Run, Mummy, Run. Cathy Glass

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.

      Chapter Four

      Perhaps 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 shining 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