As Marcus draws back, we stare at each other. Just like his photo, he has magical blue eyes and there’s that friendly smile again. He may not be five eleven—five nine, I’d say—but he’s still a hottie.
Marcus gestures at the stool opposite. I take a seat, wondering if he felt my thudding heart. And what he thinks of me. He didn’t compliment me. Why hasn’t he complimented me?
He laughs. “You can take off your jacket, you know.”
I look down at myself. I’m wearing a puffer jacket. Zipped up.
After I’ve peeled off my coat, I realize I have nowhere to put it so I drape it over my lap like a British Airways blanket. Just as well, my thighs are jittery. Gosh, I am bloody nervous.
Marcus is wearing a green and blue checked shirt. “Am I what you expected?” he says. “Or were you keeping your jacket on for a reason?”
I laugh, and I can tell from the crinkles that have appeared around his eyes, that he’s glad he’s broken the ice.
“You’re all right,” I tease, feeling warmed by his gaze. “And me?” My voice goes up a bit when I say this.
Marcus smiles. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous.”
“Thanks.” I give him a coy smile.
He smiles back.
“How about I get us a drink,” he says, standing. “You know, to ease the nerves.”
“Yeah, that would be great, thanks. I’ll have a lemonade, please.”
Marcus laughs. “Okay, now I know you don’t want to stay long. Get a proper drink. Don’t be shy. It’s on me. I know, how about I get us a bottle of red. Or white?”
I bite my lip and immediately regret doing so. (I’ll have to reapply my lippie.) I drink alcohol, yes, but not in the friggin’ afternoon, and not for a first date.
But Rachel’s wedding is not too far away, and remember, Yinka, you’re not closed-minded, so . . . “Red would be fine,” and I tell myself that I’ll have one glass.
Three glasses later . . .
“I can’t believe you’re scared of cats.” Marcus is looking at me with goggling eyes as though I’ve just told him that I’ve got a phobia of chocolate or something.
“They look evil,” I protest.
Marcus gasps. “Take that back! I have four cats, you know.”
“Four!” I nearly topple out of my stool.
“Three live with my mum.”
“Well, remind me to never to go round your mum’s then.”
Marcus shoots me a coquettish smile. “But you’ll come round to mine?”
“I’m not makinnng any . . . p-p-romises.”
He smiles at me and rests his arms on the table. God, he looks hot. And I’m having fun. Lots of fun. Tipsy, sloshy head, slurred words kinda fun. Marcus was right. The wine has eased my nerves.
“Should I get us another bottle?” He shakes the empty red and quirks a blondish brow.
“And get me drunk? Hell, no!” I flail my arms for some reason when I say this.
Marcus chuckles. “I think you already are,” he says, clearly amused.
“Shit! I’m not supposed to get drunk.” Sorry, God.
“Why?” Marcus is still bemused. “Are you babysitting this afternoon or something?”
My heart stops. Baby. Chinedu. Kemi. I rummage for my phone.
“Shit!” I say again after I realize the time. “It’s just gone three!” How come my alarm didn’t go off? Oh, crap. I’m such a twit, I set it for 2:00 a.m. not 2:00 p.m. I stagger to my feet, shoving my coat on. “Sorry to leave you like this, but I’m supposed to be at my sister’s like . . . right now.”
Marcus rushes to his feet and says, “Hold up. Wait, wait, wait.” But I’m elbowing my way to the door.
Outside, the spring air hits me and so does my lack of orientation. I can’t remember which street I came from, or how to stand up straight, for goodness’ sake.
“I’ve got you,” Marcus says as I stumble into his arms. He steadies me, gripping my shoulders.
His eyes flicker down to my lips. “Let me call you a cab,” he says after a moment.
And after I resist the urge to kiss him, I manage a shaky nod.
* * *
—
I’m so, so sorry.” I burst into Kemi’s apartment like an addict—hands twitchy, pores oozing with sweat. I’m struggling to keep my eyes open.
Despite Marcus getting me a cab, it took ages to get there. The traffic was horrific. Even worse when I reached south London to the point I almost wished I’d taken the train. That’s if I could walk properly. See, Yinka, there’s a reason why God sets limits.
“The traffic was really bad,” I say to Uche at the front door. His head rolls back as though I’ve just sprayed body mist in his face.
“Where are they?” I’m startled by the eerie silence.
Uche rubs his nose. “In the nursery. But Yinka, just to give you a heads-up, she’s not in the best of moods.”
After somehow making it down the corridor, I knock on the nursery door and enter, rolling apologies.
“Shhhh,” Kemi hisses, physically shoving me out of the door while holding her white robe together. “I literally just put him to sleep.”
“Kemi. I’m sorry,” I say as she closes the door behind her.
She scoffs and shakes her head. “You don’t even want to be here.”
“What? Oh, Kemi. You’re just tired and stressed out—”
“I’m tired of constantly making an effort with you.” The sternness in Kemi’s voice startles me. “Begging you to be my sister. To listen to me. If you don’t want to spend time with me or talk to me over the phone, fine. I know it must be awkward for you now that I’m married and have a baby. But just stop making empty promises, okay?”
The weight of what Kemi’s saying knocks me to the ground and it takes me a moment to recuperate. I could come back fighting. Tell her that she doesn’t understand. That there is a lot I haven’t felt able to tell her these last few months. Then there’s Mum. Mum who constantly compares us. Mum who now appears to be her best buddy, always spending time together.
“Kemi, lessss jussst sit down.” I say this clearly, or maybe not. Kemi narrows her brows, and her angry expression morphs into shock.
“Um, why are you slurring?” She eyes me suspiciously. “Ohmigod.” She sniffs. “Yinka, you’re drunk, aren’t you?”
I try to protest but this only makes matters worse, as she uses the opportunity to sniff my breath.
“Yes, you are!” she cries. “You reek of alcohol! I can smell it! And you wanted to be around my child?” She clutches her white robe as though I’m someone dangerous. “Uche!” She raises her voice. “Please call Yinka a cab.”
And for the second time this Saturday, I clamber drunkenly into the backseat of a car.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Kemi.
But she tightens her robe and turns away.
Call me Virgin Mary
SUNDAY
Sunday, 9 May at 1.22 p.m.
From: Daley, Donovan
To: Yinka Oladeji
Subject: Your CV and Sanctuary’s Outreach Manager job spec
Hey Yinka, you good?
Attached is the job spec for the Sanctuary job I was telling you about. I also had a look at your CV . . .
With my sister now part of the ever growing “I’m angry at Yinka” club, I decided I needed to take my mind off things, so I accepted Marcus’s invitation to come over after church. Really, I shouldn’t have; I barely know the man. But with Rachel’s wedding around the corner, I can’t afford to waste time. And he seemed pretty non–serial killer to me.
Clean, modern and monochromatic, Marcus’s apartment in Greenwich is just what I expected. Further evidence that he’s not a psychopath. I think. We’ve just had lunch—shepherd’s pie, he got the recipe from the BBC website—and now I’m waiting for him on the sofa while he stacks the dishwasher. Lunch was amazing. He earned extra points for being a good cook. We definitely have chemistry.
“You’ve got an impressive book collection,” I call out as I stare at the colorful spines on his shelf. We Should All Be Feminists. Things Fall Apart. Okay, this man is cultured.
“Thanks,” he calls from the kitchen. He insisted that I shouldn’t help him clear up, and also told me that he has a surprise for me.
“Close your eyes,” I hear him say, followed by light footsteps.
“Oh, I hate this part.” I obey anyway.
“Are your eyes closed?” he says.
“Firmly.” I’m relishing the excitement.
The sofa sinks as he perches beside me. “Okay. You can open them.”
“Arrrghhh!” I stumble back.