Chapter 5
5
Immediately, I dial Shona’s number. She doesn’t pick up so I leave a voice note.
‘I’ll be at yours around seven,’ I say, finishing. I wince at the eight-minute timestamp.
My unexpected run-in with Wale has left me with no desire to continue job hunting, and I’m having an even harder time working on Love Drive . Eventually, after several glances at my phone, I give in to my urges and do the unthinkable.
700,000 followers!
Shit, that’s a lot. Before Wale went on the show, he barely had 300. And that was only just over two months ago.
A weird feeling washes over me. The last time I checked his Instagram – which was just before he went on the show – he had deleted all but one of his photos, including the few images of us. Now his grid is filled with stills from his time on The Villa and photos of him promoting something: whitening toothpaste, safe sex, himself.
I click on a selfie he’s taken in what looks like a hotel bathroom, which has already garnered thousands of likes. Below are a flurry of heart-eye emojis and thirsty comments:
jasminepilates Why are you so sexy, though?
Wale’s never been that much into social media; I wonder how he’ll get on as an ‘influencer’.
Ignoring my conscience, I continue to swipe through his photos.
He’s having a fresh start. Building a new life.
A new life without me , I can’t help but think.
My eyes sting but, like a horror movie, I can’t stop looking.
Ten months ago … October
‘How’s the edits going, babe?’ Shona pops her gum and glances over at my laptop, her long, blue braids swaying with each move.
I flick through my printed-out manuscript lying on the table. ‘Do you know what? I’m actually enjoying it.’
We’re sitting in a small café inside a bookshop in Camberwell. I stumbled across Anansi Books after I googled ‘cosy places to write in south London’. Now that I’m on the brink of becoming a published author, I feel the need to act like one. Hence the Zadie Smith-inspired headwrap and Keisha (my most intellectual-looking glasses).
I continue to type. ‘How’s your stuff going?’
Shona works as an event coordinator for a big company that puts on music festivals. But as her side hustle, she organizes parties, weddings, showers, you name it. We met at uni at an African and Caribbean Society cookout on one of the rare occasions I ventured outside of my room. (Obviously, she was the ACS social exec.) We instantly clicked, connecting over our love for manicures and our struggle to buy hair outside of London. Having attended a white-majority private school nearly all my life, it was nice to finally have a friend who looked like me.
I peer at her phone. She’s supposed to be updating her business budget. Instead, she’s watching a TikTok skincare hack.
‘What? A girl can’t take a break?’ She puts her earpods back in.
Mulling over Mayee’s editorial notes, I turn to the window – the pavement a patchwork quilt of orange and yellow leaves matted together from yesterday’s rain. A reflection catches my attention. I turn my head. An insanely hot guy has just walked in.
Wow .
Fresh trim, full beard, very fit bod. And he has thick eyebrows. God, I love a man with thick eyebrows. I also love what he’s wearing: body-tight silver-grey Under Armour athleisure, which is doing an incredible job of highlighting all those muscles.
He makes a beeline to the till.
I type frantically – HOT GUY ALERT! – then give Shona a repeated nudge.
Shona pauses her video and leans over to glance at what I’ve written. She thins her lips as if to say, ‘Let me be the judge of that,’ and then, with no subtlety whatsoever, she stares right at him.
‘He aight,’ she says eventually while I nearly combust in my chair. ‘Personally, he’s not my type. Too much of a pretty boy.’
She would say that.
Shona has been out of the dating game for some time now. After she found out that her boyfriend was sexting another girl, she has developed a major distrust for the male species. It happened three years ago, during our first year at uni. We’re now both twenty-two. Since then, Shona has been a loyal member of the ‘I don’t need a man’ club. But I know her tentativeness towards men is also connected to her relationship – or lack thereof – with her dad. He left when she was thirteen and she hasn’t seen him since.
I’m pretending to type when I brave another glance. Hot Guy has just bought himself a drink and is scanning the room for somewhere to sit – naturally, I have a look too. Every single table is occupied.
I genuinely want to cry.
Now he’s making his way towards the exit, which is just beyond where Shona and I are sitting. As he approaches, my nose fills with the scent of luxurious-smelling oud. It takes everything I have not to look up at him as he passes, but I have to play it cool.
‘Mind if I sit?’
My head snaps up. For a second I’m starstruck. Not only is he even better looking up close, but he’s got a sexy, deep voice to match.
‘Go for it,’ Shona says to him, saving me from looking like a mute. I scrabble our belongings out of the way.
‘Thanks.’ The bass of his voice is a low rumble in my belly.
I catch sight of an abstract inked pattern just above his wrist when he slides his rucksack off and places it on the floor. He reaches for the chair opposite mine; I repeatedly hit my knee against Shona’s under the table.
Still pretending to work, I watch him. He sets his hot drink down and leans over, pulling out his laptop. He places it on the table, flips it open – and promptly knocks his drink over, spilling it everywhere.
‘Oh, shit! My bad!’ He picks up the cup and grabs a stash of napkins, dabbing them over my manuscript, apologizing profusely.
‘Don’t worry, it’s okay.’ Weirdly, he’s even more endearing after that blunder.
With a wry smile, he takes out his Beats headphones. ‘Sorry about that,’ he says again as he’s about to put them on.
Go on, Temi. Say something .
‘Why’s your latte green?’
I’ve never been great at thinking on the spot.
He lowers his headphones, glances down at the damp stains and then at me. ‘I take it you haven’t tried pistachio hot chocolate before?’
He has a great south London accent, like he should have his own podcast. I like it. A lot.
‘It’s my first time hearing of it,’ I reply, stopping myself from full-on grinning. ‘To be honest, I’m not even sure if I remember what pistachios taste like.’
Hot Guy’s thick brows go up as if I’ve just told him I’ve never eaten cheese-and-onion crisps before. ‘You’re taking the mickey, right?’ he says.
I laugh. ‘Seriously. I find them odd to eat. All that cracking and peeling.’
He guffaws – a rich, hearty sound. I feel a sense of achievement. ‘See,’ he says, his dark eyes flickering down to my hands, ‘it’s those long nails of yours.’
My cheeks warm. I can’t look at his face. Instead, I glance down at my Halloween-inspired manicure: almond-shaped, pumpkin-orange shellacs with a different ghoulish expression on each.
‘They’re real, you know,’ I say with true enthusiasm. As if I’m wearing an engagement ring, I wiggle my fingers. Beside me, Shona looks up from her phone and glances between us.
‘Oh, swear down?’ he says, sounding genuinely impressed.
My skin fizzes with electricity as his fingers briefly touch mine.
‘Yeahhh, you’ve got nice nails, still.’ There’s a boyish glint in his eyes as they return to meet mine. ‘Lemme guess, collagen supplements, right?’
I jerk my head in mock offence. ‘Supplements? Not even. I have good genes. Obviously .’
‘I need to make a call.’ Shona rises to her feet and takes off. Truthfully, I’m too engrossed in the moment to know whether she departed with a knowing look or has suddenly gotten the ick.
Hot Guy nods at his drink. ‘No, seriously, you should try it someday.’
‘How about you buy me one?’ I surprise myself and him with my forwardness. ‘After all, you did spill your drink on my manuscript.’
I admire his straight white teeth as he belts out his lovely laugh. Perfection. ‘Aw, c’mon, man. It was barely a tablespoon—’
‘Mate, it was a whole pint glass!’
He tilts his head and gives me a ‘Are you for real?’ look. ‘Let’s meet in the middle,’ he says. ‘A ladle. And hold up, you said the word manuscript. Are you writing a book?’
I flash him a full megawatt grin.
For the next ten minutes, I tell Hot Guy all about Wildest Dreams and how I’m on the verge of getting it published. I’m not sure if he is fascinated by me or the entire process but his eyes are sparkly and locked on my face.
‘Then once I’ve finished with my edits,’ I say, cautious that I’m talking too much, ‘my agent will submit it to a number of publishers.’
Hot Guy leans back in his chair as though mighty impressed, his top taut against his broad chest. ‘Wow. Good genes and smart.’
I fight back a smile.
‘And what are you up to?’ I nod to his laptop while trying to keep my cool.
‘Oh, me?’ He bats a hand. ‘Nothing as exciting … Work,’ he finally says after I stare at him with raised eyebrows. ‘I know, I know. On a Saturday.’
‘Hmm. Let me guess, you work in the private sector, don’t you?’
He hisses. ‘Far from.’
‘Yeah, you don’t look like you have an office job.’ Sinking back in my chair, I squint at him. ‘Are you a content creator?’
‘A charity worker,’ he relents eventually. ‘I work for a charity.’
‘Oh, cool,’ I say, nodding. ‘Which one?’
He rubs the back of his neck. ‘You won’t have heard of it,’ he says. ‘It’s local. They’re called ACE. We provide support for carers.’
I tilt my head in admiration. ‘Wow, that must be really rewarding.’
He gives me an adorable shy smile.
‘And your role there is …?’
‘Fundraising officer,’ he replies, more confidently this time. ‘I look for ways to make the charity money. Basically, I organize events and pester people. Don’t worry, I’m not going to guilt trip you for a donation.’
‘You like it?’
He nods profusely. ‘I do, actually. Just wish they paid me more.’
There’s a comfortable silence as Hot Guy takes the lid off the cup. I notice his fingernails. Of course, they’re neat.
‘So, what made you think I was a content creator, then?’ He blows over his drink only to set it back down again.
I shrug. ‘I dunno. Maybe ’cause you look like one.’
He makes a sound of disbelief. Then his brows knead together in genuine curiosity – hot . ‘Elaborate,’ he says.
‘C’mon, you’ve seen yourself in the mirror. I’m not going to sit here and stroke your ego.’
‘Nah, nah, nah. I’m not fishing for compliments, but thank you.’ If my eyes could reach the ceiling. ‘It’s just –’ he exhales – ‘I get that a lot.’
‘What? You looking like a social media influencer?’
He shakes his head. ‘Me always looking like something . If I’m not a bad boy then I’m an F-boy. And if I’m not an F-boy then I’m a party boy. Sheeit , I’ve even been told that I look like a cheater.’
I open my mouth only to close it again. I need to be tactful with what I say next.
‘It’s your eyes,’ I say finally after staring at him. ‘They make you look pretty.’
He barks a short laugh. ‘Wooow, so now I’m a pretty boy, yeah?’
‘It’s not a bad thing. Take the compliment.’
‘And wait, how does that make me a cheater?’ he counters. ‘You’re a pretty girl, no? Are you saying you ’ re a cheater?’
I reach for my water bottle before my budding smile becomes gawky. I take a sip. ‘The rules are different for women.’
He makes a pfft sound.
‘It’s true! I didn’t make them. You have men to thank for that. And the way some girls think hot guys – I mean, pretty boys – are cheaters, is the same way some men assume that attractive women have no personality or are complete airheads.’
A flurry of thrills runs down my spine as Hot Guy’s chocolate eyes bore into mine. ‘Well, that shit doesn’t hold because you ’ re writing a book and you need brains for that.’
I turn into a puddle.
‘I’m Wale, by the way,’ he says, stretching out a toned arm.
‘Temi.’ I almost forgot my name.
Wale’s eyes light up. ‘Ayeee!’ Then in a jovial Nigerian accent, he cries, ‘My fellow sista! My friend, what is your full name?’ he adds, committing to the act.
I’m giggling. ‘Temiloluwa,’ I reply, smiling.
Wale jerks his head back with the same exaggeration of a stereotypical Nigerian uncle. ‘You mean, Tè-mi-lo-lú-wa,’ he corrects me, emphasizing each syllable as though he’s playing a xylophone.
I roll my eyes. ‘Whatever, O-lu-wa-le.’ I attempt the same enunciation but I sound more like Hugh Grant.
‘My full name is Adewale, actually. But nice try.’
I’m about to ask him whether he has visited Nigeria before when I’m distracted by a loud male voice to my left.
‘Aight, cool. Your loss,’ says a man walking right behind Shona, his eyes on her bum.
Shona holds on to her ‘urgh’ face all the way to her seat.
‘You all right?’ I ask her, just as the man responsible for her disgust arrives at our table.
‘Yo, you good, bro?’ Wale half rises to his feet and greets him with a hug. His friend – by the looks of it – has big, frog-like eyes and he’s stocky and broad as if he has an out-of-hours membership at his gym.
Shona mutters, ‘Great. They know each other.’
I pacify her with a hand on her shoulder. ‘Wale, this is my friend, Shona.’
Wale says, ‘Nice to meet you,’ then to me, ‘Temi, this is Kojo.’
Kojo looks at me with an inscrutable expression, then claps Wale on the back. ‘Bruddah, you’re always making friends wherever we go, man!’
So, h e is a flirt .
Wale laughs. ‘I’m a positive guy. What can I say? I attract good energy.’ He smiles at me.
‘Yo, Temi.’ My name sounds foreign coming out of Kojo’s mouth. He nods to Shona. ‘You see your friend here. She’s stush, y’know.’
Shona flutters her eyes in annoyance.
‘Or maybe you just have no game?’ I say, tilting my head.
Wale covers his mouth and says, ‘Ooooh,’ as if I’m murdering Kojo in a rap battle.
Kojo just stares at me – if looks could kill – and then he turns his whole body towards Wale. ‘You good to go?’
Wale glances down at his laptop. He has barely started his work. ‘Bro! You said you’d be an hour!’
‘I know, I know. But the gym was rammed, still.’ Kojo looks around. ‘Oi, where’s your boy?’
‘Fonzo’s next door, picking a book – no, my bad. There he is.’
Jazzy Jeff is the first thing that pops to mind as a tall, slim-built man walks over. He has the same high-top haircut. Same goatee. He’s even wearing one of Jazzy Jeff’s trademark patterned dashiki shirts. Wale does the introductions. Shona and I say hello.
‘What did you get?’ Wale nods to the paper bag in Fonzo’s hand.
Fonzo pushes up his glasses and pulls out a book with a red cover. ‘ All About Love by bell hooks.’ He grins. ‘It’s been on my Tbr for a while.’
Kojo grabs the book and reads the back. ‘You’re so moist, man,’ he hisses.
Fonzo snatches it back. ‘It’s a classic. And for the record, my mum recommended it.’
‘Fonzo’s mum owns the bookshop,’ says Wale, filling us in.
‘Well, your mum has excellent taste.’ Shona gets in ahead of me. ‘It’s a dope book.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ Fonzo smiles warmly at Shona. Shona gives him a weak smile back.
‘Right. Let’s bounce.’ Wale flips his laptop closed, and I feel a pang of disappointment as he shoves it into his rucksack. I want to suggest that we exchange details, but we have an audience.
Instead, I say, ‘So, where are you guys off to?’
‘Westfield Stratford,’ he replies, stuffing his headphones into his bag. He rises to his feet. To say I feel hopeless as I watch him sling his rucksack over his shoulder is an understatement.
‘Ladies –’ he pilot salutes – ‘thanks for kindly sharing your table. Temi …’
My pulse races.
‘Good luck with the book, yeah.’
My shoulders slacken as I watch him and his friends head towards the exit. At least I got the name of his employer , I tell myself. I could try to find him on LinkedIn.
I’m about to do just that when Wale turns and heads back towards me.
Hope rises in my chest and I realize I’m halfway out of my seat.
‘Forgot my drink,’ he says, gesturing at it.
I drop back down.
For the second time, I watch him leave only for him to turn around again. ‘Actually, you have it.’ He beckons his cup at me.
‘Really? You sure?’
‘Yeah, saves me from having to lug it around. Don’t worry, I haven’t drunk from it yet – it was too hot earlier. But you’re gonna have to tell me what you think, though.’ And with a smile I know I will remember when I look back on this day, he says, ‘What’s your Insta?’