The area was hardly downscale, but it had a little edge to it — at least by the standards of Mayfair and Belgravia to the southeast. Further north, she knew, it bled into Kilburn, home to a large Pakistani and Muslim population. She would have liked to spend more time reconnoitering, but if she were spotted arriving too early or exploring too much, it would look suspicious. So she settled for the walk from the tube stop, which she’d mapped out on the Internet earlier in the day. The route allowed her natural shortcuts along various quiet residential streets, and included multiple left turns and right turns that afforded her ample opportunity to glance behind for followers. She detected no problems.
Momtaz occupied the first floor of a three-story brown brick building on a mixed commercial and residential street corner. Flanking the entrance were two long glassed-in patios — designed, Delilah supposed, to comply with London’s indoor smoking ban. She headed in and found herself in a large foyer, a pretty hostess in a modest dress at its center, the café branching out to her left and right. The air smelled of sweet tobacco and was filled with the sounds of Arab pop music and a low hum of conversation. A few couples and groups, most South Asian and Arab, occupied the booths and benches. Several of the men looked up when she entered and watched her with a frankness and intensity she disliked whenever she encountered it. Any number of them could have been with Fatima. There was no way to know.
Delilah told the hostess she was here to meet a friend, who might be waiting in the ladies-only section…? The hostess told her of course, and gestured for her to follow. Every man in the restaurant stared at Delilah’s face as they walked, and she felt their eyes on her ass as she passed them. She had deliberately dressed low-key, but it didn’t matter. Partly it was her hair, partly her looks; partly it was the culture, the sense among these men that women didn’t really belong in a shisha bar, and that any woman who didn’t understand that deserved to be stared at, and probably deserved a lot worse.
The ladies-only section was at the far end of one side of the café, an intimate space with red and gold upholstered benches and wood tables and chairs, everything softly lit by track lights and candles. Technically, it was indeed a patio, and though Delilah could see that in colder weather it would feel like a room, tonight the heat lamps were turned off and the windows open to the sidewalk and evening air. The effect was of a private enclave connected to, but at a safe remove from, the outside world. There were a dozen women, all apparently of North African, Arab, and Pakistani extraction. Fatima wasn’t among them. Several glanced over at Delilah with evident curiosity, but with none of the blatant sense of entitlement and hostility she’d seen among the men. She told the hostess she’d be happy to wait, and asked for the corner table at the end of the room, which was open.
A waitress brought her sweet tea and she enjoyed it while she waited, along with the music, the aroma of shisha smoke, the hum of conversation in mixed Arabic and Urdu and English. She realized she felt more like she was waiting for a friend than for a target, and that the feeling seemed more real than simulacrum. Which was odd, but also good. The more genuine the emotion, the greater the likelihood of trust, and therefore of success.
Fatima showed after twenty minutes, elegant in a shoulderless black silk dress and fuchsia crepe scarf. She scanned the room and instantly spotted Delilah, her face lighting up in a smile as she headed over. Her dress showed a lot of leg, and the scarf might have been a concession to local expectations of female modesty — and implied threats to enforce them — as well as a precaution against the evening chill. Her hair glistened under the track lighting, and Delilah realized she had straightened it. There was also a bit more eyeliner than Delilah had seen the day before, and some lipstick, too. She sensed that her new friend had worked on her look tonight. The result was undeniably stunning, but what did the effort itself suggest? Was it for Delilah’s benefit? For a man? Both? She found herself hoping the effort was for her, and the feeling was strange. Well, if Fatima cared enough about Delilah’s opinion of her appearance to go to some trouble before an evening out, it could only be good, because it would suggest she’d be amenable to spending more time together. And without that, this already long-shot op would be stillborn.
Delilah stood as Fatima reached her table. “I’m sorry I’m late,” Fatima said, reaching for her shoulder and kissing her cheeks. “Trouble getting a cab.”
No, Delilah thought. It was a fashion crisis. You tried on several outfits, and couldn’t settle on what felt like the right look. The thought was strangely pleasing.
“It’s nothing,” Delilah said. “I haven’t been here long, and anyway I’ve been enjoying the ambiance.”
They sat. The waitress brought another tea, and they ordered a meze—small dishes like baba ghanoush and mekanek and souvlakia. While they ate, they chatted inconsequentially but pleasantly enough. Fatima told Delilah she loved the photos from the rally. Delilah told her if she copied and returned the memory card and indicated her favorites, Delilah would try to use them in the article.
At one point, over coffees and a dessert of baklava and sahlab, Fatima asked, “How long do you think you’ll be in London?”
Delilah had already thought about how she might answer. Too long would seem odd; too short, and their incipient friendship wouldn’t have time to bear fruit.
“It depends on a lot of things,” Delilah said after a moment, as though having paused to consider the question. “I needed a break from Paris and I’m glad to be in London. I suppose it depends in part on how long I can spin out this assignment before my editor tells me no more rented flat.”
This was calculated: by letting Fatima know that the duration of Delilah’s stay was in part a function of Fatima’s willingness to help her, she was offering Fatima an opening to become an accomplice in the deception of Delilah’s editor. And, if Fatima acted, and became complicit, it would be a good sign. It might create opportunities.
Fatima took a sip of her coffee. “Are you… seeing anyone?”
This question caught Delilah unawares, in part because of her own jumbled feelings about John. “You mean… in London?”
“In general. You’re very beautiful… I couldn’t help but wonder if you had someone.”
Delilah paused, then instinctively chose the response closest to the truth. “I was seeing someone, until recently. It wasn’t a good ending. Paris reminds me of him. I think that’s part of why I’m glad to be here.”
“I’m sorry.”
Delilah smiled. “Don’t be. You’re the reason I came. What about you?”
Fatima shook her head. “A recent breakup, like you. Not a bad one, though. It was harder on my parents than it was on either of us. I’m thirty, and they think I’m running out of time. And they liked him. A good Pakistani boy. But he wasn’t right. And I guess I’m at a point where, if it’s not really going anywhere, I don’t want it to just… I don’t know. Roll along by inertia, I guess. It seems unfair to everyone.”
The opening was natural enough to be worth testing. “Your parents… they must be so ready for grandchildren. After what happened to your family.”
Fatima took another sip of coffee. “Yes. And I feel selfish not giving them that comfort. But I’m just not ready.”
“I don’t think it’s selfish. Or else, I’m quite selfish, too.” A slight detour from the route Delilah wanted to take, but it was important to share confidences, too.