“Hey, how’s it going?” I say, wondering why she’s calling. “Don’t tell me you forgot your key at home.”
Nana laughs. “It was one time. Actually, I’m calling to find out how your counseling session went? I believe it was today, right?”
I stop dead in my tracks. A man nearly bumps into me from behind and curses. A few weeks back, Nana asked me when my counseling session was, and to get her off my back, I told her a random date. Dammit. How did I forget? I’m usually good at remembering things.
“It was canceled,” I say, trying not to splutter. “Yeah, at the last minute. Francis was unwell.”
“Oh,” says Nana, as I resume walking. I can’t tell whether or not she believes me.
“Looks like I’m going to have to reschedule.” I approach the pedestrian crossing and spot lots of beanbags and people in the distance. Oh yeah, the outreach is on today. I haven’t volunteered since that time I fell out with Donovan.
“Sorry, Nana, is it okay if we catch up later?” I say, getting in before her. “I’m actually volunteering right now.” I end the call and cross the road.
When I reach the platform, I look around. No sign of Donovan. Though I do see Derek and Vanessa helping out in the dessert section. Vanessa waves. Derek puts down his cake box and jogs over.
“Hey! Long time,” he says as we hug. “Up for giving us a hand with the dessert?”
I’m still looking around searching for Donovan.
“Yinka?”
“Huh? Sorry, Derek. Actually, I think I might just mingle, if that’s okay?”
“Sure. Go for it.”
Derek heads the other way as I weave between huddles of people sitting on beanbags. Today, spaghetti bolognese is on the menu, and it seems to be going down a storm. I spot an unoccupied beanbag opposite a hollow-cheeked woman with dark circles around her eyes. She’s talking to a Middle Eastern man sitting beside her, a sleeping bag draped over his shoulders.
“Is this seat taken?”
The woman gives me a toothy smile. “Nah, love. Come join us,” she says, and I plonk myself on the beanbag and almost get swallowed whole.
“Wow, these beanbags are comfy,” I remark, trying to find my balance. “Sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt your conversation?”
“Nah, not at all.” The woman bats a hand. “I’m Kelly, by the way, and this is my mate here, Farsheed.”
Farsheed presses his palms together. “Sorry, my English no good.”
“Nice to meet you.” I shake their hands. “I’m Yinka. So,” I smile, “how’s the bolognese?”
For the next few minutes, I carry on chatting to them. Well, Kelly does most of the talking while Farsheed nods and hmm’s. We talk about everything from how we like to drink our tea to our appreciation of Peckham and its strong community. This is why I love volunteering—meeting all sorts of people from all walks of life. Giving something back and getting priceless moments like these in return.
“I thought I recognized your big head,” comes a voice out of nowhere. I look up. Donovan is standing over me wearing a Nike vest and shorts.
“Oh, great. You.” I clamber to my feet and we hug. I stagger back. “Jheeze, man. You’re dripping wet.”
“Sorry, just came from the gym, innit.” I notice his biceps—Why am I noticing his biceps?—then immediately scowl at him.
“So that’s why you’re late,” I snap.
“Oh, you were looking for me, yeah?” Donovan laughs. He lifts up his vest to wipe his flushed face, and now I can see his very defined abs.
I turn hastily. “Kelly. Farsheed. This is Donovan.”
They exchange hellos. Afterward, Donovan tells me he needs a hand with the tea and coffee.
“As long as you bring her back, yeah,” says Kelly. “We were having a lovely chat, weren’t we, Yinka?”
I grin.
“No disrespect to the other volunteers, but they’re always asking me questions like, how did I end up on the streets? Blah, blah, blah. But this one”—Kelly gives me a wink—“she’s a real one, she is. Ain’t that right, Farsheed?”
And whether or not Farsheed has understood, he nods.
* * *
—
I flop back into one of the chairs tucked behind the trestle table. For the past five minutes, I’ve been helping Donovan serve tea and coffee. Although, the words “help” and “serve” are a bit of an overstatement, when all I’ve really done is add a splash of milk and a teaspoon of sugar into plastic cups. And I didn’t manage to get that right half the time.
Donovan slips into the chair beside me. “Anyway, it’s been a minute. So what’s happening with you? Where you working now?”
“I’m still job hunting.”
“What about that interview you told me about?”
I shake my head.
“Aww, man. Sorry, Yinks.”
“It’s okay.” I try to sound breezy. “My Aunty put me in touch with this managing director at a boutique investment bank. Apparently, there’s a lot of job openings coming up. Anyway, he asked me to send him my CV, because stupid me forgot to attach it to my original e-mail.”
Donovan leans back in his chair. “That’s a shame ’cause I have the perfect role for you.”
I laugh. “Go on, then.”
Donovan leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Sanctuary is looking for someone to oversee their Woolwich outreach. I think you’d be great at the job, still.”
“What, because of that one time you saw me help those teens stuff leaflets?”
“No,” he says slowly. “Because you’re good with people. Even Kelly said so. You’ve got transferable skills, and experience working with the homeless. Yinks, you’re more qualified than you think.”
“Thanks,” I say, flushing, then immediately blame it on the heat. Okay, it’s only sixteen degrees, but that’s hot for the UK.
“I’m leading the recruitment, and I want to put you up for the role. The salary is decent for charity work, not gonna lie. Anyway, the deadline is May seventeenth. Let me at least send you a job spec.”
“All right.” I give in.
Donovan blinks. “Cool. Um, let me get your e-mail address then.” He hands me his phone.
“Might as well add your number, innit,” he says. “Just in case, you know, for any questions.”
I type in my number, sucking in my lips to quell a smile. Wait, what am I smiling for?
“This MD,” he says after I hand him his phone, “you sent him your CV yet?”
“Not yet,” I say, stroking my hair. “I was going to make a few tweaks first.”
“Well, I can look it over, if you like? Offer you my expertise.”
“Oh, would you?” My eyes light up. “Thanks, Donovan. That would be amazing.”
“No problem. Let me give you my e-mail address.”
I dig out my phone, and I notice Donovan’s fresh cornrows as he taps on the screen.
“Here,” he says, handing it back. Just above his e-mail address, he’s saved his number.
“Anyway, enough about work,” I say in what I hope is a breezy tone. “How’s things with you? Ooh, how’s counseling?”