“Wonders will never end, you even put plenty foundation!”
I resist the urge to grab the wipes out of my bag and remove every trace of makeup from my face right then and there.
“Abi, have you found boyfriend?”
“What?”
“You can tell me, I’m your friend.” I can’t tell her. Chichi will spread the news before I have finished telling it. And we are not friends. She smiles, hoping to put me at ease, but the expression does not sit comfortably on her face. Her forehead and cheeks are caked in a too-light concealer to hide her aggressive pimples (though she left puberty behind long before I was born), and her bright red lipstick has seeped into the cracks in her lips. I would be more at ease if the Joker were to smile at me.
Tade arrives at 9 a.m. He hasn’t slipped on his doctor’s coat yet and I can make out the muscles beneath his shirt. I try not to stare at them. I try not to dwell on the fact that they remind me of Femi’s. The first thing he asks is, “How is Ayoola?” He used to ask how I was. I tell him she is fine. He peers at my face curiously.
“I didn’t know you wore makeup.”
“I don’t really, I just thought I’d try something different…What do you think?”
He frowns as he considers my handiwork.
“I think I prefer you without it. You have nice skin, you know. Really smooth.”
He has noticed my skin…!
At the first opportunity, I sidle off to the toilet to remove the makeup, but freeze when I see Yinka pursing her lips at one of the mirrors over the bank of sinks. I take a couple of silent steps backward, but she turns her head in my direction and raises her eyebrow.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. I’m leaving.”
“But you just came in…”
She narrows her eyes, instantly suspicious, as she draws closer to me. The moment she realizes I have makeup on, she sneers.
“My, my, how the ‘au natural’ have fallen.”
“It was just an experiment.”
“An experiment in the winning of Dr. Tade’s heart?”
“No! Of course not!”
“I’m playing with you. We both know Ayoola and Tade are meant to be. They look gorgeous together.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
Yinka smiles at me, but her smile is mocking. She sweeps past me as she leaves the toilet and I let go of the breath I’ve been holding. I rush to the sink and take a wipe from my bag, rubbing at my skin. When I’ve got the worst of it off, I splash my face with handfuls of water, rinsing away any traces of makeup and tears.
ORCHIDS
A bouquet of violently bright orchids is delivered to our house. For Ayoola. She leans forward and picks out the card that is tucked between the stems. She smiles.
“It is from Tade.”
Is this how he sees her? As an exotic beauty? I console myself with the knowledge that even the most beautiful flowers wither and die.
She takes out her phone and begins to type a message, narrating her text out loud—“I. Really. Prefer. Roses.” I should stop her, I really should. Tade is a man who puts a lot of thought into everything he does. I can see him in a flower shop, examining bouquet after bouquet, asking questions about varietals and feeding needs, making a well-informed choice. I select a vase from our collection and place the flowers on our center table. The walls are a solemn cream and the flowers light up the living room. “Send.”
He will be taken aback by her text, disappointed and hurt. But perhaps he will understand that she is not the one for him and he will finally back off.
At noon, a spectacular bouquet of roses arrives at our house, a mixture of red and white. Ayoola is out textile shopping, so the house girl hands them to me, despite us both knowing who they are for. They are not the already wilting roses with which Ayoola’s admirers usually grace our table—these flowers are bursting with life. I try not to inhale the sickly sweet smell and I try not to cry.
Mum walks into the room and zeroes in on the flowers.
“Who are these from?”
“Tade,” I hear myself say, even though Ayoola is not there and I have not opened the signature card.
“The doctor?”
“Yes.”
“But didn’t he already send orchids this morning?”
I sigh. “Yes. And now he’s sent roses.”
She breaks into a dreamy smile—she is already picking the aṣọ ẹbí and compiling the guest list for the wedding. I leave her there with the flowers and her fantasies and retire to my room. My bedroom has never seemed as devoid of life as it does now.
* * *
—
When Ayoola returns that evening, she fingers the roses, takes their picture and is about to post it online when I remind her, once again, that she has a boyfriend who has been missing for a month and whom she is supposed to be mourning. She pouts.
“How long am I meant to post boring, sad stuff?”
“You don’t have to post at all.”
“How long, though?”
“A year, I guess.”
“You must be kidding me.”
“Any shorter than that and you will, at the very least, look like a sorry excuse for a human being.” She examines me to see if I already believe she is a sorry excuse for a human being. These days I don’t know what or even how to think. Femi haunts me; he intrudes upon my thoughts uninvited. He forces me to doubt what I thought I understood. I wish he would leave me alone, but his words—his way of expressing himself—and his beauty set him apart from the others. And then there is her behavior. The last two times, at least she shed a tear.
ROSES
I can’t sleep. I lie in bed, turning from back to side, from side to front. I switch the air conditioner on and off. Finally, I get out of bed and leave my room. The house is silent. Even the house girl is asleep. I head to the living room, where the flowers seem to be defying the darkness. I go to the roses first and touch the petals. I peel one off. Then another. Then another after that. Time passes slowly as I stand there in my nightie plucking flower after flower, till the petals are all scattered at my feet.
* * *
—
In the morning, I hear my mum shrieking—it invades my dream, pulling me back to consciousness. I fling back the blanket and dash out onto the landing; the door to Ayoola’s room opens and I hear her behind me as we thunder downstairs. I feel a headache coming on. Last night, I tore apart two gorgeous bouquets of flowers and now my mother stands before their ruins, convinced that someone broke into the house.