’
‘Very well, thank you.’
Mark passed him the umbrella, and then helped Aisha out of her coat.
‘Your table is ready,’ the maitre d’ said. ‘Or would you and your guest like a drink first?’
Mark turned to Aisha. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Shall we go straight through and order a drink at the table?’
She nodded and ran her hands over her skirt, wishing she’d changed out of her office suit. Now she was inside, the restaurant seemed very grand and she felt underdressed. The maitre d’ led the way from reception, down a small carpeted hall and into the dinning room, which was full and buzzed with conversation and the chink of cutlery. A huge inglenook fire roared orange and yellow and above it rose the crooked redbrick chimney from which the inn had taken its name. To their right a large party of a dozen or more were opening champagne for a birthday celebration, while the other tables, nestled between the exposed oak pillars, were occupied by small groups and couples. The room was warm and cosy and not as formal as Aisha thought it might be. The maitre d’ led them down the centre aisle, between the tables with their single candles and flowers. Aisha noticed that the other diners, men and women, looked up as Mark passed, their gaze lingering. It wasn’t just Mark’s stature, she thought, although it was true he didn’t stoop as some tall men do, but he had that unmistakable quality – that presence of being – that drew people’s attention. Aisha felt proud that she was with him for she also noticed that as a diner’s gaze left Mark, it went to her, as though some of his charisma was rubbing off.
The maitre d’ removed a reserved sign from a table in a secluded alcove and drew out a chair for Aisha. He eased it under her as she sat, while Mark took the chair opposite. The maitre d’ handed each of them a large leather-bound menu. ‘Would you like a drink now, sir?’ he asked as a waiter appeared and hovered, ready to take their order.
Mark looked at Aisha. ‘A mineral water, please,’ she said.
‘And a gin and tonic for me, with ice and lemon,’ Mark added.
‘Very good, sir,’ the maitre d’ said and, with another slight nod, left, followed by the drinks waiter.
Aisha opened the menu and propped it between the table and her lap. She began studying the extensive list of dishes presented in flourishing italics.
‘Well?’ Mark asked after a moment. ‘What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure yet. There’s so much to choose from.’
‘No, I mean the restaurant. Do you like it?’
She looked up with a nervous little laugh. ‘Oh, yes, it’s very nice. I’m so pleased you suggested it.’
‘Good. Although I can’t take all the credit. I ran it past Belinda first.’
Aisha laughed again. ‘Belinda has very good taste.’
‘Absolutely,’ Mark said, and his eyes lingered admiringly until she looked away embarrassed. ‘Anyway, Michael Winner reviewed it once in his column,’ he continued. ‘Do you read the Sunday Times?’
She looked up again. ‘I do. But the arrogance of the man! It’s a wonder restaurateurs let him in. I’m sure I wouldn’t.’
‘I suppose any publicity is better than none.’ Mark laughed.
The starters arrived and as they ate and talked of work – a subject which came easily to them both – it crossed Aisha’s mind how proud her father would be to see her sitting here now, in this very nice restaurant, as confident and relaxed as Mark and the other diners. She thought that one day she would treat her parents to dinner here: book the table, order the food, and call for the bill at the end, to show them just how self-assured she could be, how at home she was in these surroundings.
‘I’m incredibly well organized,’ Mark said by way of confession as her chicken and his steak arrived. Aisha nodded and helped herself to the vegetables from the dishes the waiter had placed in the centre of the table. ‘It can be seen as a fault,’ he said. ‘Angela certainly thought it was.’ Aisha looked up and met his gaze. ‘Belinda told you about Angela, didn’t she?’ Mark asked, slightly concerned.
‘Not really, she mentioned that you had been married before, but that was all.’
‘I see.’ Mark looked down and sliced into his rare steak. ‘OK, it’s probably a good idea if I tell you now and then we’ll get it out of the way.’ He chewed and swallowed before continuing as Aisha sipped her mineral water, waiting. ‘It was the classic tale of marrying too young really,’ he began, ‘and then spending too much time at work. I was in my first position with the company and wanted to do well. My career has always been important to me, as I know yours is to you.’ Aisha nodded. ‘You don’t get a second chance in my line of work – if you haven’t made it by the time you’re thirty, you can forget it. With hindsight, I can see how isolated Angela must have felt, alone in the house all day with only the children for company. She became very depressed and was prescribed Valium. It turned out to be the worst thing that could have happened. We might have ridden out the rough patch had it not been for that drug. It affected her moods and she became a different person.’ Mark suddenly stopped talking. He held his cutlery still and looked carefully at Aisha. ‘You don’t mind me going into this detail, do you? Only I feel it’s important we’re honest with each other right from the beginning.’
‘No, not at all,’ Aisha said. ‘I’m pleased you can.’ She latched on to the word ‘beginning’ as proof there could be more: another meeting, another date, which meant Mark was finding her company acceptable and possibly even enjoying it.
‘Angela cited unreasonable behaviour as grounds for the divorce,’ Mark continued. ‘The little time I spent at home, my neglect of her and the children, and something she called my obsessive attention to detail. I wasn’t going to sign the divorce petition to begin with – it made me sound like a nut case, when all I had been doing was working my socks off to try and provide the best for my wife and family. But my solicitor said I should sign it, that it was the easiest way out, and it would be expensive to defend a divorce, so I did. I signed the papers and gave Angela the house and everything in it. She moved her new bloke in the same day I moved out. I’d no idea she was seeing someone. I was gutted.’
Aisha gasped and set down her cutlery. ‘But that’s dreadful,’ she said, genuinely shocked.
Mark nodded. ‘My parents were devastated. They lost their grandchildren, and to a certain extent they blamed me. We’re still not fully reconciled, even now.’
Aisha looked at Mark with heartfelt pity; to have a family torn from you and not see them was the worst thing she could imagine. It could never happen to her. How she would have liked to have reached out and touched Mark’s hand, to have lightly squeezed it and reassured him. To have told him that she understood and felt ashamed that a woman had behaved so despicably, and that never in a million years would she behave so badly. That she had waited so long for the chance to show love and commitment and knew its worth and would cherish it forever.
‘Anyway,’ Mark said, suddenly returning his hand to his fork, ‘enough. I’ll ruin the evening with my tales of woe. Tell me about your relationships and I hope you’ll be as honest as I have been.’
Aisha gave a little shrug and looked down. ‘There’s nothing to tell really,’ she said quietly. ‘I had a good male friend at university, but that was a long time ago. There’s been no one since.’
‘Oh, I can’t believe that,’ Mark teased. ‘You’re far too lovely to have been saving yourself for me. Come on, out with it. I’m a man of the world, I can take it.’
He laughed again, but stopped himself when he saw her face for that was exactly what she had been doing: saving herself.
He leaned forwards in earnest
and, laying his hand on hers, said, ‘I feel very privileged that you agreed to meet me, and while the evening isn’t over yet, I’m already planning our next date. Now, let’s call for that sweet trolley. Tonight’s a special night and we should treat ourselves.’
When Mark took her home after their meal he drove slowly as though the didn’t want the evening to end. The conversation flowed easily now they were used to each other’s company. He pulled up outside her house and cutting the engine gently asked, ‘I hope you enjoyed this evening, Aisha? I’d like to think it’s the first of many.’
‘Yes, I have,’ she breathed. ‘I’ve enjoyed it very much, thank you.’ Then added shyly, ‘I’d like to meet again too.’
‘Terrific!’ he exclaimed with the uninhibited enthusiasm of a little boy and she laughed. ‘Shall I phone you on Monday to arrange something for next week?’ he asked.
‘Yes, please.’ She smiled; then her eyes left his as she looked past him, through the windscreen and up to her parents’ bedroom window. The light was still on, they were awake. She wondered if they’d heard the car draw up. She’d told them she was meeting a friend after work and not to wait up, but she knew they would.
‘It’s late,’ she said. ‘I’d better go in. Thank you again for a lovely evening.’
‘There’s no need to thank me,’ Mark said. ‘The pleasure is all mine. I’ll walk you to the door.’
Aisha remained in her seat while Mark got out and went round and opened her door. She already knew he liked to do this, it was one of his many little acts of chivalry which made her feel so special. He offered her his arm as she stepped out and onto the pavement.
‘At least it’s stopped raining,’ he said, cupping her elbow and guiding her the few steps to the front gate. She waited while he undid the latch and opened the gate; then they walked side by side up the path to the front door.
He turned to face her. ‘Until Monday then,’ he said. ‘I’m already counting the hours. Have a good weekend.’ Then without warning he leant forwards and lightly kissed her cheek. ‘Goodnight, Aisha. Take care.’