Without giving me the chance to ask, “Who?” he leads me back into the auditorium and down a row of chairs.
“Mum,” he says, stopping in the middle. He places a hand on the shoulder of a woman sitting in the row ahead.
Hold up. He wants to introduce me to his mum?
I lower my Selfridges bag to the chair beside me.
“Mum,” he repeats, smiling. “This is Yinka.”
She turns her head, then scampers to her feet like you would when you bump into an old friend.
“Ahh, Yinka!”
“Hello, Aunty.” I go to bend my knees but Alex’s mum hugs me over the chair between us. I feel a rush of affection as she squeezes me. Hey, I can’t believe that out of all the daydreams I’ve had, I haven’t yet thought about what Alex’s mum would be like. Considering how in touch Alex is with his Nigerian roots, I would have thought she would be like my mum.
But Alex’s mum seems so . . . so . . . Western. For starters, she’s hugging me as though we’re mates. And my mum would never be caught in leather trousers. And she has a platinum buzz haircut! Wait, is that an authentic British accent I’ve just heard?
Alex’s mum draws back and slides her hands down my arms. I can now see her face in its entirety, and my God, she’s stunning. Her complexion is a terra-cotta brown like the outside of a garden pot. And her teeth are so sparkly as though she’s never eaten chocolate in her life. And her skin! It is true: Black don’t crack.
“So, this is Yinka,” she says, squeezing my elbows.
Wait, hold on a sec. Has Alex been talking to his mum about me?
I grin and nod.
“I love your dress!” She lifts my hands. Thank God, I shaved my armpits. “It’s absolutely gorgeous,” she says with a drawl.
Alex nods. “Now you look like a proper Naija girl.”
I pull a face at him.
“Oh, thank you, Aunty,” I say, nearly forgetting my manners.
“Where did you get it from?” she asks, lowering my hands.
“Actually, my best friend made it. She’s a fashion designer.”
“Shame I’m not your size.” She laughs and pats her stomach. Which, by the way, is impressively toned for any woman, let alone a woman her age.
“Oh, come on, Mum.” Alex nudges her a little. “I’m sure you’d look just as good.”
Good! I’m practically swaying. He’s attracted to me. My new makeover is working.
“Now, tell me, Yinka.” Alex’s mum raises a lightly penciled brow. “Has Kehinde started raiding your fridge yet?”
Who’s Kehinde? I nearly say before realizing （thankfully） that Kehinde is Alex’s Nigerian name. It’s part of his Insta handle. Name. Whatever. “Because I tell you something,” she continues, “this boy here likes to eat. And when I say eat, I mean eat.” I chuckle.
“No, Aunty.” I’m snuffling with laughter. “Alex hasn’t raided my fridge . . . yet.”
I look up at Alex, who’s laughing too. Then he kisses his teeth. “Mum, please. Yinka doesn’t even know how to cook Nigerian food. Do you know that this girl lives on takeaways?”
I gasp, then slap Alex across the arm. Ooh. “Aunty, don’t listen to him,” I say after being temporarily distracted by his muscles. “He’s lying.”
“Oh, there’s no shame, sweetheart. But don’t overdo it, okay? Otherwise, you’ll pay the price when you get to my age.”
“Aunty, please, don’t mind him. In fact”—I feel myself stand tall—“Yesterday, for dinner, I made myself pounded yam.”
Alex scoffs. “Come on. Pounded yam is easy.”
I giggle nervously as I recall some of my earlier attempts.
“Can you even make proper Nigerian food?” Alex emphasizes the word by slapping the back of his hand, twice. “And by proper, I mean proper. You know, like moin-moin, pepper soup, ?gb?n?.”
I stall. Okay, I’m familiar with the first dish, which is a staple savory pudding made out of peeled brown beans and ground peppers and served at Nigerian parties. The second one, again, I’m familiar with, though I can’t say I can take the heat. But the third one. Ogbo-what? That one’s for Google.
“All right, that’s enough,” his mum intervenes. “I’m sure Yinka is a great cook.” Then to me, she says, “I don’t even know how to cook half those things,” and we share a light-hearted laugh. I think I love her.
Then just as the moment is about to pass, I remember the conversation that I had with Aunty Blessing yesterday: So what if the woman makes the first move.
“Well, to settle this”—I fold my arms and look directly at him—“how about after church one Sunday, we have lunch at mine?”
The words vomit out of me. If he says no, I will die of embarrassment. But to my surprise, Alex says, “Okay. In that case, why don’t we do next Sunday?”
“Sounds good to me,” I say quickly, before he changes his mind. “Let me just put it in my calendar.” I reach into my bag and look up. Alex’s mum has put a hand on my forearm.
“You know you’re going to have to cook a feast, right?” she says.
Undeterred, I tap open my phone calendar. “Hang on.” I do a double-take. “Next Sunday is Valentine’s Day.” Oh, snap. I shouldn’t have said this aloud.
“Oh, is it?” Alex says with a startled laugh. “Well, if you’re busy, we can do lunch the following week?”
“No, no, it’s fine.” I may have sounded like Miss Piggy when I said this, but whatever.
Alex smirks. “You know you have six days to drop out, right?”
“I’m going to make you eat your words, mister.”
“Okay, enough with the squabble.” Alex’s mum puts a hand on my arm again. “Sorry, Yinka, but we need to get going. I’ve got a train back to Bristol to catch.”
Like a true gentleman, Alex helps his mum into her peacoat, then kisses the top of her head.
My throat catches. That is so sweet. They seem really close. I try to think back to the last time that Mum and I were affectionate, and my mind draws a blank.
“Nice to meet you, sweetheart.”
I hug them both good-bye. Then I watch as they make their way toward the center aisle.
As soon as they reach the exit, I do a fist pump. I’ve got a date, I’m singing to myself—oh, shoot. I’ve got my job interview the day after. And also less than a week to learn all of the Nigerian food. But I’ve got a date. This is the most important thing. It’s all thanks to my brilliant plan. And Aunty Blessing’s solid advice. Who would have thought? I have to text her.
“Was that Alex’s mum?”
I turn around. Mum and Aunty Debbie are making a beeline toward me.
“Were you watching me?”
“Ah, ah. Yes, now. Why not? Is it not a free country? Look at the way you greeted his mum, as if she’s your age-mate, ehn? You couldn’t kneel?”
“She hugged me!”
Then Aunty Debbie yelps, “You’ve changed your hair!” and they both get distracted with stroking my weave as though I’m a cute animal at a zoo.