“Fuck it,” Cam says. “I’m in.”
Pre-scream, Jo turns to me.
I suddenly nod. “Me too!”
“Yes!” Jo pulls her MacBook out from her bag, sits at the table and looks up seats available on Emma’s flight. “Maddie, we can book yours tomorrow when you’ve checked in with work, in case they say no, but they won’t. They can’t.”
* * *
Ben
Florence? Now I HAVE to make us pasta for dinner
Second date sorted
Maddie
Are you sure you don’t mind cooking again?
Wouldn’t you rather we go out for dinner, maybe?
Ben
But … my pasta machine
I smile at my phone screen. Ben’s been very excited by his recently purchased pasta machine. He’s been sending me pictures of pasta he’s made and the meals he’s turned them into for the past three days.
Maddie
I’m starting to think you might like this pasta machine more than you like me
Ben
Maddie, please don’t make me choose
Did I tell you it has TEN thickness settings?
Maddie
Yes. You also happened to mention that it came with a table clamp, a drying function, and that it can make 700g of fresh pasta in minutes
Ben
750g!
Maddie
Fine, but this had better be the best pasta I’ve ever tasted
Ben
Challenge accepted
See you tomorrow?
I sigh. Not because I don’t want to see Ben again, I really do, but—and I know you’re going to think, Maddie, I don’t get what the problem is—I need to wash my hair.
I was going to wait until Saturday, but what if Ben decides to kiss the top of my head and all he smells is the sweat and dust collected from running around the OTP offices and my scalp stewing on the underground?
I call it wash day because it really is a twenty-four-hour process that I’ve now got to shrink into twelve hours and counting.
I finish dinner and get started. There’s a method to washing my 4C hair in the least detrimental way. It’s a science. Detangling my hair alone takes almost an hour, and I could stop after step five and blow-dry my hair, but I prefer to minimize heat damage, and I’m sure that’s one of the reasons why, when stretched, my hair rests at bra-strap length.
Everyone has their own wash-day method, but here’s a simplified version of mine:
Shampoo hair until water runs clear
Apply conditioner, detangle with wide-tooth comb, and leave under a shower cap for twenty minutes
Wash conditioner out and lightly dry hair with microfiber towel
Section hair, typically into ten sections, and oil the scalp
Spray a section with a moisturizing spray, coat in a sulphate-free cream of choice, then apply a natural oil blend （currently castor oil mixed with jojoba oil）。 Plait the section and repeat nine more times
When all the hair is plaited, leave to air-dry overnight
Undo plaits when dry and style as desired
I know. Even for me, a doer of this exact routine for five years, it’s exhausting. I’m a little way into section five when I go down to the kitchen for a snack. Jo’s still in there and smiles when she sees me. “Whoa,” she says. “Are you putting weave in?”
I frown into the fridge. “No, just washing my hair.”
“Half your hair is long and the other is short. Did you cut it like that?”
“It’s shrinkage.”
She narrows her eyes. “What?”
I point to the shorter side of my hair. “When my hair is wet, it shrinks.” I point to the other side of my head, “and when it’s plaited, it stretches.”
“Oh,” she reaches out and pulls a damp coil. “Boing,” she says. She reaches out to do it again but Cam comes out of nowhere and gently slaps Jo’s hand away. In her TA’s voice, she says, “You don’t touch a Black woman’s hair, Jo. Not without permission.”
I would argue you shouldn’t touch anyone’s hair without their permission, just like you wouldn’t, or at least shouldn’t, just reach out and grab someone’s boob, but Jo laughs at Cam. “Maddie doesn’t mind. We’re flatmates.”
I force a smile and grab a packet of crisps instead of making a sandwich.
Back upstairs, I undo my plaits and blow-dry my hair instead.
Chapter Fourteen
Begrudgingly, I admit it is the best pasta I’ve ever had, mostly because instead of tomato, Ben’s made a smooth butternut and sage butter sauce. As I clean my bowl, he looks on smugly until I say, “I’ve only ever had dried pasta from a packet, so the bar was very low.”
He gently grabs my chin and kisses me.
When he pulls away, I ask, “No dessert?”
“Afraid not. Dinner took me hours.”
“Oh! What happened to seven hundred grams in minutes?”
“Seven hundred and fifty grams. The additional fifty grams is what really does it for me.” He kisses me again. “But if you insist, let me find you something,” and he gets up from the table to pour us two glasses of wine.
“Far be it from me to judge, but I don’t think that dessert has set.”
He snorts. “Dessert wine.” He hands me a glass. “A compromise.”
“Is it, though?”
“What if you pick what we watch? I have all the subscriptions, so the film and TV world is at your disposal.”
“Can we watch David Attenborough’s New Worlds documentary? I think it’s meant to be on at eight.”
Ben smiles and squeezes my shoulder. “I’ve been looking forward to that since the BBC announced it. You’re a David Attenborough fan?”
“Everyone’s a David Attenborough fan,” I say. “He’s the Earth’s grandpa.”
* * *
We take the wine into the living room, and I make a conscious effort not to spill any onto the carpet. This room is decorated in a soft gray-black with accents of chrome and teal. A giant Jackson Pollock–esque painting hangs on the back wall, and a large TV on the opposite. There’s a built-in bookcase beside the piano （“Ornamentation at this point, I rarely play”）， and a fireplace in the wall.
Ben closes the curtains, takes a blanket from the armchair, and drapes it over us when we settle on the sofa.
The wine is very sweet, unlike the red from our first date, and I soon leave an empty glass on the table （atop a coaster, of course）。
Tonight’s documentary is on big cats and their increasingly difficult search for food. I’m so absorbed I don’t notice Ben coming closer until his hand is resting on my thigh. These things happen. It’s quite grown-up to have a man’s hand on your thigh and I am a grown-up, so it’s fine. Now he’s stroking the inside of my thigh with his thumb. My pulse spikes when he’s further up my dress, and I wonder if I should touch him too. Where would be similarly appropriate to touch him?
I turn to look at Ben and his eyes catch mine. I mean to smile and look away, but he leans forward and kisses me, pulling me onto his lap. I make a conscious effort to kiss him back and it feels like a game of who can apply the most pressure on the other’s lips.
“I am, quite frankly, obsessed with you,” he says, and he kisses me again. It’s a nice thing for him to say and it’s even nicer to hear.