Kiss Marry Kill, page 2
‘You mean back when you actually got your hands dirty.’ Ife raised her eyebrows at him.
‘Haha, very funny.’
Ife took a sip of the wine Cynthia had brought, the wine that Ade had told her was Mama’s favourite brand and which Mama was yet to touch.
‘Remember back in school when you used to draw those pictures of your dream house? The buildings over there were actually pretty similar.’
It was Ade’s turn to raise his eyebrows. ‘Don’t tell me you still have them.’
Ife shrugged.
‘I beg you burn them.’
‘No way.’ Ife laughed. ‘They might be worth something one day.’
The conversation segued into a discussion about Ade and Ife’s childhood, the games they used to play, the trouble they used to get into, etcetera etcetera, blah blah blah. It felt like they were speaking in code, shorthand forged by decades of friendship, and Cynthia gave up on trying to join in. Instead, she picked at her cold chicken and peeked at what Tayo was doing on his phone. He didn’t understand their secret language either.
Eventually, she got fed up of waiting and began clearing her and Tayo’s plates away in the hope that it would speed things up.
‘Do you remember …’ Mama said, weaving her way into Ade and Ife’s bantering, ‘when the two of you used to play husband and wife during the summer holidays?’
Cynthia’s fork fell to the ground, its clang punctuating the silence descending on the table.
‘You remember, abi?’ Mama continued. ‘You would put on my slippers, tie a doll on your back with one of my wrappers and take Ade his Pepsi while he played that nonsense fighting game on the television.’
Ife nodded. Her eyes briefly connected with Cynthia’s before she quickly looked away. ‘But that was ages ago. We were just kids back then.’ Her soft voice, so different from the carefree tone she’d adopted earlier, felt like someone was driving shards of broken glass into Cynthia’s chest.
‘Well, children know about these things deep down … “out of the mouth of babes”, as the good book says, abi? Or am I wrong? Are you seeing anyone?’
‘No, aunty, but—’
‘Eh heh.’ Mama clapped her hands. ‘Then what are the two of you waiting for then? It’s time to stop running around and settle down—’
‘Mum, come on.’ Tayo, not Ade, jumped to Cynthia’s defence.
‘Will you keep quiet there,’ Mama snapped. ‘Tell me if anything I have said here is a lie. Or is it too much to want my eldest son to marry a respectable Nigerian girl?’
Cynthia was shaking uncontrollably now. She knew Mama wasn’t one for subtlety, but this was too far even for her. She’d spent the entire evening exercising patience, ignoring Mama’s jabs to avoid causing a scene, but now her anger was finally bubbling over, and her chair fell to the ground as she shot to her feet, her vision blurry.
‘Ade,’ she said, pulling her bag onto her shoulder, indicating that she was ready to leave.
Ade was frozen in his seat, his mouth wide, his eyes unmoving – doing nothing, saying nothing – and in that moment Cynthia realised that she’d sadly, shamefully, fallen in love with a coward. She narrowed her eyes at him. If he was too chicken to speak up, she was going to have to do it for him.
‘Ade,’ Cynthia said, waving her hand in front of his face. ‘We need to leave now if we don’t want to get stuck on the motorway.’
‘Motorway, ke?’ Mama looked so genuinely shocked that Cynthia almost felt bad for her. Almost. ‘Is it not just Norwood you are going to?’
Ade shifted in his seat. He gave Cynthia a barely perceptible shake of the head, his eyes begging her not to say anything.
‘No, Mama,’ she replied, ignoring his silent pleas. ‘We’re heading back to our house in Dorset. We moved a year ago. Didn’t Ade—’
‘It’s a lie!’ Mama shot to her feet. ‘Ade … Dorset … Will you answer me?’
Ade slid forward in his chair and rested his head on the table. Ife stood up and went to take her bag.
‘Where do you think you are going?’ Mama snapped, and she sat back down.
‘Ade, I am talking to you. Is what she is saying true? Did you leave?’
‘Mummy, I—’
‘Of course it’s true,’ Cynthia interjected. ‘Ade, let’s go.’
‘How could you do this to me? All the way to the other side of the country.’
‘Mum, it’s not that far—’
‘A whole year and you didn’t even inform me. Are we fighting Adebayo? Or did I carry you inside here for nine months for you to be keeping things like this from me?’
‘No, Mum—’
‘What would your father say if he was here to see all of this? What would he say, Adebayo?’
‘Mum … please.’ He stared at Cynthia for a few seconds, and she could tell that he was debating something in his mind. When his expression turned from thoughtful to apologetic, Cynthia knew he was about to do something stupid.
‘We just wanted it to be a surprise,’ he said, rubbing the back of his head.
‘Surprise? What do you mean by that?’ Mama didn’t look at all convinced.
‘I mean,’ he continued. ‘We were planning to invite you to spend next weekend with us, but we didn’t have a chance to ask. What with you inviting Ife and all.’
Ife made a ‘don’t bring me into this’ face, but remained silent.
‘Next weekend?’ Mama’s face lit up. ‘I will have to check my diary, but—’
‘Great,’ Ade said, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘We’re really looking forward to it – right, babe?’
But Cynthia was already storming out of the dining room.
CHAPTER TWO
Ife, present day
‘You sure you don’t want to go home?’ Tayo asks, and Ife nods even though she isn’t sure about anything anymore.
They’re sitting in Tayo’s bright-blue Mini, parked outside the hotel where she and Ade are meant to be spending their wedding night. Her dress is trapped in the door, and Ife wishes Tayo would stop questioning her so she can finally set herself free and tackle the ever-growing to-do list in her head:
Cancel their flights.
Try to get a partial refund on the honeymoon resort in Saint Lucia.
Pretend her life isn’t completely falling apart. That her husband hasn’t been arrested at their wedding reception and is now being charged with the unthinkable.
After the police carted Ade away, Ife had hoped her guests would take that as their cue to go home, but Mama, who had other ideas, announced that her son was not a criminal, that she was going to collect him from the police station and the celebrations should therefore continue. She’d then grabbed Ade’s best friend and lawyer, Robert, and headed down to the police station to ‘rescue her son’, leaving Ife to fend for herself.
The party had quickly picked up again – Afrobeats blaring from the speakers, a swarm of brightly dressed Nigerians pushing past her as they made their way onto the dance floor.
A few of them approached her, mostly in pairs, eager to have their curiosity satiated. What happened to your husband? Why was he arrested? Don’t tell me he’s been doing 419. The last part was almost always whispered, the guests leaning forward, their eyes sparkling with anticipation as they sipped their Supermalt through a straw, awaiting her answer. You must stand by your husband, my dear daughter, they added, their co-conspirator nodding in agreement. Marriage is for life.
It was Tayo who had eventually put a stop to the madness, pulling the speakers from their sockets and sending everyone home with their wedding favours in tow.
He is the only one looking out for her, the only one making sure that she’s okay. In all the years Tayo has been in her life, Ife has never taken the time to get to know him – a mistake she is now determined to fix.
Repay Tayo’s kindness.
‘Okay,’ Tayo says, giving her bare shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘I’ll call you in the morning, yeah?’
Ife gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile before gathering the folds of her dress in her arms and exiting the car. Tayo drives off, leaving her on the cold night road alone.
This she is used to.
*
The hotel lobby is quiet when Ife enters it through the revolving doors, and she slips off her shoes and walks barefoot over the plush red carpet, her sullied dress flowing behind her as she makes her way towards the front desk. She glances at the large gold-plated clock that sits on the wall behind the clerk. It’s already one in the morning, and, despite the day she’s had, Ife is relieved that it’s so late, that there is no one here to witness her walking through the hotel looking like she belongs in the post-breakup scene of a bad 80s rom-com.
‘Ah, Mrs Dolapo.’ The clerk, who looks as if he’s about to fall off his chair from boredom, sits up, suddenly alert as she approaches his desk. ‘We’ve been expecting you. It is Mrs Dolapo, isn’t it?’ He taps something into his computer, then squints.
Ife confirms her identity. The clerk nods, and there is kindness in his tired eyes.
‘Suite 703. I’ll send Mr Dolapo straight up when he gets here.’ He winks at her, and Ife smiles weakly as she takes the key.
When she opens the door to their suite, Ife realises too late the mistake she’s made in coming here. It lives up to its advertisement as the honeymoon suite, with its floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the sea and its large empty bed, another unwanted reminder that her husband isn’t here to share it with her.
At first, the rose petals look like tiny drops of blood splattered all over the bed, and Ife has to blink several times, squeezing her eyes shut and then opening them again to clear the image from her mind. Two heart-shaped boxes of chocolates sit side by side on the bedside table, along with a bottle of champagne in a melting bucket of ice and two frosted flutes.
She considers leaving, calling Tayo to come and pick her up, but the embarrassment of going back to the clerk to explain the situation or make up a half-baked lie overwhelms her desire to leave.
Instead, she drops her shoes by the door and lies down on the bed, her toes tickling the carpet.
Her phone pings in her Jimmy Choo bridal bag, and with a sigh Ife empties its contents onto the bed. Out fall her powder and a small make-up brush, tear-stained tissues, the bride and groom cake topper she’d swiped when no one was looking, and finally her mobile phone. She enters her passcode, Ade’s birthday, to unlock it.
Notification after notification appears on the screen informing her that she’s been tagged in this photo and that video. She refuses to click on any of them, afraid that someone has recorded Ade’s arrest, that the most earth-shattering moment of her life is about to go viral.
She swipes away each social-media notification with a flick of her thumb, flips over her phone and reaches for the remote to switch on the television. A rerun of Friends is on, and Ife grabs a box of chocolates and stuffs two in her mouth at a time. Moments later, half the box is gone and Ife has switched the television off in frustration. A show that had once been a comfort now only reminds her that the drama her life has become will not be resolved in a thirty-minute adventure complete with a laugh track.
She stares at the bottle of champagne, knowing that she can’t but desperately wanting to. She grabs the bottle. Looks at the label, contemplating. Slowly she uncorks it, its celebratory pop urging her on. Squeezing her eyes shut, she lifts the cold wet bottle to her lips, and—
Her phone pings again. Ife’s eyes fly open. She puts the bottle back on the table and turns her phone back over, hoping for a message from Mama or Ade’s lawyer, Robert. Instead, she finds a text from one of her former colleagues who hadn’t been able to make it to the wedding.
Girl, wat happened?! Call me!!!
Ife swipes the message away, hurt that her so-called friend hadn’t even bothered to ask how she was doing, that she only seemed interested in hearing the gossip. The fact that Ife has no idea what the gossip is only adds to her frustration.
She swallows back the tears that are threatening to resurface. There’s no use feeling sorry for herself – she’s spent her entire life doing that. If she wants to know the truth, she’ll have to find out for herself.
Robert picks up on the third ring. His voice is hoarse, like he’s used up his speaking quota for the day and now he’s running on empty.
‘How is he?’ she asks.
‘Hard to say. Better than expected, I think. He’s not answering questions very well, which doesn’t help. They’re insisting on keeping him overnight for more questioning.’
‘Can I speak with him?’
‘Not tonight. You might be able to see him tomorrow, but considering the ruckus Mama’s been making, it’s not looking likely.’
Despite everything, Ife smiles. ‘That bad, huh?’
‘You know how she is.’
‘Robert?’ Ife swallows the excess saliva that’s pooling in her mouth. She wants to ask him the question that’s been plaguing her ever since the police slammed the handcuffs on her husband’s wrists and dragged him away. But deep down, buried in the part of her mind she’s been avoiding since the night Ade proposed to her, she already knows the answer.
This is about Cynthia.
There’s a moment of hesitation before he responds, and she can tell he knows what she’s about to ask.
‘Get some rest, Fey,’ he says gently. ‘He’s going to need you at your best.’
With that, the line goes dead, and Ife stares at her phone, debating whether or not she should call him back. She is Ade’s wife now after all, and she deserves to know the truth.
Except, if this is about Cynthia Bennet, she isn’t sure she wants to know.
Just as she’s about to dial Robert’s number, Ife’s phone pings again. This time it’s a text message from an unknown number.
youll pay for what you did.
CHAPTER THREE
Eleven weeks before Cynthia’s disappearance
‘You’re up early.’
Cynthia turned her attention from the suitcase she was packing to find Ade bare-chested in the doorway of their bedroom, his arms wrapped around his blanket and pillow, his expression half-questioning, half-horrified as his eyes darted from her face to her suitcase and back to her face again.
Cynthia ignored him and shoved her conditioner in with the rest of her hair products. She’d hoped to be dressed and out of the house by the time Ade woke up, but instead she was fresh from her shower, tiny droplets rolling down her forehead as she braced herself for a conversation she would have given her right foot to avoid.
‘I thought your hip-hop class wasn’t until this afternoon.’
Ade was standing behind her now, his breath, warm and heavy, tickling the back of her neck. Cynthia understood the unspoken question in his statement, knew he wanted her to explain why his girlfriend was packing a suitcase at seven o’clock on a Thursday morning when they didn’t have a holiday planned.
‘Please just talk to me,’ Ade whispered when she didn’t respond. His arms were wrapped around her, his lips pressed against her ear. ‘I’m sorry, okay?’
Part of her wanted to melt into him, to enclose herself in his arms and pretend that awful dinner had never happened. She was tired of fighting, tired of being angry, but whenever she remembered what Mama had said and how Ade hadn’t uttered a single word in her defence, she couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
Sure, maybe he was sorry, but since Mama was still planning to make an appearance in a few days’ time, it was clear to Cynthia that nothing had changed. Not really.
So, instead, she pulled her towel tight and moved past him towards the wardrobe, using their bed as a barrier between them. She could feel him watching her as she pulled out a handful of t-shirts, none of which she was even planning to take with her, and added them to the ever-growing pile on the bed. A breeze came in from the open window, and she shivered.
‘Here.’ He picked up her favourite jumper from the pile of clothes and offered it to her – a white flag Cynthia had no intention of acknowledging.
‘Why you being like this?’ he asked. ‘I’m the one who woke up at stupid o’clock in the morning to find you …’ He swallowed. ‘To find you’re leaving me. And now you’re giving me the silent treatment.’
‘It’s just for a couple of days.’
‘Those are a lot of clothes for a couple of days.’
Cynthia shrugged. ‘I like to keep my options open.’
‘Meaning?’
Cynthia returned to packing her suitcase.
‘So you want me to just cut her off? My own mother?’
Cynthia narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Are you mad? You’re the one who’s been lying to her all this time. Who sat there in silence while she insulted me to my face, and then, to top it all off, you invite her here, to our home, without even talking to me first. And now all you have to say for yourself is Sorry babe, I didn’t mean it.’
‘She’s my mother, Cynthia. What do you want me to do?’
Cynthia slammed her now-too-full suitcase shut and tried but failed to zip it up. They’d already argued about this a dozen and one times, and Ade had already insisted he couldn’t uninvite Mama, so the answer to his ridiculous question was …
‘Nothing,’ Cynthia snapped. ‘That’s.’ Push. ‘Why.’ Push. ‘I’m.’ Push. ‘Leaving.’ She flung her suitcase open again and started throwing out the clothes she’d just packed, piling them onto the floor behind her.
‘You know she didn’t mean what she said, right?’
‘Sure,’ Cynthia said. ‘She didn’t mean to try and marry you off to Fey-Fey. It was all just one big misunderstanding.’
‘Ah, so that’s what this is about.’ Ade folded his arms. ‘Even though it was you who said you weren’t ready to get married.’
‘You know what? Fuck you, Ade.’ It was a line she rarely crossed, and Ade looked like she’d just kicked him in the balls. Cynthia turned to pick up a pair of jeans, trying to decide whether they would look better on her or on Ade’s head.
