In the Interlude

Chapter 50 - The Band-Aid

"It's after midnight, and I'm thinking of you. I'm tired of thinking of you. Except that I love you and that you still occupy my every thought. Please call me."

Aïcha woke up that morning to find a missed call. Her heart did its familiar flip at the sight of Tom's name on the screen. But nothing had prepared her to the sound of his raspy voice, his words hitting her in the heart. She closed her eyes, fighting the wave of emotions and cooped up feelings. God, how she missed him.

Two months.

It had been two months since she had left Tom's house in the middle of the night, not turning back - never returning back. It was her decision, she was well aware of that, thank you very much. But that didn't mean she felt less heartbroken.

In the aftermath of their break-up, Aïcha had spent so many sleepless nights thinking about him. After that, she had a better grip on her emotions but then a trivial thing would remind her of him and she would lose herself in the memories of their time together.

Despite all of that, it had been relatively manageable when she was in Paris, busy with her work, with her daughter and her life. It was somewhat easier knowing he was on the other side of the English Channel, or somewhere else being his fabulous self.

But now she was back in London. In his town.

At first, she thought it was going to be weird being back. Not knowing if he was even there. Not knowing the probability of stumbling into him in the middle of a busy street, a cup of coffee in his hand.

She had the shock of her life when she arrived the day before at St Pancras station. It wasn't the blistering heat of London's summer persisting through September that almost made her turn and take the Eurostar back to Paris.

No.

It was his face welcoming her to London.

His once ridiculously handsome familiar face.

It seemed as if everywhere she turned, his face would always be there to greet her. It was plastered everywhere. On billboards, on buses, on the walls of the London underground and in the free newspapers handed out on the tube. Every-fricking-where.

He was even on TV, for God's sake, being interviewed about his leading role in an upcoming theatre production. It had sucked the breath out of her when she saw him sitting comfortably across the journalist, his long legs crossed, discussing theatre, his upcoming projects and his love for Shakespeare. Tom answered with so much thought and passion as if the questions had never been asked before. She loved that about him.

Tom had mentioned the play to Aïcha in the deep end of one of their nights together, his legs intertwined with hers, her head on his strong chest, his hand on her naked stomach... She quickly jammed the brakes before the little gremlins in her head took over.

Aïcha put the TV on mute when she heard a firm knock on her hotel room door. She frowned and looked at the time on her phone. It was too soon for her drinks with Charlotte. She walked barefoot to the door and looked through the peephole.

"Aïcha? It's Tom."

Her breath caught in her throat, she took a step back as if afraid he would hear her heart pounding through the door. How did he know I was here in London, in this very hotel? And then the realisation hit her. Charlotte.

"Open up please, I can hear you through the door." His deep voice locked her in place.

"Go away, Tom," she finally said to the closed door.

" I won't.  And if I need to sit here, I'll do it."

As if on cue, she heard the muffled sound of footsteps followed by an eagerly cheerful "Good afternoon, sir."