Peckham had changed, or at least it was in the process of changing. There was still the swell of churchgoers on the high street on this brisk Sunday afternoon. Members of the Cherubim and Seraphim Church bundled their billowing white garments beneath winter coats, while the brightly patterned outfits of other African Pentecostals fought the dull hues of British winter.
But if you left the station from a different exit, you found yourself in another world. Blunt-bobbed women smoked cigarettes at tables set out on the pavement, the whir of coffee grinders accompanied straight-faced baristas sorting different types of nut milk, and bleary-eyed art students in worn denim told tales of the night before.
The join between Old Peckham and New was abrupt and awkward. It was like crossing from one planet to the next as the elongated vowels of easy brunch conversation switched to the jubilation of afternoon church services, wafting out of windows left open to accommodate poorly ventilated buildings. Women tightly bound against the cold stood outside hair and beauty shops, promoting their services.
“Darlin’, you want to do your hair?” one woman called to Glory as she passed.
Glory declined and kept walking, self-consciously fluffing her twist-out into shape. She had spent most of the morning constructing a suitable outfit from the remnants of her wardrobe, which actually worked in her favor because she didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard. She hadn’t told Julian that she was making the journey from Bromley to see him, so she needed to look as if she truly had “just swung by.”
She passed the butchers and fresh produce shops, the shouts and smells as familiar as the soundtrack to her favorite film. She walked past the corner where Woolworths used to be, past the JD where the object of her teenage infatuation had worked every summer, and ducked past the shops selling fabric and jewelry, where friends of her mother might be shopping or selling, always ready to ask after Celeste even if they had seen her only yesterday.
Glory left the throng of the high street and wove her way through the quiet back roads. Thankfully Julian’s shop wasn’t one of the more conspicuous barbershops on Rye Lane or Peckham High Street because, even as a grown woman, Glory didn’t want stories of her “talking to a boy on the street” to find a way back to her mother. But she did have to walk past two other barbershops before she made it to Pharaoh’s Barbershop and Grooming (Fit For A King).
The signage was black with an assortment of hieroglyphics either side of the gold lettering. The inside was black and chrome, with a mural at the back showing a pharaoh being attended to by a harem of beautiful women. The shop was empty except for two barbers. One was attending to a client; the other sat in his chair spinning around and around, half watching a flat screen TV showing sports highlights. All three looked up at Glory as she entered.
“Hi, is Julian around?”
“Julian?” the idle barber asked. “You mean, Jay?”
Glory nodded, her face hot.
“Ay, bossman!” he hollered from his seat, angling his head toward the back of the shop. “You’ve got a pretty lady out front!”
Then to Glory he added, “Take a seat, princess, he’ll be out in a bit.”
Glory sat on the pleather sofa. In front of her was a low glass coffee table scattered with men’s magazines. Her seat was slightly cracked, a sign of regular use, but everything else about the shop was polished and gleaming. Against the wall where the mural was there were two glass cabinets with grooming products, natural beard oils and hand-blended pomades. This was a far cry from the barbershops she had been forced to take Victor to when he wasn’t old enough to go by himself. They were loud and smelled of disinfecting alcohol, sheen spray and the musk of old men in summer. Glory was impressed.
The idle barber continued to spin, but every time the seat swung back around his eyes landed on Glory. She shifted in her place and turned her full attention to her smartphone.
“I like these girls with their natural hair now,” the barber said to no one in particular. Glory smiled tightly, her eyes briefly glancing up at him. “Yeah, man, it’s good. None of this relaxer, weave an’ wig business—queens don’t need no artificial crown.” He enunciated the word “artificial,” seeming very pleased with his little quip.
Glory carried on scrolling blankly.
“You don’t need none ah dat, ya hear me? You got good hair you know, don’t mash it up with that fake white woman business.”
Glory cleared her throat, annoyed by the stranger’s lecture. She looked over to the other barber, who was deep in debate with his customer about football squad formations, and out onto the street where a group of children whizzed by on scooters and trainers with wheels set in the heel.
Eventually Julian emerged from a door labeled “office,” phone in his hand as he ended a call.
“I shoulda known suttin’ was up when man turned up to the shop looking all smart an’ that!” Idle Barber leaped from his seat, pointing his finger in Julian’s direction with a knowing smile. Julian was wearing a slim-cut fine-knit jumper that clung to him. His long silver chain and earrings gleamed. He looked good.
“I thought man was coming from church, ya nuh?!” Idle Barber turned to look at the other barber, while Julian beckoned Glory to leave with him.
“Wait—you not going to introduce your friend, nah?”
“If you had any manners you would have introduced yourself,” Julian said coolly over his shoulder as he held the door open for Glory. The door shut on the laughs of the men in the shop, as Idle Barber swore to himself and landed back in the chair.
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s all right,” Glory said. “He was telling me how much he liked my hair.”
“He was?” Julian didn’t seem to like the sound of that.
“Yeah, he said queens don’t need an artificial crown.”
“Well, he’s right about that one.” Julian smiled.
“So you agree I’m a queen?” Glory asked, but Julian just laughed and dodged her question with one of his own.
“Where did you want to go?” He stopped and surveyed the residential street they had strolled onto.
“Well, I did come to look at your shop, innit, but you were so quick for us to leave.”
“Do you really want to spend your afternoon with those clowns?” Julian said.
“Oh, I see. You want my undivided attention.”
Julian looked at her like he was trying to work her out, a smile playing on his lips. Despite her banter Glory now felt self-conscious under the directness of his gaze. She bit the insides of her cheeks and looked away.
“The shop’s really nice, though. How long you been open?” Glory continued walking and Julian followed her lead.
“About five months—still early days.”
“Are you into all that Egyptology stuff as well?”
“Me? Not really, that’s more my business partner.”
Glory nodded, keeping a careful distance between them as they walked side by side.
“So where are you leading us to?” he asked.
“We could go to one of the new cafés. We could sit in and have a coffee.”
“One of those white places?” Julian had stopped again.
“Yeah, you not feeling it?”
He screwed up his face and looked back toward the barbershop.
“What’s wrong with white people?” Glory was amused at his reluctance.
“We’re gonna sit down, be minding our own business, and I swear someone’s gonna come up to me asking if I’ve got any weed.”
A burst of laughter escaped Glory’s lips.
“I’m being serious, man,” Julian said in earnest, but with a smile. “Couple months ago I was parked up and I saw my friend walking past, we were just talking through the window and some white man interrupted our conversation to ask if I was selling.”
Glory was laughing properly now, any self-consciousness forgotten.
“And it wasn’t like a nitty, either! Man looked like a teacher or something, even had a little scarf on, everything, he could have been an undercover fed.” Julian pulled himself tall, pretending to ask for cannabis in his approximation of a posh accent.
Glory was still laughing, dabbing at the corner of her eyes.
“Don’t worry, no one will ask you for drugs while I’m around.” Glory’s eyes twinkled at Julian with mischief. “Plus drug dealers don’t go for lattes on a Sunday afternoon, do they?”
“Wouldn’t know, would I?” Julian smirked.
“And it’s cold out here, can’t have you freezing to death in your church jumper.”
Glory let her fingers pluck at the fabric on Julian’s arm and he fell into step next to her, their bodies closer than before. She led them to a café that had sprouted up on the ground floor of a previously disused building. Julian held the door open and allowed her to enter the dimly lit shop before him. The furniture was typically mismatched, reclaimed wood and repurposed secondhand pieces. The dark green walls pulled everything closer together, and Glory’s eyes moved over the low sofas hosting a handful of customers and their laptops to the servers moving in mechanical motion, banging jugs of steamed milk against the countertop.
Glory squinted to read the menu chalked up on the back wall and Julian waited behind her, as if waiting for direction. She let out a low whistle at the price of a bagel—“Eight English pounds?!” as her father would remark—and ordered a peppermint tea.
“What d’ya want?” Glory asked Julian who was still hovering behind her.
“Erm, I’ll have a Coke or something.”
“We’ve got organic root cola?” said the woman behind the till.
“Yeah, one of those.” Julian took out a roll of notes from his back pocket.
“It’s on me,” Glory said, waving away his money. “I’m the one that dragged you here.”
But he brushed her to the side with one sweep of his arm and Glory didn’t protest.
Julian allowed Glory to lead them to a corner table. He squeezed into the chair across from her. At first he sat tall then he changed position, leaning back into the chair and stretching one leg out. Glory sat properly, carefully arranging her coat on the back of the chair and stirring her tea. Julian poured his root cola, took a deep sip and held the glass up to examine it, frowning.
“Is it nice?”
Julian licked his lips. “It tastes like them sweets, like Black Jacks.”
Glory thought how strange it was that she was sitting across from him. They had grown up in proximity of each other, but not really together. Julian was older than her so, once they had outgrown children’s parties, she would only glimpse him in throngs of teenage boys. Then he might acknowledge her with a curt nod or flicker of recognition, but they had never been close, so there was nothing really to catch up on.
“So, what made you decide to open a barbershop?”
Julian began to explain, but Glory wasn’t really listening. She was watching how his large hands moved as he spoke, how he almost but not quite met her gaze as he told his origin story to the window to her left, his eyes briefly grazing hers before they looked away again. It was so different to the frank stare of American men. They would always hold her gaze, every conversation feeling like an audition, especially in a city where beauty and charm came to compete and make their fortune.
“. . . but anyway, how are you doing after the funeral and that?”
Glory set down her cup and exhaled. Julian looked directly at her now, his face open and unassuming. She remembered his kind presence next to her as she sobbed and heaved in the dark just a few days before, and she felt heat rise in her face as her eyes began to water again. She blinked furiously and looked away.
“Sorry, man, we don’t need to talk about it, I just want to know you’re all right.”
Julian pushed a napkin across the table and Glory took it, lowered her eyes and released a little laugh.
“I’m not gonna lie, this is so awkward,” she said as she wiped her eyes. “I can’t remember the last time we spoke but I’m here crying for the second time.”
Julian didn’t say anything, he just watched her, before looking down at the table and clearing his throat.
“If you’re embarrassed about crying, don’t be,” he finally said. “But just so you know, I’m shit at small talk.” His tone was serious and Glory appreciated the fact that he was so forthright. She felt herself lower her guard as she pressed the napkin into a tight ball in her hand.
“I used to be too, but then working in LA I just learned how to waffle. Hey sweetie, how are you? What have you been up to? Do you want a coffee? I’m just about to grab one!” Glory’s exaggerated Valley girl accent amused Julian. “I think I’ve forgotten how to have a real conversation.”
“I’ll allow you for now, can’t have you crying in here and people thinking we’re having domestics.” Julian looked around the shop in mock suspicion, making Glory smile.
“So, Glory, what were you doing when you were working out in LA?” He clasped his hands together and set them on the table as if he was conducting an interview.
“Well, I was working in a digital agency, mainly on the collaboration side, working with influencers on specific campaigns and activations.” The spiel still came easily, and Julian looked mildly impressed.
“So you could give me advice on social media stuff for my shop? I’d pay you of course.”
Glory hesitated. “I mean, I could in theory, but I don’t want to do that any more.”
“Why?”
“I’m over it, to be honest—I dunno.” Her voice sounded as uncertain as she felt.
“So what are you gonna do when you go back?”
“I’m not going back.”
“For real?”
Glory nodded and took another sip of her tea to avoid Julian’s attentive eyes.
“You didn’t like it or what?”
“Erm . . . I . . . nah,” Glory confessed. “I actually didn’t.”
Julian’s eyes widened.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said with an uneasy laugh, turning to hide her face with a hand. “LA just wasn’t me, y’know? I tried, and it all looked good from the outside, but, well, I was just struggling.”
Saying it out loud released something inside her.
“Boy,” Julian exhaled, “it didn’t look like you were struggling.”
“I work in social media, I know how to make things look good.” Glory let her eyes linger on his face for a second before looking into her cup. “I started getting panic attacks, had to see a therapist and everything.”
“Sorry, man. That sounds mad.”
“Don’t get me wrong, when I first got there it was great. It’s just like how it looks on TV, y’know? All wide open spaces, the sun is always shining, palm trees lining the road—”
“We have palm trees in Peckham too!” Julian said with a grin.
“Proper palm trees—not those stubby little things near the bus station!” Glory playfully threw a sidelong glance in Julian’s direction before she continued. “It felt like a dream, like I’d done it. I’d made something of myself after dropping out of uni and disappointing my parents. I wasn’t married like Faith, but I’d done what they did, just picked up and gone to another country and made it work.”
Julian couldn’t help but look impressed as he nodded along to Glory’s words and she let herself remain in that moment with him, in the version of her LA life that lived on social media and in reports back home to her family.
“Then it stopped working,” she said abruptly.
“What happened?”
Glory hummed, hesitant to pour her heart out any further on their first date—if this could even count as a date.
“When you’re partying and around people all the time, it’s easy to believe that you’re not lonely. You think you can’t be, you shouldn’t be, but I didn’t have any real friends, just housemates and colleagues. I dated a few people but the whole dating thing is just weird over there. I couldn’t get with it. Then there was all this work drama—I just wasn’t in a good place.”
“What work drama?”
“Boring politics—it doesn’t matter. But after Faith called me about my dad, the first thing I did was email my manager and resign. I didn’t think twice—obviously, I was upset and everything but there was this little part of me that felt relieved I could finally leave.”
“Woah, it was like that, yeah?”
“Honestly? I wanted to leave ages ago. I just needed a reason that didn’t feel like—like I’d failed or something. The worst thing is, the person that I stayed for, the one who I cared what he thought the most was my dad.”
Glory bit her tongue, knowing she could go on and on. All the thoughts that she had held in her head were now competing to be spoken and made real.
Julian nodded awkwardly and swirled the ice around his glass before he finished the last of his root cola.
“Did you . . . date a lot?”
Glory didn’t answer immediately, sizing him up from across the table.
“I mean, I can’t believe anyone would go on a date with you and just let you go.”
“Everyone’s stunning in LA. The best thing about me was my accent.”
“I doubt that.” Julian looked away, his tongue rolling over his bottom lip. “I think you’re underselling yourself.”
“You sound like my therapist.”
“Really? Should I be charging you for this?”
“I don’t have any money.”
“An IOU is fine, or you could do something for me in exchange—nah, nah, nothing like that!” Julian’s hands shot up in defense as Glory’s expression changed. “I mean, you could apprentice at my shop if you’re looking for a change of careers.”
Glory snorted.
“I don’t think many men would trust a woman in a barbershop.”
“You know what? I’ve always said that a female barber would make a lot of money—if she’s good of course—men would be lining up to get their trim from a pretty woman, all that close proximity, the feminine touch, it would be a big USP.”
“You’re a proper entrepreneur, innit? Always thinking about business.”
Julian looked pleased with himself. Glory really liked his smile and, as his body language began to open up, hers did in return. They ordered more drinks and talked until the sky began to darken.
When they eventually left the café, Julian hunched his shoulders against the chill and Glory graciously offered him her coat. When he declined she linked an arm through his, rubbing a hand up and down his sleeve. Despite the cold his body felt hot through the jumper and Glory found herself leaning into him, imagining how warm she would feel if he wrapped his arms around her.
“I enjoyed our small talk,” he said.
“Yeah, it was a nice distraction from everything.”
“Let me distract you again, but next time we go out to eat.”
“Can’t say no to a free dinner.”
“Who said I’m paying?” Julian stopped and Glory looked at him before he broke into a cheeky grin. “OK, it’ll be your welcome back to London meal.”
Glory could feel her phone buzzing in her pocket. She stopped and took the call.
“Where are you?”
It was Faith.
“I’m . . . just out and about, why?”
“How close are you to Peckham? Can you get to the house?”
“What’s wrong?” Glory felt a wave of nausea overtake her.
“Mummy’s having some kind of breakdown, I don’t know, I’ve been trying to call you, I’m on my way but I don’t know how quickly I can get there,” Faith said in a breathless ramble.
“I’m around the corner in Peckham, I’ll go now.”
“Oh, thank God!” Her sister sounded like she was about to cry.
When Glory ended the call, worry twisted its way across her face.
“What happened?” Julian asked her.
“I need to go to my mum’s, something’s wrong.”
“You want me to come with you?”
“No—thank you, though—I just really need to go.”
“Send me a text later to let me know you’re all right though, yeah?”
Glory nodded and squeezed his arm before walking off quickly in the direction of her mother’s house.