“What’s Coal Rooms?” I scrunch my brows. Joanna looks at me as though I’ve asked her what’s pizza.
“It’s a restaurant,” she cries, and I blink at her. “In Peckham, Yinka! I thought you used to live here?”
“Yeah, well . . .” I mutter over my drink. “Before it started to change.”
Joanna doesn’t hear me. “They do amazing brunches,” she carries on. “Reasonably priced too. It’s been on my list of places to visit for a while.”
I smirk. I always find it so funny when people recommend a place to go in Peckham. Would Joanna have suggested brunch in Peckham fifteen, twenty years ago? No, I think not. Growing up, Peckham was portrayed in the media as being so dangerous that any nonresident who risked going there would likely get shot. Now Peckham is “trendy.”
“So are you guys free? Oh, and that includes you, Nana.”
“I need to check with Ricky,” Brian says, whipping out his phone.
“Sorry, I’m doing my hair,” I reply at the same time as Nana says, “I’m working.”
“Okay, how about Sunday?” Joanna suggests.
“I should be free,” says Brian, looking up from his phone.
Nana shakes her head. “Sorry, no can do. I live the life of a hustler.”
“Yinka?” Joanna says hopefully.
“Sorry, Jo.” I take a sip of my hot chocolate. “I’ve got church.”
“But church finishes at ten, right? Come after.”
I laugh. “Jo. That’s my local church. I’m going to my mum’s church now. Service ends at two.”
“But that’s when brunch finishes.” Joanna sulks. “Okay, can we meet at eleven?”
I suck in my lips. She doesn’t get it.
I clear my throat. “Jo, my mum’s church starts at eleven.”
Joanna blinks. “Eleven?” She stares at me as though I’m dressed in a SpongeBob mascot. “What, so you attend church for three solid hours?”
“I go to an African Pentecostal Church,” I reply sheepishly.
“Wow, I knew you were a Christian, hun. But I never knew you were that religious.” Joanna reaches for her drink as though she needs something strong to take the edge off.
Urgh. I hate that word “religious.” For some reason, whenever I hear it, I think of those radical, Bible-waving people on the streets who yell at commuters to repent now or spend eternity in hell. Oh, I hope Joanna doesn’t think I’m like that.
“Or we can just go to Coal Rooms another time,” Brian suggests, clearly bored of the topic. “Sooo . . . how’s Tinder going, Jo?”
After Joanna provides her short update—“Brian, please. It’s only been a week”—Brian shifts his attention to me: “So what’s the latest with lover boy?” Full of excitement, I fill them in on Alex, keeping in all the good bits (the WhatsApp messages, the banter, the flirting, the outreach date) and leaving out all the bad bits (Vanessa, Derek, PlateGate). After twenty minutes of hijacking the conversation, I excuse myself to the toilets.
I wonder if Alex has messaged? After I’ve blasted my hands dry, I fish out my phone and smile. Speak of the angel.
ALEX
Hey, how’s it going? How’s work?
Are we still on for tomorrow?
YINKA
Hey! Indeedy we are
Thanks again for holding onto my jacket. Appreciate it How was staff conference?
ALEX
Staff conference was decent
Not gonna lie . . . Nearly nodded off a few times lol Enjoyed the free food doh
And no worries! Shall we just meet there?
YINKA Sounds good to me
So what you up to?
Lemme guess. You’re either eating or cooking right?
ALEX
Haha! You know me well
Just had ofada rice
Was fire!
YINKA
Arrrgh, you’re making me jelly!!!
Remind me again, what’s ofada rice?
ALEX
Are you sure you’re Nigerian?
YINKA
Covers face
I forgot! Lool
ALEX
U have it with stew with different meat and fish in it Mad spicy
But imma Naija boy
YINKA
LMAO!
ALEX
How bout you?
What did you have?
Or having for dinner?
YINKA
I’m out at the moment, so probs a takeaway lol
Got the charm and ting, innit
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A brisk wind nearly causes my eyes to water. Maybe wearing mascara wasn’t such a great idea. I crane my neck and glance around, Peckham library’s pastel green exterior glinting in the background.
Peckham Arch has been transformed into something else. In one section, there’s a group of volunteers sorting out donated items. And not too far from them is a row of volunteers behind massive chafing dishes and metallic steel pots. Hands clad in rubber gloves, they ladle food onto plates, serving two winding lines of rough sleepers. Along the outskirts are three portable toilets, a tea and coffee station and what looks like an information stand. And not too far from the dining area, made up of cushions and beanbags, are a handful of volunteers stuffing leaflets into tote bags.
My heart swells. I’ve missed this kind of work. Every evening I volunteered at Sanctuary’s outreach, I would go home happy, even if I’d had a tough day at work. There’s something about helping people that’s good for the soul.
I look across the platform. It’s nice to see such a large turnout, and I love the additions of the massive beanbags too.
“Yinka! You came!”
I turn to see Derek walking toward me. Now he’s power-walking. Jogging. He hugs me.
Instead of his usual Sunday all-black uniform, Derek has on a high-vis jacket. He’s holding a clipboard and there’s a walkie-talkie clipped onto his belt loop.
“I thought you had an interview to prepare for?” he says as I straighten my new white blouse under my new trench coat, courtesy of ASOS’s clearance section. Tonight, I’m going for a sophisticated, womanly look, as opposed to my usual casual comfort. It is a bit chilly, though. I hope I see Alex soon so that I can button up.
“Oh, I’ve been preparing all week. Is it okay if I still help out?”
“Sure. Of course. Let me just add your name to the registration list.” Derek lifts up his clipboard. I try to scan the names upside down.
“Or I can do it,” I offer. “Saves me from having to spell out my last name, eh.”
Derek shrugs and hands me his clipboard and pen.
I scan the list. Ah-hah! Fifth name down: Alex Balogun. He hasn’t been ticked off yet.
“Anywhere on the top is fine,” pipes Derek, and I scribble my name at the top and add a tick for good measure.
“Where do you want me?” I ask. “I’m willing to help out anywhere.”
Derek scratches a bald spot. “Now, let’s see . . . we’ve got quite a number of people helping out with the mains. How about dessert?”
“Dessert sounds great,” I chime, maybe a tad too enthusiastically for his question.
Derek smiles . . . smiling . . . still smiling.
“Er, shall we head there now?” I suggest, turning to walk, even though I don’t know where I’m going.
“Yes, yes. Of course.” Derek takes a few steps, then stops. “Oh, yeah. Where did you go last Sunday? At the restaurant.”
I narrow my eyes. Then I slap my forehead.
“Oh, God. I’m so, so sorry. You were getting me another plate of food, weren’t you?”
Derek nods.
I cover my mouth feeling incredibly guilty.
“Aww, don’t worry about it,” he says. “I get it. I’m sure you wanted to leave after what happened.”
“But still! I should have told you.”
“Honestly, Yinka. It’s fine.”
“Sorry,” I mumble, and Derek smiles. Again.
“Dessert,” I remind him.
“Oh, yes. Come with me.”
I follow him, beaming at every person I walk past. And then I hear a familiar giggle.
Vanessa.
Dammit. Derek must have invited her last Sunday too. That man is thorough. And of course, she’s carrying a load of cake boxes because this is what she does for a living.
Feeling a rush of panic, I jump in front of Derek so that my back is facing her.
“I’ve changed my mind,” I squeak. “I want to do something else. Maybe something on that side.”
Derek follows his gaze to where my finger is pointing at. “Leaflet-stuffing?” He sounds as though I’ve just turned down a free holiday.
I give a weak nod. “Well, I did say I was willing to do anything.”