Chapter 8
8
Love_Drive_Draft1.doc
Word count update: 2,532
I snatch my giant-size bag of Doritos and throw a handful into my mouth, my writing Spotify playlist still playing in the background.
Dad flashes on my phone.
I tut. I forgot we were catching up today.
With a grunt, I deposit the chips back into the bag and dust off my fingers.
‘Hi, Mum. Hi, Dad.’ I raise my phone in front of my face.
They’re sitting side by side on the sofa. Mum is wearing an understated designer shirt while Dad is neatening the collar of his polo as if he’s at an interview. Judging by the angle, they’ve propped his phone up against something on the coffee table.
‘So. How’s things?’ Dad says.
‘Things are good,’ I shrill. ‘No complaints. How’s things with you?’
Mum runs her own optician’s – hence my insane collection – while Dad is a senior director at John Lewis – one of the UK’s largest retailers. Given what they do for a living, they are never short on things to chat about, though Dad is more of a talker. For the first time ever, I’m grateful for this. In his usual elaborate manner, he tells me about his department’s latest strategy – something about SEOs and algorithms. Honestly, it goes over my head. Mum is more interested in talking about the garden. She insists I try her courgettes the next time I visit.
I do my best to keep the conversation going. As soon as I sense their answer is drawing to an end, I follow it up with another question, a verbal tennis match. Unfortunately, Mum sees through my sudden interest in gardening.
‘Temi, we didn’t call to talk about ourselves,’ she says, cutting in. ‘How are you ? Shifted any tissue this week? … Oh, I’m only playing,’ she adds after wrongly reading into my silence.
‘Weren’t you catching up with your agent?’ Dad says.
‘Ohhh. That .’ During our last catch-up, I had – reluctantly – told my parents about the meeting in an effort to show them that something was happening. I throw in a small laugh. ‘In the end, it was just a light check-in.’
Guilt digs into my skin like fangs. I hate lying.
‘Buuut,’ I carry on gingerly, ‘she also said that while we wait to hear back from publishers, it’s better to concentrate my efforts on writing a second book.’
‘I’ve been telling you that, haven’t I?’ Dad can’t get his words out fast enough. ‘You have your plan A and you have your plan B.’
I snatch my glass in irritation. But somehow it slips out of my hand and water spills everywhere.
Fuck!
I turn my camera off and set it down on my desk.
‘You come up with anything yet?’ Mum says, not the least phased by my disappearance.
I want to cry. The water has seeped into my keys.
I reach for my towel and mop it against my laptop furiously. ‘Jheeze, Mum. It’s only been a day.’
‘All right. She was only asking.’
Dad’s right. ‘Sorry.’
‘But you’re okay, otherwise?’ Mum is eyeing me tentatively. ‘You’re not stressing about it? You eating?’
My eyes pan to my bag of Doritos. ‘Yes.’
‘On the topic of food,’ Dad says brightly, ‘keep Sunday the eighth of September free. We’re hosting a celebration lunch.’
‘For what?’
‘For Rosemary – Anu’s daughter,’ Mum says. ‘She’s now a doctor.’
Rosemary is a childhood friend. She lived next door, way back when my parents and I used to live in a council estate in New Cross. We also went to the same primary school. Sadly, our friendship pretty much ended after we moved away – my parents were doing well enough in their respective careers to buy a big house and send me to private school. I can’t remember when I last saw her – so this should be interesting.
‘Anu asked if we could host the dinner at our place,’ says Dad, adjusting the camera. ‘Since we have more space.’
Last year, my parents bought their dream home in Oxford. It has a massive kitchen, an even bigger garden and a real fireplace.
‘You’ll come, won’t you?’ Mum says as if I have a choice.
‘Yeah, course.’
We speak a little more, mainly about the news. After my contribution tails off, they take the hint and end the call.
I return to my manuscript. I hope my laptop is okay. I begin to type … Phew. Wait. Hold on. The letter ‘L’ isn’t working.
A sickly whirlpool forms in my stomach as I test each key in turn. Pleeease . I really can ’ t afford a new laptop right now .
I try the letter ‘N’. It doesn’t work. Nor does the letter ‘P’.
I slam my laptop shut.
With my head resting in my hands, I stare at my bookshelf, my eyes growing more teary with every blink. I zone in on The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho. Like Santiago, I need an omen.
And then my phone buzzes.
I growl. ‘What do Mum and Dad want now?’
I’m about to let it ring out when I realize it’s Mayee. My body rushes with adrenaline. Deep breath .
‘Hi, Mayee.’
‘Temi. Sorry to call so late, but do you have a quick sec? I’ve got some good news for you.’
I’ve been disappointed so many times, but hope rises anyway. Does Ocean want to buy my book?!
But then she says, ‘It’s about the ghostwriting gig you interviewed for yesterday,’ and I deflate like a decompressed airbed. ‘You’ve got the job!’
With everything that has happened in the last forty-eight hours, I can barely take this information in. My mouth opens and closes. I don’t know what to say.
‘Temi, are you still there?’
Dumbstruck, I yank off Briony (my can’t-be-arsed glasses). ‘Sorry. I’m just – what ? Why me?’
Mayee laughs. ‘Apparently, Wale insisted you were the one.’
My eyes widen. Hold up, Wale picked me? Now I’m even more confused.
Clearly unaware that I am in shock, Mayee explains the next steps, something about sending me a contract.
This is definitely the moment when I should tell her that Wale is my ex, but my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth.
‘As Greg mentioned many times, I’m sure, this project has a tight turnaround, so you’ll be starting as soon as the contract is signed – I’ll send it over to you now. Wale wants to meet with you tomorrow. Sorry. I haven’t even asked. Are you happy to accept?’
Wale is my ex! my inner voice prompts. But all that comes out of my mouth is a long ‘Ummm’.
My eyes trail back to The Alchemist on my shelf. Wait, is this my omen? The timing seems more than coincidental. I sure as hell need the money, and now a new laptop. And honestly, I would rather not attend Dr Rosemary’s celebration dinner unemployed. Plus, telling my parents that I’m ghostwriting for a celebrity is bound to get a nod of approval – that’s if I don’t mention it’s for a reality TV star, of course.
And so, surprising even myself, I lean back and say, ‘Yes.’