In the Interlude

Chapter 3 - Forty-Five Minutes Apart

Entering the métro on shaky legs, Aïcha was glad to find a place where she could sit. To anyone around, she looked a bit out of breath, like she had run to catch the métro. But she was screaming on the inside, her stomach balled up in a strong knot. She closed her eyes and tried to control her breathing.

She met Tom bloody Hiddleston and it took her a full day to figure out who he was. He didn't even want to tell her if it wasn't for this Charlotte. Why was that? And why did he come to talk to her and ask for sightseeing tips? Oh God, this is embarrassing.

Almost missing her stop at Châtelet Les Halles station, she managed to get off at the last second with the busy crowd of commuters all heading in different directions. Too many people, too many corridors, too much noise.

Argh, I hate this station.

She always felt like suffocating and dreaded the ten minutes she had to spend underground to reach the RER C. Once safely inside, she texted Sofia indicating she would be arriving in fifteen minutes.

Exiting the RER station in Levallois, Aïcha finally relaxed as she spotted her best friend waiting for her in the car. Although they didn't live in the same country anymore, they kept in touch with each other regularly, visited often and even travelled together. Whenever Aïcha was in Paris for work, she would extend her stay to visit her friend and spend time with her lovely family.

Speaking of which, Sofia's two girls were impatiently waiting for them to arrive. They had prepared a lovely apéritif and wanted to know all about Aïcha's big plans. Their welcome and excitement warmed her heart and she felt like coming home.

Before sitting down with everyone, she had to make one last call. The highlight of her day.

"Bonsoir maman, how are you?" Aïcha asked her mum in a mix of French and Arabic then listened to her speak. "Everything is fine here, I'm at Sofia's." She paused before answering, "Yes, my interview went fine. Let's talk about that later, shall we? Can I speak to Mia please?" Her mum passed the phone to Aïcha's thirteen-year-old daughter.

"Honey, how are you?"

"Maman! I missed you," answered Mia then added in that annoying tone that only teenagers knew how to do, "I'm in bed already. You know how it is whenever granny is here. When it's time to go to bed, there are no discussions left."

Aïcha laughed at this, used to her daughter's harmless ranting. Mia continued talking and asked her mother, "When are you coming back again? Did you find me that book by Roald Dahl I asked for?"

"Yes sweetie, I found the book you asked for and I'm coming back on Saturday. Can't wait to see you and give you loads of kisses. Je t'aime ma chérie. And be kind to your granny."

"Je t'aime aussi ma mamounette chérie."

* * * * *

A forty-five-minute métro ride from Levallois, in a five-star hotel in the heart of Paris, Tom finally managed to lie down in bed. It had been a long day.

His morning had been packed with back to back meetings before heading to Paris. Charlotte had picked him up from the train station and drove him to his radio interview. Afterwards, he went out with her and some of her friends for a late dinner. His schedule for the next days was going to be as busy - research for his next movie, more interviews and photoshoots.

Tom couldn't help but think of his encounters with Aïcha, twice in the same day. What were the odds? He was intrigued.

He wanted to know her story, where she was living. Was it in France, Morocco or England? What was she doing in London? What made her laugh, what made her cry? What was her favourite flavour of ice cream? What did she like to do on a Sunday morning? Which ones of his movies did she like? What did she think of him as an actor? Did she like plays and Shakespeare? So many questions he had for her and some of them sounded a little self-centred by his own standards.

Tom stood up from his bed and retrieved her business card. There was no postal address, just her job title "Digital Marketing consultant", her email and two phone numbers. He recognized the international codes for Morocco and France.

She doesn't live in the UK, he deduced. He put her business card safely back in his wallet and decided that he was going to reach out to her. He owed her a big apology after all.

Tom wasn't the only one thinking of their encounter. It was, in fact, the only thing Aïcha could think of when she was finally in bed.

She had spent a wonderful evening with Sofia and her husband James. They traded news and stories of the kids and of their lives. When they asked about the interview she had in London that morning, she could've easily mentioned Tom, but she wasn't ready to share that with anyone. 

She knew she was never going to see him again, which was the best possible outcome. She couldn't shake the effect he had on her when he took her hand in his and smiled at her before saying goodbye in Gare du Nord. It was ridiculous, she knew that, but it had stirred something inside of her that she wasn't used to feeling anymore. Things she didn't want to feel at all.

But Aïcha had learned how to control unwanted thoughts and feelings, even excelled at that. She preferred to stay numb than to feel the too many pieces of her shattered heart and soul.

Aïcha was still not over what happened three years ago, and she didn't think she would ever be.