Chapter Fourteen Asher #2
‘Just because you walked me all the way up here,’ she says, interrupting me. ‘And I ruined the entire evening. Maybe even the whole plan.’
She categorically did not. If anything, the two of us alone without prying eyes and the constant flash of cameras around us is the best possible outcome to the evening.
‘I’d just feel a lot less like the worst person in the world if you had something to show for it,’ she continues. ‘Do you want a drink? I think I’ve got a bottle left in the wine fridge from the last time Sloane came over. Or tea? I’ve got a really good collection from when I visited Taiwan, or—’
She’s rambling and very clearly flustered. Her cheeks are darker than usual, her palms are getting increasingly clammy, and she’s looking anywhere but at me.
It’s ridiculous how attracted I am to her right now.
‘I’ve got a decent coffee collection if that’s—’
‘I’d love to,’ I say, and the smile she gives me, soft and shy, might just be one of my favourites yet.
She slips the key into the lock, turns it, and pushes the door open. The action must trigger a sensor because warm light immediately spills out from inside.
Imani steps over the threshold and I follow. The first thing that hits me is how ‘hers’ her home feels. It screams Imani from the very second you step into it. It’s lived-in and curated like a gallery of her life.
My eyes are caught by the wall to the right, where a massive tapestry made of indigo and gold threads hangs. There’s a low wooden table beneath it carved with delicate geometric designs that must have been done by hand and taken years and years of dedication.
‘Where did you get these?’ I’m gesturing to the tapestry and table, but I could ask the same question about just about anything in her home.
She tosses her bag onto a nearby chair and shrugs like it’s nothing special.
‘It’s stuff I’ve picked up while travelling.
The tapestry is from Morocco – it’s Berber weaving.
I commissioned the table from a woodworker in Bali.
He’s actually done a lot of stuff for me over the years.
I really love his work.’ She gestures vaguely around the room pointing towards a dining table and a bookshelf in the same design, but my eyes are already moving from one object to the next.
A cluster of deep ocean blue ceramic bowls line a shelf near the window, each one slightly uneven and with blemishes that show they were handmade.
Next to them, there’s a brass incense burner shaped like a lotus flower and a scattering of tiny glass bottles surrounding it, each filled with sand and sea glass.
Opposite the shelf, a tall glass cabinet gleams in the warm lamplight.
Inside are what look like hand-painted Russian nesting dolls, a delicate porcelain teapot with tiny cranes etched across it, and an assortment of framed Polaroids filled with wide-smiled faces, most of them blurred by movement and bright lights.
Imani is centre stage in all of them, beaming from ear to ear.
On the coffee table, there’s a stack of art books in a variety of genres – photography, architecture, travel, music, food, and more – and between them, a half-burned candle that smells faintly of jasmine and lavender.
A guitar leans against the far wall beside a potted fiddle-leaf fig that’s clearly thriving, despite being almost as tall as me.
A strand of fairy lights is draped in a lazy curve across the frame of the bookshelf, throwing soft gold sparkles against spines of novels that look well thumbed through and loved.
Near the kitchen archway, there’s a framed postcard that reads ‘Meet me where the air tastes like salt’ with a photo of a sprawling white sand beach in the distance.
Imani shrugs again. ‘Just souvenirs, you know?’
I scoff. These are not just souvenirs. It’s not the kind of plastic, kitschy junk most tourists pick up on their travels.
These aren’t magnets, keyrings or dishcloths with mass-printed images on them.
Her home is filled with intricate, delicate, beautiful pieces from around the world.
Things she clearly had to have deliberately sought out from the communities she visited.
She’s not spending her time in closed-off resorts, sipping cocktails by the pool, only interacting with the locals when she’s ordering a meal; she’s truly travelling in a way I never have.
It’s like every inch of her home is bursting with a story.
I want to know exactly how she came across this Balinese woodworker and struck up the kind of relationship that would involve her commissioning piece after piece from him.
I want to know where she found the Berber tapestry and what drew her to it or hear the story behind the hand-painted Russian nesting dolls.
I reckon I could sit here for hours listening to Imani tell the stories of her travels.
And then there’s the map.
It’s huge, taking up the entirety of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and it’s clearly a custom job.
It’s encased in a wooden frame and the countries are painted in with precise, vibrant strokes and the seas are a stormy wash of blues and greys.
By each painted country, there’s a tiny card pinned beside it with writing in Imani’s messy, looping handwriting.
They’re dates, I realise after a second of peering at one closely. And there’s sometimes more than one:
France:
2015, 2018, 2021
St Lucia:
2019
Uganda:
2016
Morocco:
2020
Singapore:
2020, 2021
Bali:
2023, 2024
The map is a crowded kaleidoscope of colour and ink, with more than half the world filled in.
‘So what’s it going to be?’ Imani asks, interrupting my wide-eyed snooping. ‘Wine? Tea? Coffee?’
I glance back over to her and watch as she disappears into the kitchen. I follow her and stub my toe on a suitcase that’s poking out from behind her large sofa.
‘Tea,’ I say absentmindedly, then nod towards the suitcase. It’s a dark brown trunk-style case with her name stitched into the top. ‘Are you planning on taking off sometime soon?’
Imani pokes her head out, sees where I’m looking and gives me a sad smile.
‘Habit. I always keep one packed. Comes with the lifestyle.’ She shrugs, like it’s obvious.
‘It just makes sense. Since I travel so much it’s just easier to have the essentials ready to go, you know?
’ She frowns and lets out an irritated sigh.
‘I mean, it used to make sense. I’ve been stuck here for the last three months.
Not sure why I haven’t put it away yet.’
She’s staring wistfully at the suitcase, and it suddenly hits me just how important travelling is for her. I enjoy a break as much as the next person, but it’s obvious that it goes deeper for Imani. It’s not just a hobby; it’s the thing that keeps her going.
‘How come you love it so much?’ I ask.
She glances away from the suitcase to frown at me, like the question doesn’t make any sense to her. ‘Huh?’
‘Travelling,’ I say. ‘What kickstarted the love?’
Her frown deepens, like she’s never really considered it before. ‘I guess it’s just in my blood?’ The answer comes out more like a question than anything else. ‘Peregrine’s been looming over me all my life; of course I was going to love travelling.’
I hum noncommittally, not wanting to push it. It doesn’t feel like the right answer, the full answer, but who am I to say? She starts moving towards the kitchen.
‘Where were you supposed to be going?’ I ask, pivoting the topic ever so slightly as I follow.
Just like the large, open-plan living area, the kitchen is filled with reminders of all her travels.
There’s a hand-sewn and embroidered spice bag hanging from what I assume is the pantry door, a stone pestle and mortar resting on the counter, and a row of gleaming knives hanging above the range with Japanese characters engraved into the handles in gold.
‘The Seychelles,’ she says, forcing a sad smile. ‘Have you been?’
I shake my head.
‘You have to go one day – it’s beautiful. One of my favourite places in the whole world to visit.’
‘You’ve been before?’ I ask, leaning against a counter.
‘Twice,’ she says. ‘First time was a trip with my parents in that last summer between school and sixth form. It was amazing, and I had a great time, but travelling with your parents…’ She pulls a face.
‘Anyway, I wanted to experience it on my own terms, so I went back again a few years later and fell in love even more.’ She sighs wistfully, crosses her arms, and leans against the counter opposite me.
‘I was really looking forward to going back.’
‘How do you decide if you want to go back to a place?’ I ask, thinking about the countries with multiple entries on her map.
She shrugs. ‘Usually there’s something I didn’t get to do or see the last time I visited, but with the Seychelles…’ She trails off and suddenly looks shy. ‘Nothing. Forget it.’
I frown. ‘Tell me. What was it?’
She absentmindedly reaches for a nearby tea towel and starts picking at it. ‘I was meant to go for work this time. Well, not work work.’
I tilt my head. ‘What does that mean?’
Her fingers wrap around the fabric of the towel, twisting it around and around as she fumbles for the right words.
‘I’ve always wanted to open my own travel agency,’ she says quickly, like ripping off a plaster before she can overthink it.
Once she’s started though, the words come tumbling out.
‘A different kind of travel agency. Not like one of those corporate ones that just funnel rich tourists into five-star hotels and pretend like the rest of the country doesn’t exist. No offence,’ she adds as an afterthought.
I laugh. ‘None taken.’