In the Interlude

Chapter 19 - Sleepless in Casablanca

'My Type' by Saint Motel played through the speakers in the bar, loud enough for Aïcha to recognise the song. She hummed and swayed her head to the beat.

Tom was sitting opposite her, his legs touching hers, watching her studying the menu. He really liked the smoky eyes. It gave her a sophisticated look, worthy of a red carpet. His gaze drifted down as she was biting on her lower lip, unsure what to order. He found this highly erotic and wanted to kiss her.

He wanted to kiss her. There. In the bar. In front of everyone.

He wanted to kiss her, taste her, nibble those full lips of hers. He wanted to feel her mouth on his, on his face, his neck... He stroked his cheek with the back of his fingers as Aïcha traced her fingers along her collarbone, oblivious to the effect she was having on him.

A drink, he needed a drink.

As Tom looked around, he caught the eye of a waitress and motioned her over.

"Hello, my name is Nadia and I will be your waitress for this evening. Could I start you with something to drink?"

"I will have a Vodka Tonic, please. Aïcha?"

"Can I have a Virgin Mojito? Thanks."

By the time she came back with their drinks, both Aïcha and Tom were ready to order.

Conversation flowed easily between them as they ate and talked throughout the evening. Aïcha was determined to share the exciting news she just received the day before.

"You remember the interview I had in London, the day I bumped into you?"

He nodded saying, "how can I forget that, miss clumsy?"

"Well, guess what? We finally agreed on the terms for the six months consultancy gig. Argh, we have been discussing this for the past weeks, I was starting to lose faith! I'm starting on July 1st and will be spending a week a month in their London offices." She grinned as she clapped her hands with excitement.

"That's excellent news. Congratulations darling! "

Taking her hand, Tom turned it over to kiss the inside of her wrist. The skin was warm and soft. She released it only to touch his lips with her fingers. He closed his eyes to savour the moment, kissing the tip of her index finger.

"Tom? I'm moving to Paris," Aïcha said unexpectedly.

"When?"

"June."

"What about your daughter? And your work? And why are you moving there in the first place?" She watched him running his hand through his black dyed curls, his sense of confusion palpable. "Aïcha, I have so many questions."

"I know." She sighed, fidgeting with her silver necklace. "It was last year that I decided to move back to Paris, but I was renting out my apartment and the lease wasn't up before early June this year. So, I'm going there in a couple of weeks to do the walk-through with the tenants, hire a professional to do some repair on the apartment before I can properly move in there with Mia."

"Wow, you put my busy agenda to shame."

She attempted a smile. "It looks tedious but it's not really. I rented out the apartment furnished so I don't need to move my furniture overseas. I just need to pack my daughter's personal belongings, and mine of course. My parents will be helping me with that. I cleared my schedule this June, so I'm free as a bird to take care of everything."

"Well, if you need any help ..." Not finishing his sentence, he added tentatively "You still didn't tell me why you're moving back or why you left Paris in the first place."

Aïcha found breathing very difficult as Idriss's face, wheeled out of his hospital room three years ago, flashed through her mind. Her chest clamped hard, a thousand and more emotions pressing down.

In her head, she went back in time. To the moment that changed her life forever. The moment she became a widow.

Widow. God how she hated that word. It was an ugly one.

People had a preconceived image in their head when they heard it. The image of an old, lonely, sad, broken woman, living in that house where kids were afraid to walk past. She wasn't any of those things and was not ready to let anyone define her by them.

But she had been living in a house like that. The house of her broken dreams where her life was gathering dust and the past filling all the rooms and available space.

The music became too loud, the bar too crowded, and the air too oppressive. She needed fresh air. Now.

"Tom, can we please get out of here?"

Tom noticed that Aïcha had trouble breathing. She stood up and walked to the door, not waiting for him. He followed suit, leaving more than enough on the table to cover the bill. He raced to catch her, his long legs helping him to close the distance between them very quickly. The lift doors opened just as they arrived. Tom hit the ground floor level and put his arm around Aïcha's shoulders. They stood silently and stayed that way until they stepped into her car.

She rolled down the window completely and took slow, deep gulps of fresh air, trying to calm herself down.

"Listen, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," Tom finally said, adjusting himself in the small car Aïcha was driving.

"No, I want to tell you. You deserve to know." Turning to him she said, "Let's go to the beach."

Half of the town had the same idea. The beachfront was very popular, reaching its peak on Saturday night. It was the main place for clubbing, late-night drinking, dining and strolling. Everyone wanted a piece of Casablanca by night.

Aïcha found a spot to park the car. She reached for the pair of converse she always had in the back to put them on instead of the high heeled boots. Tom was already out of the car stretching his limbs. A Mini was definitely not the right car for him.

They walked side by side to the beach promenade where people of all ages were enjoying the fresh air. Aïcha took Tom's hand and led him down to a remote corner where they could sit on a low wall, facing the Atlantic Ocean, back to the crowd.

And she told him everything.

She told him about Idriss, the tumour, the surgery, the coma.

She told him that when her husband had passed away, she lost her joy and peace and her world shattered into a million pieces.

She told him it stole Mia's joy and peace and shattered her world into a million pieces.

She told him how angry she was at the world, with her husband, with herself.

She told him how life and pain became one, unrecognisable from each other.

She told him how she couldn't face the world alone and that she needed help. For the sake of her daughter. So she moved to Casablanca - to be close to her parents and family and try and rebuild some of the pieces.

It was a step forward, three steps back. But it was still a step forward.

She told him how some of the missing pieces remained in Paris and that she needed to go back. For the sake of her daughter, for her own sake.

Tom sat there, listening to Aïcha's story, his heart aching for her and her loss. When she finished, he took some time to speak, gathering the courage to tell her something meaningful, something that would lessen her pain. "I'm deeply sorry," was all he could say.

"Don't be. It is what it is." She half smiled at him, put her head on his shoulder, intertwined her fingers with his and added, "But now, I'm starting to feel alive again. I didn't know that I could still feel this way. That is was okay to feel this way."

She sighed. "My past will always be there and my priority will always be my daughter, but this doesn't mean I can't enjoy life. This whatever it is. Us."

Aïcha turned to Tom, looking him in the eye. "I want to spend time with you. That's all I am asking. Nothing more, no promises, no commitment. So Thomas William Hiddleston, now it's my turn to ask: do you want to carpe the hell out of this diem with me?"