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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 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.