4

Pigfoot or Pasta?

Travelling on the London Underground during the evening rush hour is, at best, a test of human endurance. On a Friday evening, however, Faye thought moodily, the rush hour made the most hideous picture of hell seem pretty acceptable.

It had been one of those rare days when Faye and her boss had genuinely been under pressure. With two of the other partners away, Junior had been called upon to handle far more than his usual negligible workload and, as a result, Faye had been swamped with documents to produce, check and update.

When she had finally managed to escape her exhausted boss, the hands on the large clock in the reception area showed it was past six o’clock. Oblivious to the cold, she’d raced along the dark cobbled streets to the tube station, feeling the sweat prickling her skin under her wool coat. Once again, Michael had arranged to meet her at the tube station in Brixton and she had less than two hours to get home and prepare for the evening.

To her annoyance the Edgware bound tube she wanted was sliding away from the platform just as she galloped down the stairs at Tottenham Court Road station.

‘Crap!’ Panting hard from the unaccustomed exercise, she watched in frustration as the train moved off, the red lights at the back disappearing into the dark tunnel. A quick glance at the platform indicator showed that the next train was due in twelve minutes.

Pacing up and down the platform, Faye mentally ran through her wardrobe and tried to remember where she had last seen her favourite black jeans.

Five minutes later, in true London Underground fashion, the platform indicator still showed a twelve-minute wait for her train. Glaring at a cheerful busker in a woolly hat who seemed determined to serenade her, she elbowed her way through the fast-thickening crowd to stand further down the platform.

Despite the twelve minutes still showing on the indicator, a sudden rush of air accompanied by a distant rumbling signalled the arrival of another train. Faye stood as close as she dared to the edge of the platform, determined to get onto the train even if she had to push someone under it first. With a loud rumble, the train rolled into the station and she positioned herself directly in front of the double doors, bracing herself for the rush of the descending crowd.

‘Stand clear of the doors, please. Stand clear of the doors!’

The mass of people crushed inside looked in dire need of oxygen as the train ground to a screeching halt. As soon as the doors swept open, the cooped up occupants spilled out, gulping in the semi-fresh air. Faye stood firm against the mass of passengers streaming out from the congested train and those pushing her from the rear. Then, seizing her moment and ignoring the outraged cries of the tube prisoners still waiting for release, she nipped smartly through a small gap in the human traffic and into the overheated carriage. She spotted a row of recently vacated seats and sat down on the one nearest the door.

The tube moved slowly between stations, disgorging bodies and replacing them immediately. Faye’s frustration increased by the minute and turned to fury as people getting on and off the train trampled on her ruinously expensive Russell & Bromley leather boots, still an outstanding item on her credit card bill. Finally, the train pulled into Hampstead station, releasing her from the stuffy carriage.

Relieved to see the lift to street level was working, she resisted the temptation to give the doors a helpful push as they slowly slid open.

Almost dropping her keys in her haste to open her front door, she dashed in and cannoned straight into a tall blonde figure standing in the hallway.

‘Oof! Sorry, Lucinda… Hi.’ The apology-cum-greeting was delivered between gasps as Faye attempted to struggle out of her coat and kick her boots off at the same time.

‘Hi to you too,’ was the amused response. ‘No, wait, don’t tell me – you’re supposed to be somewhere in ten seconds from now and you’re late. Am I right?’

Lucinda Bennett and Faye had been good friends for years despite the differences in their personalities. Where Faye often lacked confidence, Lucinda was never at a loss for words and had yet to meet anyone who intimidated her. Unlike Faye who usually hung back, Lucinda was a firm believer in going after what you wanted, as long as no one got too hurt in the process. Having first spotted William when he had reluctantly showed up at a dinner party at a mutual friend’s house to give Faye a lift home, she had made an instant beeline for him. William, who had never had any trouble dealing with unwanted female attention, had been reduced to adoring putty in her elegant hands before he knew what had hit him. Unlike William’s previous girlfriends who were usually intimidated by his father, Lucinda had given Dr Bonsu’s outstretched hand a miss when she was introduced to him, and instead hugged him like a long lost friend. Her genuine enthusiasm about everything combined with her stunning good looks made it difficult for anyone to dislike her, including Lottie, who had never believed that any girl was good enough for William.

‘And they say blondes are dumb,’ Faye grinned in reply to the question as she headed towards the stairs. ‘Actually, I’m meeting Michael in Brixton in about—’ she glanced at her watch and squealed in horror, taking the steps two at a time.

‘I was just leaving – do you want a lift anywhere?’ Lucinda called after Faye’s disappearing back. Hearing a muffled scream from upstairs that she took to mean yes, she went back into the kitchen where Lottie was putting the finishing touches to the chicken pie she was making for dinner. Carefully placing the brimming pie dish into the oven, Lottie looked across at Lucinda.

‘I take it that was Faye?’ she said, jerking her head in the direction of the dull thuds coming from above the kitchen. ‘Late again, I suppose?’

Lucinda’s smile was answer enough.

‘Well, I know Faye won’t be in for dinner tonight,’ she said. ‘What are you and William up to?’

‘We’re going to try out a new wine bar that’s just opened up in town,’ Lucinda said. ‘I’ll wait and give Faye a lift before I head home. William’s working late and says he’ll pick me up when he’s done.’

A few minutes and several loud thumps later, Faye crashed through the kitchen door, still fastening the buttons on her black jeans, their tight cut and her spiky boots making her long legs appear endless. Ignoring Lottie’s pursed lips as she took in the low cut strappy black top visible under her leather jacket, Faye was almost wringing her hands in desperation.

‘Lucinda, let’s go! Now or Michael will go ballistic!’ Her agonised plea was wasted on Lottie who simply sniffed scornfully.

‘Faye, when will you stop letting that boy bully you? You’ve only just now got in, for goodness’ sake! At least sit down and have a cup of tea or something before you rush out.’

Lucinda grinned at the distaste in Lottie’s voice when she referred to Michael. The older woman had never quite recovered from the lecture he had once given her when he warned her that ‘reverse colonialism through domestic service to the formerly colonised peoples of Africa’ could never atone for the centuries of slavery and oppression that had been practised by her people. Although at the time she had pointed out that the only oppression she had ever seen in Glasgow had come from rival football fans against the rest of the community on Saturday nights, her already poor opinion of Michael had sunk to an all-time low.

Taking pity on Faye who was now literally hopping from foot to foot in agitation, Lucinda slid off the kitchen stool and snatched up her car keys and coat in one fluid graceful movement.

‘Okay, let’s go! Lottie, I’ll come over at the weekend. I want to know all about that couple that’s just moved into number 28. I’ve seen them a couple of times now and, quite honestly, the man looks pretty dodgy to me.’

Blowing Lottie a quick kiss, Faye followed close on Lucinda’s heels as they hurried out of the house. She slid into the padded leather passenger seat of her friend’s sleek silver Mazda convertible, which, rather like its owner, was gleaming and immaculately maintained. Faye looked around the pristine interior and sighed enviously. Her own Fiesta, littered with Mars bar wrappers and old issues of The Black Herald that she had never quite got round to reading, made her car look like a seedy bed and breakfast compared to this luxury five star hotel.

As they drove off, Faye checked her watch again, now completely despairing of being on time. It was nearly seven-thirty and the Friday night traffic into town was moving at a slow crawl. It was clearly time for a change of plan.

‘Luce, just drop me off at Euston, if that’s okay? I’ll get the tube down to Brixton. With all this traffic, the Underground is bound to be faster.’

Lucinda nodded. Barely pausing to indicate, she turned left into the road leading to Euston station, cutting confidently across the choked lanes of traffic with supreme disregard for the irate drivers forced to give way. She weaved expertly through the cars slowly inching their way along the Euston Road until they reached the entrance to the underground.

‘You are a star! Thanks a million – I’ll see you later.’ Faye gave her friend a hurried kiss goodbye and slid out of the car.

For the second time in less than an hour she was back underground. The platform indicator showed the next Brixton-bound train was due in four minutes. Yet less than a minute later, clearly having reservations about its original information, the indicator now showed that the train was due in six minutes.

Faye turned around to find herself surrounded by a small group of women dressed in flowing skirts with shawls tied around the shoulders. Two of them were carrying babies tightly swaddled in coloured shawls. One of the women leaned forward to try to pin a purple posy wrapped in tin foil onto the lapel of Faye’s coat while another held her baby up to her. With a smile that revealed several missing teeth, she held out a rather grubby hand, palm upwards.

Trying really hard not to grimace at the unmistakable smell of a baby in urgent need of a nappy change, Faye turned her head away from the smelly infant and scrabbled in her coat pocket for change. Clutching gratefully at the fluff-covered coins dropped into her palm, the woman gave another flash of her discoloured smile and hugged her protesting baby to her chest.

The sound of the approaching train gave Faye the opportunity to slip away, and she moved quickly down the platform as it thundered into the station. This time the train moved quickly and smoothly between stations, arriving at Brixton without incident.

Well, twenty minutes isn’t that bad, Faye muttered under her breath as she tried to check her make-up in the smudged mirror of her compact while walking up the moving escalator. Of course, Michael could just buy a car and save me from this endless rushing around all the time, she thought moodily. It’s not like he can’t afford it.

Although Michael constantly scorned the need for a car, blaming car owners for every possible environmental problem, he never had any complaints about her driving them everywhere or even using her car himself when it suited him, Faye thought irritably. Look at Lucinda – the lucky cow just sat at home and waited for William to pick her up whenever they went out.

‘Here, Faye! Over here!’

She turned to see Michael waving vigorously at her. He was wearing a long black leather coat over fashionably baggy jeans and a black woolly cap covered his hair. Her resentment was quickly forgotten as the familiar warm rush of pleasure at seeing him swept over her.

She sighed as she looked into his brown eyes, fringed with the thick long lashes that always reminded her of a cuddly puppy. I know he can be difficult, she thought, but he is so gorgeous.

Resisting the urge to hurl herself on him, she hugged him tightly and pressed her warm eager lips against his cold mouth. Only briefly returning the pressure, Michael patted her awkwardly on the shoulder before quickly disengaging himself and rubbing his hands together against the night chill.

‘Hey, what’s up?’ he said casually. ‘Well, for once you’re not that late,’ he added with a smile. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

Propelling her out of the crowded station and up the stairs, he draped an arm around her shoulders as they set off down the street at a brisk pace.

‘So, like I said on the phone, I have to do a write-up for the paper on this new restaurant that opened up last week. The owner is Jamaican and from what he told me when I spoke to him, his vision is to offer really authentic home food. If we like the food tonight, I’ll set up an interview for him with a couple of food writers I know – I’m sure he’ll appreciate the publicity.’

As they walked, he moved his arm away and hugged himself against the cold. Wanting to stay close to him, she tried to slip her hand inside the crook of his arm but his hands remained resolutely clamped against his forearms. Sighing, she gave up and pushed her hands into the pockets of her jacket, forcing herself to concentrate on what he was saying. Struck by his unusual cheeriness – Michael usually needed a lot of jollying to emerge from a sulk as prolonged as his recent effort – Faye looked up at him with narrowed eyes.

‘You’re very chirpy tonight,’ she remarked. It was also out of character for the Michael she knew not to have made any further reference to the previous weekend.

He gave a careless shrug and carried on without comment.

‘So who’s coming this evening?’ she said a few minutes later, interrupting his flow again.

He put his arm around her to steer her away from a tramp staggering towards them, clutching a can of lager. When they were safely past, he released her and continued at a brisk pace, his hands buried deep inside his coat pockets.

‘Well, Philomena can’t make it,’ he said. ‘She’s got a poetry evening with the Brixton Caribbean Women’s Circle. She’s the main organiser, so she couldn’t get away.’

‘So it’s just Luther, Wesley and Jiggy then?’ Faye asked slowly, looking forward to the evening less and less by the minute. Michael didn’t answer immediately and she looked across at him curiously.

‘Well, Wesley’s sister, Jasmine, will probably come with them,’ he said casually. ‘I invited her as well.’

‘Who?’ Faye stopped walking and stared at him.

Reluctantly forced to stop, he sighed with exaggerated patience. ‘Jasmine. She’s Wesley’s younger sister,’ he repeated. ‘She’s a part-time lecturer at a college in Balham. She’s nice – you’ll like her.’

He slipped his arm through hers and pulled her along with him as they walked around a corner and into a small side road, past dark vacant lots and shabby-looking terraced houses with huge satellite dishes fixed to the roofs.

Her LK Bennett boots had been designed to be easy on the eye, not the feet, and she was now beginning to feel their pinch. To her relief, the restaurant was only a few minutes away and they were soon in front of a building with a large sign bearing the words Pigfoot Etcetera in pink letters above the image of a large platter of pink pigfoot nestling on a bed of dark green spinach leaves.

Walking into the restaurant, Faye was immediately hit by the smell of fresh paint combined with the musky scent of lighted candles and the unmistakable odour of paraffin. Inside the poorly lit room, about fifteen wooden tables had been laid and in the centre of each one was a small bouquet of blue silk flowers and matching pink salt and pepper mills. Paraffin lamps set on metal stands were dotted around the room, adding to the odd and old-fashioned décor.

At the far end of the restaurant, she could see a narrow bar topped with an array of glasses and manned by a slim black man wearing a white shirt under a black and white waistcoat with a matching bow tie. As she and Michael moved into the restaurant, the bartender pushed a CD into a player behind the bar and reggae music softly filled the room.

Faye turned her attention back to Michael who was exchanging loud greetings with a tall dark man in his early thirties striding towards them.

‘Faye, this is Trevor Royal,’ Michael said, grinning at the other man. ‘He’s the owner of the restaurant.’

Trevor smiled broadly at Faye, the gold tooth at the front of his mouth glinting in the muted lighting of the room. Faye shook his outstretched hand and, conscious of his expectant gaze, she cast her eyes around the restaurant trying desperately to find something positive to say.

‘I’ve never seen anything like this place before,’ she said truthfully.

Trevor’s smile was now even wider and he stroked the small gold hoop earring in his left earlobe thoughtfully.

‘Yeah, we wanted something a bit different, you get me?’ he said, gesturing broadly around the room. His voice was deep and his accent pure South London. He pointed to one of the paraffin lamps.

‘See those lamps there, yeah? That was my girlfriend Angie’s idea – she’s the chef. When they was growing up in Jamaica, that’s what they used to keep in the house for when the power went off.’ He burst into a huge roar of laughter, slapping Michael on the back until he joined in while Faye watched them both in bemusement. After a moment, Trevor abruptly stopped laughing. Placing a heavy hand on Michael’s shoulder, he led them to a large table in the middle of the room.

‘All right then, Mr Reporter,’ he said loudly. ‘Here’s your table for tonight. Best one in the house – know what I mean?’ He winked at Michael knowingly and burst into loud laughter again.

Trevor threw his arm around Faye’s shoulders and shouted towards the bar.

‘’Ere, Phil, come and find out what Mr Reporter and his woman want to drink!’

Wincing at the sudden volume so close to her ear, Faye slid out from under Trevor’s arm and pulled out a chair, having learned long ago that there was no point waiting for Michael to do any such thing. According to him, pulling out chairs and holding doors open for women was an insult to their equal status with men.

Trevor walked over to the bar to prod Phil into action and Michael took a seat across the table from Faye. Frowning slightly, she looked across at him and whispered.

‘Should you have told him that you’re a journalist?’ She ignored the darkening expression on his face. ‘I mean, aren’t you supposed to be undercover to see what their food and the service is really like?’

Whatever response he was going to make was cut off by Phil’s arrival at their table. Waving a languid hand in the air and with a stubby pencil and small notebook at the ready, he smiled politely at them. Up close, he was even thinner than he had appeared half-hidden behind the bar counter and Faye stared enviously at the tiny span of his waist. His voice, when he spoke, was soft and strongly accented and with a pronounced lisp.

‘Welcome to Pigfoot Etcetera and a good evening to you. I’ll be back to take your food order but what are you all drinking now?’ He nodded in the direction of the bar. ‘We’ve got some divine rum from the islands.’

Frowning at Faye’s involuntary shudder at the word rum, he tossed his head and added somewhat petulantly, ‘Or maybe I can fix you a nice fruit cocktail? I can recommend the Tropical Island Sunset. It’s fresh pineapple juice with a touch of cherryade and just a hint of crushed mint?’

Anxious not to offend further, she nodded in agreement and absently fingered the waxy vinyl tablecloth while Michael ordered a glass of Jamaican rum that Phil assured him was ‘full-bodied, rich and honeyed on the nose’. Although it was now well after eight o’clock, with the exception of the owner and bartender, she and Michael were still the only two people in the restaurant. Suppressing a sigh, she followed Michael’s cue and picked up her menu, a small, laminated card stuck in a wooden stand next to the improbably blue flowers. The short list of dishes was almost without exception centred on the main ingredient of pigfoot.

‘Pigfoot Royal, Island-Style Pigfoot, Spicy Rice with Pigfoot, Pigfoot Supreme…’ Faye read out the list with dismay. Towards the bottom of the card, in smaller print, was a short selection of non-pigfoot dishes and two types of dessert.

I suppose I should be grateful they don’t have Pigfoot ice cream, she thought morosely. She leaned across the table, keeping her voice low.

‘Michael, this place isn’t exactly heaving with people. Don’t you think it’s a bit risky setting up a restaurant for only one type of food?’

He looked up from his menu. ‘Maybe you don’t eat this kind of food in your cosy Hampstead world,’ he said, his words laced with sarcasm, ‘but down here this is part of the culture.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anyway, it’s still early; it probably gets busier later on.’

Chastened by his dismissive response, she subsided into her chair and went back to scrutinising the menu. She looked up as a cold shock of air wafted across the overheated room and cut straight through her flimsy blouse. Wesley stood in the doorway of the restaurant and was holding the front door wide to let Jiggy, Luther and a petite girl with a mass of red gold curls through.

Jasmine, I presume, Faye thought curiously. The girl slipped her coat off as soon as she walked in, revealing a short red skirt and a close-fitting white top.

‘Hey, guys! Over here!’ Michael’s voice sounded overly loud in the empty restaurant. Without waiting for them to reach the table, he rushed over to greet them, hugging the girl and kissing her warmly on the cheek before shaking hands with the men. As she watched the small group heading in her direction, Faye’s stomach muscles tightened involuntarily in alarm.

Clearly relieved to see any paying customers, Trevor Royal also rushed over to greet the new arrivals and stopped them to shake hands before they could reach their table. His loud booming laugh reverberated around the room as he rubbed his hands together joyfully.

‘Welcome to our little piece of home, my brothers and my sister, right here in London town!’

Faye watched in disbelief as Michael moved swiftly to their table to pull out the chair next to his and help Jasmine into the seat. What the hell had happened to the “insulting the emancipated female” line, she thought furiously, glaring at her boyfriend who studiously refused to make eye contact with her.

Aware that the other new arrivals were eyeing her somewhat warily, Faye forced a smile and rose to her feet. She shook hands quickly with the three men, mumbling what she hoped sounded like a polite greeting.

‘I hope you’re feeling better today, Faye?’ Wesley said pointedly, his pale blue eyes fixed on her face. She resisted the sudden urge to punch him and contented herself with a polite smile and nod before taking her seat again.

Michael cleared his throat as though he had an important announcement to make. ‘Faye, let me introduce you to Jasmine Baptiste, Wesley’s sister,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘Jasmine, this is Faye Bonsu, a very good friend of mine.’

A very good friend? Faye arched an eyebrow questioningly at her partner, who smiled innocently back at her.

She gave a weary sigh; it was clearly going to be a very long evening. Forcing a smile at the girl sitting in front of her, Faye leaned across the expanse of white vinyl and shook hands. Jasmine’s hand was as small and dainty as the rest of her, making Faye feel like a clumsy giant in comparison. The candlelight picked up the burnished gold highlights in the girl’s hair, giving the impression of a speckled halo around her head.

She clearly doesn’t go to Sharice of flipping Streatham, Faye thought sourly, fighting back the temptation to smooth down her own hair, which was only just starting to recover from Sharice’s very expensive and very damaging hot steam treatment and curl.

The men sat down and Faye found herself sandwiched between Luther and Jiggy, while Wesley settled himself between Luther and Michael. Luther gave a friendly nod and asked how she was, his eyes showing none of the hostility she always sensed from Wesley.

Jiggy, whom Faye had secretly dubbed the silent one since he rarely had anything to say to her, smiled politely and asked if they had been waiting long. His short dreadlocks glistened in the lamplight and once again he was wearing an African-style smock, this one in a striped black and white fabric.

Jasmine snuggled up next to Michael, pushing him playfully with her elbow and giggling with excitement. He didn’t seem to mind and her soft curls grazed his cheek as he bent his head closer to hers, laughing as she made a comment clearly meant for his ears alone.

Faye frowned, bewildered by Michael’s behaviour and feeling more than a little hurt by the obvious attention he was paying to Jasmine. She responded absently to a question from Jiggy about the menu and watched with growing anger as her boyfriend casually smoothed back an errant curl that had fallen over Jasmine’s eyes.

The waiter wandered back and dumped Michael’s rum on the table. Rather more carefully and with a dramatic flourish, he placed a tall glass of a dark yellow liquid with a sprig of mint floating on top in front of Faye. Taking out his notebook and pencil, Phil asked the new arrivals for their drink orders and, without missing a beat, the three men ordered the Jamaican rum.

Phil looked pointedly at Michael who was laughing at something Jasmine had just whispered to him.

‘Would your lady also like the rum, sir?’

Faye choked on the sip of Tropical Island Sunset she had just taken and glared furiously at Michael, waiting for him to correct the waiter. Michael kept his head down and, unable to make eye contact with him, Faye looked round to see Wesley looking at her, a half-smile playing across his lips.

Jasmine made no effort to correct Phil either and instead turned towards Michael and lightly caressed his bare forearm, her glossy lips curved into a little pout.

‘Oh, I don’t know! I can never make up my mind what I want to drink,’ she purred. ‘Michael, what do you recommend – you’re the expert at eating out.’

Faye watched in fascination as Michael’s chest literally swelled before her eyes. If I had asked him that, he would have told me to stop being pathetic, she thought, as he paused to give Jasmine’s question a few moments of serious thought. His suggestion of a rum cocktail, which Phil huffily explained was called the Island Rum Delight, was met with an ecstatic response.

‘That sounds wonderful!’ Jasmine smiled sweetly at Michael and her eyes shone with appreciation.

Oh puh-lease! Get over yourself, woman, it’s only a drink! For a moment, Faye thought she had spoken the words out loud. In the few minutes since she had met her, she was already irritated at the other girl’s wide-eyed innocent act and proprietary attitude towards Michael, and even more annoyed at her boyfriend who seemed to not just welcome, but actively encourage her attentions.

Faye took another sip of her tepid drink, trying not to grimace at the taste of the sickly sweet liquid. Well aware that she had already embarrassed herself enough in front of them, she decided not to risk making a fuss by asking for ice and instead watched as the group of old friends around the table chatted easily amongst themselves. She felt uncomfortably like an outsider crashing a private party; a sensation that Michael’s behaviour was making even more intense.

After the waiter had deposited everyone’s drinks, the men sat back, drinking their rum and laughing at each other’s stories. After a quick visit to their table to check on his customers, Trevor left them to their own devices, retreating with a farewell laugh to a small room behind the bar. Phil hovered in the background for several minutes but when it became clear that they were in no hurry to order, he shrugged and returned to his post behind the bar, apparently quite content to polish the same glasses over and over again.

Faye glanced surreptitiously at her watch and wished she were anywhere but in her current location. Luther, although friendly enough, was caught up in a lively debate with Wesley about Jamaican politics. After their initial exchanges, Jiggy had lapsed into his customary silence, and Michael was barely acknowledging her existence, let alone behaving like an attentive partner. For the first time since meeting him, she found herself wondering whether having a boyfriend was really worth going through this agony. Is sitting at home watching EastEnders really worse than this? What the hell am I doing here?

‘So, Faye, what do you do?’ Jasmine’s silky voice roused Faye from her brooding. Even in the dim light of the restaurant, Faye could see she had eyes almost identical in colour to her brother’s and with the same slightly hypnotic quality.

‘I work for a firm of solicitors,’ she replied coolly.

‘Oh, really,’ Jasmine cooed. ‘That sounds interesting. Are you a lawyer, then?’

Michael laughed. ‘No, Faye’s a secretary, Jas. Not quite as demanding, is it?’ He grinned at Faye and she glared back at him, outraged at the blatant put-down. She gritted her teeth and bit back the angry response on her lips, fearful of causing another scene. Conscious of the other girl’s scrutiny, she forced herself to smile.

‘What do you do, Jasmine?’ she asked politely. Before Jasmine could answer, Michael jumped in again.

‘She’s a lecturer in Caribbean History and Culture.’ He looked down at the golden halo of curls brushing against his shoulder and said proudly, ‘There’s not much Jasmine here doesn’t know about the islands. She’s even writing a book on the history of slavery in Grenada, aren’t you?’

Perfect, Faye thought sourly, a cultural genius to boot. And how did Michael know so much about her, anyway? She took another sip of her Tropical Island Sunset, immediately regretting the decision, and returned to her study of the pig-themed menu. Despite having read it so many times that she could have recited the names of the dishes without looking if anyone had asked her, Faye still couldn’t pick a single one that appealed to her. While she loved many Caribbean dishes and since meeting Michael could now cook an acceptable jerk chicken with rice and peas, she simply couldn’t stand pigfoot. The texture of the bony pink meat didn’t appeal to her in the slightest and actually left her feeling slightly nauseous. Knowing what Michael’s reaction would be if she dared to voice this, she looked longingly at the other options on the menu before returning with a sigh to the restaurant’s signature dishes.

Taking advantage of a lull in the conversation between him and Wesley, Faye turned to Luther and asked after Philomena. His smile was warm and when he spoke, he sounded quite affable. ‘Oh, she’s doing fine. She has her women’s group meeting tonight so she couldn’t come along.’

‘Philo is so committed to bringing Caribbean women like us together. You should join, Faye; we have some really interesting talks and lectures with artists and writers from back home,’ Jasmine’s smooth voice interjected. Then she gasped dramatically before the other girl could speak.

‘Oh, silly me!’ she said, her tone sweetly apologetic. ‘Sorry, Faye, I forgot you’re not from the Caribbean. Michael said you are from Africa, is that not so?’ A careless toss of her mane set the golden highlights dancing in the candlelight.

‘Yes,’ Faye replied, her voice curt. ‘My family comes from Ghana.’ She turned to Luther again. ‘Do say hello to Philomena for me. I really enjoyed meeting her and seeing your lovely house.’

Luther nodded politely and returned to his conversation with Wesley.

‘Yes, they do have a beautiful home, don’t they?’ Jasmine spoke out again, her tone casual. ‘I always love spending time there, don’t I Michael?’

He gave her a brief smile and glanced at Faye almost nervously before hastily directing a question to Jiggy.

Jasmine’s eyes were fixed thoughtfully on Faye. Almost colourless in the dim light, they reflected the flames from the scattered lamps and candles in the restaurant. She slowly reached into her handbag and daintily extracted a pack of cigarettes. Faye stiffened and waited for the inevitable explosion from Michael, who hated smokers with a passion.

It was clearly to be a night of surprises. As Jasmine stood up, obviously intending to step outside to smoke, Michael’s hand closed over hers. He broke off from his conversation and clasped the small hand gently while shaking his head in mock sorrow.

‘Don’t tell me you still haven’t given up smoking, Jas!’ He gently plucked the packet of cigarettes from her fingers and tossed it back into her handbag in one deft movement.

Jasmine sat down again and pouted prettily as he ruffled her curls in mock apology. ‘There are lots of things I haven’t given up on, Michael,’ she said, a cryptic smile replacing the pout.

She turned to Faye who had been watching them silently. ‘Do you have any vices, Faye?’ she asked slyly, her eyes glinting maliciously as she took in the set expression on the other girl’s face.

Faye shrugged, determined not to rise to the bait.

‘Who hasn’t?’ she said coolly. Although mine don’t include behaving like a man-stealing bitch, she thought furiously. Fed up of Jasmine’s needling, Faye decided it was her turn to smile sweetly at Michael and she turned towards him, raising her voice to get his attention.

‘Although, speaking of vices, I’m surprised Michael is being so tolerant about you smoking. What is it you always say, darling?’ Ignoring his warning frown, she continued, her voice deepening in imitation of his masculine tones. ‘“People who smoke are disgusting, selfish polluters of the universe who should all be made to live together on a desert island!”’

Jasmine’s eyes darkened in anger and she stared back at Faye, for once apparently lost for words. Wesley’s voice suddenly broke into the tense silence. His pale eyes were fixed on Faye as he spoke.

‘I don’t think there’s too much he don’t know about Jasmine and her vices,’ he said coolly. ‘After living with her for over a year, he should be used to her smoking, you know?’

Faye didn’t know and, for one stunned moment, she couldn’t breathe. The background music that had been playing softly suddenly sounded much louder as the pieces of the puzzle started to fall together. Michael’s sudden animation and change of behaviour, Wesley’s hostility and even Jasmine’s proprietary behaviour now all made sense. Feeling like a fool, she stared blankly at Michael and tried to swallow the huge lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat. She shrank back into her seat and pinched her thigh hard to stop the threatening tears.

I will not cry in front of this woman, she thought grimly, only too aware of Jasmine smiling smugly as she scanned the menu she was holding.

Michael glared angrily at Wesley before ducking his head in an effort to avoid Faye’s gaze and pretended to scrutinise his menu. The other men quickly did the same, clearly relieved that a scene appeared to have been averted.

There was quiet while everyone read through their menu until Michael broke the silence.

‘Are we all ready to order?’ he said, looking round the table, his eyes not quite meeting Faye’s. ‘Don’t forget I have to write about this place so let’s all order different dishes so I can get a good idea of what the food is like.’

He gestured to Phil who glided over immediately with his spiral notebook poised for action. Lisping through the specials, he waited expectantly. Michael was the first to speak, choosing the Pigfoot Royal.

‘The house speciality – an excellent choice, sir.’ Phil nodded in approval.

Wesley finally decided on the Chilli and Ginger Pigfoot, while Jiggy chose the Pigfoot Island Style. Luther and Jasmine spent several minutes arguing over who should order the Pigfoot Paradiso – Jasmine won – and with a good-natured laugh, Luther settled for the spicy pigfoot served with a medley of vegetables.

The waiter tapped his pencil impatiently on his notebook as Faye wildly scanned the list again. Nothing looked in the least bit appealing and all eyes were on her now.

Oh great, she thought, trying to focus on the words printed on the card in front of her; no pressure then. A quick glance around the table didn’t help.

Jasmine’s expression could only be described as scornful as she took in Faye’s rising confusion. Michael’s face had the familiar look of impatience that Faye sadly realised he only ever seemed to reserve for her. The others, now silent, waited impassively.

Phil cleared his throat and shifted his feet restlessly.

‘Perhaps madam would also want the Pigfoot Royal?’ His tone was condescending as he looked down his shiny nose at her.

Faye looked round helplessly and with increasing desperation, her stomach now twisted into knots. Wesley’s eyes met hers and he stared at her, making no effort to disguise his dislike, while his sister smiled openly at Faye’s obvious discomfort.

Phil cleared his throat again.

Sitting up straight for the first time that evening, Faye raised her chin defiantly and said coolly to the waiter, ‘I’ll have the Pasta Carbonara.’