I slip out of one set of pajamas and into its twin, a shower, intermission separating the two acts. Rafe’s voice floats up the stairs,
‘Fancy a hot drink?’
I don’t reply. I don’t need too. I’m pillow-propped, my Kindle resting on my belly. I’m waiting…
He mentioned his mum at least thrice, the first time we spoke which was no longer than it took me to have a glass of wine as I drank in his not quite six foot espresso-ness. His caramel eyes were pools in which I wanted to synchronise swim.
‘I need to go. Let’s do lunch. Tuesdays or Wednesdays near your workplace. Contact me.’
He palmed me a card, melting into the dancing silhouettes. The card, like the man appealed to so many senses, lemon skin roughness, aqua and mocha swirls and the scent of oud. My tongue caressed the syllables of his name: Akwasi Rafael Mensah.
It was more a calling card, contemporarily re-imagined. In addition to his name, he’d helpfully added a bracketed Rafe, there was an email address and mobile number. There was neither the confusing job title slash witty side hustle, nor multiple ways to socially ignore me.
I had to make the first move as he had no way of contacting me. He may refer to himself by a diminutive but I was sure that he did not know what I was called.
It took me several hours, two days later after endless self questioning. What if he had spoken/given his calling card to other women? Should I help him by giving a distinguishing feature? Do I have a distinguishing feature? Should I suggest a place for lunch or just tell him where I work and let him figure it out?
In the end I emailed him my number with a short message:
Its Esme. We met at Ben’s party. I can do lunch on Tuesday. I work in Stratford.
His response, by text, was telegraphic:
Great. Tuesday 1.30. Pho, Westfield.
I smiled. He stood up, took my hands, pulled me into him for the briefest of embraces. His clothes screamed neither designer nor high street, from the Harris Tweed bowler to his Puma’d feet, the autumnal cords and cable that encased his luscious lankiness.
He asked, I answered, we laughed, I talked, and he listened intently. His phone beeped but he did not blink. I nodded my permission for him to check the message. He said that his mother would not approve. I asked if his parents were still together and he shattered my vision of him being the over-indulged only child of a taciturn divorcee.
‘They’ve written their own script,’ Rafe said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘My paternal grandparents are finally at peace with each other as they lie side by side in the graveyard. And mum is the love child of serial polygamists.’
I talked some more and he listened. His phone emitted a different tone.
‘Time’s up.’ He pulled out a last century Nokia.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I thought you’d only have about 1 hour for lunch so I factored in the time coming and going and gave us 40 minutes.’
This was so thoughtful that I just about mumbled thanks. We walked back to my office and I skipped up the stairs as we had made another date. Our lunch dates continued for weeks. Dangerously close to despair’s edge, I suggested dinner.
We met at Walthamstow Central. We turned our backs on the throb of Hoe Street and entered St Mary Road, architectural time tunnel, passing through Victorian, early, middle and recent Elizabethan II, with a Georgian blip and we were back to Victorian, a pub housing an Italian restaurant.
Having discovered a shared passion for dessert, we often opted to dine on starters and afters. What appeared to be an aimless amble, after one such dinner, led us to Rafe’s first floor flat. I was entranced by the spiral metal staircase to the loft conversion and small terrace as I was by the shelves of CDs and books. I was looking out at Lloyd Park when Rafe returned with mugs of hot chocolate.
‘This is different.’
‘Taste it.’
I do as I’m told. ‘Hmm. Its spicy,’ I took another sip, ‘Is it chilli?’
‘No, try again.’ I obeyed.
“Ginger and whisky.’
‘Half right, ginger and rum.’
‘There’s something else.’
‘My secret ingredient.’
‘What is it?’
‘How badly do you want to know?’
Rafe brushed away my russet curls and touched his lips to my forehead, covering my face with chocolate infused kisses. Dinner dates came and went. He showed me the cylinder of creole chocolate, made from cocoa grown on his Mum’s family farm in Trinidad. He grated a few tendrils in a pan of simmering almond milk, stirring until it melted with a sprinkle and a shake of spices, pre-blended. Once poured into warmed mugs, half a capful of Fernandes’ 1814 is added.
One night, we took an unfamiliar route, which led us to his parents’ house. I was mad that he had not given me any notice. Lara’s lilting tones cooled my temper and I felt like a rediscovered relative by the second slice of mango cheesecake.
Rafe’s dad, failed to convince me that the best cocoa grows in his homeland of Ghana as Lara reminded her husband that they met when he came to the Caribbean to do research on cocoa. John laughed in defeat and Lara invited me to the kitchen to make hot chocolate.
‘So what’s the secret ingredient?’
‘Nutmeg.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh! You mean Rafe’s?’
‘I’ve been desperate to find out myself but for now I’m contented that he’s brought you to meet us. I was beginning to think we embarrassed him.’
‘I doubt it. He’s always talking about you.’
Aware that we had divulged our own secrets, silence descended.
Rafe hands me my mug.
‘When are you going to tell me the secret ingredient?’
He tickles my belly as he says to our child,
‘I’ll tell you.’
