“Er, I like your jumper,” I say quickly. “Let me guess. Run-DMC?”
Donovan looks down at himself where there is a print of three Black men wearing thick gold chains, matching hats and Adidas tracksuits.
He smiles. “Brushing up on your hip hop, yeah?”
I smile, grateful to have restored our banter.
“How comes you didn’t get back to me?” he says.
I frown, unsure of what he means.
“Your CV,” he reminds me. “I emailed it to you. I added some Track Changes. Overall, it was really good.”
I slap my forehead. “Damn, I’m so sorry. I saw your e-mail but I got distracted. Thank you for doing that. I’ll send it to Terry tonight.”
“What about the job spec I sent you? Did you have a look at that? The deadline is next week. You gonna go for it?”
I chew the inside of my mouth. “I haven’t looked at it. And . . .” I sigh. “Honestly, I’m not too sure if I want to go for it. It just feels like too much of a risk.”
Donovan looks at me as though I’ve just told him I never want to eat chicken again. “That’s a shame,” he says. “You would have been good at the role, still.”
“But thanks for thinking of me,” I say, and he glances away.
“I’m just going to say hello to my friend, yeah.” He nods to a disheveled-looking woman, idling in the distance.
I watch him walk away. Suddenly, he turns around.
“Your mum’s church,” he says. “Remind me of the name again?”
“All Welcome. It’s on Old Kent Road. Um, why?”
“No worries.”
For the next ten minutes, I carry on from where Donovan left off, sorting the donated men’s clothes from the women’s. Then I spot Derek stepping out of the portable toilets and for a moment I just watch him. I tilt my head. Hmm. Derek isn’t that bad. He’s no Alex or Femi or Donovan. No, not Donovan, what am I saying?
And without giving myself a second to change my mind, I clamber to my feet and go after him.
“Derek!” I tap his shoulder.
“Oh, hi, Yinka. Great to have you back. You did such a great job last time.”
I clear my throat. “Um, do you have a moment?”
* * *
—
We settle for the patch of grass near the library. There’s a bench and I don’t know whether to sit or stand, so in the end I kind of fall.
“Are you okay?” he asks as he lowers himself down on the grass next to me.
“Yeah,” I reply. I’m absolutely bricking it. “Derek, I just wanted to say . . . this might sound crazy, but . . . sorry, I’m trying to gather my thoughts.”
“Don’t apologize. Take your time.”
I breathe. “Okay, what I’m trying to say is—”
“Aunty Yinka!”
I turn.
Vanessa.
After Derek and I have clambered to our feet, she hugs me and tells me how pretty my hair is, before turning to Derek.
“I’m off now,” she says, gripping the strap of her handbag. “I have over thirty cupcakes to make tomorrow.”
“Well, I know you’ll ace them,” says Derek. Then quicker than a blink, he kisses Vanessa. On the mouth.
What?
“Bye, babe,” she says to Derek, giving him a feline stare.
“Bye, sweetheart,” he says back, squeezing her arm adoringly.
“See you, Aunty.” Vanessa hugs my now frozen body, then strolls away.
“Sorry, you were saying?” Derek turns to me. I’m guppying like a fish.
What the hell? Not even Derek wants me.
“Um, I just wanted to let you know that—that sadly, today will be my last day.” I swallow. “I won’t be able to volunteer again.”
I feel like I’m losing myself
THURSDAY
After I returned home yesterday, I deleted the Tinder app. Nana saw it as progress, and I didn’t really have the energy to tell her it was more like giving up.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” she says now, sitting at the foot of my bed, her jacket on, key in hand. “It’s a shame that I’ve got to bartend this evening.”
I nurse the mug of hot chocolate that she’s made me.
“If you’re still awake, we can talk more when I’m back,” she offers. “I’m happy to just listen, you know.”
“Okay,” I say, as this is what she wants to hear. “Oh, and I’m sorry for snapping at you in Costa. I know you were only trying to help. And that time when I said you took Alex away from me, I was just angry. I didn’t mean it.”
Nana puts a hand on my leg. “Don’t sweat it.” Then she goes, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Lying there, all my brain can do is think, Why? Why is my love life such a struggle? Why does no one want me? Why am I not good enough?
After a while I sit up in bed. I feel the need to do something. Rachel’s wedding is in two months. I’m running out of time. I have to do something. Now.
I reach for my phone. No. I’m done with online dating. Another thought comes to mind. I chase it away.
No, Yinka. You’re not in a position to be closed-minded.
So I rush out of bed and fetch my wig lying on the dresser. I attach it to my head and shift it a few times so that it aligns with my hairline. Finally, I give it a quick brush, and tap on a bit of cherry lippie.
Back in bed, I whizz through my WhatsApp contact list. I stop at the name Emmanuel, take two deep breaths, and click on the video icon. It rings. Again. And again.
After the fifth ring, it dawns on me that I haven’t seen Emmanuel since I was twelve. I try to refresh my memory of him: left ear pierced, caramel skin, chipped eyebrows—yes, because that was the “cool look” at the time, thanks to the likes of So Solid Crew.
By now, I’ve counted the tenth ring. With a sigh, I go to tap on “end call,” when suddenly, the call connects and we’re staring face-to-face.
Okaaay. Player rumors aside, Emmanuel is fit. He has a nice stubble and shape-up, and he has ditched the chipped eyebrow look.
“Yo, who’s this?” he says, his brows twisting like The Rock.
“Hi, Emmanuel,” I say. “It’s Yinka.”
“Yinka?” He looks confused. Not even a flicker of recognition runs across his face.
Oh, God. There’s a sick feeling in my stomach. I’m sure Mum said Emmanuel was waiting to hear from me.
“Yinka,” I say again. “We knew each other when we were kids?” And because Emmanuel’s expression doesn’t change, I add, “You know, the one who you went to Sunday school with? Lived in Peckham.”
“Oh,” he says to my relief. “Oh, so you’re Yinka.” His eyebrows rise. “Okay. My mum did say you might call.”
I smile. “Yes, I am she.” I raise my phone higher to catch a better angle. “This is awkward,” I say after an extended pause. God, I wish I had planned a few questions. “So, how’s it going?”
Emmanuel’s eyes remind me of a chameleon’s. They flicker everywhere but at me.
“Good,” he says flatly. “Life is good. Can’t complain.” I wait for him to ask me the same question, but he doesn’t.
“Great,” I say to avoid another lull. “Life is good too. Can’t complain.”
“Cool,” Emmanuel says.
More silence.
“Sooo . . . what do you do for work?” I say this calmly, but inside I’m panicking. Maybe I caught him at the wrong time.
“I’m a plumber,” he answers in the same mechanical tone.
“That’s handy.” I chuckle. “Excuse the pun.”
Emmanuel doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even chuckle or—throw me a bone—smirk. Instead, his pupils are still busy chasing the elephant in the room.
“Okay. I know this is awkward, me video calling you out of the blue. Would you like me to call you normally? Or maybe another time? Or you can call me in your own time?” I add quickly. “Whenever you’re free.”
Emmanuel sucks in his lips as though he’s in pain and he needs to scream. God, I know this is painful but give me something, man.
“The thing is”—he rubs his neck, laughs a little—“when my mum told me about you, I actually had a different person in mind.”
“Oh,” I say, startled, not prepared for that answer. “Who did you think I was?”
Emmanuel smiles, an awkward smile. He’s still rubbing his neck. “Do you remember that light-skinned girl?” he says finally, and I stiffen. Jemimah was the light-skinned girl that all the boys liked in Sunday school. “Yeah, for some reason, I had in mind you were her.”