Epilogue
Seven months later …
‘Do you have any other questions?’ I ask, glancing up from my laptop. I’m sitting in a Costa opposite a seventy-nine-year-old Jamaican woman who bears an uncanny resemblance to Maya Angelou. Her name is Lucinda Jones. And she is also my client.
Lucinda ponders for a moment, the lines on her face deepening as she purses her matte-red lips. ‘No, I think you’ve covered everything for now, thank you. I’m so excited to be working with you.’
‘Likewise.’
‘Shirl told me great things about you and how you’re so professional. I was a bit hesitant at first given your age. But I can confidently say that I’m in safe hands.’ She gives me a warm smile. ‘It’s important that my grandchildren know about our family history; where they come from.’
I will be ghostwriting Lucinda’s memoir – she was part of the Windrush Generation that saw hundreds of thousands of people arrive in the UK from the Caribbean. She’s the second client I’ve had since deciding to become a freelance ghostwriter seven months ago. I realized that if I took Bonsai’s soulless environment away, I actually enjoyed telling other people’s stories. And writing Wale’s memoir proved to me that I could go at it alone.
I down the last dregs of my tea and rise to my feet. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ I tell Lucinda, giving her a hug. Then I grab my bag and head out, admiring the blossoming cherry trees en route to my next meeting.
‘Temi, thanks for stopping by,’ says Mayee, grinning from behind her desk. I sit on the velvety chair opposite. Her office has the perfect view of London and a treadmill in front of the window to make sure she makes the most of it. ‘I’ve got an update on Writing Miss Wrong ,’ she says.
I squeeze the strap of my tote bag. Mayee had sent my manuscript out to publishers only last week. My belly rises with hope. Could this be …?
Mayee, who hasn’t stopped smiling, stalls for a moment before saying, ‘Two editors want to meet with you – including Dionne.’
I try to speak but no words come out.
Over the last several months, I have worked on this new novel. Writing Miss Wrong is about a struggling male ghostwriter who goes back in time to rewrite the history of the first ever Black plus-size pin-up actress. It was Mayee who helped me come up with the concept during one of our several brainstorming sessions. We realized that paranormal romance is my thing, so that’s what I should be writing, regardless of Wildest Dreams ’ fate. After our moment of honesty, our relationship has gone from strength to strength. I tell her everything – when I’m struggling, when I want a second opinion on an idea and when I desperately need a deadline extension. Again. Writing this novel has been a much more pleasurable experience. I owe her everything.
‘Thank you,’ I manage to utter.
Mayee jerks. ‘Why are you thanking me? You did all the hard work.’
‘But you gave me a second chance,’ I remind her. ‘You didn’t have to.’
Mayee walks around her desk and perches on the corner. She puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m proud of you, Temi,’ she says softly. ‘I really am.’
She gives me a moment. And then she tells me all the positive things Dionne said about my manuscript. Apparently, she never mentioned the past. Not once.
As soon as I return home, I get ready. I put on Cleo (my oversized red statement glasses) and a gorgeous, geometry-patterned dress designed by Nana Badu. I still have my dream dress on my vision board, waiting to be made. One day, I’ll wear it to my own book launch.
Despite arriving at Anansi Books early, the place is buzzing – shelves have been pushed towards the back to make more space. Uncle Les is hovering beside the DJ. He looks as though he’s waiting his turn to spin the decks. Aunty Shirley and a few familiar faces from her church are wandering about serving Afro-Caribbean snacks.
I spot Wale chatting to Greg and Kathy, and my stomach flips at how heartachingly handsome he looks in his traditional Nigerian attire. We got our outfits made out of the same fabric so that we match.
‘Congratulations!’ I cry, hugging him from behind.
Wale spins around. His face brightens. ‘Hey, you.’ He tugs me closer for a kiss and steps back to look me up and down. ‘Girl, you’re wearing the hell out of this dress.’
I laugh. ‘You don’t look too bad yourself.’ I consider telling him my news, but this is his day; I’ll tell him later. I greet Kathy and Greg.
‘We’re just talking about Wale’s five-a-side-for-carers programme,’ Kathy says, filling me in.
‘We’ve got some interest from a few footballers.’ Greg takes a swig of his drink. ‘Can’t share any names just yet but things are looking promising.’
Kathy crosses her fingers. Her smile is so wide I can see the crowns in her teeth.
‘It would be a dream come true for us to work together again,’ she says to Wale over the loud music. ‘And if you ever want to pack in this social media stuff, we’ve got a brand-new desk with your name all over it.’
Wale twirls the end of his beard. ‘Ooh, not gonna lie. The new office is a flex. Greg, you’re gonna have to try and match that.’
They laugh and then excuse themselves, lured by fresh trays of mouth-watering canapés. Wale turns to me, a twinkle in his eyes. He rocks forwards and backwards a little – a small signal that he’s still internally admiring me.
‘So –’ I spread my arms – ‘how does it feel?’
He shakes his head repeatedly and blows air out of his puffed cheeks. Then his gaze lands on the massive easel by the entrance, a blow-up picture of his book on the large canvas. Following my feedback to his publishers, they decided to change the title. Not Just a Pretty Boy from South . It has a better ring to it. A Wale ring.
‘It feels … insane,’ he says, running a hand over his freshly trimmed hair. ‘But do you know what’s even more insane?’ He pulls me in by my waist, bending to brush his nose against mine. ‘You,’ he says, his voice warm and breathy against my lips. ‘I’m only here today because of you. This book, Tems, is just as much yours as it is mine. Have you seen my dedication?’
‘I have but I can pretend as though I’m seeing it for the first time.’ I grab one of his many books from the shelf, flick it open and loudly clear my throat. ‘“ To my one and only – thank you. This is ours .” Aww.’
Wale beams. ‘Hashtag Wami.’
‘No! Hashtag Telé!’
‘Fine,’ he relents with a playful huff. ‘Hashtag Telé.’ He wraps an arm around my shoulder and I hang on to his finger.
It’s become our couple’s name as declared by Black Twitter. After posting a few Insta Stories of us together, it didn’t take long for The Tea Lounge to announce that we were an item again. As expected, people rushed to share their unsolicited opinions in the comments section. Some thought we were a fake couple and just dating for clout. But what has been a nice surprise is the overwhelming online love and support we’ve received. A lot of people are glad to see Wale dating a curvy, plus-size woman.
‘Hold that pose!’
We turn our heads.
Fonzo snaps our photo. He lowers the camera strapped around his neck. Shona is walking beside him, holding two gift bags. They’ve bought us his and hers journals.
‘So, how’s the first month been?’ says Wale. He returns the Moleskine notebook to its bag. ‘You’re both here and alive – a good sign. Are you guys still pretending to be perfect?’
Shona looks up at Fonzo; they have so much love in their eyes.
‘He’s the perfect housemate,’ she says, drawling her words. ‘He cleans up after himself, folds and puts away my laundry – including my knickers.’
‘I used to work at Primark,’ Fonzo says quickly. He waves at Aunty Shirley and Uncle Les. ‘Come. Let’s go and say hi to my parents.’
I watch them go, giddiness unfurling inside of me. I’m so glad that Shona has found her person.
‘Speaking of parents …’ I crane my neck. I stop myself from asking, Was your dad able to take time off work? Today is Wale’s day and I won’t allow him to be down. Not even for a second.
After his dad read his memoir, he avoided Wale for a few days, deliberately taking on extra late shifts to prevent bumping into him at home. Then, when he finally did, he quietly told him he was sorry. It was the first time Wale had received an apology from him. Ever. I’ve met him on a few occasions. He likes to keep to himself, not one to hang about and chat. Wale’s relationship with him is still strained but he is open to starting afresh, if his dad is.
Wale looks around – more and more people are piling in – and then he pauses, smiling broadly. I follow his gaze.
His mum and his brother are talking to my mum and dad. Our families haven’t met before. This should be interesting.
‘The celebrity couple,’ Dad says when we reach them. We greet each one of them in turn, my heart squeezing as I watch Dad pat Wale’s back as if he’s his own son. Ayo, who has become my own brother, has flown from Australia to be here. He gives his older brother a long hug.
‘Aunty!’ I throw my arms around Wale’s mum. ‘Look at you! You look stunning.’
Wale’s mum glances down at her African kaftan dress, her fuzzy grey hair hidden under a matching headscarf. She’s wearing blush and glittery gold eyeshadow, which have beautifully reversed the hard years in her face.
‘I followed the same method you showed me,’ she says, her hand still on my forearm. ‘But I gave up on the mascara. Kept poking myself in the eye.’
We’re all laughing when a familiar male voice calls Wale’s name.
He ’ s here.
Wale’s dad steps into our circle, his lips drawn taut into a hard-to-read expression. His jacket is still zipped up and he’s holding two plastic bags. He gives me a nod of acknowledgement first and stares directly at his eldest son.
‘I just bought ten copies,’ he says. ‘When you’re free, you’ll sign them, ehn?’
Wale’s eyes glisten as he stares back at his dad. I reach for his hand and hold it, lightly stroking the inside of his wrist.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ he says after a quiet moment. ‘Of course I will.’
His dad nods again.
He may not ever say it with words, but Wale’s dad just told him he loves him in his own way.
‘Group photo!’ Fonzo cries.
As always, Fonzo is camera-ready and it doesn’t take him long to get us all into position. Wale stands behind me, his hands cradling my hips, his beard prickling my skin. His mum reaches for my hand and I give it a squeeze.
I imagine myself on the other side, staring adoringly at this picture-perfect moment of two families merging into one.
Honestly, I couldn’t have written this story if I tried.