* * *
—
It’s the first time that I’ve entered the Costa in Peckham, but I might as well have entered the one in Shoreditch. Every corner, hipsters in their oversized garments and vintage attire are either sitting behind their MacBooks or glued to their phones.
Nana waves. She’s perched in the corner on a red sofa flanked by two armchairs. This should be interesting. My two “worlds” have never collided before.
I wave back, then signal “one sec.” We grab our drinks, and I treat myself to a hot chocolate with marshmallows.
“JoBrian, this is Nana. Nana, this is Joanna and Brian.” I gesture from one to the other like I’m at a formal interview . . . “Best friend. Former co-workers.”
The three of them exchange polite hellos. I take the space next to Nana, while JoBrian take the armchairs.
“What did you get?” Nana snatches my plastic bag, and despite my objection, she noses inside. “Wait, is this for you?” she says as I snatch the exposed packets of hair before shoving them into the bag. “Yinka, since when did you start wearing weave?”
“Well.” I shrug. “There’s a first time for everything.” I avoid Nana’s gaze and reach for my hot chocolate and blow over it. After the mini-lecture she gave me on self-love the other day, I don’t think she’ll be too impressed with my over-the-top plan to transform myself.
“Anyway,” I nod to JoBrian across the low wooden table. “How are your drinks?”
They look at each other, confused. Brian answers first.
“Um, well. My one tastes like coffee.”
“And my one tastes like cappuccino,” Joanna says.
“And mine,” Nana whispers, “peppermint.”
The three of them laugh.
I pull a face. “Ha-ha. Very funny.”
In unison, we all sip our drinks. I look between them. Wait, I thought I’d broken the ice?
“So Nana,” Brian says finally. He puts down his coffee and crosses his legs. “What do you do?”
* * *
—
I can’t believe this is going so well! My work friends getting on with my best friend. My life has always been so compartmentalized, so it’s actually nice to see some blend.
We’ve all been chatting for half an hour or so when Nana mentions her plans to run a fashion show in June. Joanna and Brian immediately flood her with excited questions.
“Have you thought about inviting fashion vloggers?” asks Joanna after Nana showed them her Insta page. “YouTube influencers. Instagram models. You know, those kinds of people?”
“Ooh, that’s a good point.” Nana is already taking notes on her phone. “I would love to get someone like Patricia Bright to attend.”
“You should send her some of your designs,” Joanna suggests. “Ask her whether she can do a vlog on them. Her platform is huge.”
“Oh my gosh. Why didn’t I think of that?” Nana is now typing furiously.
Joanna dusts her shoulder and says, “PR queen.”
“Sidenote, do you have a venue yet?” asks Brian, wiping his glasses lens against his shirt.
“I’m looking at this events hall in Old Street,” replies Nana. “Got a recce this Thursday. Oh, that reminds me. Yinka, you free to tag along? Appointment is at six. I’ll invite the girls too.”
“Sure. Though my interview is at four. But I should be able to make it.”
For the next ten minutes, Joanna offers Nana more PR tips, while Brian and I look up some other vloggers she could invite. The three exchange numbers—Joanna says she’s happy to put together a press release for Nana ahead of the show. Brian just wants front row seats.
“Ooh. Before I forget.” Joanna puts down her cappuccino. “Any of you fancy going to Coal Rooms this Saturday?”
“What’s Coal Rooms?” I scrunch my brows. Joanna looks at me as though I’ve asked her what’s pizza.
“It’s a restaurant,” she cries, and I blink at her. “In Peckham, Yinka! I thought you used to live here?”
“Yeah, well . . .” I mutter over my drink. “Before it started to change.”
Joanna doesn’t hear me. “They do amazing brunches,” she carries on. “Reasonably priced too. It’s been on my list of places to visit for a while.”
I smirk. I always find it so funny when people recommend a place to go in Peckham. Would Joanna have suggested brunch in Peckham fifteen, twenty years ago? No, I think not. Growing up, Peckham was portrayed in the media as being so dangerous that any nonresident who risked going there would likely get shot. Now Peckham is “trendy.”
“So are you guys free? Oh, and that includes you, Nana.”
“I need to check with Ricky,” Brian says, whipping out his phone.
“Sorry, I’m doing my hair,” I reply at the same time as Nana says, “I’m working.”
“Okay, how about Sunday?” Joanna suggests.
“I should be free,” says Brian, looking up from his phone.
Nana shakes her head. “Sorry, no can do. I live the life of a hustler.”
“Yinka?” Joanna says hopefully.
“Sorry, Jo.” I take a sip of my hot chocolate. “I’ve got church.”
“But church finishes at ten, right? Come after.”
I laugh. “Jo. That’s my local church. I’m going to my mum’s church now. Service ends at two.”
“But that’s when brunch finishes.” Joanna sulks. “Okay, can we meet at eleven?”
I suck in my lips. She doesn’t get it.
I clear my throat. “Jo, my mum’s church starts at eleven.”
Joanna blinks. “Eleven?” She stares at me as though I’m dressed in a SpongeBob mascot. “What, so you attend church for three solid hours?”
“I go to an African Pentecostal Church,” I reply sheepishly.
“Wow, I knew you were a Christian, hun. But I never knew you were that religious.” Joanna reaches for her drink as though she needs something strong to take the edge off.
Urgh. I hate that word “religious.” For some reason, whenever I hear it, I think of those radical, Bible-waving people on the streets who yell at commuters to repent now or spend eternity in hell. Oh, I hope Joanna doesn’t think I’m like that.
“Or we can just go to Coal Rooms another time,” Brian suggests, clearly bored of the topic. “Sooo . . . how’s Tinder going, Jo?”
After Joanna provides her short update—“Brian, please. It’s only been a week”—Brian shifts his attention to me: “So what’s the latest with lover boy?” Full of excitement, I fill them in on Alex, keeping in all the good bits （the WhatsApp messages, the banter, the flirting, the outreach date） and leaving out all the bad bits （Vanessa, Derek, PlateGate）。 After twenty minutes of hijacking the conversation, I excuse myself to the toilets.
I wonder if Alex has messaged? After I’ve blasted my hands dry, I fish out my phone and smile. Speak of the angel.
ALEX
Hey, how’s it going? How’s work?
Are we still on for tomorrow?
YINKA
Hey! Indeedy we are
Thanks again for holding onto my jacket. Appreciate it How was staff conference?