“You know what?” My little sister sounds proper huffy. “You’re obviously too busy, so let me not take any more of your time—”
“Kemi, wait . . . I was on the toilet.”
“Oh,” she says. “You should have said.”
I reach for the unraveled toilet roll and tear a piece. “Look, why don’t we do something this Saturday? I still haven’t forgotten the one-on-one time I promised before you gave birth. I know it’s a bit late, but I still really want to.”
“Well, it’s going to be me, you, plus Chinedu,” she reminds me.
“Even better. Hey, maybe I can bring some oils and foot scrubs. Give you a foot massage while you’re breastfeeding.”
Kemi laughs, and I sense that she hasn’t laughed properly in a good while. “I would love that,” she says softly.
“Perfect. I’ll be round yours, say . . . three?”
“Sounds good. Oh, and how’s the job search going? I’ve been meaning to ask you. Mum’s really worried. I’m sorry that she found out about the redundancy.”
I sigh. “It’s going okay. And don’t apologize; I only have myself to blame. Anyway, see you Saturday.”
I end the call and race back to Tinder. Marcus has replied.
I’m not one for small talk, so excuse my bluntness. We like the look of each other, if we were in a bar we’d exchange numbers, wouldn’t we?
He gives me his mobile number.
Add me on WhatsApp. PS—I’m legit lol
There’s a fluttering in my stomach. All of a sudden, I feel hot. Excited. And equally nervous. Why is Marcus so keen to talk? Oh no. I hope he doesn’t have a fetish.
I stare at the screen, unsure of what to do. But the longer I leave it, the more likely Marcus will think I’ve got cold feet. I’m just going to be open-minded and message him.
Well, as soon as I’ve washed my hands.
Jheeze, man. I was only asking
WEDNESDAY
Wednesday, 5 May at 6.34 p.m.
From: Matthews, Terry
To: Yinka Oladeji
Subject: Interested in working at Comperial
Dear Yinka,
Please accept my apologies in getting back to you so late.
Comperial is currently undergoing an internal restructure, so there will be quite a few job openings at various levels. It would be good to arrange a time to meet. I’m afraid I wasn’t able to see your CV attached. Can you resend?
Terry
Director of Management & Strategy
I stare at my receipt. Twenty quid. Not bad. Twenty quid hardly breaks the bank.
“Jo!” I pick up her call as I power walk out of the hair shop. I’ve just purchased a sixteen-inch, straight wig made out of synthetic hair (hence the price). Yes, I’m unemployed, and yes, I shouldn’t be spending money right now, but it was an emergency. Marcus wants to meet up this Saturday, and in my Tinder profile I have long hair. God knows how he’ll react if I show up rocking my short fro.
Speaking of Marcus, we talked on the phone for ages. I love him! Not love, love him . . . you know what I mean. Marcus is charming. Straight-talking. He doesn’t hold back on the compliments—which I love—and as well as being a nonsmoker and a Bryson Tiller fan, he’s also a Christian. (Bonus.)
I’m not going to lie: I wish Rachel and I were on good terms right now, as I know she would be super-excited for me. I did think about telling Nana, but considering her dislike of my plan, I doubt she wants to hear about my love life. Besides, she’s busy preparing for her fashion show. I don’t want disrupt her “creative energy.”
“It’s going to be a short date,” I tell Joanna, pressing my phone to my ear. I’m heading in the opposite direction to Peckham Rye station because I’m desperate for some plantain chips.
“How come?” Joanna asks.
“I promised my sister that I’ll pop over. Remember I mentioned she had the baby recently?”
“Then why not just meet up with Marcus in the evening?”
“And risk getting kidnapped? Hell no!”
Joanna laughs, then I hear a beeping sound. I look at my phone. It’s Nana.
“Jo, do you mind if I call you back later?” I end my call with Joanna and answer Nana’s.
“Hey, how’s it going?” I say, wondering why she’s calling. “Don’t tell me you forgot your key at home.”
Nana laughs. “It was one time. Actually, I’m calling to find out how your counseling session went? I believe it was today, right?”
I stop dead in my tracks. A man nearly bumps into me from behind and curses. A few weeks back, Nana asked me when my counseling session was, and to get her off my back, I told her a random date. Dammit. How did I forget? I’m usually good at remembering things.
“It was canceled,” I say, trying not to splutter. “Yeah, at the last minute. Francis was unwell.”
“Oh,” says Nana, as I resume walking. I can’t tell whether or not she believes me.
“Looks like I’m going to have to reschedule.” I approach the pedestrian crossing and spot lots of beanbags and people in the distance. Oh yeah, the outreach is on today. I haven’t volunteered since that time I fell out with Donovan.
“Sorry, Nana, is it okay if we catch up later?” I say, getting in before her. “I’m actually volunteering right now.” I end the call and cross the road.
When I reach the platform, I look around. No sign of Donovan. Though I do see Derek and Vanessa helping out in the dessert section. Vanessa waves. Derek puts down his cake box and jogs over.
“Hey! Long time,” he says as we hug. “Up for giving us a hand with the dessert?”
I’m still looking around searching for Donovan.
“Yinka?”
“Huh? Sorry, Derek. Actually, I think I might just mingle, if that’s okay?”
“Sure. Go for it.”
Derek heads the other way as I weave between huddles of people sitting on beanbags. Today, spaghetti bolognese is on the menu, and it seems to be going down a storm. I spot an unoccupied beanbag opposite a hollow-cheeked woman with dark circles around her eyes. She’s talking to a Middle Eastern man sitting beside her, a sleeping bag draped over his shoulders.
“Is this seat taken?”
The woman gives me a toothy smile. “Nah, love. Come join us,” she says, and I plonk myself on the beanbag and almost get swallowed whole.
“Wow, these beanbags are comfy,” I remark, trying to find my balance. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt your conversation?”
“Nah, not at all.” The woman bats a hand. “I’m Kelly, by the way, and this is my mate here, Farsheed.”
Farsheed presses his palms together. “Sorry, my English no good.”
“Nice to meet you.” I shake their hands. “I’m Yinka. So,” I smile, “how’s the bolognese?”
For the next few minutes, I carry on chatting to them. Well, Kelly does most of the talking while Farsheed nods and hmm’s. We talk about everything from how we like to drink our tea to our appreciation of Peckham and its strong community. This is why I love volunteering—meeting all sorts of people from all walks of life. Giving something back and getting priceless moments like these in return.
“I thought I recognized your big head,” comes a voice out of nowhere. I look up. Donovan is standing over me wearing a Nike vest and shorts.
“Oh, great. You.” I clamber to my feet and we hug. I stagger back. “Jheeze, man. You’re dripping wet.”
“Sorry, just came from the gym, innit.” I notice his biceps—Why am I noticing his biceps?—then immediately scowl at him.
“So that’s why you’re late,” I snap.
“Oh, you were looking for me, yeah?” Donovan laughs. He lifts up his vest to wipe his flushed face, and now I can see his very defined abs.
I turn hastily. “Kelly. Farsheed. This is Donovan.”
They exchange hellos. Afterward, Donovan tells me he needs a hand with the tea and coffee.
“As long as you bring her back, yeah,” says Kelly. “We were having a lovely chat, weren’t we, Yinka?”
I grin.
“No disrespect to the other volunteers, but they’re always asking me questions like, how did I end up on the streets? Blah, blah, blah. But this one”—Kelly gives me a wink—“she’s a real one, she is. Ain’t that right, Farsheed?”
And whether or not Farsheed has understood, he nods.
* * *