Chapter 35
35
I get to Fonzo’s flat at seven on the dot. After Wale buzzes me up, I take the elevator to the fifth floor, checking my outfit in the mirror: a mango-orange Bershka top tucked into a denim white skirt. Cute. Though it’s only been three days, I’m looking forward to seeing him.
‘Hey,’ he says after he opens the door. He’s wearing white socks and slippers with a plain T-shirt over jogging bottoms. I smile. Even in loungewear, he still manages to look ridiculously fit.
We hug at the entrance, our bodies melting into each other, balmy and warm. I shiver at the memory of our kiss. And then I smell something. A waft of aromatic spices fills the short hallway.
‘Is Fonzo cooking?’ I ask, letting go of him.
‘Why Fonzo? I could be the chef.’
‘Wale, you nearly set off the fire alarm when you attempted to make party jollof that time at my flat.’
He smirks. ‘But you ate my sausage, though.’
I give him a ‘Behave’ look.
With a snigger, he says, ‘Fonzo’s out at the moment.’
My heart should not be beating like this.
So, it’s just me and Wale.
Alone.
Again.
In my head, I throw myself at him, he passionately kisses me back and presses his body on mine against the wall.
‘He’s gone to the cinema with Shona,’ he says, halting my spiralling imagination.
‘Oh,’ is all I can manage to say. Shona did not mention this. And then I notice his lips. They’re twitching. ‘Okay, why are you smiling like that?’
Wale goes behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. Something is up. He guides me down the cold-tiled hallway and through an open door.
‘Surprise!’ he cries.
I gaze around the room, my feet rooted to the spot.
Wale has turned Fonzo’s living room into a real-life Pinterest board. Tasselled pashminas are draped over a shaggy black rug. They’re laid out like a picnic blanket with satin and velvet cushions scattered on top. It’s giving Arabian Nights. It’s giving—
I gasp. ‘Morocco!’
Wale’s smile is the giveaway. Rotating slowly, I take in my surroundings.
He has carefully arranged a silver-plated tray to hold a traditional Moroccan tea set. There are antique metal lanterns with tealight candles around the edges of the room. He’s even got a ceramic tagine pot and wait – is that an actual shisha?
‘Wale …’ I’m breathless. I push through the tears gathering in my throat. ‘I can’t believe … I don’t know what to say.’
‘Oh shit. I forgot something.’ He grabs the remote control and presses a button.
A flute melody plays over a riff of darbukas. He rolls his hips. I laugh. If he hadn’t put in so much effort with the presentation, I’d grab a cushion and throw it at his head.
‘So –’ he spreads his arms – ‘what do you think?’
I feel as though I’m having one of those surreal, good dreams that you never want to wake up from. Guilt rises inside of me like a wave. He needs to know.
‘Why?’ My voice comes out crackled. ‘Why would you go to all this effort?’
Wale peers around himself as though trying to see the gesture through my eyes. ‘Well, you weren’t able to go to Morocco that time with your parents, so I thought, hey, why not bring Morocco to you? Consider this a continuation of your book deal celebration. Part two.’ Then, quickly, he adds, ‘I hope I’m not overstepping your boundaries.’
The wave is threatening to overwhelm me. But I don’t know what to say; he’s gone to so much trouble. And my admission won’t just ruin the evening, it will ruin everything. Our business relationship, our friendship … I feel an ache deep down to my core when I think back to our kiss. Us.
I begin to shake my head. ‘Wale, I appreciate this. I really do. But I don’t deserve it.’
Wale walks over and places a hand on my shoulder. ‘You deserve every good thing in life.’ His voice has taken on a new edge. Measured and sincere. He’s heartachingly sweet. ‘You’re a good person and not enough good things happen to good people.’
I cast a sidelong glance at the pashminas. It hurts to look at him.
To my relief, his phone vibrates.
His brows turn inwards as he glances at the screen. He answers it. ‘Hello?’ he says tentatively. ‘I told you! Delete my number!’
He ends the call.
‘Who was that? Cold call?’
He stuffs his phone back into his pocket and runs a hand over his hair before letting out a sharp breath. ‘Kojo,’ he says, and I blink.
I haven’t thought about Kojo since getting my book deal.
‘I thought you blocked his number?’ I ask.
‘I did,’ Wale says. ‘Still, he’s been trying to reach me. First through a different Insta account. Now this.’
I scoff. ‘Well, you’re not the only one he should be saying sorry to. Not that I need or want his apology.’
‘Well, actually, he … don’t worry about it.’
‘No. Go on. You might as well say.’
Wale lets out a resigned sigh. ‘He’s got it in his head that you’re only using me.’
My shock shows on my face.
‘That’s why I didn’t wanna say anything,’ Wale says. ‘It’s stupid.’
My heart is beating so fast, it feels as though it’s going to crash right through my chest. I force a weak laugh. ‘So, what? He thinks I’m using you to gain clout?’
‘For content,’ Wale says, and I release a breath of disbelief. ‘Not social media content but content for your writing. He thinks you’re out for revenge. Why else would you write my memoir?’
I feel winded – as though the rug has been pulled from underneath my feet and I’m suspended in the air, about to hit the floor. The last time I felt like this was when Wale confronted me about Seth’s message on my phone. I can’t believe that Kojo is getting back at me like this.
Wale must have noticed the shock in my face because he touches my arm. ‘Temi, he’s just trying to get one on you. Don’t worry. I’ve blocked him.’
My throat feels too dry to speak. I manage a weak nod. Even if I wanted to come clean, there’s no way I can tell him now.