I steer towards the exit but some of the women follow me, stroking my arms and taking more photos. JEEZ. I make it out the door onto the pavement but about fifteen of them come too. And now I am standing, unsure what to do…
A black car pulls up, just like the ones inSuccession. The window winds down about three inches. All I can see is a massive pair of sunglasses peering over the top.
‘Get in,’ says Merlyn.
I open the door and flop down in the seat, sighing with relief. It takes me a second to notice there is a man sitting next to Merlyn, wearing a white tuxedo jacket with nothing underneath, showing a mass of dark chest hair.
‘OMG you’re so gorgeous – who gave you permission, gurl?’ Finally, here is Channing, in the flesh. I’ve come to know him well enough to understand that ‘who gave you permission’ isn’t a question that needs an answer.
We drive around Soho to shake off the women who were clearly trying to work out where we are heading – Channing even saw one of them hail a black cab, jump straight in and start following us. It’s all very surreal.
Merlyn hands me a glass of Crémant, which she has magicked from the mini fridge. ‘Erica my dear. I think what we have learnttoday is that location tagging is an Instagram feature that should be used with caution.’
Merlyn pours herself a glass too, then Channing. ‘I propose a toast,’ she says.
Everyone holds up their glass.
‘To WULT® Woman!’
After about half an hour, and a couple of bottles of Crémant (most of which appears to have been sunk by Channing, who is now singing Katy Perry songs out of the open window), we drive near Charing Cross Road and I ask Merlyn if I can be dropped off. There are no ‘fans’ to be seen and the car is hot, maybe because Channing is, apparently, a firework.
I’m glad of the breeze and wander along the street, enjoying the looks from men at my legs. Feeling nostalgic, I take a diversion on the way to the tube and pass close to where Kofi used to work.
Ahead of me, I can see some sort of commotion – a police car, and a group gathered around a man who is sitting on the pavement shouting something. As I draw closer, I can hear it’s the periodic table of elements, which I just about remember from chemistry GCSE. He has an electric keyboard in his hand, and bags scattered around him, one of which contains what appears to be about six chickens (from a supermarket, not live chickens). There are a couple of street workers in branded sweatshirts, two policemen, and another man in a suit.
As I get closer, I recognise the sweatshirts – they’re from the homeless charity Kofi worked for. A few more steps and I’m nearly level with the crowd. Some passers-by have even stopped to see what’s going on. It seems the charity workers are trying topersuade the police not to arrest the man, who at that moment starts playing ‘Angels’ by Robbie Williams on the keyboard – pretty well actually, but I’m not sure it helps.
I’m level with them now. The man in the suit turns, not much, but enough for me to see his face. He’s late forties, and has very short, black hair, with a sprinkling of grey both at the temples and through his beard.
Born on a Friday. It’s Kofi.
Fifteen minutes later I am sitting in a bakery-meets-cafe nearby called The Next Chapter. If there’s a business name that screams ‘fresh start after a divorce’ more than this, I’m all ears. It has glass walls and a cabinet in the middle of the room full of Danish pastries, all with slightly different fillings, lined up on baking parchment.
Opposite me is Kofi. I’m trying to hold the handle of my cup of flat white so that my shaking hand doesn’t make it clatter on the saucer. Sweat is pooling in my cleavage and I wonder if it’s going to make a damp patch on the front of my co-ord.
The dispute with the homeless man had been drawing to a conclusion and Kofi stepped away from his colleagues to stand with me in a shop doorway. He recognised me straight away, of course. I look pretty similar to when he last saw me (apart from the fringe) – the day Father Pells drove up to London and helped me pack box upon box into the back of his Volvo estate.
Even though it was only a quarter of an hour ago, I don’t remember either of our exact words. I do remember him shaking his head, and saying, ‘I might have known you’d do something crazy like this.’ And now here we are, with coffees in front of us that we don’t really want, staring at each other. This is a face I’vethought about so much over the last twenty years that it feels bizarre having it in front of me – and even more so because it’s like looking through one of those Snapchat filters that age you. As for Kofi, well, I don’t know what he’s thinking, but his mouth is slightly open, and I can see the pale skin inside, which was once so familiar, and now feels like something from another life, another time.
‘It’s so freakin strange looking at you,’ he says. ‘It’s like the picture of Dorian Gray. Or Benjamin Button. Or…’ He trails off.
I don’t say anything, although it occurs to me that it can’t be that strange if he didn’t ever see the middle-aged version of me. I stop staring at him for a second and notice his wallet on the table, lying open to reveal a British Garden Centres Family Membership and what looks like the business card of a financial adviser. It’s upside down and the font is curly but his name is either Martin Clack or Martin Crack. I find myself pondering which would be worse.
‘How are your mum and dad?’ Kofi asks after a moment, clearing his throat loudly.
Tears pool in my eyes, unexpectedly. ‘My mum is fine. My dad… erm… he… passed. Away.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He looks it. Genuinely. Kofi was – maybe is – an empathetic person, I guess that’s why he does the job he does. ‘Your parents were…’
I wonder what he’s going to say. Distant? Reserved? Workaholics?
‘…always looking out for you and Simon.’ He smiles, for the first time. ‘You were very lucky.Arevery lucky, I’m sure. I’m trying to do the same for my three.’
Kofi has kids. But that’s not what I’m focusing on. ‘What d’you mean?’
‘They worked really hard to give you as much as they could, didn’t they? Remember when they paid for us to go away to theScottish Highlands for my twenty-fifth? And you said you had some pretty special family holidays when you were young.’ He says ‘young’ in a strange way, staring at me again, the smile gone.
When I look back, I think of my parents working late, of freezer dinners, the key under the flowerpot. I remember Simon being ‘in charge’ of me (much to his delight), and that evening when Drunk Norman from five doors down banged on the door and Simon and I hid behind the curtains until our parents got home. But it was hours, and all I had was a sherbet fountain, which gave me a headache. Funny how someone who wasn’t there can have such a warped version of what it was really like.
