Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen
In spite of everything, the shame creeps back in over the next few weeks. It’s not shame that I have slept with George, but shame that this memory is still hanging over us. With the realisation that he must remember, comes the old fear, back to haunt me.
I leave it longer and longer to reply to Frannie’s messages and find reasons to turn down the next three invitations: a cinema trip with the siblings, drinks after work near Frannie’s office, and a barbecue at Nisha’s house. I wonder if George will message me, but he doesn’t. I wonder if I should message him. I don’t. I sit sadly on my bed on the evening of the barbecue, staring at the rain sliding down in thin streaks across my window, hoping the clouds haven’t reached where Nisha and Lila live, just out the other side of London. I feel miserable and stupid, but equally I feel helpless to do anything better. It’s as though I willingly choose the dull, aching pain of missing out and feeling alone, so I don’t risk a sharper, keener sting.
I go down and join Adam and Jay, who are having a rare evening at home. I approach tentatively, never sure how welcome I am with them when they’re having time together in the house, but they smile and make space for me on the couch. Adam gets up and makes me a cup of milky tea.
‘Are you okay?’ Adam says, ‘It’s nice to see you. You’ve been out more than us the last few weeks.’
I try to give a neutral shrug. ‘I just fancied a night in.’
They’re watching a reality TV show in which lots of very beautiful people engage in a merry-go-round of relationships while sequestered in a luxurious beach house. I try to stay engaged, but I have trouble keeping up with everybody’s tangled relationships. As my eyes close, two women in string bikinis exchange gossip about a man with carefully styled hair, and then all of a sudden I’m waking up on the couch with a blanket placed over me.
The world outside the windows is dark, and the lights have been turned off, all but the small lamp in the corner of the room, which Jay, who would have gone to bed after Adam, must have kept on for me. I fumble my hands along the arm of the sofa and the low side table next to it until I find my phone and flip it over to check the time. I’m completely taken aback by the stream of notifications I have from a number I don’t recognise. I open my phone to the chat and see a wall of short texts.
Hydie!! Are you coming tonight?
It’s George by the way x
Forgot you won’t have my number! Well here it is, let me know if you need a lift or anything.
Then a few hours later:
Frannie says you’re still not feeling well! Sorry to hear that, get well soon. Maybe we’ll have to all come to yours and have a sad evening on the sofa with you.
And another couple of hours before the last messages.
Frannie says you’re not answering her texts much any more. Is everything okay? She’d never ask but she’s worried about you.
I stare at this strange wall of messages. George has never messaged me before in my life and suddenly he’s plastering a wall of texts on my screen, while conveniently not mentioning the obvious point of conversation between us. I catch myself gnawing at my fingertips as I scan through them a second time, guilt building at the thought of Frannie, who hated looking vulnerable, confiding something like that in her brother. I quickly type a response to him.
Everything’s okay! I feel better, I just needed an evening to rest. I’ll give Frannie a text tomorrow morning, and if I’ve forgotten, give me a nudge!!
The text sends and, less than a minute later, a reply comes.
You’re up late.
I realise I didn’t take in the time when I turned my phone over. I look properly and realise that it is just past midnight.
So are you!
Wow, these messages are embarrassing to read back. I promise I wasn’t drunk this afternoon. Unless you can get drunk on lemonade and hot dogs.
I reply.
It’s fine. I promise everything’s okay, I’m just not always great at checking my phone.
Like this evening?
I was asleep!
That explains why you’re awake now.
What’s your excuse?
Good question. Just a bit wired from the barbecue. Promise everything’s okay? I know we probably need to talk at some point. But I didn’t want to chase you.
I type a few iterations of a reply. Attempting to say I’m fine without making it seem strained or insistent. In the end, I delete them all and simply reply: Promise.
Good. If anything’s ever the matter I’m here for you. Hopefully we can talk soon, it’s sucked not having you around again.
I stare at my screen. I feel unsettled. I know I’ve been pulling back, but I”m uncomfortable with being so confronted over it. Nobody has ever cared where I am.
I try and nonchalantly change the subject.
Thanks. The only thing the matter now is that I didn’t eat dinner, I’m starving!
Oh no! What do you have that”s appropriate past midnight?
I walk in my bare feet to the kitchen. At any other point in the day, the fridge is a dream, full of fresh vegetables and cheeses, two pizza doughs ready to roll out and cook and Tupperware full of sauce for the slow cooker. But at 00:15, seeing nothing that can be shoved straight into my mouth makes me sad.
Nothing :( I might have to cook something from scratch.
Oh no! Don’t do that!
I’m typing that I don’t mind cooking when the next message comes through.
Fancy a nocturnal adventure?
An adventure?
I know somewhere that will make a delicious dinner, even at this time of night.
Where is it? Can I walk there?
It’s a bit of a way, up by Richmond.
Ahh I don’t know if I can the tube all the way there
He sends a face rolling its eyes.
I’ll come and get you genius.
A minute later I’m creeping past Adam and Jay’s bedroom to my own, dressing in a lilac dress that laces at the back and brushing my hair and debating makeup. I settle for some mascara and tinted lip balm and then I’m standing by the door like a teenager waiting for the headlights of George’s car to round the corner of the road. He’s later than he said he would be, and I spend a few minutes thinking he’s fallen asleep, or decided not to come, but then I hear tyres on the gravel and open the door to see the front of a sleek gunmetal car coming to a halt with its front wheels on the drive. I slip out, touching the keys, money and phone in my bag to be sure I have them, and close the door as gently as I can. I approach the car and the passenger side opens.
‘Fancy meeting you here,’ George says from the driver’s side.
‘Right? What are the chances?’ I get in and stuff my bag awkwardly down between my feet. George restarts his car and it moves smoothly away from the drive and back along the road.
‘I’ll drive you back afterwards,’ he says.
‘Where are we going?’
‘One of my favourite places.’
‘Not cryptic at all. You know that’s what a murderer would say.’
He looks offended, though he’s still grinning.
‘You think I would come all this way for something as pedestrian as murder? You think very highly of yourself.’
‘Maybe it’s revenge for not messaging Frannie back.’ I say, then immediately realise I shouldn’t have. George spots the open door and pushes on it.
‘Yeah what’s up with that?’ he says.
‘Nothing,’ I reply, ‘I was just busy, that’s all there is to it.’
‘Sure,’ George says making a sceptical face, and I sense I’ve only earned a reprieve, and that I may have to trade this food trip for an actual discussion about the last night we were together.
We drive through the quiet London suburbs. George parks in a narrow street with low, red brick buildings. On one side is housing, on the other is a row of shops and restaurants. I manoeuvre myself out of the car and follow him as he walks along the road to one of the few buildings with lights on. It’s a restaurant, its front painted a rich terracotta colour. An awning and a few tables sit outside but they’re all unoccupied, and a soft light glows from the windows.
‘After you.’ George pulls the door open for me. I step inside and am hit by a warm spicy smell. The restaurant is small and cosy, with low lighting against walls of exposed brickwork. Most of the seating is booths, the high-backed seating cushioned in dark blue velvet, on either side of polished dark wooden tables fixed to the walls. A young couple in sportswear huddle together in the booth closest to the back, and an elderly man in a shirt and brown cord trousers is sitting at a small table by the window, leafing through a newspaper.
A tired but smiling man greets us casually. He’s wearing a teal shirt and black trousers, and his long hair is woven into thick black braids and tied back against the nape of his neck. He looks at George with familiarity, and then at me with surprise which he quickly conceals.
‘Can you squeeze us in?’ George says, looking around at the almost empty restaurant.
‘I’m sure we can find room for you George.’ The man has the accent of a Londoner with Nigerian-born parents.
‘Great, thanks Femi.’ George gestures to me. ‘This is Frannie’s best friend Hydie.’
The man lifts his hand in a wave.
‘Nice to meet you. Take a seat anywhere, I’ll be with you in a moment.’ George looks at me as the man walks away.
‘Anywhere take your fancy?’ I scan the room and nod to the booth closest to the window. We take seats opposite one another and Femi comes over with two glasses of water and menus printed on thick paper.
‘If you have any questions about the menu just ask,’ he says, smiling at me, ‘don’t ask this guy. He pretends he knows about Nigerian food and I catch him googling the dishes under the table.’
‘Very cultured,’ I say to George, as Femi walks away. He shrugs.
‘I’m ignorant, but I know good food when I have it, and everything here is amazing. I could close my eyes and point at the menu and I would love whatever turned up.’
‘I’ve been to a tasting night with Adam and Jay, I recognise some of these dishes.’ I scan the menu, picking out things I know I like and, when Femi comes back over, I order the roasted plantain.
‘And do you want to share jollof rice?’ I ask George. ‘Kind of goes with everything.’
‘Sounds good,’ he says, ‘I just need to decide what I want.’
‘Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is?’ I say. ‘Close your eyes and point, you know you’ll love it, so give yourself the element of surprise.’
‘That’s not a bad idea,’ he says, ‘Femi, I want whatever I point to.’ Femi raises his eyebrows, but silently puts his pen to his notepad.
George closes his eyes and lifts his hand, casting his index finger above the paper like he’s scrying. As he does so I silently reach over and place my fingers on the menu, and, when he lowers his hand, slide the paper carefully along the table until his finger hits pepper soup with scotch bonnets. The spiciest thing on the menu. Femi snorts and quickly lifts his hand to his mouth.
‘What?’ George says with his eyes still closed, ‘What did I pick?’
‘Chicken, fish or goat sir?’ Femi says, giving me a sly smile.
‘Fish. Unless fish is a bad choice?’ George opens his eyes and I whip the menu away before he can see where he’d pointed.
‘Coming right up sir.’ Femi writes on his notepad with a flourish. ‘And I’ll get you both some more water for the table.’ We exchange a look and he leaves.
‘Oh no.’ George says. ‘What have I done?’
”Nothing.’ I smile, ‘A fine choice.’
‘You couldn’t have said anything more ominous.’ he says, as Femi returns and places a comically large jug of water on the table.
‘Do you come here a lot?’ I ask.
‘I’ve been a couple of times, but Femi and I know each other anyway. His brother works with Rowena.’
I resist the urge to shift uncomfortably in my seat.
‘So she introduced you to this place? That’s nice…’ I trail off lamely.
‘No, she’s not a fan of this sort of food.’ George said, ‘But I got along really well with Femi when I met him at a party so I come here from time to time. Though not often so late.’
‘Do you live close?’
‘Just up there,’ George gestures out of the window to the right, ‘about five minutes away.’
‘That’s good, so you can come here lots.’ I was cringing at my inability to say anything interesting. Though impressed with George’s apparent willingness to carry the conversation without any help from me, continuing our mutual, unspoken agreement to let the elephant in the room stay sitting in the corner.
‘It’s great round here for food. There’s this place, of course, there’s a Korean barbecue restaurant up the road run by an old couple and their kids. The best pasta in London is made two minutes in the other direction at a place where they don’t have any inside seating but they have an awning and put chairs out on the pavement. And there’s a proper French patisserie just over the road from my flat. You’ll have to try it sometime, you will adore it. You think the pastries we had in Spain were nice? The almond croissants they make there are like these soft pillows in a delicate seashell that crumbles as you bite into it.’
‘That does sound amazing.’
‘What are you doing tomorrow?’ he asks, his eyes brightening, ‘we could get coffee there. It’s not too far when the overground is running, or I’d come and pick you up again.’ He raises an eyebrow when he sees me hesitate. ‘Or are you busy again?’
I bristle, feeling like he”s trapped me here to talk about this. ‘You keep interrogating me about this,’ I say, keeping my face neutral, ‘I don’t love it. I want to spend time with you all but I also have the right to say no to things. I’m not actually part of your family.’
He opens his mouth to say something, then seems to think better of it. He thinks for a moment then says, ‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’ To my surprise he looks uncomfortable, fiddling with his sleeve in a way that is completely unlike him.
‘I’ll come clean. I’m worried it’s because of me.’
‘What?’ I ask, a sudden dropping sensation in my stomach.
‘Everything was fine, and then I came to your room that night… my room, I guess. And the next day you left before me or Nisha could say goodbye. Since then you’ve not been around as much. I know it probably came out of nowhere for you, but I’d been thinking about it since we were in Spain. For me, it felt like it had been a long time coming. And the next day I realised maybe you hadn’t felt as strongly as I had. If I moved too soon then I’m really sorry, and if you’re uncomfortable around me because of it I completely accept that. But also Frannie and Nisha still want to see you. I don’t want you to lose your friendships with them because of me.’
He trails off, and before I can respond, Femi arrives with our food. My mouth waters at the smell as a plate of roasted plantain with onions and peppers and a sweet spicy dressing is placed in front of me, and a large oval dish of tangy orange rice is set down in the middle between us.
‘Now for the surprise.’ George says, looking apprehensively at what Femi puts down in front of him. The pepper soup, a thin stew in a sunny, harmless-looking yellow, with a spice level that makes my eyes begin to water just from the scent. As I look closer I see the rings of freshly sliced chilli in the mixture, like wide green and red eyes.
‘Shit.’ George said. ‘I really picked this?’
‘Maybe the universe is punishing you for making me talk about awkward subjects in public.’
‘I’ll take this punishment I suppose,’ he said. ‘It could have been worse. Do people still get struck by lightning?’
I tuck into my delicious, fragrant food, while George tentatively dips his spoon into his stew.
‘If you’re hesitant about it it’ll be worse,’ Femi says, bringing over a sharing spoon for the rice. ‘It’s like cold water, you just have to dive in.’
George sets his face in a look of grim determination, takes a deep breath, and scoops an enormous spoonful into his mouth. Femi and I both watch as George chews thoughtfully, then swallows.
‘Verdict?’ I ask softly.
‘Holy shit.’
George’s eyes go glassy as they begin to water and colour rises in his cheeks, the pink dusky against his skin.
‘I’m just going to need to go for it. Don’t watch me, it won’t be pretty.’
We eat in silence, except for George taking lungfuls of air and gulps of water between mouthfuls, and the soft sniggering that Femi and I exchange every time he walks past, which is more often than any waiter reasonably would.
The restaurant is so warm and comfortable that I’d forgotten it was so late, until George lifts the almost empty bowl to his lips and drinks the last of the spicy soup. He sets down his empty bowl with a look of triumph, as though he’s been through some mighty ordeal. I put on a supremely calm and measured display as I take another spoonful of rice, itself well-spiced, and scoop the last of the sliced onion and plantain onto it and lift it into my mouth.
‘That was delicious,’ I said, ‘just the right level of heat. How was yours?’
George takes a napkin and dabs at his wet eyes. ‘Mine was alright. Bit bland, they could have spiced it up a bit.’
Femi comes to collect our plates and shakes his head as he passes George a fresh napkin.
‘When I first met him,’ he says to me, ‘this boy here kept talking about his Indian grandparents and their cooking, trying to find common ground. Now look at him.’
‘Absolutely humiliating.’ George laughs, between taking sharp breaths to draw cold air into his mouth. ‘I need some fresh air. How about we pay up and I take you back to yours?’ He pays on the card machine that Femi brings him and then, as I’m walking towards the door, I see him pull some notes from his wallet and leave them on the table. The night is dark blue above the lights of London. I think about how clear the stars are in Mijas, where here the artificial light drowns them out. I check the time on my phone as George joins me.
‘The underground is still going. I don’t mind getting myself home.’
‘Absolutely not,’ George said, ‘I’ll drop you back. I just have one request first.’
‘Right?’
‘I feel like I’m walking away from Femi with my head held high. Would you agree?’
I nod as he continues. ‘I finished my plate, I drank water like a normal person, and I neither cried nor threw up.’
‘Your eyes watered a lot.’
‘That’s just cruel biology,’ he says, ‘We can look past that. However, I need to go back to my place and drink an entire pitcher of water and maybe stick my head in the freezer.’ He looks at his watch. ‘We can still be back at yours in an hour, is that okay?’
I nod. ‘It’s going to be a bad night’s sleep whatever happens.’