Chapter 45
45
Fonzo steers his car into the parking lot of the venue – a picturesque, historical-looking building brought to life with yards of red carpet rolled out in front, two large fig trees on either side. Inside, a live band is playing an Afrobeats song and I can hear the buzz of chatter coming from the people milling outside.
Shona and I clamber out from the back seat. Twenty minutes only afforded me the time to have a quick shower, change and put my contacts in before I was bulldozed out of my flat. Thankfully, Shona came prepared with a bag stocked with cosmetics, so I was able to do my hair and make-up during the forty-minute drive to the venue. I’ve gone for a retro look: smoky eyes, red lips, big hair.
Bending towards one of the wing mirrors, I do a last check (I applied my eyeliner while we were going over a speed bump). I fluff my hair and put on my earrings – oversized Ankara wax fabric studs.
‘You ready?’ says Shona, placing a hand on my back.
‘Not really.’ My voice is small.
I reach for her. Hand in hand, we head to the venue, walking briskly down the red carpet. We pass a stream of stylish guests and influencers, some of whom are posing for the photographers. We end up practically running in case any are pap.
‘I’ll catch up with you later,’ Fonzo calls as he straps his camera around his neck.
When we step inside, my jaw drops. The interior is breath-taking, and I momentarily forget how nervous I am. Crystal chandeliers, marble polished floors, a grand staircase. Flanked with Grecian pillars, the lobby is festooned with massive ceramic urns blooming with fresh delphiniums and white lilies. There are hundreds of lavishly dressed people, many of whom are admiring Fonzo’s photography propped up on easels. Waiters wander in between them serving champagne and canapés. I’m gazing at a photograph of a man feeding an older woman when Aunty Shirley steps into my eyeline.
‘My sweet darling, look at you!’ She gives me a hug, steps back and holds my hands. ‘Nice. Very nice. Give us a twirl.’
She’s dressed in a black blouse and slacks. Of course – she’s managing the catering.
‘This is my friend Shona,’ I say, gesturing to her.
Aunty Shirley says, ‘Oh, we’re very much acquainted. Thanks for helping us in the kitchen today.’
‘No problem.’ Shona cranes her neck. ‘Do you know where Wale is?’
‘He’s in the tech room sorting out the walkie-talkies.’ Suddenly, Aunty Shirley notices something behind us. ‘Why in the world are they serving – sorry, excuse me.’ She dashes off.
Shona tugs me to follow her.
I pull back, gripped with nerves. ‘I think I should go home. Tonight is Wale’s night. I don’t want to ruin it.’
Shona looks me in the eye, her brows creasing with concern. ‘What if you had a reason to be here?’
‘What do you mean?’
She smiles. ‘I have a plan.’ She whips out her phone and dials someone. ‘Hey, Fonzo. We’re going to need Temi’s laptop.’
A few minutes later, the three of us are in the staff office, the sound of a massive laser printer churning in the background.
My heart is a drumbeat in my chest. ‘Do you think this will work?’ I ask from behind the desk.
Shona massages the knots between my shoulders. ‘We have to try.’
Then the door opens. My stomach flips.
‘Shona, are you okay?’ Wale says, almost breathless. Shona had called him to say she had sprained her ankle and that he should meet her at the office.
I can pinpoint the exact moment he notices me. His expression goes from one of worry to surprise.
There’s a hush of silence. I rise to my feet. We stare soberly at each other from across the room. He looks painfully handsome as always. His tux jacket is embroidered with gold floral patterns and fits him like a glove. And he’s wearing a velvety bow tie that matches his lapels.
We seem to be speaking in a silent language because I can tell from his eyes that he thinks I look beautiful too.
And then our bubble pops.
‘If your ankle is fine, I need to get going,’ is all he says.
‘Kojo leaked the video!’ Shona cries. She begins to tell Wale what she told me, but the disorderly way she’s telling the story makes it sound like a conspiracy. My eyes keep flickering to him. He’s trying to be patient but I can see he’s eager to get back to the gala.
‘Look, we’re not saying Temi’s totally innocent,’ Fonzo says after Shona loses steam. ‘But she has taken accountability. Surely that should count for something? She’s not even going to publish the book any more.’
‘Yeah, I saw her Instagram.’ Wale’s eyes say: And?
Shona opens her mouth and closes it again.
‘Excuse me,’ he says, turning to leave.
‘Wale! Please! Wait!’
In desperation, I hurry over to him. He can’t even bear to look at me and, when he does, his jaw clenches, his body simmering with frustration. I feel defeated. I don’t know what to say, but I have to try to make him understand. This may be my last chance.
‘Wale, I’m sorry.’ I gulp back tears. ‘I know I said it before but I will say it a million times if I have to. I’m sorry for not being honest with you from the start and I’m sorry that you felt taken advantage of. It was never my intention to hurt you – you know how much I care about you. But once you started opening up, things became … complicated. I’d only just earned back your trust and I was scared to lose it again. And I’d become so invested in writing your memoir. And most of all, I was scared of losing you.’
I stare at him, breathless, hoping my words are both sharp and soft enough to penetrate his heart. Because that’s all I have right now. My words.
The printing in the background stops. And that’s when I remember: I have something else.
‘I also have this for you.’ I scurry to the printer and pick up the stacks of paper, still warm from the fresh ink. My fingers tremble as I hand them to him – his memoir.
Wale’s gaze slides down. His eyes are glued to the title page: A Memoir by Wale Bandele . He doesn’t say anything. He’s too overwhelmed. The angles in his face have softened. He looks truly moved.
‘I just came to give you that,’ I whisper, hugging my elbows.
I watch his throat bob as he swallows, his lashes splaying over his cheeks.
‘Thanks,’ he eventually says, his voice a croak. He glances up. ‘I have to go.’
My heart is a sinking ship as he walks to the door.
And then he stops. ‘You’re on table two,’ he says.