Sankofa(7)

“We stopped.”

That was all there was to it. I wasn’t suited for the probing questions of a stranger.

“What is your husband’s profession?” she asks.

“Investment banker. Boutique firm. Things changed a bit for us after the crash. A few bad investments.”

“And yours?”

“Housewife,” I say. “But my mother died and left me her flat in Islington. It’s been on the market for three months. Ex-council, unrefurbished, so proving a bit difficult to sell, but still, it’s in a coveted area.”

“And where are you living at the moment?”

“In our home. He moved out.”

“And would you like to go on living there after the divorce?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’d like something much smaller and more central, if I can afford it, and other times I think I would prefer a cottage in the countryside.”

It was the effect of daytime television and all those people who felt they could reinvent their lives by escaping to green fields and the scent of manure.

“Any children under the age of eighteen?” she asks.

“I just have the one daughter. She’s twenty-five.”

“Do you still love your husband?”

She is auditioning me with these impertinent questions, weighing whether or not I am a worthy client. “Does it matter?” I ask.

“It can make the divorce process a lot harder.”

“I’m here because my daughter booked this meeting. She thinks finalizing a divorce will give me closure.”

“And you? What do you think?”

“It’s a bit simplistic. You can’t end twenty-six years with a piece of paper.”

“No, but that piece of paper can be the first step towards a new life. If you want a new life.”

There is another pause. She hasn’t written anything on her sheet except my name: Anna Graham.

“I like my clients to give a firm yes to the question I asked at the start before we proceed,” she says.

I attempt my own bluntness. “How do you make money, then?” I ask.

“I always get what my clients want, but I like to make sure that they really want it first.”

She twists her wedding band. It is slim and studded with diamonds.

“All right, Anna. Shall we say we have begun the conversation? And you’ll get back to me once you have a firm yes. I’ll open a file for you. If we don’t hear back within another three months, I’ll assume that you’ve made other arrangements. Do you have any travel plans or family circumstances that mean you might need a little more time?”

“I want to go to Bamana,” I say. “It’s a small country in West Africa.”

“Sounds nice. Beaches?”

“I have family there, but I’ve never been.”

Once I say it, I know this is what I want. I want to meet my father more than I want to finalize my divorce. From this office stretches paperwork and itemization of my belongings, and the breaking up of my marriage piece by piece. Or I could go to Bamana and see if Francis Aggrey is still alive.

“I’ll walk you out.”



On the bus home I sit on the upper deck and I am level with the trees. The meeting has stirred up memories of Robert.

We first met in a bar, the type in the City that was quiet in the afternoon and closed on weekends. I sat, hemmed in between my colleagues, fellow trainee architects, waiting until it was my turn to buy someone a drink. Robert was at the counter when I was getting a gin and tonic.

“What are you having?” he asked. He had a pleasant voice. It cut through the background noise.

“It’s not mine,” I said. I was too concerned with making a good impression on my colleagues. I didn’t have time to be chatted up by a stranger with a light baritone.

I took the order back to my table and slotted into my space. I concentrated on the conversation and tried to keep my hands still. There were two other female trainees, privately educated and more assured than me, I thought, although perhaps I misinterpreted things. They also ended up quitting soon after they married. Later, when I made my way to the loo, Robert stopped me.

“I just wanted to say I think you’re absolutely beautiful. I’ve been watching you all evening.”

“Thank you,” I said, and walked past. When I came out, he was still there.

“Would you like to go for dinner? There’s an Italian restaurant a few minutes from here. The pasta’s great. I’m Robert, by the way.” He put out his hand. At the counter I’d only seen his profile. He was handsome straight on, or, more accurately, he was well-groomed: tall, clean-shaven, trim in his suit. I shook his hand. Our grips were matched.

“Anna. I’ll get my bag.”

My mother liked Robert. He was tall. He spoke like a BBC announcer. She was a little awed by these shallow trappings. “You’ve done well for yourself, Anna,” she said when she saw my engagement ring. I pestered her for weeks after. What exactly did she mean? She turned on me in a rare show of spirit and said, “Stop trying to turn me into a women’s activist.”

The only thing Aunt Caryl asked was “What’s he like in bed?”

How much would I have made of my life if we’d never met? I wasn’t suited to architecture: the hours were too long, the opportunities to express myself too few. Only a precious few rose high enough to stamp their point of view on a building. The rest of us were sketch-drawing props to someone else’s grand vision.