For some reason, I glance at Ola. It appears she has spotted the woman too because she’s glaring over at Jon as though to say, if you dare.
Clearly unaware of her magical powers to completely stop a party without doing anything, the very attractive woman stops a few feet from me. While she is resting her elbows over the ledge, my eyes shoot down to her bum.
Yes, because if my bum’s profile resembles the letter J and Kemi’s bum profile resembles the letter D, then this woman right here has what I can only assign to be the letter P. Pert. Plump. Perky. Huh, how ironic. I can’t stop staring at it. I wonder if it’s real.
“Hey, I’m Latoya.”
My eyes shoot up. The woman has extended an arm. Oh, God. How embarrassing!
“Hi, I’m Yinka!” I pump her hand enthusiastically. She has hazel eyes too.
“You been here long?” She strokes her hair. Definitely not wearing a weave.
“Err, just under an hour,” I reply, trying not to give weirdo vibes, but she does look like a real-life Instagram model. Then something hits me. “Your accent. You’re not from the UK, are you?”
Latoya smiles. God, her teeth are pretty. “New York.”
“Nice.”
“You been?”
“Who, me? Oh, no, no, no. I just know someone who lives there. So . . .” I look around. “How do you know the engaged couple?” I notice that a few guys are now looking at me. Or rather, her.
“I don’t,” she says matter-of-factly. “It’s my fiancé who knows them actually. He should be here soon. He’s just looking for parking.”
She shows me her ring. The diamond is obscenely large.
“Oh, wow! Congratulations! Do you guys live here?” I ask after I have given the ring enough attention and found out how he proposed—Central Park. Sooo romantic.
“We’re just visiting,” she says airily. “We actually fly back in two days.”
“Nice. What have you guys been up to?”
Latoya cranes her neck. I’m not sure if she heard me.
“We did a bit of touristy stuff,” she says eventually. “Saw a few landmarks. But I actually came to meet his family. My fiancé used to live here, you see.”
“Ahh, so he’s a native.”
She glances away again. “Yeah. He knows London like the back of his hand, which was super helpful. Sorry, you must think I’m being incredibly rude. I’m just checking to see whether he has arrived yet.”
“No, not at all.” I bat my hand. “Do your thing.”
As she swivels her head this way and that, I admire her blushed cheekbones.
“Babe!” she cries. “Over here!”
I follow her voice in the direction she’s hailing, and I nearly faint on the spot. Standing by the entrance is none other than my ex-boyfriend, Femi.
My fragile ego
I wheel around as if I’m a wanted fugitive, my heart beating like a galloping horse. Instinctively, I grab the ledge for support.
Oblivious to my mini panic attack, Latoya calls Femi’s name.
She grabs my wrist. “Let me introduce you to my fiancé,” she says, tugging me along.
Before I can object, we come to a standstill. I keep my head down.
“Yinka?” Femi says almost questioningly.
I slowly look up.
You know, Femi has always been a good-looking guy. Nice teeth, nice eyes, all that jazz. And although he’s never been particularly fashionable, his shirt always matched his jeans. But today, Femi is something else. Femi looks like an upgrade. If he was a BlackBerry back then, he’s definitely an iPhone now.
“Hey,” I croak wearily, admiring his crisp white shirt which shows off every line of muscle he didn’t have when we were dating.
Latoya stares between us. “Wait, you guys know each other?”
“Yinka’s my ex-girlfriend,” Femi says quickly. He coughs and gives her a look as though to say, “You know, the one I gave you the heads-up about.”
Latoya blanches. “Ohhh.” She looks at me. Covers her mouth. “Well, this is awkward. Yinka and I have just been chatting for the last five minutes.”
She’s beautiful, I can’t help but think. And she looks nothing like me.
“You look well.” Femi cuts through my thoughts and instinctively, I say, “Thanks.”
“Well” isn’t a compliment, Yinka. “Well” is something you say to your granny.
“And you cut your hair!” Femi spreads his arms, and I touch my hair, waiting for him to comment further. He doesn’t say anything else, and I hate myself for immediately feeling a twinge of hurt.
“So, you’re engaged,” I splutter.
Femi opens his mouth and closes it again. He nods. Then, like an afterthought, he adds, “For three weeks now.”
So they’re newly engaged. Christmas wasn’t that long ago, so he probably came here to tell his family. And then I remember his Facebook post. Nostalgic. Now it all makes sense.
“Congratulations,” I say suddenly. My voice comes out high-pitched like a dolphin’s.
Femi scratches the back of his head. “Well, it was good seeing you.” We give each other that “Would it be weird to hug?” look. Thankfully, our decision is made for us by Derek, who shows up holding two glasses.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says, slightly out of breath. My eyes pan down and I notice his combats are drenched on one side.
“Had an accident,” he explains. “Err, not that kind of accident.” He hands me my drink and I make a face at how sticky the glass is.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
Derek says, “No worries,” then to Femi and Latoya, “Please forgive me. Where are my manners?” He wipes his hand down his side before extending it. “I’m Derek. And you are . . . ?”
“Femi.” They shake hands, and I search Derek’s face to see if he remembers which Femi this is. But if he remembers, he sure is hiding it well.
“And this is my fiancée, Latoya.” Femi slides his hand and rests it just above Latoya’s bum. My heart stings.
“Nice to meet you,” says Latoya. She gives Derek a polite wave. Strangely, she doesn’t look as desperate to leave as Femi does.
Derek brushes his hand along his side again, then in a moment of inspiration, he says, “You guys don’t have a drink. What can I get you? Soft drink? Champagne?”
“We’ll sort ourselves out,” Femi replies quickly, at the same time that Latoya says, “Ooh, champagne!”
Femi shoots her a look.
“What?” She shrugs. “He was offering.”
Derek smiles. “Champagne for the lady, coming right up.”
I watch Derek leave again, his combats swishing to the music.
“Well, he’s a gentleman,” Latoya says, winking, and I’m not prepared for this so I say, “Um, I suppose so.”
“You’re even wearing matching T-shirts,” Latoya gushes after I take a sip of my drink, and it nearly snorts out of my nose. “Spill the beans, what’s your story? How long have you guys been together?”
“We’re not together!” I cough.
“No?” She looks embarrassed. “Sorry, I saw your matching T-shirts and assumed—”