‘No word of a lie.’ Glamazon gestures for me to pull out a chair and sit at the table. This is not how I imagined my pitch meeting.
‘He won’t be a minute and he’ll make you a cup of tea as well.’ The elder of the two women says as ifheisn’t in the room with us.
‘That would be lovely.’ I sit at the table and decide to go with the general vibe. The man at the stove stirs the pot one more time, turns the heat off and leans over and flicks on a kettle. I’m hypnotised. He turns to face me.
Fuck me.
No.
Jamal is actually Jamal! The UK’s brightest and best. The twenty-first century’s version of Da Vinci, Aristotle and Helen Keller rolled into one, a polymath to rival all others. He started out in the music business, making a name for himself on the hip-hop scene before he was even out of school. He then went on to release an album that had gone mainstream and hit all the number one spots on every streaming service whilst he was still sitting his A-levels. He has since done some television, partnering up with Channel Four on a drama set here, in St Pauls, that then won a BAFTA – of course it did – and now he is releasing more music, running an ethical clothing company, campaigning against sweatshops and is rumoured to have something new he is about to announce. He’s thirty. A year younger than me, way more successful than anyone could hope to be and sexy as fuck. Sweet Jesus Christ he is sexy. And currently making me tea in a kitchen in St Pauls.
I’m going to kill Rory. How could he not have warned me?
‘Cup of tea on and you’re welcome to a bowl of chicken…’ He pauses as he turns and sees me. ‘F—’ He looks across at the older woman and makes a ‘sorry’ grimace. ‘I know you. Rory didn’t tell me it was you!’
I laugh. How surreal is this? Jamal knowsme. I don’t think so. There is no way this is happening to me right now.
‘You know me? You must have me muddled with someone else. I didn’t realise I was coming to see you, Rory didn’t say.’ I stammer. So much for my professional I-know-all-about-Shakespeare-and-am-well-worth-your-investment speech. I’m fairly sureYou know mewasn’t supposed to be my opening line. Neither is dribbling with open-mouthed awe. Yet I seem to be rocking it really well.
Jamal looks me up and down. Not in a sleazy sexual way, not at all, but in a way which makes me practically see the cogs in his brain whirring around at super speed, his eyes lit with an intelligence that is more than a little intimidating.
‘Yeah, he’s good like that. Loyal, tight-lipped, never talks much unless there’s something to be said. I like him. He is the most honourable man you are likely to meet. We’ve been friends for years. That’s why I took this meeting. But yeah, I know you…’
‘He’s always had a photographic memory, ever since he was a boy. He sees something, he remembers it. It was one of his superpowers when he was little. So where do you know this nice young lady from then, Jamal?’
‘The papers.’ His tone does not fill me with hope.
‘Ooh, are you famous too?’ the older woman asks me, a big grin on her face. The Beautiful One looks interested.
‘No, I’m really not.’ If he remembers me from the papers then here I am back on my dad’s coat-tails. My least favourite place in the world. My heart sinks.
‘Yeah, look, I’m sorry your dad’s a dick, ooh, sorry, Nan…’ Nan! No way, she does not look old enough. Jamal continued, ‘Your dad is a … well, you know what I’m saying. The papers are intrusive but still, must have been a shock.’
‘Nah, not really.’ He hands me a mug of tea and I take a slurp appreciatively before I look up and hold his eye. He’s watching my every move, my every micro-reaction. ‘I’ve known he’s a di … um … a bounder?’ I look over at Jamal’s nan who nods. ‘I’ve known my whole life. From about the age of five, anyway, when I caught him snogging my reception teacher after the parents’ race.’
‘Some men, they just can’t keep it in their pants,’ Jamal’s nan says, her accent pure Jamaican, as she shakes her head.
Glamazon nods wearily.
‘Not my Jamal though. He is a good boy. A smart boy. He won’t see you wrong.’
‘Let’s eat before it gets cold. Stew, Nan? Alisa? Belle?’ He serves the chicken into a big bowl and gives us all small plates.
‘Nan came over withWindrush, so this reminds her a little of home. She taught me when I was small,’ he says as we all sit there, cramped up together in the tiny kitchen polishing off our bowls.
‘That was so good, thank you.’
‘No worries. But why are you sat in my kitchen? Your family is rich. Why won’t your dad invest? Free up my money for people without your privilege?’
Ouch. It’s a question I can’t answer either. I go for honesty.
‘Maybe you should give your money to people who didn’t have my start in life. But I’m sat here now hoping you’ll give it to me and that my project helps open up the world a little to people who may struggle to access parts of it otherwise. I’d like to do this without going to my father.’
‘And I’d like to live in a world with more equality, where people don’t have to go without food to make sure their kids eat.Likeis a luxury in this life.’ Again, I can’t argue with that. The food had been delicious but nothing is going to remove the taste of failure, peppered with a sprinkling of humiliation, from my mouth now.
I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends.
December Seventh.
