Chapter 13
13
Love_Drive_Draft1.doc
Target word count: 5,000
Current word count: 4,002
Just over three weeks to go …
The next day, I decide I need a new plan. For the second day in a row, I failed to meet my word count, and if I carry on like this, I will have nothing to show Mayee in a few weeks. My excuse this time? Exhaustion. Who knew sitting in the sunshine blowing balloons and scoffing sweets could be so tiring? So, my new plan is to spend the day working on Wale’s memoir – after all, ghostwriting is my day job – then spend the late afternoons and evenings working on Love Drive . It’s just gone 9.30 a.m., and I’ve arrived at the café in Anansi Books, which is where I agreed to meet with Wale to discuss the writing sample I’d sent him. I’m off to a promising start.
Rolling my neck until it clicks, I power on my laptop. The café is nice and quiet. I’m sitting at the same table where I reunited with Wale a few days ago. I open up my emails. There are two that catch my attention. The first one is from Mum. She’s booked me my train tickets to Oxford next month. Wow. I wonder if she thought I would try and get out of attending Rosemary’s celebration lunch.
Trying not to read my mother’s kind gesture as a hint about my low-paying job, I send her a quick WhatsApp reply –
Temi:
Aww, you shouldn’t have. Thanks
– and then I add a kiss at the end so that I don’t seem too passive-aggressive.
I tap on the second email. It’s from ACE’s CEO Kathy McGiffin – Wale’s former manager. She has responded to my request to interview her at her office and is available this Wednesday. Perfect.
I’m taking a sip of my coffee when Wale walks through the entrance. He’s wearing a white Daily Paper T-shirt, a thick silver chain on top. I’m transported back to that very first day I laid my eyes on him. Why is he so annoyingly hot?
‘You’re early.’ I glance at the time as he slides into the chair opposite. I wasn’t expecting him for another half an hour.
‘Yeah, bad news,’ he says as he tucks himself under the table. Suddenly, he’s distracted. ‘Hold up. Are you wearing Sasha?’ I touch the side of my cat-eye frames. I wore Sasha with a little black dress to one of our dates and, since then, she has been Wale’s favourite glasses. I deliberately wore her today to remind him what he’s missing.
‘Oh, I didn’t clock,’ I say airily. ‘So, what’s the bad news?’
Wale’s eyes are still flickering as he admires my face. I feel a sense of achievement but now my cheeks are starting to flush.
‘Wale?’ I say.
‘Sorry. Yeah, I can’t stay for too long,’ he says, finishing his train of thought. ‘Got a radio interview at eleven.’
‘Celebrity,’ I mouth.
‘Contractual obligation,’ he corrects me.
I roll my eyes. ‘Let me guess. You’d rather have a herbal-tea-and-durag day?’
Wale tosses his head back and laughs. It reminds me of the old times. ‘Nah, don’t watch that,’ he says. ‘I’d rather be here working with you, innit.’
There’s nothing about his tone that suggests he means it in a flirtatious way, and yet my face feels as though it’s on a frying pan.
I pretend to do something on my laptop and then I clear my throat. ‘Who’s the interview with?’ I say casually.
Wale says, ‘You know Gary at BBC 1Xtra?’
‘Oh, I love his shows. Well, if we need more time, we can always catch up on the phone later this evening if you’re free. That’s if you don’t have any nightclub appearances, of course.’
Wale reclines in his chair and squints. ‘Sarcasm. It suits you.’
With a smile, I pick up my coffee and toast to myself.
‘Anyways, how’s things with you?’ he says, lifting his chin a little.
I should tell him we should get cracking given he’ll be off soon, but for some reason his Insta Story replays in my head. I can’t unsee him and Kelechi.
‘Things are good.’ I take off my glasses and clean them on my top before putting them back on. ‘So, this interview, will you be doing it with any other castmates?’
‘Nah, just me.’
I nod slowly and move my laptop cursor absent-mindedly. For goodness’ sake, I’m supposed to be getting his thoughts on my bloody sample pages. Why can’t I let it go?
‘And how are you feeling about it, this interview?’ I ask, ignoring my better judgement. ‘You know you’re going to be asked about Kelechi, right? In fact, how are things between you two?’
I was so desperate to know their status that I completely forgot we haven’t had our post-break-up talk yet.
Wale goes sombre. ‘Look, Temi. Me and Kelechi, it’s nothing like what we had …’
A lump forms in my throat at the word ‘had’. A reminder that we exist in the past tense.
‘Tems …’ His voice trails again. He looks truly heartbroken.
For a fleeting, chest-aching second, I’m tempted to allow him to grovel, to explain himself, to beg for my forgiveness. But then I immediately ask myself why? So that we can have a better working relationship? Or do I still want to leave the door open just a crack? And I think this is what I’m scared of – my readiness to let him back into my heart despite him breaking it when he went on the show. I loved Wale, and if I’m to be one hundred per cent truthful with myself, I still do. But getting back with Wale wouldn’t resolve our earlier relationship issues. I was always more vocal about how I felt about him, more open, more vulnerable. And as much as Wale was a great boyfriend, I would need him to step up to balance the scales. That’s not to say I’m perfect. Transparency is something I need to work on.
‘Temi, I care about you.’
Wale’s deep voice pulls me out of my escalating thoughts. I quickly shake my head before he can get his next words out.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, bracing a smile. ‘I know you’re sorry and I’m sorry too. Can we just …?’ I gesture at my laptop.
In a low voice, Wale says, ‘Sure.’
I catch what looks like a hint of disappointment in his face but I do not read into it, afraid that I’ll change my mind. So, instead, I lighten the mood. ‘Oh, thanks for sending me those photos of you when you were a kid. So cute.’
Yesterday, Wale had WhatsApped me a couple of his childhood photos from his family’s old albums. And let’s just say, he was a late bloomer. His teeth weren’t as straight as they are now and his thick, dark brows met in the middle. I still think I would have had a crush on him.
‘Cute?!’ Wale jerks his head. ‘Did you not see my teeth? No wonder they called me Willy Wonky.’ He snorts. And then, in his usual effusive, charismatic manner, he shares with me a few anecdotes. I think back to what Uncle Les said about Wale being picked on.
‘Urgh. Kids can be so mean.’ I shake my head. ‘We need to include a few of these stories in your memoir. Dammit. I should have recorded it. Can you voice note it to me later?’
‘Course.’
‘And anyway, the joke’s on them. You have great teeth now.’
From the slow way a smile spreads across his face, you’d think I’d told Wale he’s packing or something. ‘Appreciate it,’ he says coyly, and he flashes me his teeth. I giggle. ‘You too.’
‘Thanks.’ My voice comes out too high. I clear my throat. ‘Oh, yeah. Did you manage to find that journal?’
Wale shakes his head. ‘Sorry. No luck. Think I chucked it away.’
Noticing the time, I pull up the sample pages on my laptop. ‘I know you haven’t had long but did you manage to read over what I sent you? What did you think of the voice?’
Wale has on a ‘my dog ate my homework’ face.
‘Don’t worry. I’ve got it here,’ I say with a smile. I whip my laptop around and push it closer to him, and when he sits forward, I catch a lungful of his spicy oud cologne. His dark pupils skim across the page as he reads. I don’t know where else to look.
‘Soft like fudge. Love it,’ he says.
I take a sip of my drink to hide my glee.
He resumes reading. My gaze trails from his eyes down to his lips. I snap them back up to his eyes again – but that doesn’t help. They’re rich and chocolatey and incredibly magnetic. Every now and again, Wale chuckles to himself or says something like ‘Oh yeah. I remember that’, or his iconic line, ‘Lemme tell you a story’, before following it up with one. But then, as he gets towards the end, he becomes less animated, more subdued.
‘So, as you can see, I was a crybaby,’ he says with a small, rueful smile, which doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I stare at him head-on. ‘No, Wale. You were a kid,’ I correct him gently. ‘You were just a kid. And there’s nothing wrong with being sensitive,’ I add when he says nothing in response.
His face is a picture of disbelief. He makes a pfft sound and shifts in his chair. ‘The rules are different for boys. And you know it. Would you want to date a guy who cries all the time?’
His question throws me. And I nearly say, I wish you would have shown me more of your sensitive side . Instead, I turn my laptop back around and tap record on my phone. ‘I think now would be a good time to hear your story, if that’s okay?’
Wale shrugs.
‘You said people assume you don’t have a sensitive side. Do you?’
He seems transfixed by my phone. He fiddles with his beard. ‘I do,’ he says eventually, briefly glancing up. ‘But it’s not something I like to show.’
I know.
‘Why?’ I ask softly, my voice laced with genuine concern. I’m no longer Temi the ghostwriter. This is Temi his ex.
Wale lets out a short, mirthless laugh. ‘C’mon, Temi. I’m a man. Men can’t show their feelings. It’s just the way it is.’
‘That’s a load of crap,’ I say passionately. ‘Why shouldn’t men show their feelings?’
Wale looks away in silence. He glances at his fingernails, rubs one thumb on the other. I’m starting to think he thinks my question is rhetorical but I’m genuinely curious to hear his thoughts.
The silence lingers, so I decide to change tack. What Uncle Les said – or rather, didn’t say – floats to mind. I wonder if it’s linked to that.
‘Let’s go back a bit,’ I say, dropping my tone in the way that I learned when I did my interview training at Bonsai. ‘How was life at home when you were a kid? Paint me a picture. Be as descriptive as you want. Your parents, they’re Nigerian. What was that like? Were they quite traditional? Did they have strong views on what it means to be a man and a woman?’
‘What is this now? Therapy?’ Wale says this through a strangled laugh but there’s a sharpness in his tone.
I blink. ‘Wale, I’m writing your memoir; I’m supposed to ask you questions.’
His expression softens. ‘Sorry. It’s just …’ He drags a hand over his mouth. ‘I just thought I was more mentally prepared for what this process would involve, that’s all. There was me thinking me being in therapy was enough.’ He lets out a short laugh. ‘Is it okay if we work towards the deep stuff?’
‘Yeah, of course. Sorry.’
‘Nah, no need to apologize. You’re doing a great job, trust me. It’s … me. Like I said, this process, completely opening up – it’s still new territory. But I’ll get there. We ’ ll get there.’
It’s then I realize the magnitude of Wale’s commitment. He ’ s writing an actual memoir . Wale doesn’t do vulnerability. He’s good at disguising his feelings with humour. But in order for me to do his memoir justice, he needs to be all in. He needs to not only cut himself open and bleed on to the page but do so in front of his ex-girlfriend – the very person he believes broke his heart. He needs to learn how to trust me again.