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All the lights are off and Dominic frowns at me. ‘I do not think there is anyone at home, Janie.’
‘Really? I wonder if I’ve got the wrong evening? Let’s just see.’ I try the door and, sure enough, it opens.
Inside the hall is in darkness. Dominic and I stand by the door. Then the lights flick on and the entire population of Nashley shout out, ‘Surprise!’
There’s a banner across the back of the hall which reads WELCOME HOME DOMINIC!
He looks at me, bemused, and lowers his voice to ask, ‘This is for me?’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘because they all love you.’
My warrior looks overawed. ‘The last party I had in my village like this was when I became ilmoran, a warrior, at my circumcision ritual.’
‘Maybe don’t mention that,’ I suggest.
He breaks into his trademark grin, lets out his high-pitched Maasai whoop and jumps about ten feet into the air. Giving great credit to the villagers of Nashley, none of them look even vaguely startled. Instead, they swarm around Dominic, shaking his hand, patting his back and the ladies of The Nashley Church Flower Committee add to their annual quota of kisses.
I back out of the way, letting Dominic bask in the glory. I’m putting on my flip-flops and slipping off my coat as Nina comes up.
‘Ah,’ she says. ‘Benidorm 1992.’
‘Something like that.’ But then she can’t talk as she’s dressed in much the same way, although her hair is elaborately beaded and braided.
‘Who did the hair?’
‘Cristal. It’s a bit more Bo Derek and less Maasai Mara than I would have liked, but she’s not done a bad job.’
‘It looks great.’
Nina has come along with Mike this evening and when he’s back from getting them both drinks, Mike comes up to me and pecks my cheek.
He hands a lurid red-coloured drink to Nina. ‘African punch,’ he says with a grimace. ‘Though I’m not exactly sure how African a drink vodka is.’
Nina shrugs and knocks it back anyway. He holds out another glass.
‘Not for me,’ I say.
He looks somewhat self-conscious in Dominic’s spare red robe and my excess Claire’s Accessories beading. Being British, he’s teamed it with trainers and socks. Mind you, the other ‘African’ costumes are equally tenuously assembled. Mr and Mrs Codling-Bentham look like they have walked straight off the set of Out of Africa in safari suits and matching old-fashioned safari helmets, complete with mosquito nets. The ladies of The Nashley Church Flower Committee, on the other hand, are clearly big fans of Alexander McCall Smith and have gone down the Mama Precious Ramotswe route and are wearing voluminous floral print dresses and have colourful headscarves wound around their heads.
‘Everything OK?’ Mike asks.
‘Everything’s fine,’ I say with a smile.
While Nina is distracted, I pull him close to me. ‘How’s things with Nina?’
‘Fine.’ He grins self-consciously.
Before I have the chance to quiz him further, someone flicks on the stereo and the thumping tribal beat of African music pounds out into the hall and the crowd parts, leaving Dominic centre stage. He lowers Archie to the floor before he gives a superb demonstration of his Maasai jumping skills while everyone claps and cheers their encouragement. The ladies of The Nashley Church Flower Committee look as if they can hardly contain themselves. Some of them, I think, have their first orgasm in years.
Mike downs his drink. ‘Bloody hell,’ he says. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound.’ He goes to join Dominic on the dance floor where they jump together as brothers and I find my eyes filling with tears once more. Must be my hormones, I think, because as I suspected, the pregnancy test I did showed up positive. I’m having a baby. I’m having Dominic’s baby.
I haven’t told Nina or Mike just yet, but I know they will both be thrilled and that the baby will have a devoted aunt and uncle to dote on him or her. Dominic is already convinced that it will be a boy.
I’m trying not to hold my tummy protectively, when Mrs Duston sidles up next to me. ‘Couldn’t really find many recipes from the Maasai Mara on the internet,’ she confesses in disappointed tones. ‘So we went for lasagne. Is that all right, sweetie?’
‘I’m sure it will be lovely,’ I assure her. ‘It’s Dominic’s favourite.’
That sends her into a frenzy of delight.
I have no idea whether Dominic likes lasagne or not, but if it makes an old lady happy to think that she’s hit the spot with her Italian interpretation of the African theme then who am I to disappoint her? I do know though that Dominic’s time on the street has broadened his palate out of necessity and he’s now much more willing to try different kinds of food, so I’m sure he’ll give the lasagne a good go.
