Faye had never met anyone like Michael. Black consciousness was not a big topic of discussion in Hampstead, and she listened, mesmerised, as he spoke. ‘So I took a course in African-Caribbean Discourse and Communications and then applied to one of the local papers for a job,’ he explained. ‘It was just a trainee position to start with, of course. Most of the time, I was sent out to report on events like the meetings between the police and the local Afro-Caribbean community leaders, which really taught me a lot about what was going on with our people. But after a while I wanted to do more creative reporting – especially when I really got into the cultural stuff. Anyway, I got lucky after a couple of years and got an offer from The Black Herald – where I’m working now – to do their arts and culture reviews. I’ve also got my own column and I blog on a number of black consciousness sites,’ he added, trying to sound modest.
Faye was oblivious to the cool October night air blowing up the very short dress she had worn that night as she sat listening to Michael. The combination of the two large glasses of red wine she had absently downed during the long meal, and the hypnotic effect of his penetrating dark eyes, made her uncharacteristically bold. Almost as if it were someone else speaking, she heard herself offering to cook him a meal the following weekend.
‘Hey, that would be great!’ he said enthusiastically. After a short pause, he eyed Faye thoughtfully and added, ‘Would you mind very much coming over and cooking at my flat? It’s just to save me having to get across town when I’m still feeling, well… emotionally down, you know?’
She didn’t, but Michael, assuming her silence to mean that she had agreed, then changed the subject back to his theme for the evening. Shaking his head slowly, his voice dropped and a pained expression crossed his face. ‘I still can’t believe it. After all I did for that woman, how could she just walk away like that…?’
Faye listened without interruption until William came looking for her, dragging her off before she could say more than a hasty goodbye to Michael and punch his number into her mobile.
All that week at work, she had buzzed with excitement at the thought of an evening alone with Michael and on Saturday afternoon she spent an hour in the supermarket, happily blowing her budget for the week on food. Laden with two carrier bags, she had driven down to Michael’s flat in Streatham ready to cook away any memories of his old flame.
As a self-confessed addict, as far as Faye was concerned, pasta was the obvious answer to any situation. Celebrating good news always called for a generous plate of fun, shoestring-like stringozzi, while a big bowl of steaming linguine with clams was guaranteed to ward off any looming depression over credit card bills. A hard, unsatisfying day at the office was best forgotten with a bowl of soup packed with cavatappi, her favourite corkscrew-shaped macaroni, while, as far as she was concerned, the antidote to any form of heartache was always to be found in the soothing curls of garlic-infused tagliatelle.
Taking no notice of Michael’s worried expression when she looked blank at his request for saltfish and ackee, she banged around his tiny kitchen preparing her speciality dish of tagliatelle with prawns in a creamy tomato sauce. Lost in her Jamie Oliver fantasies, she cleaned the prawns and chopped liberal quantities of garlic and fresh parsley for the sauce. While the pasta cooked, she drizzled a liberal glug of garlic and olive oil dressing over a huge green salad and warmed up a mound of garlic bread in the oven. Dessert was a creamy tiramisu. After they had eaten Faye stacked the dishes into the dishwasher while Michael carefully packed away the leftover food, revealing what looked like a hundred plastic takeaway containers in his cupboard. She made two cups of coffee with the freshly ground, ruinously expensive Brazilian beans that had been her final extravagance, taking the drinks through into his small living room, where they sat while he played track after track from what appeared to be a huge collection of reggae, blues and jazz CDs.
It was an hour before her reward came – in the form of an invitation to an exhibition of watercolour landscapes by a newly discovered Jamaican artist that Michael was reviewing for his paper the following week.
‘You’ll like his stuff,’ he said. ‘And it will give you a chance to see some of the work that’s coming out of the Caribbean these days.’
Faye was so excited at the thought of another date that she barely noticed the less than romantic perfunctory peck on the cheek as he said goodbye at his front door when she finally, reluctantly, got up to leave.
After the art exhibition, more dates followed, although it didn’t take Faye too long to realise that they invariably centred on events that Michael had been sent to cover by his paper.
But if she occasionally wished that they could go to the cinema, without Michael tapping review notes onto his iPad for his column while the other couples around them held hands, or – just once – go to a concert that Michael hadn’t been given free tickets to, she would remind herself of the boring loneliness of her boyfriend-less days. Truly terrified at the idea of being alone and once again standing on the sidelines while romance passed her by, Faye choked back any protests and dutifully attended exhibitions, concerts and films by mainstream and obscure Caribbean and African artists, while Michael took it upon himself to fill what he called her ‘huge cultural gaps’. And if Michael didn’t exactly overwhelm her with passion or, if she was honest, any real affection, she mentally shrugged it off. After all, she would tell herself as she firmly silenced the doubts that occasionally pushed through, a good relationship was much more about mental compatibility than what he described as ‘all that fake, Eurocentric, lovey-dovey stuff’.
Tonight’s date was different, however. Instead of another work-related event, this was the first time Michael had invited her to meet his friends. Despite looking forward to this evening all week, she was now feeling the heavy weight of his expectations on her slim shoulders. Now, almost shivering with nerves despite the warm interior of the car, she cleared her throat and tried to sound calm and confident. This was not the time to provoke another lecture from him about the lack of self-confidence that had probably been engendered by her separation from the proud peoples of Africa.
‘Michael, just remind me again. Whose house are we going to?’
‘Faye, I’ve told you three times already – you really should pay more attention.’ He tutted impatiently and flipped the sun visor back into place before reaching for the door handle. ‘Luther and Philomena.’ He said their names slowly and clearly as if dealing with a demanding toddler.
‘Wait!’ She seized his arm and fought back the rising feeling of panic. ‘Okay, tell me again how you know them? Please, Michael. I don’t want to look like a complete idiot when we get inside!’
He heaved a loud sigh of exaggerated patience but turned to face her fully for the first time since getting into the car.
‘Okay, so you know I lived with a group of artists for a while after I decided to leave uni, right? Well, Luther was one of them. When we shared a house, he was going out with Philomena. They stayed on here and got married after the rest of us moved out.’
He stopped speaking and peered at her through the near darkness.
‘Faye, what’s that white stuff on your sweater?’ His voice rose in annoyance as he brushed his hand over the front of her black top. ‘You need to make a bit more effort with your appearance, you know,’ he said, now clearly irritated.
Brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his own immaculate chocolate-brown suede jacket, he ran a gentle hand over his neatly coiffed hair before glancing over at her.
’So, can we go now?’ he said. ‘It’s getting cold in here and we’re late.’ Without waiting for a response, he pulled his arm away and opened the car door, sliding his legs out of the small space.
Faye took a deep breath and climbed out of the safety of her beloved car. She locked it quickly and ran after her boyfriend as he strode ahead towards one of the shadowed front doors, then stood awkwardly behind him as he rang the doorbell.
When the front d
oor opened, her first impression was of a large dark silhouette in the doorway with its head nodding in time to the thumping rhythms of what was now very loud reggae.
‘Mi-chael!’ the silhouette screeched, its voice rising in joyful volume with each long drawn syllable. ‘Luther! Come quick now, it’s Michael and his lady friend!’
Faye watched in astonishment as the normally reticent Michael threw his head back and laughed happily; a deep belly laugh almost as loud as the music. Throwing his arms around the silhouette, he rocked them both from side to side with a loud ‘whoo-oop’ that made Faye jump nervously.
‘Philo, girl, long time!’ he exclaimed when he finally released the woman. He dragged her inside into a narrow hallway and turned back to Faye who was still standing on the doorstep, smiling politely and waiting to be asked in. He beckoned to her impatiently and she stepped into the house, immediately overcome by the overwhelming combination of noise, heat and light.
The next moment she found herself wrapped in a warm embrace and, once released, was looking into the face of one of the darkest women she had ever seen.
‘Welcome to our home, Faye!’ she said. ‘I’m Philomena. We have been simply dying to meet you, girl!’ Her voice was rich with a strong Caribbean accent that sounded almost musical as she spoke.
Philomena’s skin shone black with an almost blue sheen, into which her jet-black hair, which had been cut into a short, curly style, seemed to blend with no obvious hairline. Her warm dark eyes twinkled as though she had just heard a great joke and her head continued to rise and fall in time with the music that now sounded louder than ever. She was a little taller than Faye and considerably wider, and the embroidered red caftan she was wearing was loosely cut to drape around her generous curves.
She turned her head slightly and without any warning screeched again impatiently, her sculpted dark lips barely moving. ‘Luther!’
Faye blinked as a short man suddenly appeared in the doorway of the front room. He rushed towards Michael and the two men hugged each other hard. In almost ridiculous contrast to his ebony coloured wife, Luther was so pale he could have been mistaken for a white man. His fair hair hung in long dreadlocks over a short-sleeved African print shirt that reached below his knees, while a pair of torn jeans and scuffed trainers completed his outfit.
He pushed Michael aside gently and turned to Faye.
‘Well, now’, he said, looking her over appraisingly. ‘So this is the lady that’s been keeping you away for so long, Michael.’ He spoke very slowly and deliberately and, like his wife, his accent was strong. ‘Welcome, Sister Faye – you see I remember her name, my brother.’
He winked at Michael with a broad smile before turning back to her. ‘It’s nice to meet you at last.’ He took her hand in both of his and pumped it up and down vigorously.
Turning back to Michael, Luther hugged him again and pushed him into the front room while Philomena followed close behind him, clasping Faye‘s hand tightly in hers.
Stepping into the large front room Faye was instantly transported a thousand miles away from the dark September evening in South London to a magical, exotic place. Looking around, there were no sofas, armchairs or, in fact, any formal furniture to be seen. Instead, piles of brightly coloured soft cushions were scattered around covering almost the entire surface of bleached hardwood floor. In blazing colours of scarlet, gold and green, the cushions were covered with small squares of brightly coloured fabric and kente cloth. There were no curtains covering the slightly open bay windows; instead, gold and cream striped blinds hung suspended from the ceiling, reaching down to cover the top half of the glass. It was like walking into an Aladdin’s cave of jewels and light. The pulsing beat of the incredibly loud reggae music coming from the strategically positioned speakers and the intense heat of the room added to the exotic atmosphere.
Utterly entranced, Faye gazed around in amazement before turning to Philomena. ‘What a fabulous room!’ she exclaimed. Her nervousness was forgotten for a moment as her eyes, wide with incredulity, took in the fantastic decor.
Philomena’s twinkling eyes creased at the corners as she beamed at Faye’s enthusiasm. ‘Thank you, girl! We like it like this, you know? It helps us feel like we are back home.’
Not quite sure where that was, Faye lapsed into silence. Folding her long legs together, she sat down on an emerald-coloured cushion, silently hoping that it wouldn’t clash with her handbag.
Gesturing impatiently at Luther to turn the volume down, Philomena turned her attention to Michael.
‘Michael, since you told us you were coming over tonight, I called Wesley and Jiggy and they both say that they’ll pass by – it’s been quite a while since you all were together. Also, I thought it would be nice for Faye to meet them at last,’ she added, smiling warmly at her. ‘So now, what y’all want to drink?’ she asked.
Without appearing to need an answer to her question, she immediately walked out of the room, her wide curves swaying rhythmically under their vibrant covering.
The sudden piercing ring of the doorbell, loud enough to be heard over the music, had Michael leaping to his feet from the cushion he had been sprawled across. He waved Luther down as his host made a half-hearted attempt to get to his feet.
‘I’ll get the door, man. I can’t wait to see those guys!’ His handsome face was split wide by a broad grin as he loped out of the room.
Alone with Luther, Faye searched for something to say.
Typical, she thought ruefully. The first time Michael introduces me to someone he’s not being paid to meet, I go dumb.
She stared back at the pale Jamaican who, judging from his calm expression, seemed under no pressure to make conversation. Instead, he continued steadily examining her features as though he needed to remember every detail to paint some future portrait.
Above the noise of the throbbing music reverberating around the room, she could hear the sound of loud voices in the corridor. She cleared her throat nervously but still Luther said nothing. He seemed content to nod his head in time to the reverberating bass notes of the wailing melody, his long locks swaying gently, and to let his eyes wander over her face and the length of her legs, now crossed defensively in front of her.
To her intense relief, Michael burst back into the room, an even wider grin across his face.
‘Man!’ he exclaimed happily, ‘it’s just like the old days!’
He was followed by two men who were also laughing as they walked into what Faye had now privately christened the rainbow room. The shorter man was wearing a short-sleeved African-style blue and white striped cotton smock over a black wool crew neck sweater with frayed cuffs. His dreadlocks were short and framed his dark chocolate-coloured face like a halo.
The other man was white. Not a pale African, but white. Caucasian. European. White. Tall with curly fair hair that thinned at his temples, he had pale blue eyes that gave nothing away. He nodded briefly at Faye before turning back to Michael who was asking him a question.
The shorter man slapped Luther on the back, giving him a brief hug, before turning his attention to Faye. His eyes were a surprisingly light brown and contrasted strikingly against his dark skin. Like Luther, he took his time to look her up and down before speaking.
‘So, Michael’, he said finally. ‘I take it that this is the lady?’
Michael broke off his conversation with the taller man and glanced over at Faye, who was still sitting cross-legged on the cushion.
‘Yes,’ he said. Barely suppressing his impatience at having to interrupt his conversation, he quickly went through the formalities. ‘Faye, this is Jiggy. And he’, he added, gesturing towards the man in front of him, ‘is Wesley. Jiggy is an artist from Trinidad. Wesley comes from Grenada – he’s a sculptor and also a very talented musician.’
Faye smiled awkwardly at the two men, trying not to feel intimidated by their credentials. She murmured what was meant to be ‘pleased to meet you’ but, having sat without speaking for so long, the w
ords came out sounding more like those of a frog suffering from chronic laryngitis. As she racked her brains – unsuccessfully – to find something charming, or at least witty, to say, Michael turned the music up. At the same time Philomena came back into the room carrying a tray on which she had balanced two tall dark bottles and several glasses in colours as vivid as her cushions.
‘Okay,’ she announced loudly, her lilting voice somehow penetrating through the din. ’Drinks are here, people!’
Clearing a pile of magazines from a low table, she deposited the tray on its surface and stood up straight, her hands planted on her generous hips.
‘Faye, what are you drinking, girl? The men can help themselves.’ She twinkled conspiratorially at her and gestured towards the tray. ‘We’ve got some mighty good rum here, straight from home.’
Faye smiled back at her hesitantly, shifting uncomfortably on the cushion, which was now proving to be lumpier than she had first realised.
‘I’d like a rum and coke then, please’, she said politely, just as Michael stopped the music.
As though the move had been choreographed, the heads of the four men in the room swivelled in her direction. Jiggy was the first to speak, his strongly accented voice breaking into the sudden silence.
‘Huh! What’s that, Faye? You want to mix our sacred nectar with a Coca-Cola drink?’ He looked incredulous and his short dreadlocks bounced in outrage as he turned towards Michael. ‘Michael, what have you been teaching her all this time?’ Although he tried to keep his tone light, it didn’t take a genius to pick up the disapproval now flowing from him.
‘I’m not a very big drinker’, Faye said defensively and threw a look of appeal at Michael, silently begging for support. Swiftly distancing himself from her cultural anarchy, he just shrugged and glared at her as though she were a tiresome child he had been forced to look after.
‘Go on, Faye, just try it and see. This is real Jamaican rum, you know, not that rubbish you get in Hampstead pubs,’ he snapped.
From Pasta to Pigfoot Page 2
