“Eff Alex, and eff what anyone else thinks,” says Nana, brushing her locs from her temples. “And do you know what, Yinka? He not even that fit.”
I laugh. “Okay, let’s not lie to ourselves, but I appreciate your support.”
“No really, he’s not. You are so much hotter than him. And kinder and funnier and smarter.” Nana’s warm hand on my shoulder starts to calm me down, and a seed of guilt starts to grow.
“Sorry for stealing your jumpsuit. That was out of order. And in the spur of the moment, I blurted out that you’re aromantic.”
Nana makes a psh sound. “Seriously, hun. Don’t sweat it. You actually did me a favor.”
I give her a weak smile. “Oh, yeah, before I forget.” I reach into my pocket and pull out Alex’s business card. Nana shakes her head.
“Nuh-uh. I don’t want that. Yinka, he hurt you.”
I force the card into her hand. “Don’t be silly. You can’t launch a business and not have a website.”
“Well, I’ll design it myself on WordPress or something.”
I shoot her a look. “Nana, just because you’re good at designing clothes, doesn’t mean you’re good at designing everything. You should take the opportunity. Take it, Nana.”
“Won’t that be awkward?” She glances at the card for a full five seconds.
“You need a website,” I point out sternly.
“Fine, I’ll take it, but only so you don’t have to look at it. I’m not promising I’ll call him.” She shoves it into her pocket.
“Now, what can I do to make you feel better?” Nana is rubbing small circles on my back as though I’m a little girl who’s not feeling well.
“A hand with all this,” I reply feebly. Nana furrows her brows then follows my gaze to the confetti-like mess on the floor.
“Well, I can give you two,” she says, jumping to her feet. Then she pulls me up and I realize I feel weak in the knees.
“So, no more crazy plans, yeah?” says Nana with a teasing smile as we stoop to pick up bits of paper.
“Yes,” I say gruffly. “I’m done. From now on, I’m going to focus on myself and go with the flow—oh, crap.” I slap a hand to my forehead. “My job interview. It’s tomorrow.”
“Have you prepared?” Nana sits up on her haunches.
“I have,” I say, reaching for the bin. I hold it out for her and she puts the bits of paper inside. “It’s just . . . I’m just not in the right frame of mind, that’s all.”
“Well, that’s another thing I can help you with,” she says, and squeezes my knee. “I’ll run through some practice questions. You’re getting that job.”
After we clear the mess and help each other to our feet, Nana gives me one of those hugs you need after a shitty day.
“I’m never changing myself again,” I whisper into her shoulder.
“Good,” she whispers, squeezing me. “Good.”
My bad
MONDAY
NANA
Hey hun
How did the interview go?
I’ve texted Rach already but I can’t make it tonight
Few people off sick. Have to cover
See you at home x
“This train terminates here. All change, please.”
We’ve reached Stratford station, but I can’t seem to move. I’m frozen. My brain on a loop.
Was my palm too sweaty? Should I have given more examples for that question about time management? And should I really have said that perfectionism is my greatest weakness? I mean, how clichéd.
While interviewer one （Tiffany） was bright and light-hearted, interviewer two （Kevin） was stoic as a stone. He kept giving me this glare, as though I was saying something wrong; like I was a fly that he was determined to squash. And I kept stuttering! My God, since when did I have trouble saying the word “strategic”？
I lift my chin.
Please, Lord. Let me get this job.
I make my way to the exit and tap my Oyster card on the sensors, rushing through the barriers before they promptly shut again. Outside, the cold air smacks me. I walk across the bridge, zigzagging between the crowd of shoppers making their way into or leaving Westfield shopping center, its glassy paneled exterior shining like the Louvre.
I’m nervous about seeing Rachel and Ola. My big mouth just had to tell them about my stupid date. Which ended up not being a date.
I reach the bridal shop and push the door open. A feeling of déjà vu hits me, nearly as strong as the bright, artificial lights. It wasn’t too long ago that I came here for Kemi’s dress fitting.
The sales assistant is on the phone, so I look around at the wedding dresses on the racks and in the window display. Beads and lace and every shade from white to red. I used to have so much faith that I would wear one of these some day. But now, I’m not too sure.
“Congratulations!” says the woman, giving me a sunny smile.
“Oh . . . no. I’m here for my cousin. Rachel. Rachel Adeyemi?”
“So sorry. First day.” The woman blushes and taps on the screen. “Okayyy . . . Rachel Adee . . . sorry, can you spell her last name, please?”
After the woman locates Rachel’s booking on the system, and apologizes multiple times—“Sorry, the system is slow”—she leads me to the back, through a tunnel of white dresses.
Finally, we reach a wide space divided into sections where excited brides-to-be are twisting and turning in front of giant mirrors. At the very end is Ola, sitting on a velvet chair, her phone pressed to her ear. I thank the shop assistant as she leaves. Rachel must already be trying something on.
“Hey.” I wave, sitting on the velvet stool opposite.
Ola doesn’t acknowledge me. “Yes, I know I should have asked you first,” she’s saying to someone over the phone.
I wrestle out of my coat, then tug on the band of my pencil skirt.
“But come on, put yourself in my shoes.” Ola’s voice has risen a notch, and I take this as a signal to sit down and reach for a wedding magazine. Then in true British fashion, I turn a page, pretending that I’m not blatantly eavesdropping.
“Sorry, how was I supposed to know that she was—Look, babes. I’m sorry”—she drops her voice—“I shouldn’t have jumped to—But after what I found out, can you really blame me? Anyway I’m out with the girls now. We’ll talk properly when I get home. Yeah, around nine. Okay. Bye.”
She ends the call and even over the gushing chatter of nearby customers, I hear her breathe out through her nose. I wait two whole seconds before looking up.
I decide not to mention the call. “Sorry, I’m a bit late,” I say. “How’s Rachel getting on?”
Ola makes a noncommittal sound. “Let’s just say this will be the fourth dress.” She fluffs her natural hair, which I’m surprised she hasn’t changed yet. “She thinks they all make her look fat.”
“But they do!” Rachel’s voice comes from behind a curtain. Then a moment later, “Ohmigod.”
“What happened?” I yell as Ola and I jump to our feet.
“This happened.” The curtains swoosh apart.