Chapter 3
3
The following day, I start my job search. It’s already 2 p.m. and I have yet to start working on Love Drive . Instead, I’m in bed in the same knickers I wore yesterday, and all I’ve done is apply for a couple of part-time jobs.
Beside my laptop, my phone lights up. There’s a WhatsApp message from my parents.
Mum:
Are we still on for our catch-up tomorrow?
I whimper.
I don’t know how I’m going to tell them that I quit my job without another one lined up. After I told them I was going full-tilt with writing, they couldn’t have been more supportive. Knowing that I would be on a much lower salary, they said I could stay in their one-bed rental flat in Catford, as long as I covered the bills and kept the place clean. Conveniently, their tenants were moving out at the end of the month and their mortgage was pretty much paid off.
Now I have to tell them about what happened with my job and my novel. The thought is heart-wrenchingly unbearable. They haven’t exactly been great with bad news.
When I told them that I’d been let go from Bonsai, there was such disappointment in their eyes, you would think I had failed my degree. Although being let go sucked, I didn’t sink into a great depression; I didn’t enjoy my job. The whole point of pursuing a career in publishing was to rub shoulders with editors in the hope that, someday, one would offer me a book deal – how naive I was. But competition was stiff, so a junior role at an understaffed, floundering ghostwriting company was the best I got. My manager was the type who would let out an audible sigh if you dared utter a question, so I struggled in silence, trying my best to meet deadlines, sometimes at the expense of quality. In some sense, being let go was a relief. It was telling my parents that gave me heart palpitations.
Thankfully, the day before I planned to tell them, I got a phone call from Mayee offering me representation. I was able to frame the news of my being let go as an opportunity rather than a failure.
I dread the idea of telling them I’ve left the call-centre job too. I don’t think I can bear their disappointment again.
The weight of my predicament has me feeling low and, naturally, my mind wanders to where it always does when I’m this down – Wale and our break-up. How I called in sick and spent the majority of my days eating crackers in bed. I am unable to stop poking at these memories. The good times: when we got matching fake cheeseburger tattoos at Blackheath funfair; when Wale made me laugh so hard that lemonade projected out of my nose. And also the not-so-good times: when he first told me he’d been scouted for the show and when he led me to believe he was going to drop out …
Five months ago … March
‘Ooh, ooh, ooh! I love this part!’ Lifting my head from Wale’s shoulder, I wriggle around and nearly tip over the bowl of popcorn on his lap. We’re in my flat watching what we recently discovered is our favourite romance movie: The Best Man Holiday .
On the TV screen, four Black men dressed as if they’re in a nineties boy band – black leather jackets with trilby hats – perform a choreographed dance to New Edition’s ‘Can You Stand the Rain?’ while the four women on the sofa holler and laugh.
Pretending that my fist is a mic, I sing along to the intro, shoving it under Wale’s mouth so that he can join in too. We fail miserably to hit the high note. And then, suddenly, I’m being passed the bowl of popcorn. Wale jumps to his feet.
My boyfriend knows every move.
‘Shut. Up!’ I say, wide-mouthed as Wale spins around before seamlessly transitioning into a slide.
Impressively, he doesn’t break character. With a cool, sultry expression, he clicks his fingers. He does a two-step while miming along to the lyrics. His grey hoodie and sweatpants are worlds apart from what the men on the TV are wearing.
I play my part by turning into a fan girl. I clap. I squeal. I pretend to throw my knickers at him. Wale carries on with his performance until the dance sequence comes to an end. I give him a standing ovation.
‘And you watched that scene how many times?’ I ask after he bows.
He slumps back on the sofa and gives a half-shrug. ‘Only about twenty times.’
I chortle.
He kisses me on the cheek. ‘You enjoyed my performance?’
‘Hell yeah!’ I cry.
‘Good, ’cause I’ll be taking donations at the door.’
I make an act of patting my pockets. ‘Don’t suppose you have change for 20p, do you?’
I duck as he tosses a single popcorn at me.
Shaking his head, he returns his attention to the screen, its soft glow highlighting his chiselled profile.
I can literally feel my heart swell. How did I get so lucky? Over the last few weeks, I had been trying to ignore the ways my body would respond to him – the tingling sensation blooming in my chest and how my breathing would randomly go shallow whenever he was close. It’s happening now. My feelings are becoming too big to contain.
Wale, aware that I’m still staring at him, turns his head a little and laughs self-consciously. ‘Temi,’ he says, ‘the performance is over. You can stop watching me.’
‘I think I’m falling for you.’ The words tumble out of my mouth like a confession.
Wale’s brows quirk. He shifts his body around to face me.
The silence that follows is horrible. My heart pounds violently.
Dammit . I shouldn’t have said anything. Five months is too soon. Isn’t it?
I open my mouth to say something to smooth over this now very uncomfortable moment. But then Wale picks up the remote control and pauses the film.
‘Tems, I have something to tell you.’
My belly clenches. Nothing good ever comes after that sentence.
I watch him intently as he scratches the side of his beard. I’m trying to dissect his every movement.
Finally, he lets out a resigned sigh. ‘I’m signed up for The Villa .’
I release a breath. Then the meaning of his words hit me.
‘What?!’
‘Don’t worry! I’m going to drop out. I was scouted for the show months before we even met.’
Wordless, I turn and look straight ahead. I feel numb.
‘I’m so sorry. I should have told you from the jump.’ He places a hand on my knee and stares at the side of my face.
My nostrils begin to twitch. I ’ m so stupid. I ’ m so stupid.
‘I only signed up for a laugh,’ he’s now saying. ‘C’mon, Tems, you know me. I don’t care about clout or brand deals. Actually, lemme not lie, the bag was tempting, still.’
If there was an award for the biggest side-eye …
‘Aw, c’mon, babes.’ He shifts closer; I scoot away slightly. ‘I know it’s no excuse, but I wasn’t even looking for a relationship when we first started hanging out, remember? But me and you, we just … clicked. I couldn’t fight our chemistry. But yeah, I should have told you as soon as we got serious. And for that –’ he places a hand on his chest – ‘I’m truly, truly sorry.’
I try to take everything in – I can’t believe he’s been sitting on this news the entire time. Whenever we hung out, whenever we kissed, whenever we made love –
He knew.
Wale gives me a moment before taking my palm into his.
‘Temi, look at me. Please.’
I tear my attention from the TV. His eyes, usually filled with mischief, are now laden with guilt. Then, as if he’s about to make an oath, he dips his chin and fixes his gaze on mine.
‘I don’t want to do the show,’ he says. ‘I’d rather be with you.’
Buzzzz. Buzzzz .
I return to the present and grab my phone. My pulse quickens.
‘Hi, Mayee,’ I answer in my best attempt at a cheerful tone. For the love of God , please don’t ask me to send my manuscript .
‘Hi, Temi. Have you checked your email?’
‘Errrrrr, not since …’ My finger trembles as I click on Gmail. I spot Mayee’s email at the top of my inbox. The subject heading: ‘Are you free this afternoon?’
‘Well, you see, that job I was telling you about,’ she carries on, ‘Greg and his client want to have a video interview with you today.’
‘What!?’ My laptop nearly topples off my bed as I scrabble to sit up. ‘I mean, I didn’t even apply.’
‘I know,’ says Mayee airily. ‘But I recommended you. And you said you were interested, remember?’
I skim through the email. The interview is at 2.15. Basically in five minutes.
‘But I haven’t even prepared for it.’
‘Don’t worry. It’s just a quick, informal chat for you to meet the client and ask any questions. Between you and me, not many people have applied so this should be a walk in the park. Personally, I think you’re a shoo-in.’
I catch sight of my spooked face in the mirror opposite. I still have my hair bonnet on.
I guess it won’t kill me to do the interview. At the very least, I can find out who this celebrity is.
‘Temi, I’m going to have to push you for an answer.’
Sod it . ‘I’m in.’
‘Brilliant! I’ll let Greg know. Zoom link is in the email. All the best.’
I jump out of bed, yanking off my hair bonnet and pyjama top before flinging it in the vicinity of my laundry basket. With one Herculean pull, I wrench out my underwear drawer and rummage for a bra. Frantically, I reach for my nearest top – a slouchy grey sweater with the words MELANIN QUEEN emblazoned across it. Good enough. Next, my face. There’s no way I’m going on camera without my eyebrows done. With unprecedented speed, I pencil brown feathery strokes before moving on to undo my six large plaits, ruffling my fingers through my natural roots until my hair at least slightly resembles a twist-out. I then scour my ridiculous glasses collection – basically, the entire top drawer underneath my desk – substituting Carla (one of my many home-wear frames) for Keke (my sophisticated ‘mama, you got this’ glasses), rubbing the browline-frame lenses against my shirt to clean them. After I put them on, I throw my laptop on to my desk, flopping into the chair tucked underneath. I immediately locate Greg’s email in the thread that Mayee forwarded and click on the link. I’m just about to do a quick relay sprint to grab my Vaseline – man , my lips feel dry – when a message pops up: ‘Do you wish to join the meeting with your mic and camera switched on?’ I hit ‘Yes’. I’m in. A square with my face joins two others on the screen.
And that’s when my heart stops.
It’s Wale.
My ex-boyfriend.
In a panic, I turn off the camera.