Chapter Seventeen
Anika releases her bright Afro curls from where she wrestled them into a bun on the top of her head.
She blows upwards to gust some air underneath her hair as it hits her forehead, then teases it into shape around her head.
Her hands fall down at her sides with relief, adjusting the sleeveless green shift dress she bought online a couple of days ago.
The thermostat is already cresting over twenty-five degrees, and the relentless summer sunshine that everyone is complaining about now but will sorely miss in a matter of weeks still blazes down onto the city.
Even in a bun, the deep pink of Anika’s hair stood out sharply, and, while the heat would justify the more conservative hairdo, she’s keen to set out her stall from the get-go so they can all get a good look.
By the afternoon her return to the office and her new hair should be out of the realm of ‘office news’.
With a nod at her reflection, Anika picks up her bag and leaves the flat.
The train is relatively clear of commuters at this time of day, though this means she ends up walking towards her office building fifteen minutes ahead of when she’s expected.
On the plus side, that means there’s ample time to head to the canteen for some liquid fortitude.
She expects to feel some trepidation as she sees the glass-and-steel building loom ahead of her, but instead she strides confidently through the revolving doors and slaps her key card against the reader that should get her through the electronic gates.
But she’s pulled up short as a big, red X flashes on the gate’s screen.
She taps the card again a few times. Must have been deactivated. So much for a triumphant return …
‘Er, I’ve been away for a few weeks and I think my card’s stopped working,’ she says to a woman seated behind the main lobby reception desk.
The blonde receptionist’s thin, pink-painted lips draw slightly tighter as she assesses Anika dubiously.
Anika holds her lanyard out, but the woman picks up the phone in front of her on the desk.
‘Which department is it? I’ll just need to call up there so that they can confirm—’
‘Trust me,’ Anika says, holding eye contact. ‘I work here.’ She hadn’t been planning to alert the office that she had arrived yet. Caffeine is her first port of call. ‘Look—’
‘Don’t worry about it, Angela.’ A chic Black woman, also wearing the rose-coloured uniform of the building reception, interjects. ‘I’ve seen this lady come through the lobby loads.’ Her eyes connect with Anika’s. ‘I can reactivate it – it’s fine.’
Exhaling gratefully, Anika hands over her card with a nod to the receptionist who helped her.
Heading up in the lifts, she recalls the words she wrote in the diary yesterday.
I was calm, cool and collected. With a bit of help from sis at the desk …
The doors ping open on the tenth floor and she walks out into the canteen.
It hasn’t been long since she’s been here, but it’s also an eternity.
She absorbs the varied steel architecture of the surrounding office buildings and train tracks stretching out into the distance through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows for a moment, and then surveys the space itself, glad not to see anyone from her department grabbing a hot drink at the kiosk.
The Italian barista greets her warmly, enquiring about her absence.
‘Well, I was in hospital for a bit.’ Anika knows she sounds vague, but then settles into being deliberately so. ‘But I’m feeling good now. Thanks for asking.’
The smell of toast beckons her around the corner to the dwindling breakfast set-up on the other side of the canteen.
She can’t resist, even though she crammed in a few mouthfuls of granola this morning between trips to the mirror determining how she wanted to present Anika 2.
0 to the office. Heading towards the huge rotating toasters, she reaches for a pair of tongs to wrestle a slice of granary bread out of the packet at exactly the same time as a large, dark hand does the same.
‘Oh, sorry, you go for—’ She breaks off, reprimanding herself internally for apologising.
But then she’s stopped short for a different reason, as her eyes travel up from the hand now clutching the tongs.
The arm it belongs to is covered by a baby-blue limited-edition Adidas track jacket and she realises that – of course – the jacket, the whole tracksuit, is covering the physique of one Cam Asiedu.
Her pulse speeds up as their eyes connect.
His narrow in a way that’s familiar from the clips of breakfast-show interviews she’s watched online repeatedly.
The look usually emerges when he’s about to be flirtatious with some singer or actress from behind his SpinRadio mic.
Anika sucks in a rapid breath. Cam rocks back on his heels as he regards her curiously.
He has a quality to his face that constantly looks as though he might be on the verge of cracking into a bemused grin – like the world around him is just a little bit ridiculous.
‘Nah, nah, my bad, actually. I relinquish the tongs. Go for it,’ he says, his voice warm. Surreal doesn’t begin to cover it.
Anika stares as he tosses the implement lightly into the air, catching the tongs so that their handle is pointing towards her. She reaches out and grips them, and Cam holds on for a fraction of a second before letting them go.
‘Thanks,’ she manages to say. Cam leans against the metal counter that the giant toasters are set upon, folding his arms. If he threw on a Kangol bucket hat he’d look like an extra from Wild Style, but it suits him.
Cam’s gaze continues its relentless assessment of her, his mouth still pressed into the bemused smirk.
Anika lifts a hand up to her hair subconsciously, then quickly flips her piece of bread onto the rotating grate.
It edges towards the toasting filaments agonisingly slowly.
‘There you go.’ She gives him back the tongs with a smile.
Cam straightens up with an unnecessary flourish and takes them from her.
She detects a whiff of his spicy-sweet aftershave and sucks in more of the air reflexively.
While he retrieves his own bread from the packet, Anika subtly glances down herself, checking that she’s still sufficiently put together.
‘Nice one,’ he says, putting his slices into the toaster a little behind hers.
He replaces the tongs and then clicks his fingers suddenly.
‘You work with Nia, innit?’ She sees his eyes drift to her chest, hoping to scope out her name on her ID – or at least she assumes that’s why …
She follows his gaze – it’s flipped around so her name isn’t showing.
He clocks her noticing and his expression glimmers with embarrassment, but she doesn’t volunteer her name.
It feels like she can prolong the moment if she doesn’t.
He presses one large hand onto his chest. ‘Cam—’
‘Cam Asiedu, I know.’ She glances down at the toaster, hoping to seem nonchalant considering her understatement.
‘Ah hah. We got a mind reader on our hands?’ He returns to his B-boy stance leaning against the counter with a chuckle.
‘Yep, I’m a psychic.’ She pauses a moment, looking at him, then shrugs. ‘I like your show. Would you rather I pretended not to know who you are?’ she adds, testing him, but a teasing grin tugs one corner of her mouth.
Cam lets out a loud ‘hah!’ towards the ceiling. ‘Glad to hear you’re a fan.’
‘Well, I didn’t say all that.’ She feels her face heat again, even as she raises an eyebrow at him. He matches her arched brow and his grin widens. She can’t help a soft laugh.
‘Right, right, I definitely wouldn’t want to put words in your mouth …’ He does an exaggerated roll of one hand towards her, an invitation to fill in the name-blank.
‘Neeks,’ she tells him. She watches his face as she reaches out for a handshake. Cam takes it, looking down at their connection before returning his eyes to her. His grip is strong, the sensation electric. She drops his hand quickly.
‘So you work at Bright FM too, then? Must be on a show later in the day or I’d have noticed you around more.’ He glances away just for a second, as if conscious of how that sounded.
Anika swallows. ‘Er, I don’t actually work at any of the stations.
I’m … I work in ad sales, mainly across Rewind and Stradivarius.
’ She clenches her jaw, naming two of the dullest options on the Format Radio dial.
‘You know, dealing with clients, arranging placements and rates and stuff.’ God, that sounds about as boring as it is.
Her piece of toast flops onto the metal tray beneath the rotating element just then, barely darkened.
Pursing her lips, she reaches for the tongs to give it another run through the toaster, but she pauses as Cam quickly says, ‘Woah, woah, woah. Now, you need to think carefully here, Neeks.’ He has a serious look on his face, but his eyes shine with wit.
He sweeps long, agile fingers around the neat facial hair nestled above and below his lips, and leans towards her conspiratorially.
‘Double toasting is a risk. Could end up with cinders on your hands.’
‘It’s a risk I’m willing to take,’ she tells him, holding eye contact.
Without breaking it, she flicks her barely browned toast back onto the rack and he shakes his head, smiling wryly.
But Anika holds up one finger, then reaches for the dial that controls the speed of the bread’s journey into the toaster, turning it to ‘max’.
The grate rotates rapidly and, a few moments later, it spits out one perfectly toasted slice of bread.
Anika scoops it up with a wink and spins around to walk over to the butter-and-jam station.
‘Well, shit. I underestimated you,’ Cam says with a laugh. He approaches in her peripheral vision moments later, no doubt having copied her technique. She’s already slathering blackcurrant jam over the saturation of butter on her toast, and she bites into it with a grin that Cam returns.
‘Catch you on the airwaves,’ she says, beginning to stride away to pay.
He looks up from spreading toppings onto his toast, peering out from under a thick veil of lashes. Without seeming lecherous or sleazy somehow, he licks honey off his thumb and gives Anika a nod. ‘That you will, Neeks. Thanks for the toast lesson.’
She resists looking back towards him after she pays for her breakfast at the till. As the lift arrives and admits her, Anika watches her reflection in the mirrored wall of the elevator car, shaking her head.
‘Cam fucking Asiedu,’ she whispers under her breath.