was saved from that nonsense: who fancies whom and who got off with whom. Boys called her ‘mate’ and slapped her on the back. They might have wanted to hug her, but it was safer if she were one of the lads. Sometimes they introduced her to a Nigerian boy who came to their school for an away game. They would endorse him as ‘good fun’, mispronounce his name (‘Addy Babby Lolly’) and no matter how unattractive she found him, they would grin at him, and her, as if expecting them to copulate.
She concentrated on studying for her O levels. At the end of term, while Tessa was busy getting upset over some boy who’d slow-danced with some other girl at the school disco, Deola was looking forward to travelling home. She knew she wasn’t going to be overlooked for much longer. On the last day of term, they shared a bottle of scrumpy on Glastonbury Tor.
She was specific when she started dating and she still is. Her men must taste and smell as if they were raised on the same diet and make the same tonal sounds. Similarity on all fronts is essential. She won’t even be with a Nigerian like Bandele, who might end up asking her, ‘Pardon?’
‘What’s wrong with a different history?’ Tessa asks. ‘What’s wrong with two histories?’
‘Nothing, if they really are shared.’
‘Come on. That is so … I’m sorry. I’m not precious that way. I’m just not.’
Tessa’s father is Scottish. Her mother’s family emigrated from Italy. She has an uncle on her father’s side whom she calls a disgusting old fart because he complains about his new neighbours who are Pakistani, spies on them from behind his curtains and once called the police to say he suspected them of terrorist activities. Before Peter, she dated a Trinidadian artist who looked Chinese, then a French merchant wanker, as she called him after they broke up. Tessa would not know what it means to be nationalistic about love. She thinks it’s racist to talk about race. She is unapologetically prejudiced against actors, though. Her first boyfriend was one. He was in his forties, and married. They met in bedsits for years. She swore she would never get married after she broke up with him.
‘What if I said that to you?’ she asks, blushing. ‘What if I said that about Nigerian men?’
‘It’s not the same,’ Deola says.
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not. You don’t live in Nigeria, for a start. Imagine if you did.’
‘Why?’
‘Just imagine you lived there in a community of expats for years. You know how you’re not sure about moving to Australia? That is my whole life here.’
‘It’s not like you haven’t had time to adjust! You went to school here!’
‘You have no idea what it was like for me in school.’
The man at the next table glances at them. His nose is bulbous and the skin on his neck droops from his chin. Tessa’s moment of anger subsides.
‘Does being a redhead child actress come close?’ she mumbles, as she eats the other half of her scone.
‘It’s not the same,’ Deola says.
Tessa’s hair is not the same shade of red as it was. It is darker now, less orange. She is going grey, so she dyes it. As a girl, she was in adverts for lemonade and toothpaste. Her teeth were perfect and her hair was coarse and curly. She envied child actresses like Patsy Kensit who had straight blonde hair. Actually, she hated Patsy Kensit. She wanted to be the girl in The Great Gatsby and people kept telling her she would make a wonderful Orphan Annie, whom she also hated. A West Indian woman at an audition suggested she use TCB conditioner to tame her hair and Tessa’s mother had to go all the way to Shepherd’s Bush to find some.
Tessa has had her hair blow-dried straight for auditions and worn wigs for roles. When they were roommates, Deola was amused that girls wanted cornrows after they watched the film Ten. She could either see it as a fashion trend or an insidious undoing. A boy who called her his mate asked if he could rub her Afro for good luck. She has had to get her hair chemically relaxed for interviews. A partner in her accountancy firm commented that her braids were unprofessional. Not once did she think her hair was the issue at hand.
‘I mean,’ Tessa says, dusting her hands, ‘all my life I haven’t been right for the roles I’ve wanted. If it’s not my hair, it’s my age. If it’s not my age, it’s my height. It’s been like that from the very beginning, rejection after rejection. Never mind what I said in school. I was such a little liar then.’
‘Weren’t we all?’
‘I actually thought you fitted in more than me.’
‘Me?’
‘You were a right little miss. “Would you please keep the noise down?” “Would you please not leave clothes strewn all over the floor?” I mean, what fifteen-year-old uses the word “strewn”?’
Deola steadies her teacup as she laughs. What she remembers is the careers adviser in their school telling her Africans were not intelligent enough to go to university and the drama teacher asking her to sing ‘Bingo bango bongo, we belong back in the jungle’ in an end-of-term musical, and trying to convince her that it was a satire.
Tessa did also have a reputation for lying. She said her parents had a mansion in Richmond. The mansion in Richmond turned out to be a semi-detached in Twickenham. She said she had to leave school because she was missing out on roles. Her mother was a music teacher and her father was a cellist. Tessa was on a scholarship. They withdrew her from boarding school because they feared she was losing her self-confidence. She was embarrassed about her upbringing, which she could claim was unusual until she met international students like Deola, who grew up overseas. ‘My life is so blah,’ she would say to Deola, or ‘I’m so pale. I wish I could swap skins with you.’
Deola didn’t want to swap skins with Tessa, nor did she believe Tessa would consider it a fair exchange. She thought every boarding school had the same sorry array of international students and had seen them at their loneliest, sobbing over a mean comment someone had made. All of them were levelled by their desire to go home.
‘I’ve known you for so long,’ Tessa says. ‘You have to be a bridesmaid.’
‘Of course.’
‘There will be fittings.’
‘I will be there for each one.’
‘Our colours might clash.’
‘That’s not fair, Muir.’
‘What? You started it. When will you be back from Nigeria?’
‘In a week.’
‘When would you like to be measured then, the Saturday after?’
‘Make it the Saturday after that. I usually need two weeks to recover.’
Tessa makes a fist. ‘Do us a favour, if you meet someone over there …’
‘Um, I think it’s a little precarious for one-night stands.’
‘“I think it’s a little precarious.” See what I mean? It won’t kill you to have one before you die.’
