Wahala, page 9
‘Don’t be daft. I want to look credible and current. I want him to take me seriously.’ Which was the truth. Pretty much.
‘Think of it as a playsuit. Just putting it on makes you more daring. No risk of doing a Simi and flashing your knickers. Best of all, the right jumpsuit will make you five inches taller and half a stone slimmer. It will stretch you – it’s remarkable.’
‘You had me at taller.’ Boo glanced at Isobel; she looked so self-assured. Maybe the right clothes could change the way she saw herself? ‘But I don’t have a jumpsuit. What about the dress I wore last week – you know, the dark grey one?’
‘Boo, we need to go shopping.’ Isobel pulled out her tablet. ‘Are you an eight?’
‘Ten. Maybe twelve …’ said Boo.
‘No wonder all your clothes are shapeless. They’re the wrong size. There’s no way you’re a twelve. You’ve got a great figure – you need to stop hiding it. And you need to stop buying cheap crap. No offence, but you get what you pay for. Get our coffees and I’ll start looking.’
By the time Boo got back, Isobel had added three jumpsuits to her basket.
‘Best to order a few, then choose the right one. Send me selfies. I love a makeover.’ Isobel clicked away. ‘God, no, you’d look like one of the Ghostbusters … This is gorgeous, but I’m not sure you’re ready for tiger print.’
The jumpsuits she did approve of all looked identical to Boo, but Isobel waved off her concerns. ‘If you don’t like it, send it back,’ she said when Boo vetoed a backless thing. ‘You can dress it up or down and it won’t date. You need to remember you’re a woman. A sexy woman. Jump-start his passion with a jumpsuit.’ She laughed at her own joke.
‘I’m not sure Didier would even notice,’ said Boo.
‘I wasn’t talking about Didier.’ Isobel winked. ‘Anyway, how did you end up with him? You’re so gorgeous. You could have picked anyone.’
Boo pretended she didn’t hear that as she got rid of a couple of the more extreme options in the cart – one slutty, the other north of £400.
Shopping done, they chatted about Sofia’s party. Isobel asked for pictures of Sofia for the cake – she wouldn’t say why: it was a surprise.
‘Is Ronke OK?’ asked Isobel.
‘Yeah. Why?’ Boo was startled at the abrupt change of subject.
‘I’ve messaged her a few times, suggested we meet up – I want to get to know her – but she’s always too busy. I’m starting to worry she doesn’t like me. And she seemed upset the other night.’
‘It’s not you.’ Boo squirmed. ‘It was probably my fault with all the dad talk. Hers died when she was young. She never really got over it.’
‘Really? What was he like?’
‘I’ve no idea. I know as little about him as I do about mine. But she thinks he was perfect.’
‘He wasn’t,’ Isobel muttered.
‘Huh?’ Boo cocked her head.
‘Nothing.’ Isobel waved her hand dismissively. ‘Didn’t your mum tell you anything about your father?’
‘Just once, when she did the birds and bees thing.’
‘What did she say?’ asked Isobel.
‘This is so dull.’ Boo stretched her arms behind her and looked towards the exit. She’d only brought up fathers to move the conversation along. She could hardly tell Isobel that Ronke thought she was strange and pushy.
‘No, it’s not. I want to know everything.’
‘OK,’ said Boo. ‘So Mum moved to London when she was nineteen, got a job as a receptionist in a swanky hotel. Enter this sophisticated Nigerian bloke – he splashed the cash and swept her off her feet. They went to Paris for their first date; he gave her a gold bracelet on the second. She was naive, thought it was true love. He set her up in a flat in Finchley and she got pregnant. He stuck around for a few months, long enough to choose my name, but not long enough to meet me.’
‘He named you Boo?’
‘Bukola. He said it was his mother’s name. Probably another lie.’
‘I think it’s a lovely name,’ said Isobel.
‘I don’t.’ Boo hated the name – it reminded her of her father, the con artist.
‘Your poor mum,’ said Isobel. ‘It must have been so hard for her.’
Boo shrugged. ‘She moved back to Pickering and met Terry, my stepdad, when I was four. They got married a year later. She’s happy. I’m happy. It’s all good.’
‘Yes. It is,’ said Isobel.
Boo was relieved that Isobel understood. ‘Mum was so stupid. She thought something terrible must have happened. She even went to the Nigerian High Commission. They laughed in her face, told her he had a wife at home.’
‘And you never tried to find him?’ Isobel’s forehead was creased with concern.
‘Why would I? According to Ronke, one in four Africans is Nigerian, so it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. And anyway, I don’t want anything to do with him.’
‘What’s your maiden name?’
‘Whyte.’
‘No, I mean, your father’s name,’ said Isobel.
‘Dele Babangari.’ Boo shifted her hips and glanced towards the door again. She knew Isobel was trying to support her but she was sick of the topic and starting to feel pressured. ‘Can we talk about something else? He’s not my dad. He’s nothing to me.’
‘You’re right.’ Isobel laid her hand gently on Boo’s arm. ‘He’s nothing to you. When’s your birthday?’
‘August,’ said Boo. ‘Why?’
‘I told you, I want to know everything.’ Isobel took her hand back and interlaced her fingers. ‘That makes you four months older than me.’
Boo laughed. ‘Practically your aunt.’
THE NEXT DAY, WHILE BOO was trying to persuade Sofia that courgettes were not poisonous, a massive box arrived. Boo was excited but nervous. Could confidence be sewn into clothes? She made Sofia wash her hands twice before they took it upstairs. Under layers of black tissue were five exquisite black jumpsuits, each wrapped in more tissue, tied with black grosgrain ribbons.
Sofia stood on the bed, jumping up and down, giving a running commentary while Boo tried them on.
‘No, Mama, too tight – you look fat!’
‘Too long – you’ll fall over!’
And then: ‘You look beautiful,’ Sofia whispered. ‘Like a model. But betterer.’
Boo corrected her absently. She turned in front of the mirror. Isobel was right. Taller and slimmer. And more interesting.
‘Take a picture.’ Boo handed Sofia her phone and stood on tiptoe. She’d have to think about shoes. Would her smart black ones work? Making an effort was a real effort.
She stepped out of it carefully. £295. It would be the second most expensive item of clothing she’d ever owned. The most expensive being her wedding dress and that was only four quid more.
She ran Sofia’s bath and watched her drowning ducks, wincing at the blood-curdling death screams Sofia made as they died one by one, before bobbing back to the surface to be killed again. As per Isobel’s instructions, she sent her the photo, then packed the returns, hiding the box at the back of the wardrobe. Sofia would babble about their dress-up session, but Didier didn’t need to know it was from a posh designer shop. Not that she needed his permission.
Her phone pinged.
I told you. SEXY! Goodbye Dull Boo. Hello Hot Boo!
9
Simi
LIFE WAS BETTER WHEN Martin was home. And he was here for four whole days.
On the phone Simi crept stealthily through their conversations, cramming omission after omission into her jam-packed box of withholding. Isobel’s words came back to her: ‘Not telling isn’t the same as lying.’ Yet again she was right. Martin didn’t need to know she’d spent an hour talking to Isobel’s headhunter last week. He didn’t need to know how often she woke up hungover with a dry mouth and banging head, feeling empty. In the flesh, none of it mattered.
He’d arrived at ten past three the previous afternoon. Simi was at the door waiting; she’d taken the day off work. They stood hugging, swaying on the spot in silence.
It was like being fitted with stabilizer wheels. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. They emerged at seven and went across the road to Lanterna, their local, for their usual. Seabass with olives for her (he ate the parmesan chips), American hot for him (he ate all of it), two green salads (she ate both) and a bottle of Montepulciano (they shared). They were back in bed at half eight.
‘Time to get up!’ Simi flung open the curtains. The sky was blue, the sun was shining. Everything was wonderful.
‘You cow.’ Martin pulled the duvet over his head. ‘What time is it?’
‘Ten.’
‘How did that happen?’ He peeked out. ‘Come back for a cuddle.’
‘We tried that at nine.’
‘I think I could try again.’
‘You’re a pervert. Now get up. Borough Market calls.’ She threw his jeans at him.
Simi had invited the gang for supper on Saturday. Martin loved hosting and she was at her best when she was showing off her golden life. He’d suggested pizzas from next door – but there was no way that was going to happen. She’d spent ages flicking through her seldom-used cookbooks. What could she make that would astound her friends? And be edible? She’d considered asking Ronke to help, but Ronke would want to make Nigerian food. She wanted to blow their minds.
‘Why are you cooking anyway? You hate cooking.’ Martin wriggled into his jeans.
‘I’ve got a cunning plan,’ said Simi. ‘It’s foolproof. As long as you don’t overcook the steaks.’
‘We’ll need to get gas for the barbecue.’
‘All done. Your domestic goddess wife has seen to it. And Essie cleaned it yesterday. We just need to get to the shops.’
‘Get a move on then.’ He rattled his car keys. ‘We can grab brunch at Brindisa. I’m starving.’
‘Can’t think why.’ Simi winked as she pulled on her multicoloured mirrored mosaic over-the-knee Tom Ford boots. ‘We have to be back by three. I’ve got a delivery and it needs to go in the fridge.’
‘What?’
‘Dauphinoise potatoes, twice-cooked soufflés and chocolate cheesecake.’
‘You cheating little hussy.’
‘It’s better than poisoning our friends. And if you let on, you’ll never have sex again.’
‘We should get some flowers for Amanita.’ Martin held the door open.
‘Who’s Amanita?’
‘Ebenezer’s wife.’
‘Why does his wife need flowers? Don’t tell me she’s pregnant again?’ Simi regretted the words before she got to the end of the sentence.
‘No, it’s not good. She has breast cancer. He told me yesterday. The poor bloke – he’s so worried. She starts chemo next week.’ He slapped Simi’s bottom. ‘Come on! You said we had to rush.’
Simi didn’t meet his eyes. Martin had been back for five minutes. How could she not have known what was going on with Ebenezer? She pictured him sitting at his reception desk, smiling as he greeted her. Only last night she had pretended to be on the phone to avoid a chat.
One of her boots had slipped down her knee. She leaned over to pull it up. A few seconds ago they’d made her feel sassy. Now she felt selfish.
‘Simi! You OK?’
‘Yup. Let’s stop at Chez Michele. They do amazing bouquets. I’ll get them to deliver on Monday.’
FORTY-NINE. FORTY-EIGHT. FORTY-SEVEN. Simi’s eyes flicked between timer and oven. She had no idea what she was looking for. All she knew about soufflés was that they made an impact, which was why she’d chosen them. The leaflet said eight minutes and she was going to be precise.
She smoothed down her dress, a silk-chiffon DVF mini wrap with a palm print and a ruffled neck. The dress was as iconic as her evening was going to be. Classic, classy and effortless. Martin had refused to change out of his old jeans and vintage Arsenal top. And he refused to put on shoes (Simi had made him swap his holey socks at least). He poured wine – topped the glasses too full and too often, passed around spiced nuts and slapped Simi on the bottom whenever they passed each other. He was in his element.
Ronke was in jeans (as usual). Earrings were her idea of pulling out all the stops. But Boo looked different – almost stylish – in a black jumpsuit instead of her tired leather skirt. The shoes were wrong though, way too clunky. ‘Love the jumpsuit, Boo,’ said Simi. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘Iso chose it.’ Boo did a twirl. ‘She has a real eye for fashion. She thinks I should get a weave.’
Simi felt herself bristle. She worked in fashion. She had two real eyes.
Boo seemed chattier too. A bit like she’d had too much sugar. Or coke. But no, Goody-Boo-Shoes would never do drugs – not even in uni, when everyone experimented. Boo was high on Isobel. It was all, Isobel this (so athletic, we’re doing 5k in thirty-two minutes now), Isobel that (incredibly creative, her hip-hop party idea is inspired), Isobel the other (she’s healing at last – Chase did so much damage, she’d forgotten how to trust people). At one point during one of the eulogies, Didier had stretched his arms with a yawn and made an exaggerated eye-roll. Simi knew how he felt.
Simi hadn’t realized how easy-going Kayode was. Or how funny. He looked relaxed and natural. He pulled back Ronke’s chair when they sat for dinner and kept touching her – playing with her hair, stroking her arm, resting his hand on her knee. It was sweet. They even had inside jokes.
And then he told them the story of how they met.
‘So nobody likes the dentist, right?’ Kayode paused and looked around the table. ‘But we all know we’ve got to go. So you book an appointment and pray they won’t mention the drill. In I walk. And BOOM!’ He threw his hands dramatically in the air, then took Ronke’s hand. ‘The most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’
Simi watched Ronke’s cheeks redden. She looked so happy.
‘Ah,’ said everyone. Except Boo.
‘Now you may not appreciate this, but even I struggle to impress a girl when I’m dribbling down my chin.’ Kayode beamed a toothy smile. ‘I look over at her assistant – he’s winking and twitching. I figure either that I’m sending out the wrong signals or he’s trying to tell me something.’ Kayode put his arms around Ronke. ‘It’s all down to Rafa really. Thanks to him I worked up the courage to ask her out.’ He kissed Ronke gently on the forehead.
‘Ah,’ said everyone. Even Boo.
Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen. This was bloody easy. The plates were warm and waiting with their little piles of micro herbs. ‘A fiver for a sprig of cress – they must have seen you coming,’ Martin had said. She’d ignored him. He’d blown the budget on six tomahawk steaks.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Simi opened the oven and peeped in. They’d risen! Oh no, they were collapsing. She grabbed one, burned her fingers and yelped.
‘They look amazing!’ said Ronke, who had rushed over to help.
‘That one’s sinking. And they’re tiny. They looked much bigger in the picture.’
‘Don’t worry, they’re perfect.’ Ronke grabbed a tea towel and placed a ramekin on each plate. ‘Is there a sauce?’
‘Sauce?’ asked Simi, with a note of panic.
‘Ignore me. They don’t need sauce. You go first – it’s your gig.’ Simi took two plates. Ronke followed, balancing four like a pro.
The soufflés were OK. Minuscule but edible. They all cleared their plates. Which wasn’t difficult.
Martin grinned at her. ‘You’ll have to give Ronke the recipe.’
Simi kicked him under the table. ‘I assume you’ll be OK cooking the steaks by yourself, seeing as I’ve done everything else?’
Martin kissed her, topped up the glasses and headed to the balcony with Didier and Kayode.
‘Isn’t this nice?’ said Ronke, once they were out of earshot. ‘The six of us together. And the boys get on so well.’
‘Men,’ said Simi. ‘But yeah, I can’t wait for Martin to come home for good. I’m better when he’s here.’
‘How come you didn’t invite Isobel?’ asked Boo. ‘She was really upset.’
‘Boo! You idiot.’ Simi knew how petulant Isobel could get if she felt excluded. At school once she’d made Simi’s life hell just for sitting next to someone else at lunch. She had thought of asking her but in the end decided not to – Iso could be a diva and Martin hated drama; they probably wouldn’t hit it off.
‘Sorry,’ said Boo, ‘you didn’t say it was a secret. I just assumed she was coming.’
‘She’s never met Martin, and it’s a couples thing,’ said Simi. ‘She takes over a bit and I wanted a relaxed evening.’
‘I’m glad she’s not here,’ said Ronke. ‘She’s way too intense. She keeps calling me, wanting to meet up.’
‘It’s called being nice.’ Boo tapped her nails on the glass dining table.
‘I wish you hadn’t told her.’ Simi was becoming irritated with Boo, acting like Isobel was her friend, as if she was the first person in the world ever to have a gel manicure.
The balcony door opened and cold air rushed in. Simi hugged herself; her skimpy wrap dress offered no protection.
‘Five minutes’ rest and we’re on,’ said Martin. ‘Who’s for red?’
‘Bugger! The potatoes!’ Simi dashed to the kitchen, tailed closely by Ronke. ‘Oh no! Oh no!’ she wailed. ‘I was meant to take them out twenty minutes ago.’
‘We can do a salvage job,’ said Ronke calmly.
‘It’s cremated. Ruined.’ Simi poked at the dried-out crust.
Ronke laughed. ‘You’ll do anything to avoid carbs.’
‘It’s not funny.’ But Simi was glad Ronke was here. You could count on her to diffuse tension. The opposite of Isobel, who could be relied on to amplify it. She had a sudden vision of Isobel’s pinched face as she said ‘Bloody men’ a few weeks ago, and realized she didn’t actually want Martin to meet her.
‘Have you got any bread?’ asked Ronke, pulling Simi back to the present.
‘There’s an artisan baguette,’ said Simi.
‘Who needs potatoes when there’s posh bread?’ Ronke grabbed a bowl. ‘Pass the vinegar and olive oil. I’ll mix up a quick dressing.’
‘Think of it as a playsuit. Just putting it on makes you more daring. No risk of doing a Simi and flashing your knickers. Best of all, the right jumpsuit will make you five inches taller and half a stone slimmer. It will stretch you – it’s remarkable.’
‘You had me at taller.’ Boo glanced at Isobel; she looked so self-assured. Maybe the right clothes could change the way she saw herself? ‘But I don’t have a jumpsuit. What about the dress I wore last week – you know, the dark grey one?’
‘Boo, we need to go shopping.’ Isobel pulled out her tablet. ‘Are you an eight?’
‘Ten. Maybe twelve …’ said Boo.
‘No wonder all your clothes are shapeless. They’re the wrong size. There’s no way you’re a twelve. You’ve got a great figure – you need to stop hiding it. And you need to stop buying cheap crap. No offence, but you get what you pay for. Get our coffees and I’ll start looking.’
By the time Boo got back, Isobel had added three jumpsuits to her basket.
‘Best to order a few, then choose the right one. Send me selfies. I love a makeover.’ Isobel clicked away. ‘God, no, you’d look like one of the Ghostbusters … This is gorgeous, but I’m not sure you’re ready for tiger print.’
The jumpsuits she did approve of all looked identical to Boo, but Isobel waved off her concerns. ‘If you don’t like it, send it back,’ she said when Boo vetoed a backless thing. ‘You can dress it up or down and it won’t date. You need to remember you’re a woman. A sexy woman. Jump-start his passion with a jumpsuit.’ She laughed at her own joke.
‘I’m not sure Didier would even notice,’ said Boo.
‘I wasn’t talking about Didier.’ Isobel winked. ‘Anyway, how did you end up with him? You’re so gorgeous. You could have picked anyone.’
Boo pretended she didn’t hear that as she got rid of a couple of the more extreme options in the cart – one slutty, the other north of £400.
Shopping done, they chatted about Sofia’s party. Isobel asked for pictures of Sofia for the cake – she wouldn’t say why: it was a surprise.
‘Is Ronke OK?’ asked Isobel.
‘Yeah. Why?’ Boo was startled at the abrupt change of subject.
‘I’ve messaged her a few times, suggested we meet up – I want to get to know her – but she’s always too busy. I’m starting to worry she doesn’t like me. And she seemed upset the other night.’
‘It’s not you.’ Boo squirmed. ‘It was probably my fault with all the dad talk. Hers died when she was young. She never really got over it.’
‘Really? What was he like?’
‘I’ve no idea. I know as little about him as I do about mine. But she thinks he was perfect.’
‘He wasn’t,’ Isobel muttered.
‘Huh?’ Boo cocked her head.
‘Nothing.’ Isobel waved her hand dismissively. ‘Didn’t your mum tell you anything about your father?’
‘Just once, when she did the birds and bees thing.’
‘What did she say?’ asked Isobel.
‘This is so dull.’ Boo stretched her arms behind her and looked towards the exit. She’d only brought up fathers to move the conversation along. She could hardly tell Isobel that Ronke thought she was strange and pushy.
‘No, it’s not. I want to know everything.’
‘OK,’ said Boo. ‘So Mum moved to London when she was nineteen, got a job as a receptionist in a swanky hotel. Enter this sophisticated Nigerian bloke – he splashed the cash and swept her off her feet. They went to Paris for their first date; he gave her a gold bracelet on the second. She was naive, thought it was true love. He set her up in a flat in Finchley and she got pregnant. He stuck around for a few months, long enough to choose my name, but not long enough to meet me.’
‘He named you Boo?’
‘Bukola. He said it was his mother’s name. Probably another lie.’
‘I think it’s a lovely name,’ said Isobel.
‘I don’t.’ Boo hated the name – it reminded her of her father, the con artist.
‘Your poor mum,’ said Isobel. ‘It must have been so hard for her.’
Boo shrugged. ‘She moved back to Pickering and met Terry, my stepdad, when I was four. They got married a year later. She’s happy. I’m happy. It’s all good.’
‘Yes. It is,’ said Isobel.
Boo was relieved that Isobel understood. ‘Mum was so stupid. She thought something terrible must have happened. She even went to the Nigerian High Commission. They laughed in her face, told her he had a wife at home.’
‘And you never tried to find him?’ Isobel’s forehead was creased with concern.
‘Why would I? According to Ronke, one in four Africans is Nigerian, so it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. And anyway, I don’t want anything to do with him.’
‘What’s your maiden name?’
‘Whyte.’
‘No, I mean, your father’s name,’ said Isobel.
‘Dele Babangari.’ Boo shifted her hips and glanced towards the door again. She knew Isobel was trying to support her but she was sick of the topic and starting to feel pressured. ‘Can we talk about something else? He’s not my dad. He’s nothing to me.’
‘You’re right.’ Isobel laid her hand gently on Boo’s arm. ‘He’s nothing to you. When’s your birthday?’
‘August,’ said Boo. ‘Why?’
‘I told you, I want to know everything.’ Isobel took her hand back and interlaced her fingers. ‘That makes you four months older than me.’
Boo laughed. ‘Practically your aunt.’
THE NEXT DAY, WHILE BOO was trying to persuade Sofia that courgettes were not poisonous, a massive box arrived. Boo was excited but nervous. Could confidence be sewn into clothes? She made Sofia wash her hands twice before they took it upstairs. Under layers of black tissue were five exquisite black jumpsuits, each wrapped in more tissue, tied with black grosgrain ribbons.
Sofia stood on the bed, jumping up and down, giving a running commentary while Boo tried them on.
‘No, Mama, too tight – you look fat!’
‘Too long – you’ll fall over!’
And then: ‘You look beautiful,’ Sofia whispered. ‘Like a model. But betterer.’
Boo corrected her absently. She turned in front of the mirror. Isobel was right. Taller and slimmer. And more interesting.
‘Take a picture.’ Boo handed Sofia her phone and stood on tiptoe. She’d have to think about shoes. Would her smart black ones work? Making an effort was a real effort.
She stepped out of it carefully. £295. It would be the second most expensive item of clothing she’d ever owned. The most expensive being her wedding dress and that was only four quid more.
She ran Sofia’s bath and watched her drowning ducks, wincing at the blood-curdling death screams Sofia made as they died one by one, before bobbing back to the surface to be killed again. As per Isobel’s instructions, she sent her the photo, then packed the returns, hiding the box at the back of the wardrobe. Sofia would babble about their dress-up session, but Didier didn’t need to know it was from a posh designer shop. Not that she needed his permission.
Her phone pinged.
I told you. SEXY! Goodbye Dull Boo. Hello Hot Boo!
9
Simi
LIFE WAS BETTER WHEN Martin was home. And he was here for four whole days.
On the phone Simi crept stealthily through their conversations, cramming omission after omission into her jam-packed box of withholding. Isobel’s words came back to her: ‘Not telling isn’t the same as lying.’ Yet again she was right. Martin didn’t need to know she’d spent an hour talking to Isobel’s headhunter last week. He didn’t need to know how often she woke up hungover with a dry mouth and banging head, feeling empty. In the flesh, none of it mattered.
He’d arrived at ten past three the previous afternoon. Simi was at the door waiting; she’d taken the day off work. They stood hugging, swaying on the spot in silence.
It was like being fitted with stabilizer wheels. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. They emerged at seven and went across the road to Lanterna, their local, for their usual. Seabass with olives for her (he ate the parmesan chips), American hot for him (he ate all of it), two green salads (she ate both) and a bottle of Montepulciano (they shared). They were back in bed at half eight.
‘Time to get up!’ Simi flung open the curtains. The sky was blue, the sun was shining. Everything was wonderful.
‘You cow.’ Martin pulled the duvet over his head. ‘What time is it?’
‘Ten.’
‘How did that happen?’ He peeked out. ‘Come back for a cuddle.’
‘We tried that at nine.’
‘I think I could try again.’
‘You’re a pervert. Now get up. Borough Market calls.’ She threw his jeans at him.
Simi had invited the gang for supper on Saturday. Martin loved hosting and she was at her best when she was showing off her golden life. He’d suggested pizzas from next door – but there was no way that was going to happen. She’d spent ages flicking through her seldom-used cookbooks. What could she make that would astound her friends? And be edible? She’d considered asking Ronke to help, but Ronke would want to make Nigerian food. She wanted to blow their minds.
‘Why are you cooking anyway? You hate cooking.’ Martin wriggled into his jeans.
‘I’ve got a cunning plan,’ said Simi. ‘It’s foolproof. As long as you don’t overcook the steaks.’
‘We’ll need to get gas for the barbecue.’
‘All done. Your domestic goddess wife has seen to it. And Essie cleaned it yesterday. We just need to get to the shops.’
‘Get a move on then.’ He rattled his car keys. ‘We can grab brunch at Brindisa. I’m starving.’
‘Can’t think why.’ Simi winked as she pulled on her multicoloured mirrored mosaic over-the-knee Tom Ford boots. ‘We have to be back by three. I’ve got a delivery and it needs to go in the fridge.’
‘What?’
‘Dauphinoise potatoes, twice-cooked soufflés and chocolate cheesecake.’
‘You cheating little hussy.’
‘It’s better than poisoning our friends. And if you let on, you’ll never have sex again.’
‘We should get some flowers for Amanita.’ Martin held the door open.
‘Who’s Amanita?’
‘Ebenezer’s wife.’
‘Why does his wife need flowers? Don’t tell me she’s pregnant again?’ Simi regretted the words before she got to the end of the sentence.
‘No, it’s not good. She has breast cancer. He told me yesterday. The poor bloke – he’s so worried. She starts chemo next week.’ He slapped Simi’s bottom. ‘Come on! You said we had to rush.’
Simi didn’t meet his eyes. Martin had been back for five minutes. How could she not have known what was going on with Ebenezer? She pictured him sitting at his reception desk, smiling as he greeted her. Only last night she had pretended to be on the phone to avoid a chat.
One of her boots had slipped down her knee. She leaned over to pull it up. A few seconds ago they’d made her feel sassy. Now she felt selfish.
‘Simi! You OK?’
‘Yup. Let’s stop at Chez Michele. They do amazing bouquets. I’ll get them to deliver on Monday.’
FORTY-NINE. FORTY-EIGHT. FORTY-SEVEN. Simi’s eyes flicked between timer and oven. She had no idea what she was looking for. All she knew about soufflés was that they made an impact, which was why she’d chosen them. The leaflet said eight minutes and she was going to be precise.
She smoothed down her dress, a silk-chiffon DVF mini wrap with a palm print and a ruffled neck. The dress was as iconic as her evening was going to be. Classic, classy and effortless. Martin had refused to change out of his old jeans and vintage Arsenal top. And he refused to put on shoes (Simi had made him swap his holey socks at least). He poured wine – topped the glasses too full and too often, passed around spiced nuts and slapped Simi on the bottom whenever they passed each other. He was in his element.
Ronke was in jeans (as usual). Earrings were her idea of pulling out all the stops. But Boo looked different – almost stylish – in a black jumpsuit instead of her tired leather skirt. The shoes were wrong though, way too clunky. ‘Love the jumpsuit, Boo,’ said Simi. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘Iso chose it.’ Boo did a twirl. ‘She has a real eye for fashion. She thinks I should get a weave.’
Simi felt herself bristle. She worked in fashion. She had two real eyes.
Boo seemed chattier too. A bit like she’d had too much sugar. Or coke. But no, Goody-Boo-Shoes would never do drugs – not even in uni, when everyone experimented. Boo was high on Isobel. It was all, Isobel this (so athletic, we’re doing 5k in thirty-two minutes now), Isobel that (incredibly creative, her hip-hop party idea is inspired), Isobel the other (she’s healing at last – Chase did so much damage, she’d forgotten how to trust people). At one point during one of the eulogies, Didier had stretched his arms with a yawn and made an exaggerated eye-roll. Simi knew how he felt.
Simi hadn’t realized how easy-going Kayode was. Or how funny. He looked relaxed and natural. He pulled back Ronke’s chair when they sat for dinner and kept touching her – playing with her hair, stroking her arm, resting his hand on her knee. It was sweet. They even had inside jokes.
And then he told them the story of how they met.
‘So nobody likes the dentist, right?’ Kayode paused and looked around the table. ‘But we all know we’ve got to go. So you book an appointment and pray they won’t mention the drill. In I walk. And BOOM!’ He threw his hands dramatically in the air, then took Ronke’s hand. ‘The most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’
Simi watched Ronke’s cheeks redden. She looked so happy.
‘Ah,’ said everyone. Except Boo.
‘Now you may not appreciate this, but even I struggle to impress a girl when I’m dribbling down my chin.’ Kayode beamed a toothy smile. ‘I look over at her assistant – he’s winking and twitching. I figure either that I’m sending out the wrong signals or he’s trying to tell me something.’ Kayode put his arms around Ronke. ‘It’s all down to Rafa really. Thanks to him I worked up the courage to ask her out.’ He kissed Ronke gently on the forehead.
‘Ah,’ said everyone. Even Boo.
Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen. This was bloody easy. The plates were warm and waiting with their little piles of micro herbs. ‘A fiver for a sprig of cress – they must have seen you coming,’ Martin had said. She’d ignored him. He’d blown the budget on six tomahawk steaks.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Simi opened the oven and peeped in. They’d risen! Oh no, they were collapsing. She grabbed one, burned her fingers and yelped.
‘They look amazing!’ said Ronke, who had rushed over to help.
‘That one’s sinking. And they’re tiny. They looked much bigger in the picture.’
‘Don’t worry, they’re perfect.’ Ronke grabbed a tea towel and placed a ramekin on each plate. ‘Is there a sauce?’
‘Sauce?’ asked Simi, with a note of panic.
‘Ignore me. They don’t need sauce. You go first – it’s your gig.’ Simi took two plates. Ronke followed, balancing four like a pro.
The soufflés were OK. Minuscule but edible. They all cleared their plates. Which wasn’t difficult.
Martin grinned at her. ‘You’ll have to give Ronke the recipe.’
Simi kicked him under the table. ‘I assume you’ll be OK cooking the steaks by yourself, seeing as I’ve done everything else?’
Martin kissed her, topped up the glasses and headed to the balcony with Didier and Kayode.
‘Isn’t this nice?’ said Ronke, once they were out of earshot. ‘The six of us together. And the boys get on so well.’
‘Men,’ said Simi. ‘But yeah, I can’t wait for Martin to come home for good. I’m better when he’s here.’
‘How come you didn’t invite Isobel?’ asked Boo. ‘She was really upset.’
‘Boo! You idiot.’ Simi knew how petulant Isobel could get if she felt excluded. At school once she’d made Simi’s life hell just for sitting next to someone else at lunch. She had thought of asking her but in the end decided not to – Iso could be a diva and Martin hated drama; they probably wouldn’t hit it off.
‘Sorry,’ said Boo, ‘you didn’t say it was a secret. I just assumed she was coming.’
‘She’s never met Martin, and it’s a couples thing,’ said Simi. ‘She takes over a bit and I wanted a relaxed evening.’
‘I’m glad she’s not here,’ said Ronke. ‘She’s way too intense. She keeps calling me, wanting to meet up.’
‘It’s called being nice.’ Boo tapped her nails on the glass dining table.
‘I wish you hadn’t told her.’ Simi was becoming irritated with Boo, acting like Isobel was her friend, as if she was the first person in the world ever to have a gel manicure.
The balcony door opened and cold air rushed in. Simi hugged herself; her skimpy wrap dress offered no protection.
‘Five minutes’ rest and we’re on,’ said Martin. ‘Who’s for red?’
‘Bugger! The potatoes!’ Simi dashed to the kitchen, tailed closely by Ronke. ‘Oh no! Oh no!’ she wailed. ‘I was meant to take them out twenty minutes ago.’
‘We can do a salvage job,’ said Ronke calmly.
‘It’s cremated. Ruined.’ Simi poked at the dried-out crust.
Ronke laughed. ‘You’ll do anything to avoid carbs.’
‘It’s not funny.’ But Simi was glad Ronke was here. You could count on her to diffuse tension. The opposite of Isobel, who could be relied on to amplify it. She had a sudden vision of Isobel’s pinched face as she said ‘Bloody men’ a few weeks ago, and realized she didn’t actually want Martin to meet her.
‘Have you got any bread?’ asked Ronke, pulling Simi back to the present.
‘There’s an artisan baguette,’ said Simi.
‘Who needs potatoes when there’s posh bread?’ Ronke grabbed a bowl. ‘Pass the vinegar and olive oil. I’ll mix up a quick dressing.’
