—
I flop back into one of the chairs tucked behind the trestle table. For the past five minutes, I’ve been helping Donovan serve tea and coffee. Although, the words “help” and “serve” are a bit of an overstatement, when all I’ve really done is add a splash of milk and a teaspoon of sugar into plastic cups. And I didn’t manage to get that right half the time.
Donovan slips into the chair beside me. “Anyway, it’s been a minute. So what’s happening with you? Where you working now?”
“I’m still job hunting.”
“What about that interview you told me about?”
I shake my head.
“Aww, man. Sorry, Yinks.”
“It’s okay.” I try to sound breezy. “My Aunty put me in touch with this managing director at a boutique investment bank. Apparently, there’s a lot of job openings coming up. Anyway, he asked me to send him my CV, because stupid me forgot to attach it to my original e-mail.”
Donovan leans back in his chair. “That’s a shame ’cause I have the perfect role for you.”
I laugh. “Go on, then.”
Donovan leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Sanctuary is looking for someone to oversee their Woolwich outreach. I think you’d be great at the job, still.”
“What, because of that one time you saw me help those teens stuff leaflets?”
“No,” he says slowly. “Because you’re good with people. Even Kelly said so. You’ve got transferable skills, and experience working with the homeless. Yinks, you’re more qualified than you think.”
“Thanks,” I say, flushing, then immediately blame it on the heat. Okay, it’s only sixteen degrees, but that’s hot for the UK.
“I’m leading the recruitment, and I want to put you up for the role. The salary is decent for charity work, not gonna lie. Anyway, the deadline is May seventeenth. Let me at least send you a job spec.”
“All right.” I give in.
Donovan blinks. “Cool. Um, let me get your e-mail address then.” He hands me his phone.
“Might as well add your number, innit,” he says. “Just in case, you know, for any questions.”
I type in my number, sucking in my lips to quell a smile. Wait, what am I smiling for?
“This MD,” he says after I hand him his phone, “you sent him your CV yet?”
“Not yet,” I say, stroking my hair. “I was going to make a few tweaks first.”
“Well, I can look it over, if you like? Offer you my expertise.”
“Oh, would you?” My eyes light up. “Thanks, Donovan. That would be amazing.”
“No problem. Let me give you my e-mail address.”
I dig out my phone, and I notice Donovan’s fresh cornrows as he taps on the screen.
“Here,” he says, handing it back. Just above his e-mail address, he’s saved his number.
“Anyway, enough about work,” I say in what I hope is a breezy tone. “How’s things with you? Ooh, how’s counseling?”
Donovan rolls up his sleeves. He sighs. “Jacqui has given me homework.”
“Okaaay?”
He reaches for a plastic cup. “She wants me to think about why I’m so resistant to dating.”
I hear the word “dating,” and Donovan’s Hinge profile flashes to mind. “Err, isn’t that the whole point of seeing her?”
“I know, but she’s making me think about things, like, ‘What’s the worst that can happen if you put yourself out there?’?” He says this in a voice that I’m pretty confident doesn’t sound like his therapist. “And she’s making me do things. Like, can you believe that man has set up an online dating account. You heard of Hinge?”
“Yeah.”
“I joined that not too long ago. Haven’t really used it.”
“When is this homework due for?”
Donovan wrinkles his nose. “To be honest with you, Yinks, it’s been an ongoing homework for a few months now.”
“A few months!” I nearly scare away an approaching man. “Sorry. Tea? Coffee?” Donovan and I rush to our feet. He brews a teabag in a plastic cup while I wait to add a drop of milk and some sugar.
“Donovan, that’s insane,” I say after we’ve served the man and flopped back in our chairs again. “Why are you so scared to start dating again?”
“I dunno. Fear of rejection, maybe.”
I give him a smile. “Want to know what I think?”
“Go on.”
“I think your counselor is a crutch.”
“A crutch?”
“You heard me.” I roll my neck to add a bit of sass.
Donovan laughs.
“Nah, I think it’s great that you’re doing therapy, so you don’t bring old baggage into any future relationship. But you’re never going to get into one, unless you put yourself out there.” For a quick moment, I consider telling Donovan that this is what I’ve been doing lately but something holds me back. So instead, I say the next thing on my mind. “You know what else I think?”
He leans back. “Go ahead, Oprah.”
I lower my voice to a whisper. “I think you need a bit of faith.”
“A bit of what?”
“I said, a bit of faith!” A pigeon nearby flaps away. “I’m not talking about religion,” I say quickly. “I mean, faith in yourself.” I tap his knee, before hastily removing my finger. “Donovan, you need to have faith that you’re worthy of love and that you’ll find it. That’s not to say you won’t get hurt, but faith is about believing that there are better days ahead, even when you can’t see the full picture.”
I let my words hang in the air. I can tell that he is mulling over them.
His dimples reappear. “They teach you that at church, yeah?”
I nudge him. “You see. Church isn’t so bad.”
After a moment, Donovan folds his arms behind his head. “So, what’s gwarning with you? What’s the deal between you and this friend?”
The sight of his muscles makes my heart thump, and feeling flustered and irritated, I say, “We’re good, thank you very much. Now leave me be.”
Donovan lowers his arms. “Jheeze, man. I was only asking.” He stands up and begins to stack a few of the plastic cups. I wait for him to bust a joke, to pry into this “friend,” to ask questions. But nothing.
I open my mouth to speak, but Donovan gets there before me.
“I just need to check on something, yeah.” And without looking back, he walks away.
Please call Yinka a cab
SATURDAY
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I say to myself as I look at the blue dot on my phone’s GPS.
I was excited, a bit nervous, optimistic even, this morning when I squeezed into my skinny-skinny jeans and off-pink blouse. But now that I’m here, I’m absolutely bricking it.
I glance up at the pub, its ramshackle bricks with giant murals. Welcome to Shoreditch. I rake my fingers through my wig, the strands like silk as they glide between them. Okay. It’s going to be a quick date to confirm that Marcus is who he says he is, then when my phone alarm goes off at two, I’ll make my way to Kemi’s.
I send the pub’s address to Joanna and Brian for safety precautions.
Good luck Brian immediately messages back, followed with a wink emoji.
Propelled by two smokers standing nearby, I push open the pub door and I’m hit with a waft of heat. Inside is considerably nicer. It has a cool vintage feel with its dark paneled walls and flooring. And in true Shoreditch style, the bartenders are all wearing beanies.
It’s just gone one o’clock, so the pub is busy. Nevertheless, I spot Marcus by the window, on his phone, sitting behind a small rustic table. I’m grateful that he’s looking down as it gives me another chance to shift my wig a bit.
I take a breath, then navigate my way between bodies and chairs and tables, loud laughter and chatter overlapping the background guitar music. Marcus glances up and stands, smiling.
“You came,” he says, spreading his arms while I hold out a hand.
“Of course,” I reply, or rather croak. I allow him to hug me. He smells of fresh aftershave with a twinge of coffee.