Chapter 41: Under the London eye

They had lunch at the Mercato Mayfair restaurant—a church turned eatery, St. Mark’s Church from the 18th century. The aesthetics were rooted in Catholicism, even though the pews had been replaced by tables and chairs, and one corner now served as a counter for food.

The cathedral-high ceilings, walls adorned with acrylic, sedate paintings, and mosaics in hues showcasing winged cupids and the disciples of Jesus Christ from the Bible made Zara feel a particular way—a sort of hallowed adoration.

It also gave the restaurant a genuine, distinctive finish. The atmosphere hung heavy with the murmur of low voices, of locals puffed in jackets eating quietly.

Nat described the place as perfect Gothic architecture.

“This eatery is one to be reckoned with. Stunning—just stunning. What do you think?” he. looked at Zara enthusiastically.

“Absolutely,” she replied.

They had gyros with lamb sauce and different cocktails, from mint juleps to mojitos and martinis. A rhubarb crumble dish and Italian gelato followed as dessert.

“Perfect pick for a famished girl,” Zara commented, eyeing their order.

Nat chuckled. “You can’t expect those fancy foods we eat to make an impression in Manhattan—not when we’ve been out sightseeing all day.”

Zara laughed. “Dig in.” She pointed at him as she dug her fork into the rhubarb crumble, moaning with delight.

They ate in silence until they were content, their stomachs lying balmy. The food still looked largely untouched, except for the gyros; the rhubarb dessert and gelato remained very much on the table.

Zara took an unaware selfie with Nat, alarming him.

“Posted!” she beamed.

“I hope I didn’t appear in any of those pics,” Nat said.

“You appear in all,” Zara replied calmly.

“But you know I don’t like pics.”

“Since when?” she quipped.

“I like my privacy,” he said, taking a sip of his martini.

“Oh really, you don’t like taking selfies?” Zara mocked, a grin on her face.

“Nope ,” he said, sipping again.

“Shut up, Nat,” she laughed. “You just don’t want your side chicks to see,” she teased.

Nat smiled. “So you’re just going to accuse me now?”

“Facts!” Zara said confidently.

“If you say so,” he shuddered. It was clear he didn’t like arguments—or wasn’t ready for one.

“I have something to tell you, Zara,” he said. Their teasing about side chicks had oddly made him feel confident, buoyed by a strange comfort that allowed him to open up. He spilled.

“It’s Alicia. She’s back on me again.”

“Alicia? I thought that was settled.”

“She sends me weird messages saying she wants me back. I don’t know.” Nat looked tired.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Zara shot back sharply. She took her gelato and spooned it into her mouth, as if to show she wasn’t threatened by Alicia’s tactics, her whims, and caprices.

“You’re an adult,” she said. “You’re old enough to make your own decision. It’s either me or her.”

Nat said nothing.

“How about a date with the three of us?” he asked after a short while.

“I beg your pardon?” Zara nearly choked on her ice cream.

“Yeah, feed me,” he said, and Zara scooped the blue-mint ice cream into his mouth.

“This tastes like toothpaste,” he remarked, frowning at the unexpected burst of mint. He had always been a vanilla and lemon ice cream lover.

He reached for the other flavour—lemon cream and began eating.

Later, they visited Big Ben, a few kilometers from the restaurant. The bold, tower-like building looked timeless, rich with history. The clock at the top fascinated her—or maybe it was because of the 1,296 individual pieces of glass that Nat told her made up the clock face. She looked up in awe.

“You know, I’ve seen this before in movies and images, but standing before it feels different,” she said.

“Spectacular,” Nat added. “Want to go inside?”

“They let you do that?” she asked.

“Okay,” she said, though she would soon change her mind when she realized it took 334 steps to the belfry where Big Ben—the great bell with its iconic sound—hung.

The thought of climbing 334 steps painted pictures of drudgery and breathlessness. She turned back, making a U-turn.

“Go on, Nat,” she said. “Don’t forget to take pictures.”

“You sly me,” Nat said, looking betrayed.

Zara winked.

“I’m not going if you’re not going,” he insisted.

She took in the scene instead: tourists hovering and snapping pictures, the red booth, the red pillar box, the red omnibus. This was the London she had seen in movies—more beautiful in reality.

Next up was Savile Row. They parked at 11 Savile Row, before a suit shop with the letters Kingsman engraved on glass.

They walked in. Zara remembered seeing it somewhere in a British movie about men in secret service.

“Welcome to haute couture,” Nat said.

The sales agent, in a sharp shirt and spectacles, boasted about the brand’s perfectionism and legacy, mentioning top competitors like Hardy Amies.

Nat tried on suits while Zara waited outside the changing room. Her favourite was a dark blue suit with stripes, perfectly fitted to his body.

She gave an impressed thumbs-up.

“That’s the one,” she said.

The sales agent gave a brief narration of the suit. Nat also bought expensive cufflinks and a stylish black umbrella.

Stepping out, Zara noticed a group of policemen on horses. She was dispirited and unimpressed.

“Are we in the 16th century?” she asked, wondering why policemen would be on horses in the twenty-first century.

“Typical London,” Nat replied.

She would later learn that the police used horses sometimes for public order and crowd control, and ceremonial duties.

Their final stop was the London Eye—an observation wheel of constructed metal with cable cars fixed around it, allowing tourists to see the city from above. They boarded one at the very top. Once again, she saw Big Ben from above. The city stretched beneath them—the citizens now looking like minions, tiny dots of humans; the sprawling Gothic buildings, rivers, and gardens. She felt on top of the world.

When they got down and stood just before the Eye, a man with long dreadlocks adorned with cowries, dressed in Rastafarian attire and flashing a gold tooth, played his guitar softly. Backup singers joined him as they sang a Bob Marley song. Nat caught the words:

“Emancipate yourself from mental slavery,

None but ourselves can free our minds.”

They kissed—amid the swirling arc of romance, the soft strings of music, and the vistas of a vivacious city. It felt as though they belonged to a different universe, of stars and endless sunshine, where they alone determined the margins of their lives. Kissing before the London Eye—how magnificent. A spirited camaraderie, a tender love rendezvous. A life where everything felt bright and new.