Turn It Loose (5 page)

xx,

Faraj

0203 538 6595

Jaylah did a quick cha-cha around the kitchen. Even if she wasn’t sure if she wanted to see him again, it was nice to know she left him wanting more.

* * *

“Jaylah Baldwin, this is Hillary
Clarke,” Jourdan said, introducing the women. She had managed to get to Jourdan’s office five minutes before the meeting, giving her just enough time to calm her nerves.

“Pleasure to meet you Ms. Clarke,”
she said, trying her best to mimic the pomp and circumstance of the Queen’s English.

“Please
, call me Hillary,” she said, shaking Jaylah’s hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Jaylah wondered how much Hillary could have possibly heard given she’d just met Jourdan and hadn’t ever bragged about her bylines. Perhaps Hillary Googled her as well? “Likewise,” she said, being polite.

“Jourdan tells me you’re looking to write for UK publications. What brings you to our side of the Pond?”

“
As you know, the publishing world is quite hectic at the moment. I’ve been working like a maniac at
The L.A. Weekly
for the past five years, and just needed a bit of a change.”

“And why’d you pick London?”

“For one, I already knew the language. Or so I thought,” she smiled, hoping Hillary would appreciate her attempt at humor. “But seriously, I’ve lived in New York, I needed a break from L.A., and London is so vibrant and full of culture, it just seemed like the perfect place to regroup.”

“
Have you been freelancing since coming here?” Hillary asked.

“No, I’ve just been wandering around doing all of the touristy things and trying my hardest not
to be the rude American.”

Hillary
nodded a reserved smile. “I see. I’m sort of in a pinch. I had a girl defect to
Vogue
, so I’m looking for a freelancer who can cover the lifestyle vertical. Basically she’d run ‘round to shows, pubs, and things of that nature, then write about the best things to do in London.”

Jaylah’s heart dropped, another gig
covering shitty unsigned bands and horribly made films? Did she really leave L.A. to do what she did back home? “I see,” she replied, trying to keep disappointment from edging into her voice.

“I read through some of your clips and I noticed you did quite a
lot of that back in L.A., although we’ve already got a music writer. So this would be sort of a ‘girl about town’ feature,” Hillary explained.

Jaylah let out an inaudible breath
before nodding enthusiastically. “So I’d be able to see a bit more of the city as well.”

“Exactly!
How about you write one article and we’ll see how it goes from there? We pay £250.”

Jaylah tried to do
math in her head. How much was that in American dollars? “Sounds great,” she said, knowing it didn’t matter how much it was; she needed the money.

“Perfect. Call me tomorrow and we’ll get you set up, I already have an assignment in mind,” Hillary said before
turning to Jourdan. “I’ve got to go, but your proposal sounds great. I think it’ll be the way to go.”

She
beamed, “Glad to hear it. I’ll draw up the contract and send it right over.”

“Ladies, it was a pleasure,”
Hillary said heading out the door.

“Aren’t you glad I convinced you to get out of bed?” Jourdan said, grabbing her bag. “Now, let’
s go grab a drink. You’ve got a story to tell!”

The thought of drinking made
Jaylah nauseous. “I don’t think I can stomach any liquor today.”

“You know what the best cure for a hangover is?” Jourdan asked. “Another drink! Now let’s go.”

* * *

Day 27, my flat.

I’m starting to get the hang of this place. It took a little while, but I feel less like a clueless visitor and more like I belong. I even gave an old woman directions to the Tube yesterday; that counts for something, right?

It’s crazy how quickly so much has changed. Last week I was beginning to panic because I have a little less than $1000 left and it has to last me for the next two months. I decided to get by on sandwiches and do as many free things as possible (and only splurge on the really important stuff like chocolate or vodka), but things are looking up. Jourdan (how amazing is SHE?) introduced me to Hillary Clarke of UK Glamour and she agreed to give me a shot. They were looking for someone to write about events around town, and considering I can’t afford to go to any of them on my own and I need the money, I jumped on the gig!

I filed my first story yesterday, and it went much better than expected. They sent me to see “The Amen Corner,” a play about a female pastor whose church is
turning against her. And, get this, it was by James Baldwin, my favorite writer in the history of writers. Coincidence? Methinks not. Anyway, the play was AH-MAY-ZING and I said as much in my article. I was prepared for Hillary to hate it, but instead she emailed to say it was “brilliant” (apparently, the Brits love that word) and only needed a bit of editing to switch my American spellings to British ones.

Jourd
an is taking me out to dinner at some restaurant in Notting Hill to celebrate. Who would have thought a total stranger would end up not only being one of the coolest people I’ve ever met, but also hook me up like this? She’s like my long-lost white twin sister. We’re both tall and curvy, sarcastic as hell, she gets my jokes, and she can tear up a dance floor! The only difference? She’s much ballsier. I don’t think Jourdan goes through the mental gymnastics that I do; she just goes for what she wants. Hopefully a little of that will rub off on me while I’m here.

From the looks of things
, I should have moved to London a long time ago. I might be on staff at a major glossie and married to a beautiful man by now.

Speaking of
beautiful men. Faraj—OH MY GOD—how hot was that? I still haven’t called him and I’m not quite sure I want to. I dreamed about him bending me over and other hot scenarios, but I don’t want to get too close. The last thing I want to do is fall for some guy, then have to leave. Plus, something about Faraj tells me this isn’t his first time at the rodeo.

You know what?
I’m going to just leave it alone. I’ll always have my memories, and who knows, I might just meet another victim very soon. Wish me luck.

xx.

Jaylah walked into Osteria Basilico and looked for Jourdan. Even though it was a Thursday, the Italian eatery was brimming with people. After scanning the main floor, she headed downstairs, inhaling the aroma of melting cheese, handmade pasta, and decadent tiramisus.

The week had been hectic.
Jaylah turned in another article on a show at the Southbank Centre, journeyed to Stonehenge just to say she’d seen it, and interviewed fashion designer Ozwald Boateng about his Made In Africa Foundation. Her freelance gig at
Glamour
seemed a lot less like a test, and more like she was actually part of the team. Hillary had already emailed her a list of events to cover for the next three weeks, ensuring she would not only see more of London, but also add some pounds to her bank account.

Jaylah loved the spike in her balance when a deposit hit her account.
Two hundred fifty pounds didn’t sound like a lot, but it was nearly twice that amount in American dollars. And considering London is one of the most expensive cities in the world, every little bit helped. Jaylah’s rent was already paid through the summer, so whatever she made working for
Glamour
gave her some breathing room. Still, she swore off any extravagant spending sprees, choosing to bank her checks and rebuild her “in case shit happens” fund.

Jaylah spotted Jourdan sitting at a small t
able in the corner of the room and chuckled to herself. She and her new BFF were matching. Again.

“Hey girly,” Jaylah said, kissing Jourdan on her cheek. “I see
you’ve been in my closet.”

Jourdan chuckled, glancing at her teal blouse and Jaylah’s t
urquoise dress. “Looks like it, yeah? Glad you made it, I’m starving!”

“Me too, I haven’t eaten all day. I got caught up transcribing my Boateng interview.”

Jourdan grabbed her friend’s hand, “Isn’t he lovely?”

“He’s
absolutely everything. I had a hard time focusing on what he was saying.”

“I can imagine.
Want to share a bottle of Pinot Grigio?”

“Sure, I just need to eat some bread
first. I’m not going to have a repeat of the Pimm’s Cup debacle.”

Jourdan rolled her hazel eyes, “T
hat debacle landed a gorgeous man in your bed. Did you ever call him?”

“
No. I don’t want to get tied up in anything serious. I’m just here to have a good time.”

“
He could have been a lot more fun. You should have at least kept him in rotation in case you need his…services,” Jourdan teased.

“It would just be one more tie I’d have to sever when I leave, and—“

“Like me?” Jourdan cut in, looking directly at her friend.

“Of course not!
You’re stuck with me.”

Jourdan put her menu
down. “Have you considered staying on after the summer? Things with
Glamour
seem to be picking up. Maybe it’ll turn into something. Would you stay?”

“I hadn’t even thought about it. I’d need way more money t
han what they’re paying me. I mean, I spent about $8000 on rent for the summer. That’s,” Jaylah tried to calculate the amount in pounds, “a lot.”

“There are cheaper places you know. Your flat is pretty posh.”

“I’m sure, but I’m a bit of a snob, and I already love that one. Besides, I don’t think I can actually move here. Aren’t the laws pretty strict?”

“People move all the time,
Jaylah, you’d just need to be sponsored. And I’m sure if
Glamour
wants, they can vouch for you.”

The thought of staying never crossed
her mind. She moved to London for the summer to clear her head and hopefully get her life and her career back on track. The end.

But was it?

She had to admit that she was beginning to feel at home, and even alive, in the Queen’s city. She landed a gig, albeit a freelance one, at one of her favorite magazines; she had an amazing best friend who she loved like a sister; and she finally felt free enough to take chances. But was she really ready to trade in her sundresses and sandals for heavy coats and rain boots…permanently?

“I’ll think
about it,” Jaylah said, already wondering how she could pull it off.

* * *

Jourdan and Jaylah spilled onto Kensington Park Road stuffed with balsamic vinegar and olive oil dipped bread, mushrooms topped with smoked mozzarella, and the most delicious braised veal either of them had ever tasted.

“I hate you for ordering that chocolate mousse,” Jaylah said.

“We were celebrating. What celebration is complete without chocolate mousse?”

The pair giggled as they
strolled arm and arm down Pembridge Road.

“You’re going to have to roll me to the Tube,” Jaylah said, patting her too-full stomach.

“No Tube, we’re going to this little place I know ‘round here. We can dance it off.”

“I don’t think I can
even move. I’d looked like a beached whale trying to dance right now.”

“At least you’d be a cute one,” Jourdan winked. She pulled out a cigarette and steered them onto Portobello Road.

“You sh
ould stop smoking.”

“You should start.”

“You’re going to kill me. Hello? Secondhand smoke?”

“At least you’ll die happy.
”

“According to you.”

“That’s all that fucking matters,” Jourdan said, taking a long drag on her cigarette and blowing a smoke ring in Jaylah’s face.

Jayla
h cackled so hard her back began to hurt. “I hate you!”

“I hate you too,” Jourdan said, catching her friend’s contagious laughter.

* * *

“Here we are,” Jourdan said, ushering her friend into the Mau Mau Bar.

The tiny place was teem
ing and felt like an intimate house party. Music posters and artwork lined the pub’s red walls and a disco ball cast glittery shadows on the ceiling. The small patch of dance floor was overflowing with bodies, and to Jaylah’s surprise, Jourdan found an open seat, which they squeezed in to share.

“Isn’t this great? I love this place,” Jourdan said, looking around the room.

The DJ stood perched above the crowd, spinning a soulful house song Jaylah couldn’t quite place. She swayed to the beat and watched the throng of dancers. There were two things she loved about partying in London: (1) unlike L.A., people actually danced, and (2) club goers were always so diverse. On any given night you’d find people from every corner of the world smashed together on a dance floor.

“I’m going to the bar.
Want anything?” Jourdan asked.

“No, I
’m ok.”

Jay
lah continued watching the crowd, which was a mishmash of hipsters, bohemian types, average folks, and business people looking for an escape from their hectic workdays. As she scanned, her eyes landed on a man on the opposite side of the room. Perhaps it was his tailored shirt and slacks, or maybe it was the way his sable skin glistened under the lights as he danced. Whatever it was, she couldn’t stop watching him.

The man was tall,
but moved without any trace of awkwardness. He glided to the music and allowed his feet to stomp in time with the rhythm. Jaylah figured he was alone because he didn’t talk to, or even look at, anyone nearby. He just sipped his drink and danced. She happily watched.

Jourdan returned carrying two beers
.

“I said I didn’t want anything.”

“I know,” her friend said, handing Jaylah a Stella.

She took a sip, then tipped the bottle in the man’s direction. “Look.”

“Ooh, nice,” Jourdan said, “Here alone?”

“
Looks like it.”

“Go over and talk to him.”

“Not yet,” Jaylah said, taking another swig. “But I will.”

“Come on,
time to burn off that meal.” Jourdan grabbed her friend’s hand and escorted her to the dance floor.

The pair slowly swayed in time trying to warm up to the energy of the crowd. It was hard to move in the crush of people, but somehow they found their way.
They were still holding hands when Jaylah spun her friend around in a tiny circle. Jourdan returned the favor, before the pair danced back-to-back still keeping time. When the DJ switched the tune, Jaylah and Jourdan fell into lazy box step, moving together like they’d practiced the routine at home. The crowd parted for the women as they each took turns freestyling in the spotlight. Jourdan’s energy bubbled over in exaggerated shimmies as she hopped around to the beat. Jaylah’s moves were more subdued and sensual. She swayed her hips and allowed her arms to do the work, extending them above her head and bouncing her shoulders to the music. Her hands undulated in smooth, slow waves and she moved her torso with the grace of a belly dancer. When they were done with their cameos, Jaylah and Jourdan once again came back together, coasting on each other’s energy.

“I love you,” Jaylah mouthed to her friend.

“I love you too,” Jourdan said in return.

F
or the first time in months, or maybe even years, Jaylah felt happy. Tucked away in a tiny club with a best friend she’d barely met, but couldn’t picture her life without, she truly was happy.

And then she saw him. Starring at her
from across the room.

Now
, Jaylah thought to herself,
now it’s time.

* * *

Jaylah let the crowd’s tide carry her over to him. She continued to sway to the rhythm as she inched closer to his side. When she “accidentally” grazed his arm, Jaylah seized the opportunity to find out who he was.

“D
o all of the black men in this city date white women or what?” she asked instead of saying hello.

“Excuse me?” he said, completely caught off guard.

“Well, I’ve been here a month and I’ve seen black men with Asian women, white woman, Indian woman, but not black women,” she said, tempering her words with a sly smirk. “I was starting to wonder if I was invisible.”

He
looked her over, “Now…I don’t think
that’s
possible.”  He extended an easy smile. “I’m Johnny, what’s your name, love?”

She noticed the sharp angle of his nose then, causing her to stop and take him in. His e
yes were disarmingly generous and the hint of a decidedly un-British accent danced on the tip of his tongue.

“I’m Jaylah. Where are you from?”

“Peckham.”

“No, no. Be
fore. Were you born in London?”

“No. Moved here from Ghana when I was
six,” he pointed to her empty beer bottle, “want another?”

“Sure.”

As he walked away, Jaylah noticed the outline of his strong, sleek back and footballer’s body. She thought his arms were easily sturdy enough to lift her, and he moved with a quiet confidence that said he could own any room if he wanted.

In that moment Jaylah knew: she had to see him naked.

* * *

“Here you go,” Johnny said, handing Jaylah a
nother beer.

“Thank you,” she said, trying not to smile too hard. “Just got off work?”

He smoothed the wrinkles forming in his cuffed dress shirt. “How can you tell?”

“Lucky guess,” she said, trying to suppress the smile
still tugging at her lips. “Come here often?”

They both
chuckled at her corny line. Although she had been drawn to him since she first laid eyes on him, she felt unsure of what to say.

Jourdan
found her just in time. She turned to Johnny, “I see you’ve met my sister.”

He raised an eyebrow, “Sister?”

“She didn’t tell you?” she asked, looking at Jaylah in mock disbelief. “When our parents divorced they moved her to America and left me in this bloody cold hell hole. And I’m the one who needs the tan!”

The women
snickered. “This is Jourdan,” Jaylah said, “my sister.”

She
pressed her face close to Jaylah’s. “Don’t we look alike?” Jourdan asked before grabbing Jaylah’s beer and taking a long sip.

“I can see the resemblance,” he said, playing along.

“I’ll let you two chat. There’s a man over there I need to make out with. Jay, you cool?”

“Yes, dear. Go. Kiss. Have fun!
”

“Always,”
she said, before heading back across the room.

“Your sister’s an interesting character,” Johnny said.

“She sure is. What about you? What makes you interesting?”

Johnny shrugged.
“I’m pretty boring.”