Altar Ego by Lette Kathy

Author:Lette, Kathy
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Transworld

20

The Trophy Bonk

WHEN LEAVING A marriage, many problems arise. The most serious of these, apart from who gets custody of the cat, is Friend Division. Which is why, a week later, when Zack and I woke in the late afternoon, legs entwined in velvet torpor, I kissed his sleepy, creamy eyelids and informed him that we were getting dressed for a dinner party at Vivian and Simon’s place.

‘A dinner party?’ He opened one steely eye. ‘Ain’t that where people yer hate come round, drink up all yer beer, toke all yer dope, up chuck on yer sofa, stay till, like, dawn … then bitch about yer at the next dinner party yer not at?’

‘Well, yes. But it’s a tradition. You’re my partner now, and you’ve got to fit in with my friends. I want them to understand what it is I see in you. It’s time you lost your social virginity.’

So, I led Zachary down Ladbroke Grove – the Couple Who Do Everything More Successfully And Fabulously Than Every Other Couple in the Known Universe lived in the heart of the Home-Made Pasta Belt in Notting Hill Gate.

‘They’ll adore you,’ I reassured him with a kiss.

Simon, wearing an embroidered Ghanaian shirt, met us at the threshold of their Feng-Shui-ed, four-storey terrace. He ushered us into the stark, pared-down ‘living space’, decorated in mandatory cool grey and creams with polished blond floor-boards and a minimum of spare, modern furniture. Even the pot plants had that ‘talked-to’ look.

I noticed, to my amusement, that Simon had left copies of books by Ben Okri, Toni Morrison and Maya Angelou conspicuously on the coffee table and that African music was throbbing out of the speakers.

In the kitchen Kate, Anouska and Vivian were muttering over the bouillabaisse like the witches in Macbeth. When Zack entered, the conversation stopped abruptly. At her first sighting of Zachary, Vivian’s eyes whirled like plates on a magician’s stick. She was wearing a vivid turban with matching beads and big dangly earrings, upstaged by some sort of batik Kaftan in boisterous primary colours.

‘So pleased you could join us in our humble home,’ Vivian said, with the diction and demeanour of a progressive nursery-school teacher. ‘I love black people. I love Africa. I feel so rooted to Africa. That wonderful warmth and enthusiasm!’

Zack surveyed her with the enthusiasm one gives an approaching traffic warden.

‘One of your brothers works in our law firm, you know,’ Vivian prattled.

‘Ah … I’m an only child …’

‘I’ll introduce you. He’s from Nigeria,’ she clarified.

Zack shrugged his massive shoulders. There was a cumbersome silence.

‘I love that film starring Denzel Washington,’ Anouska giddily volunteered.

Once we were seated according to placement (honestly, Vivian would have a placement at a picnic) I realized that everyone was wearing some hint of African Urban Chic. Fierce loyalty to Julian was wrestling with an overzealous desire to prove how relaxed they were around black people, which meant that within minutes all the guests were boasting about what wonderful affirmative action policies they’d personally implemented

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