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‘Perhaps another night,’ he suggests. ‘Or maybe we could go out for that dinner, I promised you. At the end of the week. When you’re feeling up to it.’
Ah, so he hadn’t forgotten.
‘Let’s see how it goes.’
Mike is clearly disappointed, but is trying not to show it. ‘Are things OK between us?’
‘Yes, of course they are.’ Would this be a good time to tell him about Dominic? But then I think, what’s the point when the chances are that I’ll never, ever in my entire life see Dominic again? I’ll get over him. In time I’ll get over him and then, who knows, perhaps I’ll be able to see Mike in a different light. Goodness knows, he ticks all the right boxes for enough women. Me included.
It’s just that, at this moment, I’ve fallen for someone with dark eyes and chocolate brown skin, with a smile that would rival the sun and who counts lion wrestling as one of his skills. That’s a lot to compete with.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ I reassure him when his frown fails to go away. ‘I’m just a bit . . . out of sorts.’ Ridiculously, hopelessly lovesick, I mean, but fail to say.
I thank him for the photographic paper and hotfoot it back to my little house. There, in my utility room-cum-office, where my washing machine and my computer nestle cosily side by side, I seek refuge. The pile of washing from my holiday is still there and seems rather reproachful, a little scattering of dust from the Maasai Mara is settled on my tiled floor. I’ll get to it just as soon as I’ve done this. I sit at the tiny desk and print out the picture. After a bit of whirring and chugging, it’s in my hot little hands. Dominic’s smile beams out and I’m looking up at him, quite clearly, even to the untrained eye, totally besotted.
I log onto Facebook. I don’t harbour much hope that Dominic will have made the long arduous walk to the nearest village with a computer to try to make contact. But when I pull up my profile page I’m shocked to see that there, right in front of me, is a friend request from one Dominic Ole Nangon.
My heart flips with joy. There’s a message attached and I read it and re-read it and then I read it again. There are some pleasantries. He hopes that I had a safe journey home. He tells me that there has still been no rain. This week, he recounts, his new group saw a leopard up a tree – a very rare sighting. Then I see what I was hoping for. He’s missing me, it says. He’s missing me very much. I sit back in my chair. It wasn’t my imagination, Dominic cares for me just as much as I care for him.
I type him an effusive note. I tell him that my journey was safe. That I hope there will soon be rain. Then I tell him that I’m missing him too, missing him very much. I’m sure that my heart is sighing with relief. I’m just so glad that we’ve managed to make contact. I’ve got the sum total of about twenty friends on Facebook – a couple of girls from the salon, a few old school friends – I hardly ever use it, could never much see the point in it. Now I’m sure I’ll be checking it every night to see whether there’s something from Dominic for me.
I don’t let the thoughts of how on earth we can possibly progress this relationship mar my happiness at hearing from him. How will I ever get to see him again? When will I get to see him again? Is there hope for us? I wonder. Is there hope that we could, against all the odds, make this work?
In the kitchen, I open a bottle of wine, give Archie an impromptu hug that makes him howl in protest, then I throw the washing into the machine. Dominic’s message has given me a spring in my step and a song in my heart.
Taking the bottle and glass through to the living room, I put on the DVDs. Archie curls up on my lap and I pull Dominic’s kanga over us both – my new security blanket. It’s vivid colours are out of place in my pastel, flowery cottage and that makes me love it all the more. Together, without Mike, Archie and I watch Out of Africa and The Lion King and I cry and cry and cry, but I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m sad or because I’m deliriously happy.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Tuesday morning. Eight o’clock. Second day back at work. Meh!
The Christmas rush has started in earnest and my book is virtually full for the day. Then Nina phones in sick, citing a cold, and some of her clients are pushed in with me, which means that I won’t even get a lunch break and my feet and legs will be throbbing in agony by the time I get home. The rest of Nina’s appointments are dished out between the other stylists.
I worry that Nina is having more problems with Gerry as she’s rarely ill and, if she was planning a sneaky day off, then she would have told me in advance so that I knew I’d need to cover for her. I text her to see whether everything is OK and ten minutes later she replies that no, she isn’t all right, and can I go to her house on my way home from work.
