Wahala, page 24
‘Moo,’ said Sofia.
Boo knew she shouldn’t have overreacted. Even laid-back Didier could get suspicious. She looked at his emails all the time. She even opened his sent folder to make sure he wasn’t slagging her off to his mum. He never was. He was too fucking perfect. She should delete Neil’s messages. She would delete them. She just wanted to read them one last time.
She managed to get through the afternoon. She did bath and bed (Didier didn’t offer).
‘Are you working from home tomorrow?’ Didier asked when she was done.
‘Does it matter?’ Boo hadn’t decided if she was going in or not. She couldn’t risk seeing Neil. She definitely couldn’t risk lunch.
‘Just checking who’s taking Sofia to school.’
‘It’s Monday. Your day,’ Boo snapped.
‘OK. Sorry I asked.’
Boo closed her eyes. ‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘For what, Boo? For not being able to look at me? For sending your daughter home with Ronke? For being miserable? Or is it trapped?’ Didier put his head in his hands. ‘Talk to me, Boo. Je comprends pas.’
His sanctimonious tone riled Boo. ‘I’m sick of this. I don’t need to apologize for wanting a night off. I’m thirty-five, not sixty. Stop making me feel guilty all the time.’
‘I’ve never minded you going out.’ Didier sounded crushed.
‘What were you and Ronke talking about last night? Were you slagging me off?’
‘Of course not. This is crazy talk.’
‘Whatever. I’m going to bed.’ Boo stormed upstairs. She knew she was behaving badly, but what was she supposed to do when she was under attack?
27
Simi
SIMI RUBBED HER ARM. Smooth and soft after the top-to-toe body polish. Her nails were shiny, her hair straight and glossy (thanks to the keratin blowout). Pedicure, then eyebrow threading. No rush – Martin’s flight didn’t land until six.
She couldn’t wait for their New York adventure to start. Her list of pluses was extensive – amazing shopping, the best sushi in the world, Broadway shows, the brownstone she was determined to live in (they’d need two spare bedrooms). The one minus – she’d miss her friends (hence the spare rooms). Although after the disastrous tea, she wasn’t sure she wanted them in the same place at the same time. Iso had sniped. Boo had simpered. Ronke had sulked. It was saying something when the five-year-old was the most mature person in the room.
Simi’s life was back on track. On Monday she’d had a meeting with QB. She’d expected the worst and was determined to keep her game face on. She was off to Manhattan. No one would ever find out she’d been sacked.
When Simi arrived, QB was on the phone, barking instructions at some hapless victim (probably her husband). She’d pointed at Simi (accusatory), then at the chair opposite (patronizing), and held up two fingers in a gesture that could have meant ‘two seconds’. Simi had been sure it said ‘fuck you’.
When she finally hung up, QB smirked at Simi. ‘Right. You have no idea what this is about, do you?’
‘I can guess. You’re letting me go. I’m on a six-month rolling contract. You’ll have to pay me off.’
‘Are you high?’ asked QB.
‘I’ve got the paperwork.’ Simi wouldn’t let QB wriggle out of their contract. ‘It was agreed at my last review.’
QB snorted. ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid. You’re not getting fired. You’re a star – my biggest star! This is good news, Simi. Extraordinary news.’
Their boutique agency had been bought by a global communications group. QB was to head up the merged London office and she wanted Simi to run the Manhattan start-up. Her own team, an expense account, generous relocation package and lots of travel (turning left as standard). ‘Your husband’s out there, isn’t he? When does his contract end?’
‘He’s had an offer to stay – long term.’
‘Sounds like serendipity.’ QB raised her glass.
Simi dipped her feet into the mini-jacuzzi of warm scented water and indulged in her favourite Manhattan fantasy. She was a brown Carrie Bradshaw (with a bigger shoe closet), Martin a better-looking (not so sleazy) Mr Big. It was time to let go of the stupid impostor syndrome. She wriggled her toes. She could add baby-soft feet to her list of accomplishments. She had it all – happy marriage, dazzling career, straight hair.
Her phone interrupted the daydream.
‘I’m in a cab – got an earlier flight,’ said Martin. ‘Where are you?’
‘Carnaby Street, making myself beautiful.’
‘You’re always beautiful. No rush – I’ll see you at home. I need a long hot shower to make myself less stinky.’
EBENEZER PRESSED THE LIFT BUTTON. ‘Salaam alaikum, Mrs Simi. I know why you are smiling! Mr Martin is already here.’
Simi burst into the flat and scanned the living room. No Martin. A cake tin on the coffee table: six cupcakes with ‘I heart New York’ toppers. Ronke was a sweetheart. She was surprised he hadn’t eaten one. Or three.
‘Hi honey, I’m home,’ she called in a sing-song voice. No answer. He must be in the shower.
She found Martin on their bed. His eyes were red. He wasn’t smiling. Simi’s eye twitched. What could have happened? He was fine an hour ago.
‘I found these.’ Martin opened his palm to expose her contraceptive pills. ‘And this.’ He tapped a piece of paper against the Ife head.
Simi knew what it was. The consent form she’d signed for those two pills, stapled to the aftercare leaflet with ‘Medical Abortion’ in big bold type. She’d put it in the shoebox with her contraceptive pills. She felt a sudden sharp pain in her chest.
‘How did you find it?’ she said. Her hands shook as she rubbed her breastbone.
‘Does it matter?’ Martin flung the contraceptives at her. They bounced off her shoulder and fell on to the rug.
‘I can explain.’ She stared at the floor, the pills a barrier between them.
‘Great. I can’t wait to hear this.’ He sat back and placed a pillow behind his head. ‘Fire away. I’m all ears.’
She couldn’t. She wanted to tell him the truth. But she wasn’t sure what the truth was. ‘It’s not what it looks like.’
‘Good. Because it looks like you’re a fucking liar and I’m a fucking idiot.’
‘No,’ said Simi. ‘I did come off the pill but … I got pregnant.’
‘That was the idea,’ said Martin. ‘But you’re not pregnant now. Are you?’
‘I panicked. You weren’t here.’
‘You seriously want to make this my fault?’
‘It’s not anyone’s fault. I was going to tell you.’
‘Bullshit. You had an abortion. You made a decision about our child without me.’
‘Don’t be so dramatic. It’s my body. And it wasn’t a child – it was a few cells.’ Simi clutched her stomach, saw his eyes follow her hands and dropped her arms. ‘It wasn’t an ab … ab …’ She couldn’t say the word. ‘It was a tablet. Two tablets. Like the morning-after pill.’
With one sudden movement, Martin swept the Ife head off the bedside table. He waved the leaflet at her. ‘I can fucking read. All this time I’ve been thinking we were trying. Thinking we were a team.’
Simi took a step back; she felt faint. ‘Martin, you’re overreacting. We can work this out. I had a wobble but I’m OK now. I’ve got a job in New York. A brilliant job. We can have a baby. We will have a baby. I’ll be ready soon. In a year …’
‘Shut up!’ Martin stooped to pick up the head. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I was going to.’ Simi’s eye twitched again.
Martin raised his arm and lunged at her. ‘Enough of your fucking lies!’
‘Stop! What are you doing?’ Simi screamed. ‘Let go of that horrible thing.’
He staggered away, held his arm out and dropped the head.
Simi sank to the floor. ‘You’ve chipped the wood,’ she said. ‘It’s ruined.’
‘Like us,’ he said, stepping around her.
Simi didn’t have the words to make him stay. She heard the door slam. How had he found out? It wouldn’t cross Martin’s mind to open one of her shoeboxes. Something had made him. Someone had made him. But Ronke was the only one who knew her secret hiding place. Simi rocked the head from side to side, like a baby. Oh, Ronke. What have you done?
FOUR DAYS LATER SIMI STILL hadn’t spoken to Martin – the longest gap since they’d met fourteen years earlier. She’d left voice messages, sent text messages and emails. Tried him at home and at work. Tried in the middle of (his) night, hoping he’d pick up on impulse. She left begging messages, angry messages, calm messages. Nothing.
She couldn’t tell anyone. So she didn’t. She channelled her inner Dad, slapped on her flawless facade and kept the pain hidden. She’d taken to wearing sunglasses. Sunken eyes were bad enough, but the persistent twitch was doing her head in.
Ronke called and texted. Simi ignored her. If Ronke had told Martin (and she must have), Simi couldn’t face her. And if she hadn’t (stupid thought – she must have), it would mean admitting that her marriage was on the rocks. She was the one who picked Ronke up when her relationships fell apart – it didn’t work the other way round. Simi had to accept the unbearable truth: their friendship was over. She just had to hope her marriage wasn’t.
At work, Simi stuck to the script. She was golden, Martin was great, nothing to see here apart from wall-to-wall success. She must have inherited this senseless mix of pride and shame from Dad.
Her father’s face flashed into her head. Back in Lagos when they were forced to downsize, his biggest worry had been what people would say. He couldn’t afford to service his Mercedes, but no way would he sell it, so it sat on their drive rusting away like a big white elephant. All that mattered was being seen as the big oga with the big car.
Like father like daughter, thought Simi. I might feel like shit, but in my Burberry Prorsum sheepskin jacket, at least I look fantastic. Now she just needed to fake it with Isobel for as long as it took to have a drink. She’d avoided her for as long as she could, but Isobel had pushed and pushed. So here she was at Gotham. Showtime.
‘Hey, Isobel!’ Simi rubbed her twitching eye and gave Isobel a hug.
In her sleeveless halterneck dress, Isobel’s arms looked pumped, her biceps protruding. But it wasn’t just physical. She was more theatrical than usual. ‘Sorry I was such a bitch about you moving. It was selfish.’ Isobel reached for Simi’s hands across the table. ‘I’d just found you and I couldn’t bear to lose you again. But I’ve had words with myself and I’m truly happy for you, honest.’
‘Oh, it’s fine.’ Simi tried to pull her hand back, but Isobel’s grip tightened.
‘I’m stressed out, you see. Chase will be here next week and the thought of being in the same city as him has made me paranoid. I’m not sleeping. I’m not eating. But it’s no excuse for being a bad friend. So let me make up to you. I have this brilliant real estate guy in Manhattan. If you give me Martin’s details, I’ll put them in touch.’
‘No! No. His office has someone. But thanks.’ Simi was glad they were in a dark alcove – her spasming eye was out of control.
‘OK, but if you change your mind, let me know. And I’ve got you a moving gift.’ Isobel waved an envelope in the air. ‘Well, it’s for you and Martin. Tickets to the Hamilton premiere! They’re like gold dust; I had to pull lots of strings.’
‘You shouldn’t have.’ Simi squirmed.
‘Rubbish. You deserve it. You’ve got to tell Martin. Call him now!’
‘He’ll be at work. I’ll tell him tonight.’ Simi downed her drink and changed the subject. ‘Have you seen Boo?’
‘Yes, I ran with her today.’ Isobel cocked her head. ‘Did you know she’s been sleeping with her boss?’
Simi was shell-shocked. Shagging your boss was such a cliché. Goody-Boo-Shoes having an affair. It was hard to believe. According to Isobel, it was all Didier’s fault – poor bloke. Even little Sofia got to shoulder some blame. At least Simi wasn’t blaming her fuck-up on anyone except herself. Well – apart from Ronke. She wished she could text Martin. Look what Boo’s done – now that’s what you call bad.
‘Are you listening?’ said Isobel.
‘Yes. I’m dumbfounded,’ said Simi. ‘I don’t get why she told you? No offence, but I’m her best friend. Well, and Ronke.’
‘She told Ronke. Big mistake. Ronke pretty much called her a slut. Boo was in pieces. I had to console her.’ Isobel’s eyes seemed to gleam as she spoke.
So that’s why Boo and Ronke had fallen out. It was like being back in primary school – back-stabbing, rumours, he-said, she-said.
‘I just hope she keeps it to herself. Ronke can be spiteful,’ said Isobel. ‘Remember when you told her about the abortion? Unhappy people are vindictive.’
‘It wasn’t an … Iso, what do you mean?’ Simi was taken aback. She studied Isobel’s face. ‘Ronke’s not unhappy.’
‘She should be. Kayode keeps pestering me. It’s kind of desperate.’
‘What does he want?’ said Simi distractedly, her mind still on Boo.
‘The kind of things a man with a girlfriend shouldn’t want from his ex.’ Isobel nodded suggestively.
Simi was silent while she tried to process this new revelation. Was this why Ronke wanted to ruin her marriage? Out of vindictiveness? I’m unhappy – you should be unhappy too? No. She couldn’t make that fit. Ronke wasn’t like that. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I have to tell her.’
‘No,’ Isobel said firmly. ‘It should come from me. I don’t want her blaming you. Or Boo.’
Simi’s eye twitched. How on earth had their lives got so complicated?
28
Ronke
RONKE DIDN’T MIND WORKING Saturday mornings – half day, full pay and Wednesday off. Plus, Saturday patients were more relaxed. The one downside was that Rafa point-blank refused to work weekends. So she had Eliza, who was good at her job but zero fun. If the conversation veered from Coronation Street or Loose Women, Eliza shut down. She wasn’t remotely interested in burning issues like how to impress Kayode’s mum in Lagos or how to fit nine restaurants into a one-week holiday.
Ronke’s streamlined list of restaurants included three mama puts – the best in Lagos, according to Aunty K. Ronke loved everything about these hole-in-the-wall bukas, built from tarpaulin and rusty corrugated iron. The food (cooked in blackened pots over firewood pits) was ridiculously cheap and unbelievably delicious. The scowling cooks guarded their recipes like state secrets. Customers travelled for miles on okadas or in luxury limos. Bankers sat on mismatched plastic chairs next to impoverished students, inhaled the same car fumes and listened to the same soundtrack of blaring horns, squawking chickens and shouting. Ronke couldn’t wait.
Eliza walked in with their last patient. ‘Your friend is downstairs – I told her you’d be twenty minutes.’
‘Who?’ Ronke asked. She wasn’t expecting anyone.
‘Don’t know. She said she was your best friend.’
‘What does she look like?’
‘Long brown hair in a pony. Pretty.’
Boo. Please let her have come to her senses. She wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t to apologize. Would she? Being pissed off with Boo had made Ronke miserable. She was more than ready to forgive her, even though her siding with Isobel at Simi’s tea had really hurt.
The patient was a regular – an easy six-monthly check-up – no cavities, no X-rays, no stress. Ronke was done in fifteen minutes. ‘You get off, Eliza. I’ll load the autoclave. Send Boo up – she knows the way.’
Ronke heard the footsteps, peeled off her gloves and turned round. ‘Oh, it’s you.’ She dropped her arms. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Hi, Ronks.’ Isobel’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. She was shrouded in an over-the-top floor-length white faux fox-fur coat. At least Ronke hoped it was faux. ‘I would have called but my phone’s dead. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. Actually, can I borrow yours? I need to let Vadim know I’ll be a while.’
‘Er … yeah, sure.’ Ronke unlocked her phone and handed it over. ‘I’ll let Tina go, she’s meant to finish at twelve.’
‘Take your time.’ Isobel looked around the room imperiously as she pulled off her white leather gloves, one finger at a time.
Ronke stomped down the stairs. Why was Isobel here? What did she want? And how could she get rid of her? She had plans for the afternoon, a critical mission – Kayode’s family had a pool; she had to find a flattering swimsuit.
When Ronke came back in, Isobel was sitting cross-legged on the patient’s armchair. She was wearing a long white wrap dress – the sort of thing you’d wear to get married on a beach. The dress had fallen open at her upper thigh, the fabric pooling on either side of her toned brown legs. Her black bovver boots were incongruous with the dress. She looked thoroughly out of place in Ronke’s little surgery.
Ronke wiped her palms on her trousers nervously. Kayode had called Isobel manly – Ronke could see it now. The dress was soft and silky but Isobel looked strong and muscular. The veins in her neck stood out like cords. Ronke was her complete opposite – short and dumpy, in faded black cotton scrubs.
‘I have to tell you something. Promise you won’t shoot the messenger.’ Isobel tilted her head. Ronke took in her patronizing half-smile.
‘I promise.’ Ronke sank on to her little stool.
‘The thing is … Well, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll be blunt. It’s Kayode. He’s been hounding me. He keeps calling, saying he wants me back. I haven’t given him any encouragement – the opposite in fact. I’ve told him to stop, to leave me alone, but he’s getting more and more intense. Maybe it’s best if you hear for yourself.’ Isobel tapped at her phone.
‘You said it wasn’t working.’ Ronke’s voice was croaky.
‘Silly me. I’d turned it off by mistake. I’m crap with technology. Now hush.’ Isobel held out her phone.
