Follow Me Down (21 page)

I tipped my head back and laughed, which earned me another look from Scarlett, but I couldn’t help it. I never thought I’d hear Mr Lucas quote
The Simpsons
. He chuckled, too, and when we’d calmed down he nodded at my dress.

‘Is that a wrapper?’

‘It’s an African print, but it’s just a dress.’ I blinked at him, impressed. ‘How do you know what a wrapper is?’

‘I did some reading about Hindu wedding ceremonies because I was curious about what Edith and Nishad’s ceremony would have been like in India.’ He pushed his glasses back up his nose and I don’t know if he even realised he’d done it, but I almost laughed again. The hopeless geek. Mind you, I probably would have looked it up, too.

‘They had a Hindu ceremony?’

‘Oh yes.’ He paused to take a sip from his glass. ‘They’re already legally married. All of this is just for their friends and family.’

I looked up the table at Scarlett’s grandmother who was talking to the priest and holding her empty glass out for a refill to no one in particular. Olivia obliged.

‘But while I was reading about Hindu weddings, there was a link to an article about Igbo ones and I couldn’t resist. It was fascinating.’ He swallowed another mouthful of champagne. ‘Western weddings are very different.’

‘It’s not my first,’ I told him with a smile and he blushed.

‘Of course,’ he said, suddenly flustered. ‘I didn’t—’

I raised my hand with a warmer smile. ‘It’s OK. I know what you mean.’

‘All I was trying to say,’ he went on after he’d drained his glass, ‘is that it’s lovely to see someone at a wedding wear so much colour.’ He glanced around the table at the men in their neat black suits and the women in their pastel dresses, then smiled loosely. ‘You’re like a butterfly at a picnic, Miss Okomma.’

When he put down his glass, I arched an eyebrow. ‘Are you drunk, Sir?’

He looked stunned, then flushed again when he went to take a sip from his champagne glass and realised it was empty. ‘Absolutely not, Miss Okomma,’ he said in that way I do when my father asks if the dress I’ve bought is expensive and I lie and say it was on sale. ‘That would be horribly inappropriate, wouldn’t it?’

I thought it best to leave it.

‘So what happens at a Hindu wedding, then?’

His eyes lit up and while we ate our starter, he told me everything he knew about Hindu weddings between mouthfuls of asparagus (which was an astonishing amount, actually) and concluded that they sounded like the Igbo ones he’d read about.

‘I guess.’ I told him with a shrug. ‘They’re just as loud and colourful, but the last few I went to weren’t much different to this one.’

He seemed disappointed. ‘Really? There was no wine carrying?’

‘What do you know about wine carrying?’

‘I know things.’ He lifted his chin smugly. ‘Like before the wedding, the groom and his elders have to settle on the bride’s price with the bride’s father –’ He was clearly horrified by that and I interrupted with a laugh.

‘It’s symbolic.
Anaghi alusi nwaanyi alusi
, we say.’

He frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that the worth of a woman cannot be quantified in material terms.’

‘Yeah. But you still do it, right?’

‘True,’ I conceded with another shrug. ‘But no one’s being sold for a cow.’

‘Fair enough.’ He chuckled. ‘Then there’s the wedding ceremony, the
Igba Nwku
,’ he sounded so proud of himself. I almost applauded. ‘It begins with a dance—’

I stopped him again. ‘The boiled eggs are symbolic as well.’

‘I know.’ He feigned indignation, pushing his glasses back up his nose and he did it on purpose this time. ‘The bride selling them to her guests symbolises that she will be able to support herself and her family if needed.’

I laughed and shook my head. I don’t know what website he’d found, but he’d memorised it. He sounded like he was reciting his eight times table.

‘Then the bride’s father gives the bride a wooden cup—’

‘What’s it called?’ I interrupted and I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t resist teasing him a little as he stared at me, his lips parted.

‘It’s a –’ he clicked his fingers – ‘a –’

‘You’re going to have to do more than check Wikipedia to get a decent grade, Mr Lucas,’ I tutted, parroting what he tells us in class every week.

‘It’s a –’

‘An
iko
.’

He slapped his thigh, furious as the waiter refilled his glass. ‘An
iko
!’

‘None for you, Mr Lucas.’

‘I knew that!’ he hissed, knocking back another mouthful of champagne.

‘Then what happens?’ I said, giving him an opportunity to redeem himself.

His shoulders slumped. ‘Then the bride’s father gives the bride the
iko
, which is filled with palm wine, while the groom hides among the guests. The wedding isn’t official until the bride finds her groom, offers him a sip of the palm wine and he drinks from the cup,’ he muttered without as much feeling.

‘You forgot the dance.’

‘No! I didn’t! You just didn’t give me a chance.’ He pointed at me. ‘Then they dance and the guests throw money around them or put bills on their foreheads.’

‘Too late. You’d better check Wikipedia again before you speak to Nishad.’

‘Dammit! I had this yesterday. Champagne makes me stupid,’ he muttered, stopping to drain his glass. ‘I’m going to do this tomorrow, aren’t I? I’m going to get up to read my poem, completely forget it, then have to do my Homer impression.’

‘You should do that anyway.’

‘Don’t. I’m so nervous.’

‘You’ll be fine. Just picture everyone in their underwear.’

He laughed. ‘That was my first piece of advice when I started at Crofton,’ he said, his eyes wide. ‘If you get nervous, don’t picture them in their underwear!’

He must have said it too loudly because Scarlett’s grandmother shot a look down the table at us and he went so red, I thought he might hide under his chair. The old woman sitting opposite me looked horrified as well.

I waited for her to look away, then lowered my voice. ‘You’re the first white person I’ve ever met who knows what an
igba nwku
is, by the way.’

He brightened at that. ‘Really?’

‘I know some Nigerians who don’t know what an
igba nwku
is.’

‘It sounds amazing. Much more interesting than our “I Do” rubbish.’

‘I guess. But most couples still have a white wedding as well.’

‘Yeah.’ He nodded across the table at the overweight middle-aged man guffawing and spilling red wine on his shirt. ‘But they’re not like
this
.’

I tried not to laugh, but he was right; as Western as they are now, they’re still so
Nigerian
. They have all the grandeur – the noise, the colour – and even if the groom is in a tux and sunglasses and arrives in an Escalade, they still reek of tradition. Like the last wedding I went to, it was for a Yoruba couple who had a white wedding a few days after their traditional one. While the bride wore a Kosibah dress Jumoke wanted to rip off her, most of the guests wore Aso Oke wrappers and gowns. Even Jumoke wore a gele, which she doesn’t always, but her father likes it when she does. But the bride’s mother owned her ass in a red one so tall, I’m sure she had to duck to get in the door.

I had to raise a glass to her, because I still haven’t mastered tying them, despite watching my mother since I was a child, in awe of how the fabric would stay up, high and wide around her head, like a silk halo. When I was six, I tried to tie one using one of her Hermès scarves and when she found me struggling with it and whimpering that it wouldn’t stay up, she laughed and hugged me until I couldn’t breathe.

‘Do your parents want you to have a traditional wedding?’ Mr Lucas asked, rolling the stem of his empty champagne glass between his finger and thumb.

I could hear Scarlett laughing at the other end of the table, but refused to give her the satisfaction of looking at her. Mr Lucas didn’t either and I was glad because I could just imagine her, eyes sparkling as she waited for us to look, one hand under the table on Dominic’s knee or her fingers lingering on the lapel of his suit jacket. So I just held Mr Lucas’s gaze as the waiter took our plates away.

‘Of course they do,’ I told him with a smile I hope Scarlett saw. As liberal as my parents think they are, they want all of that; me in an
akwete
cloth and coral beads, while my father refuses to give me the
iko
and everyone laughs.

‘So running off to Vegas isn’t an option?’

I chuckled, but before I could respond, I heard someone say, ‘Who’s running off to Vegas?’ and looked up to find Dominic standing behind us with a smirk.

Mr Lucas looked a little uncomfortable, then caught himself and smiled. ‘I do believe my glass is empty,’ he said, picking it up, then excusing himself.

As soon as he did, Dominic sat in his seat. He put down his Scotch and I shouldn’t have been so surprised; not only do the kids at Crofton speak like grown-ups, but they drink like grown-ups as well.

‘Aren’t you at the wrong end of the table, Mr Sim?’

The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘Depends on your definition of wrong.’

My gaze flicked towards Scarlett, but she was distracted, her nose wrinkled as she giggled at something Mr Lucas was saying while he refilled his glass.

‘Are you looking forward to the wedding, Miss Okomma?’

‘It’s going to be a lot of fun.’ I looked at her when I said it because I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist looking at me, if only for a second. When she did, she smiled smugly, but it wasn’t her usual Scarlett smugness, it was a smile that told me I wouldn’t win. Two weeks ago, I would have been mortified and looked away, but something in me finally kicked back, so I raised my glass and gave her a smile that told her we’d see.

Orla wasn’t invited to the wedding so I was surprised to see so many people from our year there, especially so close to Christmas. But it seems that I wasn’t the only one who made an effort to be there, even the teachers had, and when I stopped outside the church to adjust the strap of my shoe and saw Headmaster Ballard and his wife inside, trying to find a seat, I realised that Orla wasn’t being paranoid; Scarlett hadn’t invited her on purpose. I had no idea why she was still holding a grudge, but when I walked in and Sam winked at me, I began to wonder.

I think half the village was there, too, so the church filled up quickly. I could hear the pews groaning grumpily as more people tried to squeeze onto them, but I was too late to get on one so stood at the back with a sullen sigh, wishing I’d worn flats. But then Mr Crane saw my heels and graciously offered me his seat and I sat down as the ‘Wedding March’ began playing.

Edith looked every inch the English bride, her blond hair up and her cheeks pink as she walked up the aisle. Her dress was beautiful; strapless and delicate milk-white lace. It was her something borrowed, Scarlett told me, the dress her mother wore on her wedding day, which, I guessed from the tone of Scarlett’s email, she had wanted to wear first.

Nishad glanced back at her and when he saw her, he smiled clumsily. It made my heart flutter suddenly and I found myself looking for him in the church. It took a few moments, but when our gaze met, my stomach burst into a mass of butterflies.

I looked at Scarlett then, she and Olivia were at the top of the aisle in their bridesmaid’s dresses, grinning and nudging each other when their mother started crying. But their grandmother was unmoved and stood stiffly facing the altar, as their father led Edith up the aisle. And it’s funny, isn’t it? How you can love someone so much that in wanting the best for them, you can’t even see what is?

The reception was held in a marquee in the grounds of Scarlett’s house. I’ve been to a lot of weddings with my parents and they’re right, they are becoming more and more alike, but thankfully, one tradition that hasn’t changed at Nigerian weddings is the food. And while I wasn’t holding my breath for any red stew and rice, I think my parents would have liked the food at Edith’s wedding – although I’m sure my father would have grumbled that the pumpkin soup wasn’t spicy enough. He would have liked the beef Wellington, though, and my mother loves mulled wine, so she probably would have drunk far too much of it. I know I did.

They would have thought the marquee was pretty as well, with the candles and the knots of holly and ivy tied to the back of each chair. The first thing my mother would have done when we sat at our table would be to smell the white camellias in the centrepiece. I could see her taking one and tucking it into her hair or putting one in my father’s buttonhole. But I think they would have been bemused by how quiet it was. Even with the string quartet, you could hear the
ting
of everyone’s cutlery. There must have been at least three hundred guests – which is tiny compared to a Nigerian wedding – but the hush made it feel much smaller. There was no singing, no fans, no drums, no colour. And it was so dull; most of the men were in black suits and the women in dark-coloured gowns. Nigerian weddings are nothing but colour, swathes and swathes of patterned cloth – oranges and greens and bright, bright blues.

Scarlett must have been really pissed at me, because she sat me next to Molly. I spent most of the dinner nodding and pretending to be shocked as she updated me on what I’d missed while I’d been at home. Scarlett also made sure that he and I were at different tables, but we texted constantly through dinner while we snuck looks across the marquee at one another. He sent me one to ask if Scarlett could have sat us any further apart and it wasn’t until we were there, right in the middle of it, that I realised what we were doing, that we were crossing a line. Into what, I didn’t know, but after dinner, when the band started playing, I wanted him to take a rose out of one of the centrepieces and ask me to dance. But I knew he wouldn’t – couldn’t – because then everyone would know that we were, what? I didn’t know. Until I did, it was probably best not to dance in front of everyone at Crofton. It would cause so much drama, Molly would faint with joy.