Of course. God, I really should get an account.
“In my defense, it was Sanjeev’s Instagram.” She tips back her empty glass again and then frowns, disappointed. “But that was like, what, three months ago. Sanjeev said they had only just met.”
“What?” I raise a hand. “Why didn’t you tell me? So they’ve only been together for three months?”
For a moment, I have an out-of-body experience. Everything around me fades. “Two years,” I’m telling Femi. “Two years and yet you never felt as though I was the one.”
“You okay?” says Rachel, putting a hand on my shoulder.
Suddenly, we’re interrupted. “Who died?”
Nana. She gives Rachel a hug first, says, “Congrats, hun,” then hands her a bottle of Prosecco.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” says Rachel, sticking out her tongue.
Nana turns to me and frowns. She’s wearing a brightly patterned jumpsuit, big hoops, and all ten of her piercings on each ear.
“What happened to you?” she says. “You missed me?”
Rachel clears her throat. “Femi’s here.”
Unlike Rachel, Nana doesn’t need any further clarification. She swivels her head, then stops.
“Shabba,” she says, almost breathless, but then adds, “But that’s okay, hun, because you’re over him, right?”
“Nana, he’s engaged,” I say weakly. Nana’s mouth shrinks into a small “o.” She pulls me to her and squeezes my shoulder.
Rachel shoves the Prosecco under her armpit. “You should take a rain check.”
“Rain check?” I frown, and she nods. “But Rachel, it’s your engagement party.”
“So? By the time I wake up tomorrow, I won’t remember who came anyway”—she pulls the Prosecco from under her arm and waves it around—“because I’m getting turnt tonight!”
I don’t know how, but I smile. “Thank you, cuz.”
I give her a hug and Nana says, “I can come with you.”
I shake my head. “Thanks, but it’s okay.”
“I’m coming with you,” she insists.
“Please, Nana. I want to be on my own.”
I glance at Femi again and immediately wish that I hadn’t. With his arm resting on the curve of Latoya’s back, he pulls her into him. They kiss. It’s only a short kiss, but enough to make me turn on my heels. I elbow my way through the crowd and back into the building, not stopping until I’m in the lift again. Then I allow myself to cry. One fat tear rolling after the other, my heart breaking all over again.
The updated plan
It’s the middle of the night and I wake up to a pitch-black room, feeling numb. I reach under my pillow for my phone, squinting at the bright light as I unlock it and read the WhatsApp message from Nana.
NANA
Hey hun, hope you’re okay. If you want to talk, I’m here. And if you would prefer that I never mention Femi’s name ever again, then that’s fine. I’m here for you either way xx
Then my heart thuds. There’s a voice note from an unknown number.
Hey, Yinka, it’s Femi. Er, just wanted to say it was good seeing you earlier . . . Not gonna lie, I was kinda nervous about showing up tonight. I met up with Sanjeev the other day, and he told me about the engagement and the party, but I told him it was unlikely that I’d be able to come . . . but yeah, guess I changed my mind. Anyway, it’s a shame that we didn’t get to catch up properly. I was actually looking for you at one point, you know, but Rachel said you had to go. I’m guessing you had to check on your mister and his “man flu.” (Chuckles, then clears throat.) But yeah, I’m glad you’ve found someone. We both deserve to be happy . . . Well . . . I fly back to New York in two days, so I guess I’ll see you in July. Maybe you could introduce me to Alex at the wedding . . . Anyway, take care, Yinka—oh, and my bad, how’s your family doing? I know your mum hates me, but I hope she’s doing well. And work? Do you still work at Godfrey? Okay, this voice note is getting long. Bye now. Bye.
After the voice note comes to an end, I stare at my phone, dazed. Femi’s WhatsApp display picture is of him and Latoya and I fight the urge to view it in full-size. Instead, I clamber out of my bed, flick on the lights and fetch my notebook and pen. Drastic action is needed. ASAP.
OPERATION WEDDING DATE: MY PLAN TO HAVE A DATE FOR RACHEL’S WEDDING IN JULY!!!
OBJECTIVES
TASKS
DEADLINE
KPIs
1. Meet a guy in person
? Make an effort to speak to any single men at Rachel’s engagement party
? Next Friday
? I exchange numbers with a guy
2. Meet a guy virtually
? Sign up to online dating if I don’t meet anyone at Rachel’s engagement party
? End of Jan
? I connect with a guy I’ve met online ? We exchange numbers, speak on the phone and go on a date
3. Take up Aunty Debbie’s offer and meet Alex!!!
? Go to Mum’s house tomorrow and let her know I’ve changed my mind ? Attend All Welcome Church on Sunday
? This weekend
? God knows
You’re so British
SATURDAY
History Ctrl+H
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How to approach a guy like a don – YourTango
Relationship expert gives tips on how to meet a guy in REAL life – Daily Mail
I’m in a rush to get to Mum’s by one o’clock. I struggled back to sleep last night and didn’t wake up till about eleven this morning. Shortly after I’d texted Mum to ask if I could come over, I received a call from a slightly hungover Rachel.
“Don’t send him a voice note back,” she said after I told her that Femi had left me one. “Send him a message. A short, cordial message.”
I got off the call and sent Femi a reply. Well, I did after three attempts.
Hey Femi. Hope you slept well. Congrats again on the engagement! I’m so happy for you! Latoya seems really nice. And yes, you’ll meet my boyfriend at the wedding. Hopefully, he won’t be sick again. Lol. Have a safe flight back.
Showered, dressed and ready, I throw myself into my car, then I remember: my annual inspection is overdue. So I hop on a very busy train from Denmark Hill to Peckham Rye station, which thankfully is a short commute.
Leaving the station, I dodge my way down a busy tunnel with cafés and market stalls on either side, then I reach the high street where there are several Afro-Caribbean hair shops. Just as I’m passing one, I’m ambushed by a woman lurking outside.
“Darlin’, darlin.’ Do you want your hair done?” The woman has super-thin braids and what sounds like a Ghanaian accent.
I sigh and shake my head. This is a common occurrence whenever I visit Peckham. Just because I wear my hair natural doesn’t mean I want it done.
Quickening my steps, I pass a market stall that’s been there for ages, still selling those Ghana-must-go bags—but damn, were there always this many pound stores? I pass the McDonald’s, remembering a fight that broke out inside once, before bustling through the human traffic—the preachers, the pushchairs, the shoppers with bulging plastic bags who always seem to congregate outside the massive Primark—and I’m approaching Costa, turning to peer inside.
It is all lace wigs, hijabs, Rasta hats and hoodies out here, but inside the coffee shop is a different picture. I see beanie hats, denim jackets and white socks poking out of Converse. Peckham has changed. A lot.
As I near the pedestrian crossing, I catch a glimpse of Peckham Arch—an outdoor platform, its roof shaped like a dome. I’m pleased to see the library, my favorite place, still up and running, scaffolding-free. It is the heart and soul of the community.