The phone call that sliced through her life had come three months earlier. Ayesha Rahman was in her mid-thirties, chief executive of an IT consultancy that she’d founded with friends from university. She had grown Rahburn IT from nothing into one of London’s most sought-after, beginning with loss-making contracts for local firms, building up a portfolio of retail chains, then making a timely switch to work for public institutions and central government.
Success had brought Ayesha a good income and a reputation as an operator. It had swept her from backstreet Burnley in Lancashire to sophisticated society in London at a pace that had at times left her bemused. But she had enough self-belief to take it in her stride; if she felt unsure about her entitlement to sit at the top table she didn’t let it show. She knew how to read people, to pinpoint their weak spots; and she had the steadiness of nerve to exploit them with a smile on her face.
Rahburn’s decision to focus on Whitehall had followed the government’s calamitous attempts to computerise NHS medical records. Contracts to rectify past mistakes were suddenly being offered and the big consultancies wanted them. Ayesha had pitched to the Department of Health and became such a frequent visitor at its Whitehall headquarters that the security staff gave her her own pass. The brief was for new networks that would allow the NHS to go paperless within three years. The government was putting a billion pounds into a new technology fund and winning a slice of it would make or break Rahburn as a public sector player. By the beginning of August success had seemed assured. Rahburn, along with two longer-established consultancies, was on the shortlist for a contract worth forty million over five years. Ayesha had made a storming presentation to the DH’s board and the Director of IT Services had responded to her mix of brash self-confidence and flattering deference. When she suggested they meet for a drink he was delighted.
I didn’t doubt Ayesha when she described how the fellow had been eating out of her hand. She was a good-looking woman with fine features and an air of serenity that men found charming. Her hair was dark and sleek, her complexion flawless café au lait. She wore designer dresses and understated jewellery that said she didn’t have to try too hard. Her manner was one of urbane entitlement, the City woman who accepted admiration as her due; speaking to her on the phone you’d more likely take her for a product of Cheltenham Ladies’ College than of Kahin Nahi in Pakistan.
A week after her pitch to the DH board, the Whitehall grapevine was unanimous that Ayesha had got the contract. But one of the rival consultancies heard of her tête-à-tête with the IT Director and lodged a complaint with the department’s compliance officer. Ayesha had done nothing unethical, but the love-struck civil servant had sent her a slightly too personal email and someone had leaked it. The DH had searched its departmental soul, wrung its hands and called Ayesha. A jumpy official on the end of the phone informed her that the competition for the IT contract was being reviewed and might have to be rerun with a new shortlist. He didn’t say that Rahburn would be excluded, but Ayesha got the message from the tone of his voice.
The human psyche is not good at calibrating the level of unhappiness in which it finds itself. We feel overwhelmed by one set of reverses, only for them to be superseded by others even more distressing. Then we yearn for the previous afflictions that once had seemed unbearable, thinking how happy we would be to have our old troubles back again. A day after Ayesha received the phone call from Whitehall she took another, this time from her mother.
‘Isha? Isha, dearest, is that you?’
Ayesha knew from the tremor in Asma’s voice that something had happened.
‘Yes, Mama, it’s me. What is it?’
‘Ya Allah! Tragedy . . . Tragedy upon us . . .’
‘Mama, you need to calm down. Tell me what’s happened.’
Her mother couldn’t calm down. She was crying, shouting into the phone that her life was over, that she didn’t want to live any more. She couldn’t bring herself to put it into words; she would begin a sentence then break into sobs.
Ayesha told her to put down the phone and make herself a cup of strong doodhpatti tea, boiled up together with the milk. ‘It will calm you, Mama. Don’t do anything foolish. Just sit in the parlour and I will ring Bilal so he can come and help you.’
Ayesha picked out her younger brother’s number on her speed-dial. Bilal lived in Burnley, five miles from the family home. By right, Asma should have rung him first – Pakistani women know that men must be deferred to; their pride must not be slighted. But Bilal was gentle and ineffectual; Ayesha had strength and resourcefulness. The family had come to rely on her, girl or not.
Bilal picked up. She could hear from the noise of a car engine that he was working. ‘Bilal, I think you need to go round to the house as quick as you can. Mama just rang and she’s in a state . . .’
‘I’m driving, Isha. Can’t you hear? It’s Saturday night. I’ve got fares booked for the next five hours. I can’t just drop everything . . .’
‘I’m not asking you, Bil, I’m telling you. Drop off the fare that you’re driving now and go straight round to the house, okay?’
Bilal did what he was told. Sixty minutes later he rang her back from their parents’ home.
‘I’m at the house, Ish. I’ve seen her and she says it’s Dad. She’s had a phone call from Guddu in Kahin Nahi and he’s told her that something has happened to Dad. But she’s so upset I can’t get the details.’
‘What do you mean, something’s happened to Dad? Where is he?’
‘In Pakistan, of course. He went weeks ago. Didn’t you know? You’re away in London, Ish. You don’t know what’s going on any more . . .’
‘Tell me again, Bil. Dad’s in Pakistan. And what do you say has happened to him?’
‘It’s not me saying it. It’s Mum. She says Guddu told her. I don’t know what it’s all about. But it’s serious. And Mama’s in meltdown.’
Ayesha told her brother to put their mother back on the phone. She was a little more coherent.
‘Isha, dear. Terrible news. Guddu rang. He says Daddy has died in Kahin Nahi.’