In the Interlude

Chapter 1 - Aïcha in Wonderland

PRESENT DAY

"Zut, zut, zut," she cursed in French under her breath and halted in the middle of the street looking around.

Wearing a waistcoat and running in circles with her phone in her hand, Aïcha felt like the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland. She was desperately trying to find her way and was about to be late if she didn't find the damn address where she needed to be, very quickly.

Despite printed directions of her itinerary and a saved map of this specific London area on her phone, Aïcha was lost again. This happened to her every single time. When it came to reading directions or even following a detailed map, she was as useful as a chocolate teapot.

For a second, Aïcha stopped and thought about Idriss. "No need to panic," he would've said. "Let's step in one of the cafés and ask for directions." His soothing voice was so clear in her mind, he might've been standing right next to her in the middle of High Holborn Street.

But he was not there. And he never would be.

The busy crowd of Londoners flowed down the street, swirling around her as ache squeezed her heart and frustration hung in her throat. "For God's sake, move!" said a voice close to her ear. She flinched and turned around like the second hand of a clock, wondering which way to go.

Her nose buried in her phone, Aïcha stepped closer to the curb and tried deciphering the damn map. Thinking she recognised the name of one of the streets, she turned on her heel and barely stopped herself before running straight into a man. A good head taller than her, he was holding a paper cup. Was it tea? Coffee? She couldn't tell. But it looked rather small in his hand.

"Oh la la, suis désolée, j'ai..." Aïcha shook her head, realising she was apologising in French. "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?" she quickly added, silently cursing herself.

"Oh, I'm fine." He smiled and lifted his paper cup, showing her that no casualties – other than her own bruised ego – were to be accounted for. She spotted his name written on the cup. Thomas.

"You should be more careful next time for your own sake, darling."

"I know. Sorry again. It's just, hmmm," Aïcha said, unable to keep the sigh out of her voice. "I'm lost. I think?" He took a sip of his beverage as she shoved the now crumpled piece of paper with her itinerary in her pocket. "And, well, I'm about to be late for a meeting." She apologised profusely again, wondering why on earth was she telling him the story of her life.

"Do you mind?" asked Thomas, taking her phone in his hand without waiting for her answer. "You going to 25 Great Turnstile? It's not even five minutes from here, I can show you the way." 

"Are you sure?" She looked expectantly at him with her glistening brown eyes as he handed the phone back. "I really don't want to impose. You probably have somewhere you need to be."

"Don't worry. It's really just around the corner."

"Well... that would be lovely. Thanks. My name's Aïcha by the way."

"Aïcha," he repeated with a nod. "That's a beautiful name." She smiled as he continued, "And I'm‒"

"Thomas, I know," she gently interrupted him, her finger pointing to the name on the cup.

Aïcha stole a glance at the tall figure beside her as they walked side by side. He was wearing dark glasses and a baseball cap pulled down low over his forehead. She thought he looked familiar but wasn't sure who he was. That pointed nose, those cheekbones, those curls. Where have I seen him?

"So, you're French," said Thomas glancing at her. It was not a question.

She nodded. "Yes, I am. French slips without warning whenever I'm flustered. And of course, there's the accent," Aïcha laughed. "I'm actually French Moroccan."

"Oh, Morocco!" He perked up at the mention. "I've been there before. For work. Lovely people, great food. And the history! I didn't expect it to be so rich. The last time I stayed there for a bit and went to Casablanca, Marrakech and, hmmm, Tangiers? Yes, Tangiers, definitely."

"Marrakech is by far one of my favourite cities, but there's so much more to see and do in Morocco."

"I'm sure of that," he said and stopped walking. "Here you go. It's just down this street, next to Prêt à manger." He winked as he said the name of the place with a French accent, teasing her.

She placed a hand over her heart. "I don't know how to thank you. Truly. You've just saved my day."

"The pleasure was all mine." He paused for a second and added, "Break a leg!" Slightly bowing his head, he smiled and turned to leave.

Aïcha stood there for a moment looking at Thomas leaving- his step firm, his bearing confident. Unable to shake the feeling that she knew him from somewhere, she put her phone in her bag and purposely walked up the street with hardly a minute to spare.