by Joan Smith
‘Oh God, she’s early.’ Aisha went to the window and looked out, blinking as the sun reflected off a silver hatchback. The car manoeuvred into position next to Aisha’s Golf and the driver turned off the engine. Aisha turned back to her son.
‘I’m sorry, Max, I’ve got to do an interview. Call a cab and tell them to put it on my account. They can take you to Tariq’s house, and you can get the bus from there.’
He sighed. ‘Oh, all right.’
‘And Max –’ Feeling sorry for him, Aisha reached for her purse. She looked inside and saw she had no ten-pound notes, only twenties, and knew the uselessness of asking Max for change. ‘This is all I’ve got,’ she began, holding up a twenty, and he lifted it triumphantly from her fingers.
‘Wicked. Thanks, Mum.’
‘Tell Dad if you’re going to be home late.’ She hesitated. ‘If he gets on to you —’
Max whirled round, came back into the room and crushed her in a hug: ‘Love ya.’
Feeling the strength and thickness of his arms, Aisha wondered for the umpteenth time how two siblings could be so different, Max resembling no one in the immediate family while Ricky took after his father in body type; if she didn’t know for certain that they were full brothers, she might have assumed they had different fathers. She sometimes wondered, when she saw Tim watching Max through narrowed eyes, whether he had had the same thought.
The doorbell sounded and Max released her, calling the local taxi firm on his mobile as he clumped along the landing to his room. On her way to the stairs, Aisha could not stop herself glancing inside — the door was seldom open — to see whether Max still had Andy Warhol’s car-crash photos above his bed. Tim said it wasn’t healthy for a teenage boy to have such images on the wall but there they were, flanked by pictures of footballers and a couple of girl bands in minimal underwear. Aisha grimaced, shook out the full skirt of her summer dress and hurried downstairs as the bell sounded a second time.
A woman was standing at the open front door. ‘Hi,’ she said, extending her hand, ‘I’m just admiring your garden.’
Slightly flustered, Aisha said, ‘Hello, thanks. You’re Amanda?’
‘Yes. I love this.’ She pointed to the white-painted trellis that created a covered walk along the front of the house. ‘What’s it called?’
Thinking she meant the roses that climbed over it, Aisha glanced up at the heavy flower heads, coppery-pink fading almost to white in the centre: ‘Albertine, it’s my favourite even though it only flowers once a year. Are you a gardener?’
‘Wish I was. My flat has a balcony, there’s just about room for a couple of window boxes.’
‘Come in, please.’ Aisha stepped back into the hall. ‘Did you find it without any trouble?’
‘Your directions were perfect, which is why I’m a bit early.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Aisha glanced again at the young woman, who had a long narrow face, attractive if not quite regular. She wore grey checked trousers with a white T-shirt and her brown hair was tied in a neat plait which hung over her right shoulder. At the end, she had tucked a blue fabric flower.
Aisha said, ‘That’s pretty. This way.’ She moved towards the door at the back of the hall that led to the kitchen, saying over her shoulder: ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, please.’
In the kitchen, Amanda looked round with open interest, noting old wooden cupboards, uneven shelves and a butler sink with a single aluminium draining board. The room was light and airy, perfumed by roses from the garden which had been gathered together in a tall vase. She waited as Aisha placed cups and biscuits on a tray.
‘Can I help?’
‘I can manage, thanks. We’ll go upstairs to my office.’
On the first-floor landing, Aisha nodded towards a closed door. ‘That’s where my husband works.’
Amanda was about to say something about them both working at home — it couldn’t always be easy, she thought — when the door opened.
‘Aisha?’ Tim looked from Aisha to Amanda, as though puzzled by the arrival of a visitor.
Dreading what he might say, Aisha forced a smile. ‘Tim, this is Amanda, I told you she was coming today.’ He looked tired and was wearing the same clothes as the night before, when they had argued about her weekend in Italy. He had at least shaved, Aisha was relieved to see.
‘Another worshipper at the shrine?’
Amanda stepped forward, holding out her hand. ‘Hi, nice to meet you. I’m Amanda Harrison.’
Tim took it after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Who did you say you write for?’ She told him.’ And you’ve come on your own?’ He glanced at his wife. ‘Aisha usually gets written up by posh magazines — you can’t move for stylists and what-d’you-callits.’
‘Just me today, I’m afraid.’ She turned to Aisha. ‘Did the photographer call you?’
Aisha nodded. ‘He’s coming on Tuesday.’
Tim made an effort. ‘I read your rag myself, if they still have it when I go to the garage — we’re country people here, as you can see. No deliveries or luxuries. It’s not bad, as papers go, but I wish you people weren’t so obsessed with bad news.’
Amanda said, ‘I’m a feature writer, actually.’ She smiled at Aisha. ‘I’ve really been looking forward to interviewing your wife.’
‘Don’t make her out to be Mother Teresa, that’s all. She’s human, like us lesser mortals.’
‘We should get on,’ Aisha said, resting her free hand on Amanda’s arm. ‘I’m just taking Amanda up to my office. Will you join us for lunch?’
‘No thanks, I’ve got to finish the amendments to those plans. Bloody planning committee. Bunch of jobsworths.’ He gave a small start and Aisha wondered if he had slept. ‘Nice meeting you — Amanda, did you say?’
‘He’s an architect,’ Aisha explained, lowering her voice as the door closed behind him.
Amanda glanced down at the wide wooden floorboards on the landing, which had been stripped and varnished, though not recently. ‘Your house is lovely — very traditional.’
‘Tim had all sorts of ideas when we moved in but we were broke at the time. Then the boys got bigger —’
Behind them, Tim’s door opened a crack. ‘Aisha? What time are you leaving?’
She turned. ‘Two-thirty.’
He digested this for a moment, then withdrew his head.
‘I’m going to Naples this evening,’ Aisha explained as they climbed narrow stairs to a big room with a sloping ceiling. ‘My son, my younger son that is, has just been asking for a football scarf.’
‘Oh, you should have said! I could have come another day.’
‘No, not at all, we can carry on talking over lunch. Please, sit down.’
Amanda lowered herself into an old armchair. She was taking out her notebook and tape recorder when a mobile rang.
‘Excuse me.’ Aisha picked it up, saying instantly: ‘Hi darling, where are you — oh.’ She listened for a moment, anxiety flickering across her face. ‘Does that mean you won’t get there tonight?’
Sensing her discomfort, Amanda got up and began studying the photographs that covered two of the walls. Behind her, Aisha’s tone changed and she sounded relieved. ‘No, that’s not a problem at all. My plane gets in just before ten. I’ll pick up the car and come straight to the station. Do you know the times of the trains? There must be lots from Rome... No, of course I won’t get lost. See you — see you later.’
Amanda returned to her chair as Aisha ended the call. ‘Sorry,’ she said, and when she turned Amanda saw that her face was transformed. ‘You know what it’s like — travel arrangements,’ she said softly, and laughed.
‘Sure,’ said Amanda, wondering who Aisha had been talking to. Her other son, perhaps? Remembering that they were short of time, she opened her notebook and got down to business. ‘So, about your trust. When did the idea first come to you, and how long did it take to set up? Sorry, that’s two questions.’
‘Mmm?’ The faraway l
ook faded from Aisha’s eyes and she started talking in a brisk, practised manner which made the interview much easier than Amanda could have hoped.
‘Aisha, have you been waiting long?’ Stephen hurried down the steps into the cinema, past the box office, and kissed her on the lips.
‘No, and I’ve got the tickets.’ She held them up. ‘It starts in five minutes.’
He looked at her, taking in what she was wearing. ‘You should have worn a jacket, aren’t you cold like that?’
‘It’s supposed to be summer — it was really warm when I got the train this morning.’
‘Supposed is the right word.’ Stephen turned off his mobile as they made their way to plush seats in the auditorium. The adverts were showing and Aisha said in a low voice: ‘Was it difficult to get away?’
‘No, we’re all so shell-shocked by the election, no one really cares any more. I had to wait for a cab, that’s all.’ They sat down in the middle of the row and Stephen put his arm round Aisha’s shoulders, still speaking quietly. ‘One good thing — Crispin Fort was in the tea room. You know, the guy who took the Northern Ireland job when I turned it down? I’ve seldom seen anyone look so miserable. He’s got Special Branch breathing down his neck and if the peace process gets anywhere, which it might, you-know-who will take all the credit.’
They watched the screen in silence for a moment. Stephen said, ‘About time they got some new ads.’
A trailer for a new Korean film followed. Aisha whispered, ‘I want to see this. It’s had fantastic reviews.’
Stephen squeezed her shoulder affectionately. ‘James Bond’s more my style. Did I tell you I had lunch with Marcus?’ He was about to say more when a man turned and brusquely asked him to stop talking.
‘Keep your hair on,’ Stephen said, but quietly. In Aisha’s ear, he whispered, ‘Catch up later, darling.’
When the film was over, they walked round the corner to Charles Street, talking about the movie as Stephen unlocked the heavy street door and stood back to let Aisha in first. The hall was strewn with leaflets offering takeaway pizzas, supermarket special offers and cleaning services. ‘What is all this rubbish?’ He pushed it to one side with his foot and lightly touched Aisha’s back as they began climbing the stairs: ‘Have you eaten?’
‘I had a drink with Sian earlier on, we had some olives and things.’
He made a tutting noise. ‘That won’t keep you going. I think there’s some smoked salmon in the fridge.’
‘Don’t worry, I had a big lunch.’
He unlocked the door and turned off the burglar alarm, throwing down a heap of folders and making for the kitchen.
‘Let’s have a drink at least.’ He took a bottle of white wine from the fridge, opened it and carried it into the sitting room. The room was stuffy and he went to one of the sash windows, heaving it down a couple of inches. It was dark and he turned on a table lamp.
‘Say if it gets too chilly.’ He flopped on to the sofa, took a long sip of wine and patted the cushion next to him.
‘Mmm?’ Aisha, who had been standing in the middle of the room, looking thoughtful, kicked off her open-toed shoes and joined him on the sofa. She was wearing a sleeveless top with wide-legged trousers — palazzo pants, Stephen thought they were called, surprised by the way his fashion vocabulary had expanded in the year since he met Aisha — and his hand caressed the bare skin of her arm.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, nuzzling her neck. ‘Bloody constituency association — you’d think they’d be grateful I held on to the seat, but it’s meetings, meetings, meetings. I mean, how many post-mortems can you have?’ He paused. ‘Should that be post-mortes? Marcus says I don’t know how lucky I am, but sometimes I wish I’d been kicked out like everyone else.’
‘Really?’ She turned to stare at him.
‘Oh all right, only for about five minutes, every time I go into the Chamber and have to turn left past the Speaker.’
‘How is Marcus?’
‘Philosophical. He was resigned to not being a minister any more. He didn’t take it that seriously, as you know.’ Stephen grinned, remembering some of the faux-pas Marcus had made as an arts minister, including a wholly predictable row about the Turner Prize. ‘But losing his seat; that really got to him.
His grandfather, or maybe it was his uncle — anyway, some relative or other managed to hold it even in 1945.’
‘At least he’s got a job,’ Aisha pointed out. Marcus had been headhunted, a couple of weeks after his election defeat, by the London office of a Czech film company. ‘Bugger all,’ Marcus had replied cheerfully when Stephen asked him what he knew about the Central European film industry, but he had already been photographed at the ICA with an actress who looked like a young Anita Ekberg. Aisha, who had met the formidable Melanie Grill a couple of times, wondered what she had made of that.
‘Oh, Marcus always lands on his feet,’ Stephen said unnecessarily. ‘Anyway, let’s not talk about politics. The House is like a wake at the moment.’
‘I thought you might be getting used to it by now.’
‘Hardly.’ Stephen almost choked on his wine. ‘The place is full of officious women in suits — Night of the Living Social Workers, someone called it.’ He saw her reaction and checked himself. ‘Sorry, darling, sorry, I’m getting into a black mood. Tell me about your trip. When are you going away?’
‘Couple of weeks, if we can sort out all the flights. Fabio and I had lunch with the publisher today.’
Stephen said nothing, his expression darkening.
‘We’re splitting everything half and half. Fabio’s done some work for a charity that fits artificial limbs to kids in war zones and they’re desperate for cash.’
‘What, no endorsement from Princess Di?’
Aisha leaned into Stephen’s chest, making herself more comfortable. ‘Don’t be cynical.’
‘Why the rush? I thought the plan was not to do anything till the autumn.’
‘That’s what I’d have preferred, but I’ve got a meeting with the UN Human Rights Commissioner in September. She’s only in London for a couple of days and I don’t want to miss her. Then Fabio’s off somewhere —’
‘What exalted circles you move in these days, my love. Makes a change from Steve McQueen.’
‘Alexander McQueen. Then there’s Asian’s show, I never miss that. This year he’s got a protégé, a Kurdish boy — I shouldn’t say boy, he’s a couple of years older than Ricky. Anyway, he uses a kind of twisted linen, based on tribal —’
Stephen held up a hand. ‘Not my line, darling. Look, does it really have to be next month? I was hoping...’
‘What?’
He sounded wistful: ‘I thought we might manage a few days in Spain. Carolina’s taking the boys to her cousin in Scotland.’
Aisha lifted his hand and kissed it. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Actually, while we’re on the subject —’
Her phone beeped, indicating the arrival of a text message, and she reached for it. ‘Hang on, it might be one of the boys.’ She read the message and smiled: ‘Ricky. Nothing urgent, it can wait till the morning.’
‘I haven’t really got the hang of texting. Where will you go first?’
‘Jordan, I think, then Syria, Lebanon... Fabio isn’t interested in Egypt, he says it’s too touristy, so I’ll go to Alexandria on my own at the end.’ She pulled a face. ‘It’ll be OK, I’m sure. I mean, I haven’t got family there or anything, not that I’m aware of, but I want to see where my mother grew up.’
‘Why haven’t you been before?’
‘Something awful happened to her and she never wanted to go back. She wouldn’t even talk about it. She was very Anglicised, apart from her name.’
‘Zulaykha.’
‘You’ve got a good memory.’
‘So you don’t know —’
‘Her husband died — her first husband, not my father. I don’t know the details. She did tell May, my sister who lives in France — she said they were living in
Jerusalem and her parents, my grandparents that is, came and took her back to Alexandria when it happened. I don’t think he was ill or anything, I think she said something to May about him being shot, but then she clammed up. May’s not the most tactful... He was a doctor, that’s all I know for certain.’
‘This would have been when?’
1946 or thereabouts. ‘Aisha’s forehead wrinkled as she tried to work out the dates. ‘She got married very young, the first time.’
Stephen exclaimed, ‘Forty-six? When Irgun blew up the King David Hotel? You could hardly pick a worse time to go and live in Jerusalem. Why didn’t they stay in Egypt? Was he Palestinian, this doctor?’
‘I don’t know that, either. I’ve wondered whether he was a relative, maybe a branch of the family lived there? Obviously they were middle-class and not very religious — well, my mother definitely wasn’t. She believed in Freud, that’s what she said whenever religion came up.’ Aisha smiled, remembering that she used to imagine Freud was another name for God, and how impressed she was by the fact that her mother owned so many of his books. Stephen shifted beside her, interrupting her train of thought. ‘I think she sort of re-invented herself,’ Aisha said, ‘when she went to the States.’
‘Oh yes, you’ve mentioned this.’
‘She decided to go to college after she was widowed, and her brothers were already there. That’s how she my met my father; he was doing some sort of research after his first degree. They got married in Boston, I’ve got the wedding photos — she looks lovely and a bit bemused, nothing like when I knew her. She was always so soignée...’ Aisha smiled as she thought about her mother. ‘They moved to London when Dad finished his project, they lived in a flat while she did her training, then they bought the house in Highgate.’ She paused again. ‘I wish I’d talked to her when the doctor told us how ill she was, about the family history I mean. You don’t realise how important these things are till it’s too late.’
‘Up to a point. I’m not convinced by this modern notion that you can sort everything out just by talking.’
‘It’s not that modern. Anyway, my mother was an analyst. It was her job, getting people to talk.’