Chapter 8
Now
‘The week after lunch at my parents’, I put into action a bunch of things my mum stressed me about doing.
I cut down to one can of Coke a day, respond to her morning text messages – usually GIFs of cartoon bears, and slogans wishing me a great day – and on Friday I shave my legs.
I also put on high-heeled silver boots to meet Ikenna, not because they’re fabulous, but because they’re strangely my most waterproof footwear and it’s been raining steadily all day.
My effort extends to a black off-the-shoulder dress and hair blow-dried to perfection.
As I step out of the cab, and struggle to protect my hair, I realise how uncomfortable I am: my boots pinch and the only bra that works with the dress is a strapless sticky thing, which keeps sliding down, taking my boobs with it.
Why on earth did I used to dress like this all the time?
Ikenna described Blue Orchid as the best cave à manger in South London and while it does smell delicious, it’s also loud, moody, and packed with people who are clearly loving their life choices.
I’m shuffled towards a dim corner, where I perch at a high table and try to convince myself the vibe is nice.
When Ikenna arrives, he’s got on slim-fitting dark trousers, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and Off-White trainers that probably cost more than my entire outfit.
He shakes off his golf umbrella, because of course he owns one, saunters over and kisses me on the cheek.
He always smells ridiculously good, like sea spray and fruit.
I don’t know, I’ve never been able to pinpoint it, but it reminds me that I’m still drawn to him in a sort of inconsequential way.
‘Hey babe,’ he says.
Babe?
‘You look amazing, as always. This rain is wild.’
‘I know,’ I agree.
‘Typical English summer, right?’
We talk about the weather for at least seven minutes, and I wonder if it’s because we have nothing else to say, or because it genuinely is wild weather. He orders the wine and food, since the menu is like forty pages and it’s so atmospherically dark, I can barely read the thing.
‘Ah, before I forget.’ He hands a small book across the table. ‘I got you something.’
‘The Cycles of Change.’ I eye him. ‘Is this about PMT?’
‘No.’ Ikenna’s face remains still, missing my attempt at humour. ‘It’s about moving on after life changes.’
The last time I read a book by choice was probably in Year 9, yet I thank him and put it by my side.
‘The mind is the most powerful tool we have.’ He taps a finger against his temple. ‘And you’re one of the strongest-minded people I know. That’s why we’ve always got along.’
Ikenna’s big into self-help and the power of positive thinking. He once told me he believed strength of mind was the thing that helped people through pain and sickness rather than medicine.
A beautiful, tattooed woman approaches our table with tiny plates of tinier food. ‘Stunning,’ Ikenna coos, ‘thank you.’ He takes photos of the plates, then says, ‘I’ll AirDrop these to you.’
‘No. I’m fine.’
‘When are you getting back on socials? I miss seeing you online.’
‘I don’t think I will. I’m already on socials so much for work, it’s great not losing so much time to online noise outside the office.’ He doesn’t need to know I now use my scroll time to stand in the garden shaking a bag of Dreamies at the fence and calling for a cat I’m not the owner of.
‘You’re missing a lot,’ Ikenna says.
Where do I start with this food? I’m hungry yet put off by the fact everything is in slivers or garnished with pomegranate seeds.
‘You’re missing out on everyone sharing their lives,’ he continues.
‘I’m actually okay not seeing what everyone is eating, drinking and dancing to—’
‘I’m a dad now.’
‘What?’
Ikenna smiles proudly as he hands his phone across the table. Sceptically, I take it and there is one of the ugliest dogs I’ve ever seen. ‘You got a mastiff?’
‘That’s Maximus. He’s an old boy. Had been living at the dogs’ home for ages.’ He slides to another photo. ‘How could no one have wanted to take him home?’
‘I can’t believe you finally did it. You’ve been saying it for ages.’ I zoom in on Maximus’s saggy, gormless grey face. ‘He’s so ugly, he’s cute.’
Ikenna kisses his teeth. ‘He’s perfect.’
When I hand back the phone, I fight the swoon that threatens to bubble up at the way Ikenna gazes at his dog. As hot as Ikenna is, it’s the flashes of him being nerdy I find entirely impossible to resist. Like his enthusiasm for planes, interior design and ugly dogs.
‘I’ve always wanted one but I got caught up in people telling me they’re dangerous or hard to have in the city. I just thought –’ he stops and shrugs, – ‘what am I waiting on? Life is too short.’
This is, of course, true, and also the last thing I want to hear right now. ‘This wine,’ I try, ‘is perfect. Though I doubt a few forkfuls of monkfish and some sorrel is going to soak it up.’
‘You look good, Zoe. You look happy.’
Ikenna lives for ‘happy’. He immediately loves anyone bubbly and confident and is always talking about being drawn to people’s energy.
When my energy first started dropping, he was there with warmth and the right words, but I could see the effect it was having on him; it was as if I was draining his life source.
‘Yeah, happy,’ he says again. ‘I can’t tell you how much of a load it takes off me to know you’re better.’
I’m not sure if I do feel better now, not when he just referred to me as a ‘load’.
‘Tell me what you’ve been up to?’ he says. ‘When you’re not on socials it’s like you don’t exist. How’s work?’
Safe subject. ‘Busy. We’ve got a big campaign launching next month, plus Jimmy wants me to pitch him podcast ideas. Something with viral potential, as if that’s easy.’
‘Think of your end goals, then work backwards,’ Ikenna says, meaninglessly.
The waitress brings us some marmalade martinis and I count how many people are taking photos of their food. Nine. I try not to judge because I used to be that person.
‘You’re good being back at work?’ Ikenna asks.
‘Yes. It was tiring at first. Now, the structure of being there, of having a pattern to my days, helps. This week was easier than last.’
‘What did you do in the weeks you were signed off?’
‘I mostly slept. I was tired.’ The honesty makes me uncomfortable. ‘I can’t believe how tired I felt. I’d go for a walk and get home exhausted. A part of me thinks I overdid it and that’s why I’m not sleeping now.’
‘You didn’t take anything, did you?’
‘No.’
He appears relieved. ‘That was my worry for you. Doctors are too keen for everyone to be doped up on anti-depressants.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with anti-depressants.’
‘They shouldn’t be the first point of call.’
‘They weren’t,’ I snap, annoyed at his view. ‘They haven’t been.’ I fidget with the hem of my dress under the table, holding back the urge to argue.
‘How’s your brother?’
‘Still pretending flatsharing with me was always his plan.’
Ikenna raises his glass. ‘He’s a good man.’
Last night Eric doubled over in hysterics when I got soaked by a bus going through a puddle as we went out for chips.
There’s a long silence while we pick at our food, then Ikenna asks, ‘You still have bad days?’
‘Of course I do. Everyone does.’
‘What are you doing to keep yourself strong?’
‘I don’t know, Ikenna, I’m just trying to get through it.’ I really did not want the conversation to go this way tonight. ‘My family think I should talk to someone.’
Ikenna grimaces. ‘Counselling. Waste of time. How is talking to a stranger who knows nothing of your context or culture meant to help you process.’
I waited over two weeks for my counselling call, and in that time, it seemed everyone dropped the word therapy as if it were a magic bullet.
A thing that would immediately help me process everything.
It was disappointing how awkward my single session with Leanne was, how I spent much of the call trying to place her accent and being distracted by the way she pronounced the word cognitive as cagnative.
‘It hurt when you pushed me away,’ Ikenna says. ‘I liked you.’
And now I feel really bad. ‘I liked you too.’
‘And I still like you,’ he says.
‘I still like you too,’ I say, not because it’s a strong feeling; more of a why wouldn’t I like him.
‘So, are we cool to . . .’ He waits for me to fill in, but I have no clue what we’re now cool to do.
‘Still sleep together?’ I query.
‘I didn’t mean that, but yeah, if you think you can handle it without getting too emotional.’
‘Oh.’ I pull back. ‘No. No, sorry. I don’t think we should do that.’
‘No, no.’ He waves his hand. ‘Me neither.’
Whoa, embarrassing – and surely we know there’s no way our flippant arrangement could survive the level of intimacy we were forced into.
‘Are we cool to be friends?’ he says. ‘Proper friends, nothing more.’
Both of us relax and I realise while I’ve been stressing about how to get out of this relationship, he’s been thinking the exact same thing. Why have we done this? I laugh then, a real laugh.
He looks around self-consciously. ‘Why are you being so loud?’
‘This is funny,’ I say.
‘What is?’
The restaurant is small, so I cover my mouth to keep it down. ‘Us two,’ I explain, ‘trying to break up with each other when we weren’t together in the first place.’
The amusement is not shared. ‘We were kind of something.’ He scrunches his nose. ‘It’s changed me. It’s made me not want to waste time and to grab life. To get out there and fully experience it all.’
I hate this. Yet, ‘I get that.’
‘Do you? Because even though you’re back at work and seem better, you still don’t seem like your old self.’
‘Just because I’m not out partying and brunching and getting drunk. Give me a break. I need time.’
‘You spend all your time working and hanging out with your family.’
I palm the back of my neck. ‘So?’
A phone buzzes continuously under the table.
‘Your phone is very shrill,’ he says. ‘Very jarring.’
I switch it to silent and tuck it back in my bag.
‘When was the last time you went out?’ Ikenna asks.