Wahala, page 5
Each wrap took seconds. Soon the pot, lined with banana leaf stems, was full.
‘Come and try one, I will guide you. This time I know you will get it.’
Aunty K’s moin-moin were perfect pyramid-shaped parcels with no leaks. Ronke’s attempt took for ever and was, as usual, a disaster. An amorphous blob that oozed pink batter.
Some things didn’t change. Which, as far as Ronke was concerned, was a good thing.
RONKE WAS ASLEEP ON THE sofa when the buzzer went. She was wearing a cashmere hoodie (a gift from Simi) and bed shorts. Kayode loved her legs. And her bottom. She paused to check her face in the hall mirror; she was going for angry but sexy. He should have called, not texted. But maybe he couldn’t face telling her, and the flowers were beautiful. Satisfied, she pressed play on her iPod – Nina Simone, ‘My Baby Just Cares for Me’ – and buzzed him in.
He came in wearing his ‘sorry little boy’ look. Shoulders hunched, back bent, trying to make himself look small. A trick he didn’t quite pull off as he was eight inches taller than Ronke in her highest heels and she was wearing socks.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, handing her a square box. Artisan du Chocolat Salted Caramels. ‘Hugo called in sick and I had to take his meeting with a fund manager.’
Ronke raised her eyebrows and glared at him. He winked and pulled a family-sized bar out of his jacket pocket. She couldn’t not smile – she loved Aero Mint.
‘Come here, you idiot,’ she laughed, snatching the chocolates and snuggling into his open arms.
‘Was your aunty OK?’ he asked. ‘Did she like the flowers?’
‘She cursed you in Yoruba, called you Mr Elusive and talked about juju.’
‘It wasn’t my fault. Not this time.’
‘Yeah, whatever,’ she said, handing him a cold beer. She didn’t want a row.
‘I do want to meet her. What’s wrong with this weekend?’
‘She goes back to Lagos on Sunday.’
‘We could do Saturday?’
‘OK, I’ll call her tomorrow. Have you had anything to eat?’
‘Not since breakfast. Hugo hadn’t done any prep. I had to run the liquidity ratios from scratch. I don’t suppose there’s any moin-moin left?’
‘I’m not sure you deserve any.’
‘I’ll work for it,’ he said, pulling her down on to the sofa.
5
Boo
BOO WAS HAVING A shitty day. Another shitty day.
She’d been sure her life would fall into place once Sofia started proper school but the much hoped-for freedom hadn’t materialized. Instead, Boo had developed a weird split personality disorder – she was either desperately missing her little shadow or desperate to escape her. When she wasn’t bereft, she was smothered.
On Mondays and Tuesdays, she went to work – squashed by guilt.
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
For being happy as she rushed out of the house, leaving Didier to get Sofia dressed in her actual uniform, without crazy socks or hat or belt or scarf. For spending ages in front of the mirror, trying on multiple outfits and hating them all. For hoping her boss would be in the office. For staying at work later than she needed to. For praying that Didier would have done Sofia’s supper and bath before she got in. For wanting a different life.
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.
Wednesdays to Fridays, Boo was a stay-at-home mum – flattened by resentment and bitterness. Unappreciated and bored. What do you want? she asked herself. A fucking medal for doing the school run? A round of applause for sorting out a wash?
Getting Sofia and Didier fed and out of the house this morning had been like herding cats.
‘No, you can’t wear your tiara to school.’
‘No, you can’t have cake for breakfast.’
‘No, we can’t FaceTime your grandparents.’
Didier had behaved like a toddler. Playing minigolf in the kitchen, wearing nothing but boxers, his pale doughy tummy wobbling, while Sofia ran around shrieking.
‘Mama’s favourite word is non,’ he had said.
‘Oui, Papa. Non. Non. Non. Non.’ Sofia giggled like a loon.
Boo had clenched her fists and swallowed a scream.
Things got a whole lot worse when they arrived at the school gate. Boo was about to take command of Sofia’s scooter when she heard a voice coming from a two-inch gap in the tinted window of an SUV parked on the zigzag lines, next to the polite sign asking parents not to stop there. She didn’t take much notice at first.
But the voice got shriller. ‘You! Yes, you. You! Hello? Do you speak English?’
Boo turned. The window lowered a few more inches and a blonde bobbed woman with mirrored shades, bright red lipstick and an enormous phone pressed to her ear pointed a manicured finger at her.
‘You talking to me?’ Boo pointed at herself.
‘I’m trying to. Can you take Figgy in? My nanny’s off sick again and I’m late for work. You’re not looking for a new position, are you? I could really use someone more dependable.’
Boo had been struck dumb. Which was fine. The woman didn’t want a reply. She hopped out, unclipped a plump child, pressed a business card into Boo’s hand, hopped back in, slammed the door, revved her Range Rover and accelerated off, leaving Boo gaping like a guppy fish.
Luckily Sofia had better social skills. ‘Don’t worry, Figgy, I’ll look after you,’ she had said, taking the child’s hand and marching off to the school gate. ‘Close your mouth, Mama. You look silly.’
Boo stomped home with the scooter. Who would call their fat daughter Figgy, for fuck’s sake?
She was still fuming when she got home. Tick-fucking-tock. I hate my fucking life.
She’d sat down with a brew to make a list of all the things she could (should) be doing when her phone pinged.
Lunch? Today? Bluebird? Isobel says she must meet you and it’s been ages since we caught up. Say yes! Simi x
She replied instantly.
YES! YES! YES! What time?
Boo rushed around. Unloaded the dishwasher. Shoved some clothes in the washing machine. Stuffed the pile of paperwork she’d been putting off sorting back in the drawer. Off with the ancient joggers. On with the leather mini – the one she’d worn to work last week.
She felt naughty. Stop being ridiculous, she told herself. You are not a fucking nanny. You are allowed to meet a friend for lunch.
ISOBEL WAS NOTHING LIKE THE glamazon Ronke had described. Yes, she was attractive and slim, but most people were slim next to Ronke. Boo couldn’t comment on Isobel’s boobs – they were hidden under a cream silk shirt. And her hair wasn’t blonde – or down to her arse – it was dark brown, in a neat bun. She was almost austere – no jewellery, no colour. Elegant was the word. Nobody would mistake her for a nanny.
Isobel stood to say hello. ‘Simi talks about you non-stop. I’ve been dying to meet you.’
After Ronke’s description, Boo had expected Isobel to be taller but they were about the same height. Her voice was soft and her eyes were warm. She touched Boo’s arm and sat back in her seat. Boo was relieved. She wasn’t a hugger. Ronke and Simi were obsessed with hugging. Boo assumed it was an African thing. Aunty K did it too.
Boo never forced pictures of Sofia down people’s throats. She’d had it done to her often enough. Here’s Ophelia in the (clawfoot) bath, on the (pristine white) slopes, in her (private) school uniform, on her (rare-breed) pony, on the beach (Rock) in Cornwall. But Isobel insisted – she’d heard all about Sofia and Didier; she wanted to put faces to names.
She was interested in Boo’s work, unlike Simi and Ronke who glazed over and called her a boffin. Isobel had actually heard of bioinformatics and the Human Genome Project. She wanted to know all about Boo’s paper on the future of personalized medicine.
Simi looked shocked when Boo said how good-looking her boss was, which was rich. Simi was an awful flirt, even when Martin was sitting next to her.
‘He looks a bit like Steve Coogan … but younger and fitter,’ Boo said. Simi and Isobel gazed back at her with blank faces. Neither of them had seen The Trip. Why watch it when you’re living it? They didn’t spend their evenings vegging out with a lazy husband.
Boo was disappointed when Simi called time, prattling on about silk blends and hand-rolled seams. You’d have thought she’d invented penicillin, not a tagline for a clothing brand. So when Isobel begged her to stay a bit longer, she agreed.
‘Another drink?’ asked Isobel.
‘I shouldn’t – I’ve got to pick Sofia up at half three …’
‘In Clapham? We’ll drop you off.’ Isobel ordered another bottle of wine and moved into Simi’s seat. ‘Do you still train?’
Simi had bigged Boo up over lunch, told Isobel how she’d been captain of the athletics team in uni.
‘I try to run at least once a week, but I’m out of shape. Now Sofia’s at school, I’m determined to get my act—’
‘We can be fitness buddies!’ Isobel interrupted.
‘I guess … I don’t know – how far do you run?’
‘I’ll do whatever you do.’
‘Well, we could give it a try, um …’ Boo felt pressured. Training and jogging were worlds apart and Boo was dismissive of joggers.
‘I’m being too keen, aren’t I?’ Isobel fiddled with her napkin. ‘Sorry. My ex-husband hated me socializing. I’ve forgotten how to make friends.’
Boo warmed to her. She knew exactly how that felt. ‘We could meet at the outdoor gym on the Common? It’s a great place to warm up. And it’s free.’ She realized as she said it that being free wouldn’t be a priority for Isobel.
‘Thank you!’ said Isobel. ‘Now tell me all about your little girl. How old is she?’
‘Five going on fifteen.’ Boo launched into her latest bugbear – Sofia’s birthday party. Her sensible suggestions – bouncy castle, balloon animals, pass the parcel – had been deemed dull and boring. Sofia wanted an utterly ridiculous gangster theme. ‘Didier has made things worse, as usual,’ she said. ‘He suggested water pistols and now Sofia has her heart set on guns.’
‘How about a rap party?’ said Isobel. ‘You know, hip-hop.’
Boo was underwhelmed. ‘Isn’t that a different name for gangster?’
But Isobel was convincing. Her stepsister in New York had organized one last year for her daughter. ‘The entertainer was so cool. He taught the kids a dance, backsliding and body-popping; they were so into it.’ Isobel moved her hands to demonstrate the moves. ‘They did this show. It was awful. But it kept them away from us – and not screaming – for hours.’
‘I guess it could work,’ said Boo. ‘Didier will love it – he’s a big kid.’
‘You could have a mirror ball, glow bracelets, baseball caps, Kanye West shutter shades …’ said Isobel. ‘How about a graffiti wall with crayons? The kids could have fake gold chains.’
‘You’re a genius,’ Boo said. ‘You must come.’ She couldn’t wait to tell Didier and Sofia. Except there wouldn’t be a graffiti wall. As if. Only someone who didn’t have kids would even suggest it.
‘Only if you let me bring the birthday cake.’ Isobel grinned and rubbed her hands together.
Boo decided she liked her. And it would be nice to have a running mate, someone to hang out with during the week when normal people were at work. ‘Deal! Ronke usually makes the cake but she won’t mind. She’ll be doing the rest of the food.’
‘Are you sure?’ said Isobel. ‘I don’t want to tread on her toes.’
‘She’ll be fine. Ronke’s cool.’
‘She seemed a bit off at Buka, seemed annoyed that I was there,’ said Isobel. ‘And she got huffy when Simi mentioned her boyfriend. I made an excuse and left early.’
‘Oh, Ronke’s lovely. You’ll see when you get to know her properly. But as for her dodgy blokes …’ On this topic, Boo had lots to say. ‘Akin was a low point. He strung her along for a year and a half, treated her like shit. Then there was Femi the scammer. He borrowed two grand off her and disappeared. Turned out he had a fiancée in Lagos.’
‘Men can be such bastards,’ said Isobel.
‘I wish she’d meet a decent man. She deserves to be happy. But she never learns.’
‘Maybe Kayode is the one?’ said Isobel. ‘What does he do? What’s he like? Simi seems to have a downer on him.’
‘He’s a risk analyst.’ Boo was about to launch into all Kayode’s faults but she didn’t have time. It was three-fifteen. ‘I’ve got to run. Sofia’s been teaching her class to swear in French. If I turn up late and drunk at pickup, they might call social services.’
BOO WAS STILL BUZZING WHEN Vadim double-parked on the zigzag line, next to the polite sign. She hoped the bitch from this morning was watching.
She toddled off to join the pickup queue. The row of nannies, a few mums and a token dad stood to one end of the small playground. Because of course you couldn’t just grab your own child and go. Instead the children lined up at the other end, chaperoned by their teacher, and then, one by one, each child was handed to their designated picker-upper. Like some Cold War spy swap.
Up until now, Boo had thought it a sensible system. You did hear about child abductions and peculiar people hanging around school gates. But today it seemed ridiculous. What a palaver. Give me my bloody child. My feet hurt and I’m dehydrated.
When Sofia got to the front, she ran to Boo waving her latest masterpiece – a gluey, sparkly picture of something unrecognizable.
‘Skirt too short, Mama.’ Sofia shook her head in disapproval and thrust the picture at her.
‘Beautiful.’ Boo yanked her skirt down, squinted at the offering and tried to work out which way was up. ‘What is it?’
‘A dog, obvs. Where’s my scooter?’
‘You have to walk today, darling.’
Sofia slumped dramatically. ‘Walking’s boring.’
Boo yanked her upright. ‘So what did you do today?’
‘I had pizza for lunch. It was yummy. Better than yours. And I played Duck Duck Goose. And I won.’
‘Well, Mama had a busy day too. I met a new friend and we’re going running tomorrow.’
‘I’m the best runner. Ever. I run the fastest. But sometimes I let Marley catch me. The park is this way, Mama.’
‘No park today. Mama’s feet hurt. But I’ve had a great idea for your party.’
‘I want gangsters.’
‘This is better than gangsters. A hip-hop party! With breakdancing and disco lights and maybe a mirror ball and sunglasses and gold chains. We could even have a ghetto blaster piñata!’
‘And guns?’
‘No guns,’ Boo sighed. ‘Hold my hand, Sofia, we’re crossing here.’
Sofia obediently took Boo’s hand. ‘Swords?’
‘No guns, no swords. No weapons. How about pizza for supper?’
‘I told you we had pizza for lunch. Good pizza. Not like your pizza.’
Nothing like having your food critiqued by a five-year-old to sober you up. Boo rubbed her temples. She needed water. ‘Let’s stop at the shop.’
‘Haribos!’ Sofia shrieked.
‘OK. One small bag.’ Boo smiled at Sofia’s shocked face. Sometimes it was easier to say yes.
WHEN THEY GOT HOME BOO did the mandatory thirty minutes of reading practice, as recommended by the school. Boo couldn’t recall reading with her mum; she wasn’t sure they’d ever spent thirty minutes alone together. She remembered pandemonium, her stepbrothers screeching, her mum running raggedly after them. Boo would escape to the sanctuary of her room till she was called for supper.
Sofia’s supper came with the usual soul-destroying vegetable conversation, another thing Boo couldn’t remember from her own childhood. Broccoli was now acceptable, while last week’s favourite, green beans, were ‘eugh, yuck’. But you couldn’t give up and squirt ketchup over the fish fingers, not unless you wanted your child to get rickets.
Supper was followed by a strictly controlled half-hour of tablet time, which turned into an hour because in spite of living in jogging pants, it took Boo for ever to find a not-disgusting running outfit. She got lost in Sweaty Betty’s online shop, staring at pictures of long-limbed, lithe, toned women with flawless skin and gorgeous messy (on purpose) ponytails. This was so much more than workout gear – these were bum-sculpting, sweat-wicking, life-changing leggings. Add to basket. Click!
She pictured herself doing ashtanga yoga on a manicured lawn, sipping from a silver water bottle as she stretched her hamstrings in a sports-luxe jacket. Add both to basket. Click! Click!
She’d probably need a pair of faux leather leggings for non-gym days – although there wouldn’t be many of those in her new toned life – and at nearly a hundred quid, they were taking the piss. Add to wish list. Click!
Sofia pulled her back to reality. ‘Mama! Can I go to bed now? I’m tired.’
It had gone eight. Sofia should have been in bed half an hour ago. ‘Sorry, darling, I was working.’ Where was Didier? Thank God he was late.
Sofia peered at the laptop. ‘Looks like shopping.’
‘Upstairs. Quick! Wash, teeth, bed. I’ll be up in two seconds.’
‘I still get a story,’ said Sofia.
‘A short one.’ Boo shooed her up the stairs, then ticked the next-day delivery box. The best thing about PayPal – it didn’t feel like spending real money.
‘WHY ARE YOU SITTING IN the dark?’ asked Didier.
‘It’s peaceful and I’m shattered,’ Boo replied.
‘Me too. You won’t believe what Robin did. You know that client …’
Boo tuned out. She’d spent the evening listening to Sofia talk about Sofia. She couldn’t spend the next hour listening to Didier talk about Didier. She closed her eyes and imagined sprinting on a sandy beach. Who was the gorgeous man running beside her, keeping perfect pace?
‘Boo! Did you hear a word I said?’ asked Didier.
‘Sorry, drifted off.’
‘Did you pick up my suit?’
‘No, I’ll get it tomorrow.’
