Free Run, Mummy, Run by Cathy Glass Page A

It was disgusting, I couldn’t possibly. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer and kept coming up and pressing herself against me. I could smell the sick and booze. In the end I pushed her away … I didn’t know what I was doing … I pushed her too hard, she fell and hit her head. That was the end for me. The following day I packed and left. I never saw her again. It was all so humiliating and ugly, Aisha. I just wanted to forget it. But when I felt the depth of your love today – your passion – I knew I should have told you sooner.’
    He fell silent and Aisha heard his breathing soften and felt her own heart settle. He had told her his darkest secret, the worst had been said and it wasn’t so bad, not really; she was just sorry he hadn’t told her sooner. She hadn’t realized she was so unapproachable, so perhaps it was her fault after all. She reached out and touched his arm. ‘Mark, I’m glad you’ve told me now. Thank you.’
    He turned to look at her, his face still pale, his expression tight. ‘Can you ever forgive me, Aisha? I’m sorry. I’ve hated myself these past six months for not telling you. And I’m sorry I overreacted back there, it’s not like me at all.’
    She moved closer to him and slid her arms around his neck. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. I only wish you felt you could have told earlier. You’ve no idea how much you frightened me just now. I thought I’d done something awful.’
    He pulled her to him and buried his face in her hair. ‘Oh, my little love! You could never do that. You’re perfect, so very special. I’d die rather than hurt you.’
    He kissed her hair, then her face and neck, and she clung to him as relief flooded through her. It was his conscience that had made him react as he had and the depth of his love for her.
    ‘Can you ever forgive me?’ he breathed into her hair, holding her tight, so tight, as if he would never let go.
    ‘Of course I forgive you,’ Aisha said gently. ‘I understand why you behaved as you did.’
    ‘Do you? Really?’ Mark asked slightly surprised.
    ‘Yes, I do.’
    ‘Aisha, can you ever trust me …’ His voice faltered. ‘Can you ever love me again? Can it be the same as before?’ ‘Yes I can, Mark. It will be.’
    ‘Can you trust and love me enough to be my wife? Aisha, will you marry me?’
    Aisha gasped. Love flooded her heart as all fear of him vanished. It was going to be all right after all. She turned to him, took one of his hands in hers and kissed it gently. ‘Yes, Mark. I will.’

Chapter Nine
     
    M ark and Aisha were married on the anniversary of their first date, exactly one year to the day after Mark had met her outside Harrods and taken her to The Crooked Chimney to eat. The date had been Mark’s idea, it was part of his happy knack of saying and doing the most romantic things, wanting above all to please her. He asked her father formally for his daughter’s hand in marriage, knowing he would appreciate the traditional approach.
    ‘I shall always regret my divorce prohibits us having a church wedding,’ Mark said. ‘I know how much you and Mrs Hussein would have liked it. I am so very sorry.’
    ‘We are all entitled to one mistake,’ her father replied convivially. ‘I was fortunate in being found the wife I was. I am pleased you’ve decided to follow the ceremony with a church blessing. You know that means a lot to us, as practising Christians.’
    Aisha had said nothing to her parents about Mark’s ‘second mistake’ – his dreadful ordeal with Christine – only about his marriage to Angela. Why upset them with what they didn’t need to know? she reasoned. Why complicate the past, or detract from the present, when there was no need to? And perhaps part of Aisha knew that her father might have questioned her further about the circumstances of the break-up of Mark’s relationship with Christine, or cast doubt about his culpability, or disapproved of Mark having lived in sin, or