Every Little Piece of You: Soulmates Saga, #1

Praise for the novel

‘A truly fantastic read. The two main characters are cleverly crafted, impeccable. Their depth makes them feel real... It is a feel-good read which I highly recommend to all who love contemporary romance. Loved it.’

—I.C. Camilleri, Author

‘This is truly a one of a kind book. Little by little, the story was told to me and it was told perfectly. I cannot believe this is Neha’s first book. It is perfect. Definitely a must-read.’

—A Novel Review, Blog

‘I loved the book. It touched me in such a way that I felt lost for a while without having Jamie and Mukti in my life. I was captured from the beginning of the story. A must-read!’

—RosieReview, Blogger

Soulmates Saga Book 1

Every

Little

Piece

of

You

––––––––

N E H A  Y A Z M I N

Soul Mates

In ‘The Symposium’ by Plato, Aristophanes suggests man was originally round, and had four hands and four feet. But one head, with two faces looking in opposite directions.

Zeus, feeling the threat of man, cut them in half.

Following the division, the two halves of man could not bear to be apart and longed to grow into one again.

Aristophanes claimed that the need to reunite with our soul mates is in-built, innate.

And so, man is always searching for his other half.

Preface

It was awfully quiet in his head. The unwanted silence pressed on him like a weight as he walked to the local pub for his performance tonight. Out of habit, Jamie ignored the vibrant Asian clothes stores and grocery shops lining Bethnal Green Road and turned his face away from the potent aromas wafting out of the packed fast-food restaurants and half-empty English cafés.

This wasn’t the world he lived in, not anymore.

The slowly diminishing muddy brown ice on the ground hardly registered with him, the purring of car engines barely a murmur, as he planted one foot in front of the other. It had been too long since music and lyrics bloomed in his head. Thrumming guitar strings. Tinkling harps. Pounding drums. Warm piano. He missed it like he would miss a limb torn from his body.

Ending the year without a single harmony greeting him in recent weeks was unthinkable.

Tightening his grip on the guitar case, he entered the humble little pub near Cambridge Heath Road, its worn bottle-green carpet and burnt-orange walls familiar and comforting. Performing here, somewhere he used to enjoy playing, singing songs he wrote when he was at his most productive, ought to lure his creative instinct out from hiding. Writer’s block really is the worst. He went and leaned against the wall at the back of the room, his black clothes camouflaging him into the shadows. He gulped; the heat from the radiators combined with the smell of alcohol was smothering.

When his name was called, Jamie emerged from the claustrophobic dark, unsure as to how long he’d waited for his turn to sing. It wasn’t unusual for him to lose track of time when he blocked out the world. Hurrying past a cluster of round tables, and avoiding the gazes of all those around him, he reached the microphone and sighed.

Slipping the guitar strap across his body, Jamie went back in time, not just to the moment this song came to him, but also to the times it spoke of. The soft, fragile number mirrored the tiny piece of nothing he’d become.

"I’m still standing on the same square.

You used to be around here somewhere.

It was so beautiful,

When the sun was shining and everything was sparkling.

But then all the light disappeared.

Because you were gone,

And I was somehow wrong.

My whole life disappeared.

But time still went on,

And I am still so wrong.

And you’re still gone but everything else is still here."

The tempo upped a little as he threw himself into the chorus:

"My life doesn’t make sense,

To anyone, anymore.

I don’t know why I’m standing here,

What I’m waiting for.

Coz I’m still standing on the same square.

You used to be around here somewhere.

Now gone.

Said I’m still standing on the same square.

I’m still standing on the same square.

Square one."

As he sang, he waited. Waited for something, anything, to creep into the blank, empty space that was his mind now. But there wasn’t even the faintest of whispers.

When the song ended, his hands fell limply to his sides and his body curled inwards.

Then, the silence took over.

It had been a very long day. Mukti took all day, shopping for new work clothes. As usual. Or did the night sneak up on her too quickly? Light faded very early these days and darkness descended too soon. The street was black and her arms were heavy with her many bags. Why was she walking home again?

As she stumbled upon the pub she passed not too long ago, she didn’t know which way to turn. Am I lost? Her stomach twisted, confirming her suspicions. She was lost. Bobbing crowds, busy stores, blinking Christmas lights floating above the brimming streets of West London, they all blurred into the blackness. She didn’t remember what they looked like anymore. She didn’t know where she was anymore.

But she had to keep moving, running. Someone was following her.

Slowly.

Fluidly.

Pushing her legs at a speed she didn’t know she could achieve, Mukti scanned the darkness for a hiding place, a writhing shadow close on her heels. But the streets and the brick walls and the cobbled pavements only lured her deeper and deeper into the night. She could feel his fingers clawing at her hair. How did he catch up with her when he was simply strolling and Mukti was running for her life?

Just when she thought there was no end to the winding, bumpy road she was bulleting through, her eyes noted a faint glow in the distance. She threw herself towards it. Her legs had never moved so fast—

A dead-end.

Despite the dimness, she could see the scarlet and terracotta bricks of the three walls caging her. The only opening to this small, secret hole in the street was the doorway she’d entered through and her pursuer stood silhouetted on the threshold.

Dark.

Menacing.

Intent.

Her knees buckled, palms pressing against the walls on either side of her. Closing in on her with each thunderous thump of her heart. The shadow inched closer and she couldn’t even scream. Cold, damp walls pushed against her frozen body. She couldn’t see the night sky, blinded by the black cloud looming over her.

Her body became nothing. She couldn’t tell whether she turned to jelly or stone. Perhaps her body was no longer hers?

There was only one way to hold on to her body, ensure it would only ever belong to her, and so, Mukti shut her eyes and closed herself off from everything. Heavy walls heaved down, quick and hard, from her head right down to her toes, locking her away. She fastened the padlocks and threw away the key.

With a painful gasp, she squeezed her eyes as hard as she could, ready for her life to be taken.

Ready to be broken.

When Mukti opened her eyes they were bleeding. Glowing red blood streamed down her pupils alongside heavy, dirty tears that clung to her lashes. She blinked, and the blood and tears fused, smearing across her irises, sticky and viscous.

She could just about make out the harsh black night through the spaces between the bright red blotches across her eyes.

It was over now.

Part 1

Music is a moral law.

—Plato

Christmas 2009

Chapter 1

Block

It was dreadfully quiet in his head as Jamie knocked on his father’s door. Of course, it was Maggie that opened it a moment later. Jamie! His little sister’s voice shot up as she said his name. Hi.

He contemplated an escape. Did he really want to spend one-and-a-half days with his parents, the only people that still managed to get under his skin? No, he really didn’t.

Well, don’t just stand there, Maggie crooned, come in.

She opened the door for him whenever he came here because she knew he couldn’t tune her out. Her stubbornness, along with her baby-face, wavy blonde hair, and big blue eyes, like a child rather than the 20-year-old she was, made it difficult for people to say no to her.

Merry Christmas, Jamie, she said as he finally crossed the threshold. No presents this year, either. She feigned disapproval, eyeing his empty-looking backpack.

A vile voice whipped out from the living room the next second. Maggie, is that your brother?

Yes, mum. Maggie grabbed Jamie’s arm and dragged him to the lounge.

Muscles clenched tight and eyes on his feet, Jamie knew everyone in the lounge was looking at him—his parents Peter York and Tanya Davenport, and his step-father, Tom Davenport. He didn’t want to consider the scene before him, one he’d been a part of every year, though only in the flesh, so he blocked it out. He slid into his inner world where nothing could reach him. It was where he lived most of the time, coming out only when absolutely necessary. Like for work at the stationary shop or when his flatmate Matt kept pestering him.

While at his father’s house for Christmas, Jamie tried extra hard to shut out the world.

Unfortunately, his mother’s voice registered with him: Ah, Jamie, darling!

Mental eyes closed, Jamie had no idea where she appeared from, like a bat out of hell.

Stumbling towards him with a near-empty wine glass in her hand, she said, "Very last minute, as usual. Minutes before Mary serves dinner. Your timing is, as always darling, impeccable."

She’s drunk. At least she wasn’t high. Apparently, she needed to be drunk and high when returning to her former home on Maggie’s insistence. Still, she had no right to sneer Mary’s name.

She flung herself towards him saying, Merry Christmas, sweetheart!

Jamie took two quick steps to the side and Maggie caught the woman by her shoulders before she fell on her face.

Hey, Jamie, Tom said as he helped his wife to the sofa. How you doing?

The same as he always is, Jamie’s father answered on his behalf. Jamie had no idea what his father or step-father were doing before they addressed him––sitting on the sofa, reading the paper, perhaps? Barely making rent, earning minimum wage, and going nowhere. No life, no prospects. And all alone.

No, Peter, Jamie’s mother intervened, he still has Sarah.

What?

Yes. I saw her a little while ago and she knows exactly how Jamie is. Though she hardly gave the impression that she actually cared. But then, she never did, did she?

Jamie glared at her. She gave him a wicked grin.

Maggie? His father turned to his only daughter to shed light on his only son’s life.

Maggie sighed. Jamie still wants to get back together––

To put it mildly, their mother interrupted, speech slurred. Her features, though similar to Maggie’s, represented malice and selfishness, rather than the innocence and altruism in his sister. "Back together implies they were once a couple. We know they were not. Sarah only used him. She picks him up and drops him whenever she likes."

Shaking with fury, Jamie spun and headed for the door. He had to get away before he threw something at her.

A peaceful voice caught his attention before he could pull open the front door. Leaving already? Behind him was the one person in this house that he could bear to exchange more than a couple of sentences with.

He turned to face her.

So lovely to see you, Jamie. Mary smiled but didn’t come forward. He took a few steps towards her—her intention, no doubt. It’s still so strange to see you with this black hair... She looked him over before shaking her head. I can’t get used to it.

Her brown hair, tanned skin, and olive-green eyes were just as beautiful as he remembered from his childhood. She hadn’t aged a day since entering their lives 15 years ago, barely in her twenties, yet more loving and maternal than their callous mother ever was.

But in my defence, I only see you once a year. She shrugged. Peter and Maggie are so happy you still come.

Yes, that’s why I’m out here. Why do I do this to myself? he half-whispered.

Because you’re family. You may no longer share their hair colour, but it doesn’t mean you don’t share blood.

He turned for the door.

Maggie will be devastated if you leave. She rushed to his side. "It’s not easy for her, you know. She’s finally the apple of her father’s eyes but she thinks it’s because you’ve left. And maybe she’s forgiven your mother, but it doesn’t mean she’s forgotten. She needs her brother."

I can’t be...

You can at least stay for Christmas lunch tomorrow. Maggie stood in the doorway of the lounge. That can be your Christmas present to me.

Jamie sighed. You say that every year.

And every year, you stay.

Christmases at his father’s were no more than replays of the previous year’s misery. His parents still didn’t talk to each other. Tom and Maggie still prattled away to cut the tension. Mary still went overboard with the food and decorations. And his father always, always, lectured him about throwing away his life.

This year, he started during dessert. So, how many hours are you working at Andrea Carter’s shop, Jamie? I take it you still work for Sarah’s aunt?

Jamie concentrated harder on blocking out the room. Most years, he did very well. Only the fights pushed through his psychological barrier. That’s why it seemed like the 20-odd hours he spent here comprised only of arguments. Everything else—the idle chit-chat around the dinner table, the lie-in until Christmas lunch, opening the presents—was all easily dealt with.

Jamie. I believe I asked you a question.

Dad! Maggie whined.

What, dear? I am simply taking an interest in your brother’s life, one of the many things I have supposedly failed at in recent years.

Jamie refused to speak; it would imply that his father was worth a reply.

"Is this any kind of life, Jamie? Living like a student. Earning pennies rather than the millions your music career was to bring you—"

Dad, please, Maggie tried again, "it’s Christmas."

Yes. The season of goodwill. And I am giving your brother a much needed reality check.

But the more you lecture him, the more pig-headed he gets—

Maggie came to a halt when Jamie turned to glare at her. And of course, it was a temporary pause; Maggie always finished her speeches. Like father, like daughter.

I know you’ve drilled it into yourself that the only thing you want is Sarah, his sister said in a softer tone. But it’s not meant to be. Move on.

Jamie looked at his plate, grinding his teeth.

You’re scared of getting hurt again. I get it. Let’s face it: You’ve never been good at fighting for things that are worth keeping.

I agree, his mother said, you were always a weak little thing.

Behave, mum. Maggie took a deep breath. Jamie, growing up, when I cried for your toys, you just handed them over. You thought it would be harder to part with them if you held on too tightly, so you let go. That’s why you’ve given up on your music career. You’re afraid of failure. And if you get to spite dad in the process, great.

The room went silent. Unless Jamie had succeeded in drowning out the world?

Jamie, it’s not too late. No, it was the room that went quiet. Maybe your New Year’s resolution should be to get a record deal? You can’t keep postponing your destiny.

Jamie kept quiet. What could he tell her? His life, job, music... it didn’t mean anything without Sarah. The only person he’d ever loved and would ever love. Like Aristophanes said, Jamie and Sarah were two halves of a whole. He knew that section of Aristophanes’ dialogue by heart, after scribbling it in a notebook when he was in secondary school. If he was anything close to verbose, he’d recite that passage for his family now.

They were mistaken, thinking Sarah wouldn’t come back to him. She was the one. His soul mate.

January 2010

Chapter 2

Insomniac

Mukti didn’t recognise the world. The city didn’t look familiar, didn’t feel like home. But when home usually felt like a stranger, why should this morning be so disorienting? It had snowed heavily in the winter months last year, but this year, it was sticking around for longer. It won’t go away any time soon.

To top it off, Mukti had to start her first proper job today!

She stepped off the bus. Brown and ivory buildings surrounded her, wide and block-like and hardly scraping the sky. In thick boots, heavy scarves, and ears stuffed with earphones, City workers scowled at the pavements as they walked past her, wishing heavy rain would wash away the snow.

She tip-toed towards her office building, not wanting her boots to sink into the snow and get blotched with ice and water. Her feet were freezing when she reached the revolving glass entrance of the L-shaped property that sat where King William Street joined Monument Street. One arm of the L drew the eyes towards The Monument to The Great Fire of London a few metres away and the other pointed towards House of Fraser, the department store across the road on Gracechurch Street.

Mukti appraised her reflection in the curved glass entrance that faced London Bridge behind her. She straightened her coat, which she was wearing over a knee-length black skirt and matching jacket, one of several suits she bought over Christmas. She could be mistaken for a high-profile executive rather than a Analyst at a research firm.

You’ll be fine. She simply had to play the part of ‘focused career woman’ as well as she executed the role of ‘driven Uni student’ up until last summer when she graduated with an Economics degree. Sucking in a mouthful of cold air, Mukti stepped inside the circular enclosure that spun her into a new phase of her life.

Henrik didn’t like the receptionist that would be the first face he saw when he got to work. Obviously, she thought she was better than him due to her posh English accent, whereas his had a soft Swedish edge to it. That must be why she can’t find my security pass! As she shuffled through the papers on her desk, Henrik heard the clicking of heels against the marble floor.

Because he was leaning on the reception counter, he saw her pointy high-heeled boots first. Then her thin but shapely legs. A knee-length black coat with a belt at the waist, a nice neat collar. Nice figure... She was dressed very smart. Definitely a fellow newbie.

When he saw her face, his lips parted. She was quite beautiful. Straight, silky black hair draped elegantly around her shoulders, framing her fair skin and dark eyes. Stopping at the front desk, the girl smiled at the receptionist. Henrik straightened up and smoothed his tie against his chest.

Finally, the woman found his form and slid it to him to sign. Ah, she said to the beauty beside Henrik, it’s your first day, too? Did the blonde just smile?

The girl nodded. Mookti Khan.

Unusual name. Henrik knew plenty of Khans at Uni and he’d heard a few typical Indian and Pakistani names, too, but not this one.

Okay. The receptionist spoke as though she’d find the girl’s form easily—Mookti seemed like a rarer name than Henrik. There you go. Darn it, she found it in seconds. "Just sign and date. Remember: It’s the fourth of January, 2010; one of the new people signed it 2009 earlier."

Happens every January...

They signed the papers and grabbed their security cards. He walked to the lifts, pressed the Call button, and when lift number 2 of 3 opened, he allowed Mookti to enter first.

Quickly and as inconspicuously as he could, Henrik glanced at his reflection in the lift’s mirror. His black suit, skinny red tie, and white shirt still looked immaculate. His light eyes and golden mane of hair sparkled. With his tall, athletic build, he seemed to tower over Mookti. Girls like the whole Alpha-Male thing, right?

I’m Henrik, by the way. He punched the button for their third floor office. "You’re Mookti?" He hoped he pronounced her name correctly. His ‘T’ wasn’t as soft as she said it, but he remembered it rhymed with ‘Book-Tee’.

Yes, nice to meet you. Mookti smiled, but there was no life in her voice.

Newbie nerves? But he was certain she was as lovely as she looked, as kind and friendly as her eyes suggested. Even the ice-queen at reception had warmed to her! Henrik grinned. This job will be fun.

Mukti and the nine other newbies spent the entire day in the boardroom, learning about the project they’d be working on. She didn’t bother remembering any names; they’d be paired up and assigned a team and she could try to get to know the ones she ended up sharing a table with in the open-plan office.

The boardroom’s outer wall was all glass and the view was breathtaking. London Bridge may not be as famous as Tower Bridge or as stylish as Millennium Bridge, but its simplicity appealed to her. A long, pale-grey concrete plank, floating above the River Thames, connecting the City at the north end of the bridge to Southwark in the south.

The Swedish guy, Henrik, sat next to her all day. After he got over his embarrassment for thinking her name was spelt M-O-O-K-T-I, he did most of the talking. Mukti had to do some talking, too.

My parents are originally from Bangladesh, she divulged after he informed her that he moved from Sweden four years ago. I live in Dalston with... my family.

Khan is a Muslim name, right? But you’re not a strict Muslim?

I have my faith but I guess I pick and choose what I practise. I know that’s hypocritical—religion isn’t about convenience.

There’s nothing wrong in finding a happy middle ground. It didn’t look like Henrik would have an issue with anything she said.

Tomorrow, the newbies would tackle the in-house computer system. Learn to categorise, enter, and analyse data collected by a nationwide survey on public attitude towards the finance sector and other factors following the credit crisis. The resulting database and reports would be sold to public and private sector institutions. Mukti was looking forward to getting started.

Her walk from her office to the bus stop at the end of the day was easy, the ice shovelled away. In Dalston, however, the fluffy white snow from the morning had turned brown and muddy, flattened by everyone getting on with the first full week of the year. It would be a tricky walk to the bus stop tomorrow. No one will shovel the snow here! Dalston wasn’t exactly the most well-kept area in London.

Despite its vibrancy, daily hustle-and-bustle, its hundred-year old terraced houses and newer council flats, Dalston had never felt like home. She had yet to feel like she belonged anywhere, though, so she didn’t blame it on the locale.

Still, growing up in Dalston had its perks. She learned about so many different cultures just by observing the people she passed on her walk to school, by the restaurants that opened for business––Caribbean, Turkish, Vietnamese, and more recently, Polish––and from the music thumping out of open car windows––reggae, R&B, hip-hop.

Over the years, the changes in the area were evident in the individuals frequenting the lively Ridley Road market nearby, the languages spoken by the children riding their bikes around the neighbourhood. The decreasing number of people flocking to the church on the street next to hers when the bells tolled on Sundays.

The always dynamic and vigorous streets of Dalston contrasted heavily with the Square Mile, which was busy in a neater, samey manner.

People from Mukti’s neighbourhood wore sarees, hijabs, long dresses, baggy jeans, hoodies, saggy coats, studded boots, and leather pants in all the colours of the rainbow. Those marching towards London Bridge, listening to their MP3 players or speaking into their internet phones, looked the same in their smart suits, even if they varied in design, fabric, and colour.

The inhabitants of Dalston seemed more relaxed as they jogged from one bus to another discount store, their conversation topics ranging from rent, family, and food, to celebrity gossip, television, and music. All the discussions between the suits in the City revolved around their jobs and deadlines.

Work was exactly what Mukti needed, though. Demanding activities would consume her attention, keep her mind from wandering. And at night, her head would hopefully be too exhausted to think.

It was always a little unsettling, seeing her 14-year-old sister. Zari looked like a younger, wider-framed version of Mukti, but with hair down to her waist, usually twisted in a braid. Mukti got sucked back in time, to when she was that age, and that wasn’t an era she wanted to revisit.

Mum’s wondering why you’re home so early. Zari stood in the doorway of Mukti’s bedroom—well, their bedroom; the sisters were supposed to share it. But Mukti’s need for bright lights burning into late nights had forced Zari to sleep on the sofa in the living room for the past five years.

Her older brothers––one three years older, the other five years her senior––worked in investment banking. They were luckily too good at their jobs to lose them during the economic crisis. They worked late, went out with friends in the evenings, or watched TV in their respective bedrooms.

Her parents were across the hall from Mukti’s room and she saw them from time-to-time. But because they avoided each other’s gazes, it felt like they were ghosts. She couldn’t say she didn’t remember the last time she spoke to them—because she could—but seen as she didn’t want to think about that particular conversation, she’d have to say that it had been a long time. Mukti saw Zari the most: The messenger.

The teen put one hand on her hip now, like she was the elder sister demanding a quick answer. Scanning the room, her face seemed to say, So, how are you enjoying our room? Little in the room had changed since Zari vacated it. Terracotta walls. Brown carpet. Double bed. Bedside cabinet with a lamp and a digital clock with red digits. Double wardrobe, bookcase, sideboard. The window looked out at the houses opposite theirs and allowed Mukti to see a good chunk of sky looming over the rooftops.

I finish work at 5.30pm, Mukti murmured, removing her suit jacket. It takes half an hour to get home. I’m on time.

Zari rolled her eyes. But mum thinks you do the same job as her beloved sons—

Well, it’s not the same.

Hey, don’t take it out on me!

I’m not, Zari.

But her sister had already stalked off.

Lashes thinning into the soft light of the bedside lamp... text blurring... the script alternating from comprehensible prose to illegible smudges with each tired blink of her eyes... So sleepy... must sleep... Stop! It’s only 2:17am.

Mukti shook her head. After all these years of keeping herself awake, she still felt sleepy in the early hours of the morning. She focused on the book she was reading. If only she was familiar with the famous artwork discussed in this thriller and the gallery that formed the backdrop of the novel. I haven’t been to an exhibition since school! I should go soon.

As the red numbers of her bedside clock morphed into the numbers zero, three, zero, zero, Mukti’s eyes closed from sheer exhaustion at last.

The gallery was adorned with the world’s most renowned artists’ work, but Mukti’s eyes were fixed on a simple painting: Black and white vertical lines running in parallel down the white canvas. It was her exact height; at times, it mirrored her shape. Visual illusions...

A familiar-looking security guard came and told her it was closing time, and realising she was the last person there, Mukti hurried out of the gallery. It was dark outside. She hadn’t realised how late it was. The streets were unfamiliar, though, foreign. Paris? Didn’t she read somewhere that the city’s pavements were emblazoned with bronze medallions marking North and South? Like these medallions beneath her feet? But in the dark it didn’t matter.

Everything looked the same in the dark.

Heading South, Mukti stuck to the main road. But there was no point. She was lost. Why did she decide to walk home every night? She had to keep moving, though. A shadow was following her.

Slowly. Fluidly.

Mukti started running, and the streets, the brick walls, the cobbled pavements, they all led her deeper into the night.

Too quickly, she came to a halt. A dead-end.

The shadow towered over her.

The walls pressed against her and she went limp, numb.

She had to hold on to herself somehow. So, closing her eyes, Mukti shut herself off.

When she opened her eyes, blood was dripping down them. Someone had slit their wrists over her eyes! The blood combined with her tears and smeared across her irises, the black night peeking through the spaces between the bloodspots in her eyes.

It was over now.

Or was it? The blood was too bright. Luminous... As her large, messy tears rolled away, more defined shapes manifested in the dark. Were they red lights? Digits?

Zero, seven, zero, zero...

Mukti’s eyes adjusted further and the red numbers of her digital clock became clearer. 7am. Time to get ready for her third Monday at work.

Henrik’s a nice guy, Mukti thought as he prattled away about his weekend. He was friendly, warm, and did most of the talking. Mukti did the nodding. Yes, she ought to make more friends, but seen as all her energy went into maintaining the ‘hard-working professional’ façade, she didn’t have the strength to try and forge real relationships.

Thankfully, she’d impressed her supervisor, Kate, the senior person on the table that Mukti shared with Henrik and three other members of permanent staff, Kelly, Paul, and Alan. If she continued to gain Kate’s approval, Mukti would hopefully secure a permanent contract at the firm. Kelly was cool, too, and Mukti was glad that the lively little brunette was in her team.

Her window seat had the best view from this section of the office: The Monument appeared to be close enough to touch. But sitting directly under the air-con vents by the windows was a nightmare. Why’s the air con on at full blast in winter, anyway?

So, what did you bring for lunch, Mukti? Henrik asked from his seat next to her.

Mukti hadn’t realised he and Kelly were done reminiscing about their weekends. Pasta, she mumbled.

Me, too. He smiled, his grey-blue eyes unnecessarily elated.

I have soup again, Kelly chipped in. I’m going for lunch as soon as Kate gets back from her break. Don’t know how you guys hold on until two o’clock. She shook her head.

I’m starving today, Henrik said. Maybe I’ll take lunch at half-one as well. How about you, Mukti?

I might eat outside, she replied under her breath. She needed a break from all the smiling and nodding at the lunch room talk. Plus, who knew when it would snow and restrict them inside again?

Even though most of the snow had melted away over the past couple of weeks, the ground still looked slippery and dangerous. The sun was low in the sky, casting aside the thin grey clouds, and the wind whipped against her coat as she crossed London Bridge. The multi-coloured buildings on the banks of the River Thames contrasted spectacularly with the dark green waters stretching on either side of the bridge.

At the south side of the bridge, Mukti passed the newspaper stall on the edge of the pavement and the retail area on the ground floor of Colechurch House was to her left. Finding the staircase that was