Run, Mummy, Run. Cathy Glass

enough, then your surroundings were there for your convenience and not the other way around. Only those who were unsure of themselves adhered strictly to the rules of etiquette and convention and worried about what others would think. So she allowed one elbow to rest lightly on the table, looked the waiter in the eye, and pretended to enjoy what her father had ordered – the delicate pink fish with a peculiarly sharp sauce and the neat bundles of thin vegetables arranged along one side of the plate. The three of them had eaten carefully, with her mother repeatedly dabbing the napkin at the corner of her mouth, their silence broken only by her father’s occasional comment about the high standard of the place. Aisha ate and feigned enjoyment for her father’s sake but was grateful when he finally called for the bill and they could leave.

      Her mother had taken her to school on her first day to show her the way on the tube; then after that she’d gone by herself with her books in a large bag on her shoulder. Aisha was surprised by how easily she adapted to the new school. While her classmates forgot things and missed their friends from their junior schools, she met the challenge head-on and relished it. After all, this was what she’d been aiming for – the first step along the road to success. And although she wasn’t the most popular girl in her year, which seemed to rely on being an extrovert, she was loyal and quietly confident and would always help a friend who was struggling with her homework.

      Each and every evening after dinner Aisha went up to her bedroom and studied at her desk beneath the spotlamp her father had given her. The beam of light seemed to focus her attention as though diffusing the knowledge into her, so that she had only to read something once, with complete concentration, and she remembered it.

      ‘You’ve made a good start,’ her father said when she presented him with her first end-of-year report. ‘Well done, keep it up. Don’t be lulled into complacency. There’s a long way to go yet.’

      Aisha continued following the doctrine of hard work and determination and won a place at Nottingham University, where she allowed herself only one day off a week to socialize. It was usually a Saturday, and she and a few like-minded friends went to the theatre, cinema, or for a walk along the river to a local bistro. Among this group of friends was a young man called Rowan whose parents were plantation owners in Sri Lanka. Rowan had been sent to England to study, and once he graduated he would take his education home for the benefit of the family business. Aisha never mentioned Rowan to her parents when she phoned, instead she told them of all the little details of college life which her father loved, having never had the opportunity to go to university himself. Why she never told them, she wasn’t sure; it was just something she left out. She and Rowan remained good friends – but only friends, nothing more – throughout the three years. Coming from similar backgrounds, they both recognized the privilege of education, and made sure their parents’ money didn’t go to waste. When they graduated, both with first class honours, Rowan packed, ready to leave as soon as the results were published.

      ‘I’ve done what I set out to do,’ he said stoically. ‘Now it is time for me to go.’ If he had any regrets, he certainly didn’t say.

      Aisha went with him to Birmingham Airport and waited until his flight was called. They wouldn’t write, they had agreed there was no point. He was returning to his homeland where he was promised in marriage to a girl from a good Tamil family. Aisha watched him go into the departure lounge and waved as the smoky-grey doors closed and he was lost from view. She admired his tenacity and his single-mindedness: they were qualities her father would have approved of if he’d known about their friendship and things had been different. The following day Aisha also packed, she too was expected to return home. She had secured a graduate trainee position with a bank in the City which offered a very good promotion ladder.

      With her first month’s wages, to say thank you for all the sacrifices her parents had made that had allowed her to go to university, she bought them a holiday in India; it would be their first visit in twenty-five years. ‘I owe you both so much,’ she said. ‘It’s a small gift in comparison to what you have given me.’

      Her father’s eyes moistened as he accepted the tickets. ‘You’ve made us very proud, Aisha, very proud indeed. I only wish you could come with us and meet your cousins, they too will be proud of you.’

      ‘Next time, maybe,’ she said. ‘There’s so much to learn at work and I want to make a success of it. You know how it is.’

      Chapter Three

      Aisha’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