“Wow, she’s alive!” Julian said, when Glory finally called him back. “I thought you had changed your mind or something.”
“Changed my mind about what?”
“You know, what we agreed on yesterday—we didn’t shake hands or sign any papers so I thought you were backing out.”
“Oh,” Glory said. “No, but maybe I should think twice after your little piece of advice got me into a whole load of trouble.”
“What?” Julian’s jovial tone dropped and Glory felt guilty for blaming him for something that probably would have happened anyway.
“Sorry—no, it wasn’t your fault, I just did that thing you said, I looked online for Hope’s death certificate. Turns out it doesn’t exist.”
There was no sound on the other end of the phone until eventually Julian said, “So, what does that mean?”
“Do you want the long version or the short version?” Glory said, turning over in bed where she had been laying low since Celeste had calmed down and Faith had returned to her family, with another strict reminder for Glory to keep her mouth shut.
“Give me the conclusion and then you can fill in the details after.”
“Well, Hope is alive. She lives with that white couple in the pictures. My mum lost contact with the family after she went crazy after having Victor—no, that’s mean—she had some issues after Victor was born and then lost contact with the family. So, yeah.”
“Shit,” Julian said under his breath. “Fackin” ’ell, Glory. That’s mad, still.”
“You’re telling me!” Glory managed to force a laugh.
“So what now? Have you looked her up?”
“Googled her, you mean? So I can land myself in another mess when I discover some other fucked up family secret?”
“Well, yeah . . .”
“Yes, of course I have!” Glory said.
It had been the first thing she did when Faith had left. She had opened up her laptop and typed “Hope Akindele” in to the search bar, scrolling through a page of results related to the Nollywood actress, Funke Akíndélé—no relation as far as Glory knew. She had then tried “Hope Akindele UK” and scanned over articles about a doctor called Gbénga, an entrepreneur called Vanessa and international students giving glowing testimonials for British universities.
She then tried “Hope Marksham,” and when that proved fruitless she had allowed the search engine to autocorrect to “Markham” before moving on to Facebook. But the site only returned variants like “Akindele Hope Gbade” (living in Ibadan, Nigeria) and “Alice Hope Marksham” (from Shropshire, working in Edinburgh).
She was so desperate, she almost considered risking a hailstorm to ask her mother if she remembered which town the family had moved to. But remembering Faith’s threat, and not for one second doubting the protective zeal of her older sister, Glory let her idle fingers call Julian instead.
“Actually, do you know someone called Mama Wawo?” Glory asked him.
“Mama Waro?”
“Wa-wo. Mama Wawo.”
“Nah, don’t think so—why?”
“Someone my mum used to know, she might be able to help me find my sister,” Glory said, feeling more and more deflated as she realized that, despite the revelation, Hope felt as far away as she had done before her continued existence had been confirmed.
“Oh, nah, sorry, babe,” Julian said, softly.
“Babe? Are we giving each other nicknames now?”
Glory was trying to distract herself from the mood that was settling upon her.
Julian snorted.
“Yeah, what’s mine?”
“Hmm . . . The Mayor of Peckham.”
“The Mayor of Peckham?”
“Yeah, you know everybody.”
“You mean everyone knows me.”
“Either way, you’re bait, Mr. Mayor. Wow, never thought I’d be going out with a bait one—yuck!” Glory made a wretching noise down the phone.
“Well, I know it’s probably not the best time, but there’s a house party tonight if you want something to take your mind off everything. I can introduce you to my constituents.”
Glory could hear Julian smiling through the phone and she allowed herself to be convinced that a party would make her feel better. At least, it would be better than wallowing at home in silence while Google sent her in circles.
“What’s the dress code?”
“Er—it’s a house party, so whatever, but look sexy, innit.”
“Damn, no pressure.”
“First Lady of Peckham sexy, you see it?”
Glory was beginning to regret Julian’s nickname already. “OK, I’ll see what I can find.”
“A’ight! Cool!”
When she ended the call, the Facebook app popped up on her screen and in the search results she saw the name “Hope Kehinde.” The tiny profile picture showed the side of a woman’s face, most of it thrown into shadow. Glory sent a friend request and closed the app.