Chapter Twenty-Six #2
The dispute with the homeless man had been drawing to a conclusion and Kofi stepped away from his colleagues to stand with me in a shop doorway.
He recognised me straight away, of course.
I look pretty similar to when he last saw me (apart from the fringe) – the day Father Pells drove up to London and helped me pack box upon box into the back of his Volvo estate.
Even though it was only a quarter of an hour ago, I don’t remember either of our exact words.
I do remember him shaking his head, and saying, ‘I might have known you’d do something crazy like this.
’ And now here we are, with coffees in front of us that we don’t really want, staring at each other.
This is a face I’ve thought about so much over the last twenty years that it feels bizarre having it in front of me – and even more so because it’s like looking through one of those Snapchat filters that age you.
As for Kofi, well, I don’t know what he’s thinking, but his mouth is slightly open, and I can see the pale skin inside, which was once so familiar, and now feels like something from another life, another time.
‘It’s so freakin strange looking at you,’ he says. ‘It’s like the picture of Dorian Gray. Or Benjamin Button. Or…’ He trails off.
I don’t say anything, although it occurs to me that it can’t be that strange if he didn’t ever see the middle-aged version of me.
I stop staring at him for a second and notice his wallet on the table, lying open to reveal a British Garden Centres Family Membership and what looks like the business card of a financial adviser.
It’s upside down and the font is curly but his name is either Martin Clack or Martin Crack.
I find myself pondering which would be worse.
‘How are your mum and dad?’ Kofi asks after a moment, clearing his throat loudly.
Tears pool in my eyes, unexpectedly. ‘My mum is fine. My dad… erm… he… passed. Away.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He looks it. Genuinely. Kofi was – maybe is – an empathetic person, I guess that’s why he does the job he does. ‘Your parents were…’
I wonder what he’s going to say. Distant? Reserved? Workaholics?
‘…always looking out for you and Simon.’ He smiles, for the first time. ‘You were very lucky. Are very lucky, I’m sure. I’m trying to do the same for my three.’
Kofi has kids. But that’s not what I’m focusing on. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘They worked really hard to give you as much as they could, didn’t they?
Remember when they paid for us to go away to the Scottish Highlands for my twenty-fifth?
And you said you had some pretty special family holidays when you were young.
’ He says ‘young’ in a strange way, staring at me again, the smile gone.
When I look back, I think of my parents working late, of freezer dinners, the key under the flowerpot.
I remember Simon being ‘in charge’ of me (much to his delight), and that evening when Drunk Norman from five doors down banged on the door and Simon and I hid behind the curtains until our parents got home.
But it was hours, and all I had was a sherbet fountain, which gave me a headache.
Funny how someone who wasn’t there can have such a warped version of what it was really like.
I finish my coffee, and watch the foam form a rim of scum around the cup, like the remains of a bubble bath. I want to go. This is awkward. But there’s something else I need to say.
‘I’m sorry. About what happened with Owen.’
Kofi’s face turns from the frown he’s had for most of our conversation, to a look of surprise. ‘That was a long time ago, Erica. And you’ve said sorry.’
‘I’m still sorry,’ I say. ‘Because it was… it meant… the end of us.’
‘Don’t think so…’ He looks around him as though he’s searching for evidence to the contrary.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean, that wasn’t why we broke up, was it?’
‘I don’t know. Wasn’t it?’ I sip at invisible coffee, trying to hide my confusion.
‘No… I think we were drifting apart. The Owen thing just moved things along more quickly.’ He reaches over the table, taking my hand.
‘It wasn’t your fault. Any of it. We were all idiots – it could have been any of us.
And I was just ready for… a change. To settle down.
I wasn’t really feeling it anymore, d’you know what I mean? ’
No, I do not know what you mean, I think. Kofi carries on.
‘I met my wife not long after you went back west. She’s a bit older. Natalie. She wanted to start a family. I mean, we both did.’
I’m not sure if he’s trying to make me feel better, or worse, or just likes talking about his wife. I need to say something though, so go for: ‘That’s… lovely. What are your kids called?’
‘We’ve got twin girls, Nia and Layla. And a boy. Owen, actually. They’re quite grown up now.’
I don’t say anything. I can’t. I’ve spent nearly half my life being wrong about all this and it’s taking a while to sink in.
‘And you, Erica, did you settle down?’
If there is one molecule of liquid in this cup, I will find it. There isn’t. I put it back down. ‘No. It didn’t happen for me.’
‘Well, look at you. Still time, I reckon. If that’s what you want, of course.’ He picks up his wallet. ‘I need to get off now, I’m giving Nia a lift to Glastonbury after work. I’m just a taxi service these days…’
I force a smile, ninety-five per cent still nauseous with shock, five per cent annoyed I don’t have a Glastonbury ticket.
Kofi stands up and checks something on his smartwatch, then, with a final look of what seems to be disbelief and/or concern – and could be either about me, or maybe a disappointingly low daily step count – waves goodbye.
And then he’s gone.