Chapter 24 #2
“Gotta get all the way over to Epping, don’t I.” He fiddles with his collar.
“Oh,” I reply. I knew Phil was in insurance. I had no idea he worked that far away. “Do you always work in Epping?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Bit of a nightmare commute but it’s not too bad, only one change, then you just ride the Central line all the way. Going opposite the flow too, so nice and empty for most of it!”
Dami puts her head in her hands. “I feel awful. We’ll move somewhere in the middle eventually. I just have so many late nights . . .”
“Babe, babe, we’ve been over this. Doesn’t bother me!” Phil beams. He kisses her on the forehead again. “See you tonight. Oh, what do you want for dinner?”
“Whatever you like,” Dami says absently. She’s automatically picked up her phone to check her inbox. Then she remembers herself and puts it down.
“Becks?” Phil looks at me. “You’re our guest.”
“Uhhh. Oh! Hmm. Well, it’s been a while since I had your egusi stew, Dami?”
“Ah, blast from the past. I remember that.” Phil kisses his fingers. “Delicious. But as La Head Chef around here I’m not sure I could do it justice, Becks. I was thinking lasagna or a spag bol?”
“Sounds good.” Dami’s fingers are twitching as she attempts to leave her phone on the table. She’s obviously seen something in there that’s agitated her.
“Sounds great,” I agree.
“OK, laters.” Phil finally heads out the door. I hear it slam and his loud footsteps as he plods down the staircase.
I’m upset that Phil hasn’t had her stew in a while.
She used to make it all the time. Back when we’d visit her at uni Angie and I practically lived off it.
She was like the mother hen and we the poor, desperate baby chicks begging for her stew lest we live off Domino’s, run out of money to pay for Domino’s, then starve.
I mean, I assume she’s expanded her repertoire since then, but still.
“Blast from the past?” I comment.
Dami doesn’t respond. She might have resisted her emails for the majority of the duration of breakfast, but her brain is obviously still engrossed in the tasks that lie in wait for her. “Huh?”
“I said, blast from the past? Egusi stew? I never thought I’d see the day you went longer than a week without eating it.”
“Oh.” Dami blinks. “Yeah, I just sort of stopped having time to cook, to be honest. Or clean. I work so late. Phil does most of it. Well . . . all of it, really. It’s bad, I know.
” She grimaces. “I should do more. But Phil doesn’t mind.
He leaves his job at the door and I, well . . .” She gestures to her phone.
I go to say “makes sense” automatically, and stop myself, because I question whether it does. Didn’t I just promise myself I’d stop concealing problems? Didn’t Dami agree that things need to change?
To be honest, if I was Phil, I’d have an issue about coming back from my hour-and-a-half-long commute to someone who worked from home three days out of five and had “stopped having time to cook.” But he didn’t seem annoyed about it at all.
He seemed to accept his chef duties jovially.
God, I think to myself. Did I really just think something complimentary about Phil?
I find I don’t want to keep quiet in this conversation. I don’t want to end up sending her another letter in ten years’ time, telling her I think she’s wasted her life and taken all her relationships for granted being buried under a pile of papers.
“So . . . do you work late every night?” I ask.
“I mean . . . not every night. Most nights.”
“And you never cook? Or clean?” I ask.
“No. Oh God, you think I’m a terrible person,” she flaps.
“No,” I reassure. “No. I just wonder if, even if Phil doesn’t mind, if that kind of imbalance is good for anyone. Do you and Phil get any time together?”
Dami winces. “Sometimes. Not as much as I’d like. You know, the nights I am free, I’m just so tired . . .”
I nod. “Dami, in the spirit of what we were talking about last night, I just want to be honest with you. I wonder if maybe things need to go further than not checking emails when you’re eating breakfast or out with your friends.
I wonder if you need to have a serious conversation about your workload. It doesn’t seem fair on you, or Phil.”
She thinks for a moment. “Maybe. I guess I could do that.”
I have no idea whether she actually will, but surprisingly, it feels good to have told her what I really think, in a nonjudgmental way, and to have her listen and accept it.
I feel like we’ve had more real communication with each other in the last twenty-four hours than we have throughout most of our twenties.
“Maybe we could cook for Phil tonight, together? I can go to the shops and get stuff and help with the prep.”
Dami smiles. “OK, yeah, that’s a great idea. Thanks, Becky.”
Now that we’re finished speaking, she goes back to her phone and I munch away on the bacon sandwich Phil made.
I’ve always looked at Phil like some big, lumbering interloper in Damilola’s flat, drowning her out and taking up all her oxygen.
Probably hoovering up all her food and leaving his shit lying around for her to clean up.
I guess I kind of assumed that part of the reason she had no time outside work was because she must be doing all the domestic chores and making time for Phil too.
But him doing all the housework so that she has enough time to do five jobs in one, and them barely getting to hang out, doesn’t exactly fit with that image.
I take another bite of my sandwich and wonder what else I’ve managed to misinterpret.