Run, Mummy, Run (2 page)

A
isha’s hard work, commitment and determination to succeed continued at work. She stayed late at the office most evenings, took home files the night before important meetings, attended weekend seminars and read banking journals from cover to cover. She upgraded her computer at home so it was compatible with those at work; it was important to keep abreast of change in the fast-moving IT field. And the hard work and commitment paid off; the bank saw her worth and rewarded it. By the age of twenty-nine, she was a bank manager, with an office and personal assistant of her own.

‘There’s no need to work yourself so hard now,’ her father said. ‘You’ve got where you wanted to be. Relax and allow yourself some leisure time. You deserve it.’

‘There’s still a job at head office,’ Aisha laughed, trying to deflect him from the real problem – the reason why she was still so absorbed in work. ‘Second best will never do – for either of us. Will it, Dad?’

Her father smiled and nodded agreement, though it seemed to Aisha that he might suspect: that in concentrating with such purpose on one aim – a successful career – she had neglected another equally important aspect in her life. If they had lived in India or had had a large family network in England, Aisha knew it wouldn’t have been an issue. Her aunt’s children in Gujarat had all been found suitors as soon as they’d come of age, some had even been promised in marriage as children, their union taking place when they were eighteen. For here lay the problem, the reason why Aisha still immersed herself so totally in work. It was the loose thread in an otherwise perfect garment. For in spite of everything she’d achieved, Aisha had no one to share it with; no husband or partner. So it seemed to her that all her commitment and hard work had been for nothing, although she’d never have admitted it to her father.

It made Aisha feel irritable and unsettled, though she knew it shouldn’t. She knew she had much to be grateful for and that it was wrong to dwell on this one aspect of her life, considering everything else. She reminded herself that many women today remained single through choice, and willingly concentrated on a career to the exclusion of marriage and children.
But I never made that decision
, she thought.
It’s crept up on me without warning, and now there’s nothing I can do about it.

She knew, of course, that there were ways of meeting people her own age: singles clubs and bars, dances for the divorced and separated, dating sites on the Internet. But the very idea of putting herself on the market as though she were goods for sale filled her with dread and horror.
Here I am, single and alone, not quite desperate, but getting very close. Please take me before it’s too late!
No, she couldn’t, not with the intention so crudely obvious. Apart from which, with no knowledge of his family or background, how would you know you weren’t talking to some kind of pervert or an axe murderer?

On Sundays, after dinner, Aisha always read the Sunday paper. It made a change from the tomes of high finance, and the glossy
Style
colour supplement gave her an insight into a startlingly different world. The preening and pampering some people indulged in was incredible, and it wasn’t only the women: £840 for a man’s suit; £75 for a pot of face cream; £350 for a handbag, and some of the handbags were for men! It was amazing what some people spent their money on. One of the colour supplements ended with a page entitled
ENCOUNTERS
, and contained advertisements for those seeking partners. As usual, Aisha skimmed down the page, marvelling at the abbreviated descriptions some people used to describe their qualities and what they were looking for in a partner. How, for example, could anyone describe themselves as a ‘buxom blonde’ as though that was her only asset, the one she was marketing and with which she hoped to catch a mate? Aisha’s gaze slid down the page to the boxed agency advertisements, then stopped. Here was one she hadn’t seen before and the wording caught her eye.

‘Too busy being successful to meet people? I understand. A personal introductory service for professionals. The
crème de la crème
from London and the Home Counties. Not a dating agency.’

Aisha glanced up at her father who was still immersed in the sports section of the paper, the one section Aisha never read. His glasses were perched on the end of his nose and he looked like a wise old owl. She tilted the magazine towards her and reread the agency advertisement. The sentiment was right; it was strange she hadn’t seen it before. Perhaps it was a new agency? But no, it said they were established.
Perhaps I could just telephone
, she thought,
a general enquiry asking for a few more details? They must have hundreds of calls that are never followed up. I could phone from the office tomorrow lunchtime, just to satisfy my curiosity; there would be no harm in that.
Later she slipped the magazine into her briefcase ready for Monday. Knowing it was there, awaiting her attention, caused her a little surge of anticipation, a flutter of excitement, which she hadn’t felt in a long time.

At one o’clock on Monday, with her office door closed and her secretary at lunch, Aisha carefully dialled the agency’s number. A staccato voice, which sounded as though it had been activated by the trill of the phone, answered. ‘Hello, Connections, Belinda speaking, how can we help you?’

Aisha replied that she only wanted some details, a leaflet in the post please, something she could look at at home. But Belinda clearly had to say her piece, and continued: ‘We pride ourselves on our very personal approach, and we are highly selective. I prefer to talk through the literature with my clients at the interview.’

‘Interview?’ Aisha said, taken aback.

‘Well, more of a friendly chat really. I always see all our prospective clients personally, preferably in their own homes. It gives me a clearer picture of the type of person I am helping and who would be most suitable for them. You can tell a lot by a person’s home environment. Well,
I
can, after so many years in the business.’ She gave a little laugh.

Aisha heard the words ‘friendly chat’ and ‘own home’ and inwardly cringed. She nearly hung up – the very thought of this woman interviewing her at home: her parents’ house, furnished and run by her mother. It offered no clue to her own identity or hopes for the future.

‘But we can arrange an office interview if you prefer,’ Belinda added quickly.

‘Yes, I would prefer it,’ Aisha said. ‘I live with my parents and I’d rather they weren’t inconvenienced.’

Aisha heard the little silence, the small hesitation, and knew what Belinda must be thinking:
Still living with her parents and wanting to keep it secret, how quaint.

‘I quite understand,’ Belinda said diplomatically. ‘My office it is then. When would suit you? I’m here Monday to Friday until eight in the evening.’

Aisha found herself reaching into her handbag for her diary and opening it to the week ahead. ‘You realize I probably won’t go ahead with this,’ she warned. ‘I mean, I don’t want you to be under any misapprehension. I don’t want to waste your time.’

Belinda gave another little laugh. ‘Don’t worry. Most people say that to begin with, but there’s no harm in us having a chat. If you decide not to go ahead, then there is nothing lost other than half an hour of your time, is there?’

Aisha liked Belinda’s approach and warmed to her slightly. This was no hard sell or pressure meeting, and she of all people could afford to wager thirty minutes of her time.

‘Now, when would suit you?’ Belinda asked.

‘An evening after work would be best.’

‘Of course, no problem. How about Wednesday? Is six thirty convenient?’

‘Yes, that’s perfect,’ Aisha said. She gave her name and then wrote the appointment very quickly in her diary before she had time to change her mind.

P
erhaps I could look upon it as similar to the arrangement my father would have made had we been living in India
, Aisha thought by way of justification as she climbed the stairs to Belinda’s office after work that Wednesday.
Belinda is finding me a suitor, vetting him, and then introducing us. Belinda is in place of my father and her fee is in lieu of the dowry. If I view it like that
, she thought,
it might seem more acceptable.
Might. But the Western notion of romantic love kept getting in the way; she wasn’t in India, but England.

Alone on the landing, Aisha rang the bell to Belinda’s office. A brass plaque on the lilac glossed door boldly announced ‘CONNECTIONS’. Her office was over an antique shop in SW1, where rents were horrendous, so Aisha guessed Belinda must be doing very well for herself. Aisha knew exactly what Belinda would look like – she could picture her from their brief conversation on the phone: tall, blonde and willowy; with an effusive yet slightly reserved manner that girls in this part of London seemed to acquire.

The door opened. ‘Aisha? So sorry to have kept you, I was on the phone.’ Belinda smiled and shook Aisha’s hand. ‘Do come in.’

She wasn’t at all how Aisha had imagined: petite, mid-thirties, with brown hair, and a navy suit, Belinda wouldn’t have looked out of place at the bank.

‘Well done,’ Belinda said, leading Aisha down the short hall. ‘That’s the worst part over with. Now you’ve made it this far, the rest is easy.’ Aisha liked Belinda’s appreciation of just how much it had taken to get her here.

The room Belinda showed her into was furnished more like a flat than an office, with two beige sofas either side of a long, low coffee table. The flowing beige drapes at the windows matched the thick pile carpet, and the light terracotta walls were dotted with modern watercolours. A massive fig tree stood in the bay window which looked out over the street.

‘Do sit down,’ Belinda said, waving to the sofas. ‘What can I get you to drink? Tea, coffee, fruit juice? Or something stronger perhaps?’

‘A fruit juice would be nice, thank you.’

Aisha sat self-consciously in the middle of one of the sofas while Belinda crossed to a small fridge discreetly placed in a recess at one end of the room. Belinda’s shinning bobbed hair swung as she bent forwards to open the fridge door.
She’s only a few years older than me
, Aisha thought,
but she’s so vibrant and sophisticated. How dowdy I must seem beside her.
And Belinda had such good taste. Aisha looked around the room with its minimalist style, and decided that if ever she was lucky enough to have a home of her own, she would furnish it just like this. Plain and simple, no clutter, and certainly none of the gaudy memorabilia her parents had collected from India.

Belinda returned with two glasses of orange juice which she placed on the coffee table, then sat on the sofa opposite Aisha. She smiled reassuringly and took a large white folder from the shelf beneath the table and passed it across. ‘I usually start by letting my clients take a look at these,’ she said. ‘They are testimonials from some of my satisfied clients. They’re not all there, of course – as you can imagine, there are hundreds – but it will give you some idea.’

Aisha took a sip of her juice and then opened the album to the first page; it was a large photograph album that had been adapted for its present purpose. On the first page, under the cellophane, was a handwritten letter from a Susan, thanking Belinda for introducing her to Steven. On the page opposite was a photograph of the couple, raising champagne glasses, with the caption: ‘Engagement Party. Susan and Steven. February 2000.’

‘That was my first success,’ Belinda said.

Aisha glanced up, smiled, and turned the page.

‘While you’re looking at those,’ Belinda said, ‘let me give you some background about how I got started, so you know where I’m coming from.’

Aisha nodded and studied the next page, which showed an Asian couple at their wedding reception with some of their family members in the background.

‘Twelve years ago,’ Belinda began, ‘I arrived in London from the Cotswolds to take up a job as a PA with a large firm of solicitors. I enjoyed my job immensely, but I returned every evening to an empty flat, with only the television to look forward to. The only people I met were my colleagues at work, and they were either married, not my type, or too busy with their own social lives to notice me. Months passed and nothing changed, and I began to wonder how many other people were in the same position as me, isolated in the big city, surrounded by entertainment, but with no one to go with. Out of curiosity more than anything, I placed an advertisement in the
Evening Standard
, asking if anyone else was too busy being successful to meet people. I was astounded at the response. I had over a hundred and fifty replies! So I picked a few for myself, compiled a register of the rest, and started introducing them on the basis of their interests. It was so successful that a year later I left my job at the solicitors to turn it into a full-time business. And here I am now, still going from strength to strength!’

Aisha looked up, impressed. ‘You’ve certainly done very well,’ she said.

‘Thank you. I always stress this is not, and never will be, a dating agency. It’s a way of bringing like-minded people together, without all the time-consuming and tacky business of hanging around in bars and clubs, waiting to be picked up. I’m highly selective, Aisha. I only take professional, interesting and well-rounded people. I screen out anybody with emotional baggage.’

Aisha paused in turning the pages and briefly wondered if she was guilty of having ‘emotional baggage’, but decided she hadn’t had enough experience to acquire baggage of any sort.

‘So,’ Belinda continued, ‘that’s how it all started, and I’ve continued in much the same vein ever since. I always work one-to-one with my clients. Once I have met them and have a clearer understanding of the type of person they are, and I know they’re suitable for my books, I spend quite a bit of time talking to them, then complete a short questionnaire. From that I know what qualities they are looking for in a partner and who would be most suitable for them. I always have a large number of clients on my books, but I only select one at a time for introduction. That’s why I say we are not a dating agency. I’m meticulous and only introduce a couple when I’m completely sure they are suited to each other.’

Aisha flicked through the last few pages of the portfolio which contained photographs of more recent weddings and engagements and returned it to the coffee table. ‘But supposing the couple aren’t suited?’ she dared to say. ‘I mean, you’re obviously very good at your job, but supposing they’re not right for each other and don’t get along after all?’

‘Absolutely no problem,’ Belinda reassured her. ‘In that case, I select again. Then a third, fourth, and even fifth time if necessary. After that I’m more likely to suggest they wait for a week or so as new clients join daily. But it rarely happens, Aisha. Usually the next thing I receive is a telephone call saying they won’t be needing my services anymore.’ Belinda gave a small laugh. ‘By then the couples are saying they met through a mutual friend and don’t want anything to do with me. Strange, isn’t it? Nowadays we happily discuss everything else, but finding a partner through an introductory agency is still taboo.’

Aisha nodded and smiled weakly. She met Belinda’s gaze. ‘I wouldn’t want anyone to know either. I mean, if I went ahead, I wouldn’t want you phoning me at home, for example.’

‘I completely understand,’ Belinda said. ‘Your wishes are paramount. I could call your mobile or work number at a prearranged time. Whatever my client asks for I respect. After all, without you I wouldn’t be in business.’

Aisha nodded again. ‘My work at lunchtime would be best,’ she found herself saying. ‘My mobile is off during the day. I eat at my desk and I’m usually alone between one and two o’clock.’

‘Good. And you’re happy with what I have told you so far? It’s important you are able to put your trust in me.’

‘Yes.’ Aisha nodded. She was trying to adopt the same objectivity to what Belinda was telling her as she used at work, but something kept getting in the way. ‘And you vet all your clients?’ she asked.

‘Absolutely. I wouldn’t take anyone on if I had any doubts. I’ve been in this job so long I form an immediate impression and I haven’t been wrong yet. Is there anything else you would like to ask before I take your details?’

All the questions Aisha should have been asking – the exact nature of the client vetting, for example – flew easily and happily out of reach. And in their place stood the obvious and irrefutable: Belinda was good at her job and may even be able to give her what Aisha so desperately needed; assuming, of course, she was to be included among Belinda’s very select clientele.

‘I can’t think of anything else at present,’ Aisha said. ‘From what you’ve seen of me so far, would you say I was the type of person you would accept?’

Belinda leant forwards in earnest. ‘Most definitely. You are a professional and well-qualified person, with an open and honest nature. I have no doubt you are sincere in your wish to be in a long-term committed relationship. I’d say you were exactly right. Shall we start on the questionnaire then?’

Aisha took a deep breath and told herself that if she ever did one thing that could be described as self-centred and impulsive, it had to be this and it had to be now. ‘Yes, please, I’d like to go ahead; I haven’t got anything to lose.’

‘Excellent,’ Belinda said, picking up her pen. ‘But let’s make it a bit more positive and say you have everything to gain.’

An hour later, when Aisha had answered all Belinda’s questions, and the receipt for the fee of £475 was safely tucked in her purse, she congratulated herself; not only had she made a possibly life-changing decision, but in talking to Belinda she had discovered her likes and dislikes, attitudes and preferences, a personality, which had somehow become lost along the road to success, and which Belinda had approved of.

‘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.