‘What’s with you and all this cleaning?’ she asked, puzzled. ‘Can whoever’s taken my friend away, please bring her back!’
She grinned at the determined expression on her friend’s face as she pushed the mop over the spotless tiles. ‘Besides, didn’t Mrs Vance come and clean only two days ago?’
Caroline was so relieved to see Faye smiling that she stopped, tossed the mop back into the cupboard, and sat down again.
‘Well, I read this article online that said housework is really good exercise,’ she said ruefully, pinching the generous fold above her waistline. ‘I’ve put on loads of weight lately and you know how much I hate the gym – all those skinny girls in cropped tops standing around posing and making you feel like an elephant!’
Caroline’s battle with her weight had been her biggest preoccupation since their teenage years. At five feet two, she had an abundance of dark red-gold hair and generous curves that unfortunately promised to follow in the mould of her plump mother.
‘Well, you may hate exercising,’ Faye said with all the smugness of someone who had never had a weight problem, ‘but all the experts agree that if you want to lose weight, you’ve got to exercise.’
‘I do exercise!’ protested Caroline.
‘I don’t think getting dolled up in designer lycra and watching an exercise DVD with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other is quite what they had in mind,’ Faye retorted dryly.
‘Well, they were really expensive leggings,’ Caroline muttered defensively. ‘I didn’t want to get them all sweaty.’
She looked with envy at her friend’s lean frame. ‘You’re so lucky, Faye. If I had legs like yours I’d wear mini skirts and shorts every day – even in the middle of winter!’
Faye laughed aloud, her battered self-confidence perking up slightly.
‘Thanks, babe, but even if you had my legs, you’d still need to wear high heels to kiss Marcus. Talking of Marcus, where is he this morning? I’ve been so busy crying into my coffee, I forgot all about him.’
Caroline had washed out her coffee mug and was now looking around for her next target. Faye instinctively tightened her hold on her own cup before it found its way into her hands.
‘He’s gone off to play golf again,’ she replied absently. After scanning the spotless kitchen fruitlessly, she shrugged and settled herself down on a bar stool, smoothing down the baggy denim dungarees she always wore on her ‘fat days’.
‘I told you he’d started playing golf with that client he could never get to show up at his office for meetings, didn’t I?’ Faye nodded and she continued. ‘Yes, well now he’s hooked on the game and it looks as if I’m going to turn into a golf widow before I’m even married!’
Barely pausing for breath, Caroline changed the subject. ‘Never mind Marcus,’ she said impatiently. ‘What are you going to do about Michael?’ Having tried to appear neutral so far, she could hear disapproval creeping into her voice. ‘I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but I really think you’ve got to make a decision about this relationship before he hurts you even more.’
Steeling herself against the bleak expression on her friend’s face, Caroline forced herself to keep going. Having started, there was now no point in keeping the rest back.
‘You know I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, Faye, but it’s time you woke up and saw what Michael is really like. You’ve been seeing him for what, nearly two years? And how much real time do you actually spend together – unless, of course, he’s got freebie tickets to some event or other!’
Faye remained silent, her head hanging down despondently. Caroline continued more gently.
‘Look, Faye, I’ve tried to keep my mouth shut because whoever you want to see is your own business and as long as Michael made you even halfway happy, I promised myself I’d stay out of it. And sometimes you are so damned stubborn, no one can tell you anything! But, you’re not happy and it’s not just about last night. Don’t forget, I’ve known you for years. You are a loving, caring, funny person who is fantastic to be around. You’ve got your own style – a bit weird, mind you, but it’s all your own. Michael’s not a bad guy, I suppose, but you just let him walk all over you! Somehow he manages to turn you into an insecure bunch of nerves and makes you feel inadequate all the time. Don’t try and tell me that’s love.’ Caroline paused for a moment before deciding to go for broke.
‘And tell me what kind of boyfriend would rather watch some arty film than have wild sex. And if all that’s not enough, he has the cheek to cuddle up to his obnoxious ex-girlfriend right under your nose and think that he can get away with it! Now what kind of relationship is that to hang on to – do you really love him that much?’ She glared at Faye indignantly, her face flushed with anger.
Faye sighed and pulled herself up from the rocking chair. Taking her mug over to the pristine sink, she washed it slowly and placed it in the drainer before speaking.
‘Look, I know you don’t like Michael very much,’ she said. She shook her head as her friend started to speak. ‘No, it’s okay,’ she interrupted with a small smile. ‘I can’t honestly say I blame you – let’s face it, he’s not the easiest person to get on with.’
She leaned back against the sink, studying the sparkling white floor tiles abstractedly. ‘The thing is, I really thought I meant more to him than just some black Eliza Doolittle that needed a cultural makeover, or a rebound girlfriend when the girl he really wanted dumped him. In some ways, I do love him – or at least some things about him. But maybe I put up with him because if I don’t have Michael, there might never be anyone else out there for me. I mean, just look at all the idiots I went out with before him!’
She went on quickly as Caroline opened her mouth to protest. ‘Yeah, I know – you think Michael’s just as big a twat as Rupert and Boris and all the rest. And maybe I have been kidding myself about him – although, no matter what, after two years together, you’d think he would at least have the decency not to parade his ex-live-in lover in front of me! Anyway, I was up most of last night thinking and a couple of things have become really clear to me. One is that Michael doesn’t love me and never did. The other is that I’m not happy and it’s not just because of my crappy job that’s going nowhere and my equally crappy boyfriend – also obviously going nowhere, after last night.’
Caroline pulled a strand of her red-gold hair from the untidy topknot on her head and curled it round her finger, her expression curious.
‘Why? What else is wrong?’
Faye shook her head slowly as she considered her words.
‘Well, even though I know Michael’s behaviour is really hypocritical, I can’t help feeling that he has a point about me being culturally, well…’ She hesitated. ‘You know… being in a sort of cultural limbo.’
Caroline groaned loudly and threw her hands in the air in exasperation.
‘What on earth is this whole fixation you’ve suddenly developed about your roots, Faye!’ Jumping off the stool, she strode over to the fridge and took out a bottle of mineral water. Her face was pink with indignation as she poured herself a glass and sat down again.
‘Look, so you have a couple of lousy nights out with a bunch of judgmental people who don’t know the first thing about you telling you all sorts of rubbish and you actually believe them?’
‘Well, there must be something to what they said or I wouldn’t be letting it bother me so much,’ Faye protested. ‘Come on, Caro, you know as well as I do that I haven’t been back to Ghana since I was a little girl. That surely can’t be right.’
Well, I haven’t been back to Ireland since we buried Granny O’Rourke when I was twelve,’ Caroline retorted heatedly. ‘So what does that prove?’
Faye’s response was cut short as a lanky figure with bright red hair strode into the kitchen.
Caroline clutched at her chest. ‘I know you have a spare key, Dermot, but would it kill you to ring the doorbell or something when you come here? You scared the livin
g daylights out of me!’
Grinning unrepentantly and with a triumphant whoop, Dermot raced to the empty rocking chair and ignoring Faye’s yelp of protest, threw himself into the old chair, clutching the arms dramatically and winking at his sister.
‘So, what’s all this about Granny O’Rourke? Don’t tell me she did leave us some money after all?’ he said, looking hopeful.
Caroline’s indignation at his unceremonious entry dissolved into laughter as she watched her brother resist Faye’s outraged attempts to drag him out of the rocking chair. After a brief tussle, Dermot pulled her onto his lap, his thin pale arms surprisingly strong.
‘Okay, okay!’ He gasped with laughter. ‘Stop wriggling and we can share.’
When Faye finally gave up the fight and was sitting still, he asked again. ‘What about Granny O’Rourke?’
Ignoring Faye’s warning look, Caroline impatiently related the last part of their conversation to her brother who listened without interruption, rocking the chair back and forth with one arm loosely draped around Faye.
When Caroline finished speaking, Dermot nodded gravely and gave Faye a gentle squeeze.
‘Well, Caro, I know what she means. It’s easy for us to forget that Faye isn’t totally British because we’ve known her for so long, but that doesn’t mean she feels the same,’ he said. Being serious was not something she was used to from Dermot and Caroline gaped at him.
Recovering quickly, she shot back, ‘But she barely remembers Ghana – she’s grown up here! Isn’t that what’s important?’ she asked.
Dermot gently pushed Faye off his lap and stood up, relinquishing the rocking chair. Opening one of the cupboards, he took out a mug and poured himself the rest of the coffee in the pot, all the while still arguing with his sister.
‘Caro, that’s just the point! She’s grown up here but she doesn’t come from here, and now she clearly feels that something’s missing. Look,’ he added impatiently, ‘if you were adopted, wouldn’t you want to know who your real parents were?’
As his sister looked baffled, he went on. ‘As far as Faye’s concerned, she’s been adopted by Britain and now she’s curious about where she really comes from. It’s only natural, if you ask me!’
‘Well, I’m sorry I did!’ Caroline pouted.
Faye had been listening to their argument in fascination, her head swivelling from one to the other like a riveted tennis fan during a Wimbledon final.
‘Hello, you two!’ She interrupted at this point, stamping her foot. ‘Can I remind you that I’m actually here?’
She turned to Dermot, who was drinking his coffee, his face now nearly as pink as his sister’s.
‘How come you understand so well and Caro doesn’t?’ She looked at him in wonderment. She had always seen Dermot as her friend’s cheeky younger brother and it was proving a bit of a revelation to find out that he had turned into such a sensitive young man.
He shrugged, suddenly embarrassed at the intensity with which both women were looking at him.
‘Let’s just say I’m a musician and, as an artist, I’m more in tune with people’s emotions than Ms TV producer here!’ Ducking a pretend blow from his sister, he smiled winningly at Faye and reverted to the Dermot she was used to.
‘Of course, you could always solve your problems by marrying me – the band’s doing really well at the moment and I might actually be able to afford you. That is,’ he added, ‘if you’ve finally dumped that Michael character.’
Faye’s face clouded over at the mention of Michael and Caroline kicked Dermot in exasperation. Ignoring his howl of pain, she marched over to the rocking chair and hauled Faye out.
‘Come on,’ she said with determination. ‘It’s time to blow the cobwebs away. We’re going shopping!’
It was almost four hours later when an exhausted Faye finally returned home, her arms aching from the heavy carrier bags that were the usual result of a shopping expedition with Caroline. Laying her new clothes out on her bed, she realised ruefully that her salary for the month had been totally blown.
So much for trying to clear the credit card bill this month, she thought, running her fingers over a black silk dress that had cost her almost two weeks’ salary. Piling on even more debt is all I need now and it’s not as if I even have anywhere to wear this.
Her eyes filled with tears as the memory of Michael’s face just before she had stalked out of the pigfoot restaurant the night before brought a fresh wave of pain. When she had stood up to leave, his jovial expression had swiftly changed to one of anger, but as she had stared down into his eyes, silently challenging him to make her stay, she had also seen an unmistakable hint of relief. Her tears fell unchecked as she relived the humiliation of Jasmine placing a restraining hand on Michael’s arm as he made a move to stand up, and the triumphant smirk that she made no effort to hide when he complied with her silent command.
A sharp knock on her bedroom door jolted her from her thoughts. Starting guiltily, she wiped her eyes and called out ‘Come in’ while hastily gathering together the leather skirt and cropped denim jacket she had been about to try on.
Her father walked in, shaking his head at the chaotic state of her room.
‘Faye, how can you live like this?’ He looked around the room in irritation. Without waiting for an answer, he went on. ‘Have you seen Lottie?’
Faye shook her head. ‘No, Dad. She’s probably gone into town. She said something yesterday about doing her Christmas shopping early. I can call her mobile if you like?’
She bent down, as much to pick up some of the offending garments as to avoid his gaze. Her father could always tell when she had been crying and she was in no mood to discuss her cultural dilemma again today.
Her ploy failed when, instead of leaving, her father instead walked slowly over to her. Waiting for her to straighten up, he gently raised her head with his hand and scrutinised her face. ‘You’ve been crying,’ he observed.
She sighed. ‘I’m okay, Dad. I’m just feeling a bit low, that’s all.’
He looked at the clothes she was holding in her arms, the price tags still visible.
‘It looks like your bank balance is probably feeling the same,’ he said with a smile. Hugging her gently, he drew her over to the bed and sat down beside her.
‘I’ve been so busy these last few weeks that you and I have not been able to chat properly for a while. Why don’t we make up for lost time now?’ he said.
His dark eyes were filled with concern and as Faye looked into them, she promptly burst into tears again. Clutching the lapel of his jacket, she sobbed until her head ached. Eventually, she calmed down and took the clean handkerchief he held out for her and wiped her eyes fiercely.
‘Sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean to fall apart like that.’ She looked at the crumpled hanky she had been about to hand to him.
‘I don’t suppose you want this back, do you?’ she asked with a weak grin.
Her father smiled and gently shook his head. ‘You can keep it.’ He leant back slightly to take a better look at her. ‘I suppose it’s that young man Michael that has upset you so much?’
Like most of the people in Faye’s life who had come into contact with Michael, Dr Bonsu had received his share of lectures from the young journalist. Knowing that voicing his real opinions about Michael to Faye could be counterproductive, he had wisely held back and just prayed for the day when she would eventually see what everyone else had no trouble observing. But keeping his peace while Faye seemed reasonably happy was one thing; to stand by and see her so upset was quite another. Although by his upbringing he was not a demonstrative man, Dr Bonsu loved his children fiercely and was ready to deal with anyone who threatened their happiness.
Instinctively trying to protect Michael from her father’s wrath, Faye shook her head hastily. ‘No – well, yes, but it’s not really all about Michael.’
Her father frowned in bewilderment. He wished for the umpteenth time that his beloved Annie were still alive to
deal with these complex matters. While he could have written a book about the long-term effects of measles on a child’s physiological development, he was completely at sea when it came to matters of the heart. He had only ever loved one woman and, luckily, she had felt the same about him. Since her death, he had experienced no more than a fleeting attraction for anyone else and he was totally baffled by the complex nature of romantic relationships in the West.
Hesitantly, Faye recounted the events of the last two weeks to her father. As she reached the point where Jasmine’s status was revealed, her father clenched his fists, anger clearly visible on his face.
‘Faye, please tell me you don’t plan to see this man again, because I can assure you that he is not welcome in this house!’
She shrugged helplessly. ‘I know, Dad. I’m furious at him myself but honestly, it’s not just about what happened last night.’
‘What do you mean?’ Her father was baffled. From what he’d heard, Michael’s behaviour was more than enough to justify Faye’s tears.
‘What really hurt was feeling like such an outsider,’ she said. ‘It was like they were all in this world where they understood each other. Even his ex that he’s supposed to hate so much was part of the inner circle because she understands the culture. I just felt like I didn’t belong – like I’m this disconnected, posh Hampstead girl who doesn’t know anything about her culture and they’re all really conscious and in touch with their roots and…’
Her voice ground to a halt and for several moments, her father didn’t say a word. When he finally spoke, he simply said, ‘Faye, I am so sorry.’
Taken aback by the depth of sorrow in his voice, Faye was quick to reassure him. ‘No, Dad, it’s not your fault. I’m just being a bit pathetic, that’s all.’
Dr Bonsu shook his head and took his daughter’s hands between his own.
‘No, my dear, it is indeed my fault. I have been so busy taking care of other people, I stopped taking care of my own children.’ He hushed her as she tried to interrupt him. ‘No, Faye, it’s true. I may have given you and William all the material things you need, but I have clearly neglected your cultural needs. I should have done more to keep you both connected to Ghana over the years. I just assumed that you had no problem coping with being both Ghanaian and British and didn’t feel any conflict about doing so, but I see now that I was wrong.’ He restrained himself from adding that it was even more soul destroying that it had taken Michael, of all people, to make him see this.
From Pasta to Pigfoot Page 10
