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The podcast birthed a phoenix of an old confidence. And it turned out that the hellfire it had been through had only refined it, burned off the impurities that had snuck in during a truly horrendous break-up that felt like the first half of Lemonade without any of the artistry. I’d pulled the confidence up and out from under a rubble of harsh-edged anger and heartbreak and sadness to discover it had a new clarity, a confidence that scored high on the Mohs scale. I’d been scared that it wouldn’t fit on me any more.

At this party full of influencers whose influence didn’t seem tied to any sort of commodity, but rather vague concepts like ‘positivity’ and industry bosses who double kissed and swore you were friends because they double tapped my photo, I saw that the confidence fitted– not because I fitted in, but because I knew who I was and knew that this wasn’t real. It was a virtual reality, and I would have to play this game to get paid, to get deals, build my position in this industry, because I had a career to grow and an identity to forge and more me to discover and one thing I knew is that none of it would be dependant on me talking to this man whose hollow blue eyes seemed to be magnetically drawn to my cleavage.

I replied, ‘And how would you define purpose-defining?’

He squinted and scratched at his stubble, releasing a whiff of cigarettes and a Santal scent that seemed to be the staple of every offbeat creative who tried hard to walk the line between pretention and cool, and therefore defeated its purpose.

‘Uh, that’s a great question, um... I guess, I realised that I wanted to, like, capture the unseen, you know?’

‘Ah.’ I nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s so. . .profound.’

He grinned and I stepped up closer to him in what, I guess, could have been a flirtatious manner, until I lifted an upturned, manicured middle finger. I tilted my head and narrowed my eyes in gentle curiosity. ‘You see this?’

He blinked, confused, I guess, by the incongruence of the promise of intimacy and the fact that I was holding up my middle finger.

‘Because I’m the same skintone as those women,’ I continued, ‘so I’m just wondering if I too am unseen. In fact, how did you even clock me tonight?’

French Street Urchin blinked several times before he laughed, and rubbed his chin again. ‘Touché. Look, I get it, but I’m not one of them white saviours. I spent loads of summers in Africa with my dad. Works in the Congo. You been there?’

It was becoming abundantly clear that I was at risk of physically harming this man. The room, already stuffy was beginning to feel oppressive, suffocating. My mandate tonight from both Nina–my agent–and Aminah– best friend and unofficial agent–had been to schmooze, tomingleand to say no to offers of coke,notto withstand microaggressions from Prince Leopold’s nepo great-grandbaby. So in order to avoid pulling his dangly cross earring right through his ear, I decided to brush past him, do another aimless circuit of the room.

So far I’d met one person from a Black-owned publishing imprint and two music agents who’d invited me to their artists’ shows, and, unrelatedly, I’d declined three coke offers. A successful night so far, considering, but I suddenly felt a gust of a cool intimate loneliness. I needed to leave. I had no real friends here, and the tenuous connections I’d made had left because their careers were developed enough to not need this. Dealing with Art Hoe Cecil Rhodes would have been much more satisfying if Aminah was here, or Shanti or Chioma.

However, Aminah’s parents were in town from Lagos and she and Kofi were having dinner with them, Shanti had a date with a guy she swore she would never see again and Chi-Chi was on some yoga retreat in Bali, which was almost the most Chioma thing to happen until she told us that she had got her yoga certification and was now running a class in the yoga retreat in Bali. By default, my mind naturally went to the only other person who I could have laughed about this with and, by default, my heart prickled with frost and my senses momentarily dulled. Apocalypse PTSD. He wasn’t in my life any more. I wasn’t allowed to think about him. I wasn’t allowed to regress. I barely allowed myself to think his name, but the thing is my mind is rebellious, and it saw the boundaries I placed on it as challenges. I forced away the thoughts and their pinpricks of pain. I definitely needed to get out of here.

I snaked my way past the plush velvet booths, waiters holding trays of mini vegan hot dogs and cocktails alarmingly mixed with something called ‘diet alcohol’– the night was sponsored by a brand called No Sin Gin– and a maze of air kisses and smiles that dissipated as fast as they’d appeared. I reached the lift at the end of the room when I noticed a corner that felt unoccupied, an alcove just behind the main action that helpfully had ‘The Library’ inscribed in gold within the wooden frame above the entrance. Safety. Old habits die hard.

I entered the carpeted, semicircular enclave, and the scent of heavy, rich-textured paper and leather encasings instantly soothed me, running warm over tension I hadn’t known I was holding. A burnished bronze chandelier hung in the middle of it, which kind of gave the air that at any moment it may come to life and tell me to be its guest. The library, in all iterations, had been a safe space for me for a lot of my life, as a kid with a sick parent, as an undergrad student with a sicko revenge-porn-obsessed quasi-ex and now as an adult, removing herself from the presence of a man with a dangly cross earring. As trite as it sounded, a library always presented itself as a haven from the chaos. I inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. Just a few moments here would set me right. I’d instantly gravitated towards a gold-embossed, leather-bound copy ofPride and Prejudicewhen a warm male voice interrupted my pursuit to rediscover the truth universally acknowledged.

‘Hi, the babysitter just called.’

I turned and frowned, perplexed and intrigued by the sentence, along with the owner of the voice and the live-wire energy that ran across his narrow face, which looked as if it had been sketched by a knife dipped in roasted terracotta. He had angular cheekbones, large slightly slanted eyes, a wide mouth and a forest-green beanie from which a few spirally dark coils spilled. He was wearing a gaping white T-shirt that slung like silk over his lithe body and several titanium rings on long fingers, which seemed like they could paint or sculpt (they couldn’t, but they could code). Black adinkra symbols– Greatness, Endurance, Something Africanly Affirming– climbed lazily up muscular forearms that looked as if they got their strength from hauling djembes to various spoken-word performances rather than going to the gym. His eyes were brown and bright enough to light up a place in me I thought would be forever dimmed. I didn’t recognise this then, though. Then, I just thought he was simply a hot weirdo, and so I responded how a person would to a hot weirdo.

‘Um. What?’

He walked further into the enclave. He smiled, and it was bright and self-deprecating and kind of shy all at the same time and I couldn’t be freaked out even if I wanted to and I really didn’t want to because I wanted to enjoy this old feeling of wanting to know a newness.

‘So, I’m gonna level with you,’ he said. ‘I overheard bits of your conversation with Lionel van der Prick and decided I would jump in and get you out of that conversation, by saying, “Hi, the babysitter just called.”’

I swallowed my smile. ‘Gallant. . .I guess, but also bold.’

‘Yes, but that would kind of be the point. It’s a lie so wild that it would humiliate him and charm you. Two birds, one stone. And then I moved closer, began to hear more, and realised two things. One, that you had it handled–amazingly, can I just say–so my knight-in-shining-armour thing was kind of fucked, and, two, it was a really, really stupid idea and you are way too smart and too cool for that to work. Actually, I thought you might find it creepy. My calculations were way off. I work in data, so I should have really made space for the possibility that you would be way too cool for me.’

This time, I allowed my grin permission to show itself. ‘So you followed me in here, into a secluded room where I’m by myself, because somehow that’s less creepy?’

He laughed, and nodded. ‘Yeah. Yeah, exactly. Well, actually, the thing is, I was supposed to pretend I just came here casually, but when I saw you I guess all I could think to say was “Hi, the babysitter just called”, because your presence eroded any braincells I have left from speaking to someone who describes their job as a Brand Vibe Regulator.’

It wasn’t so much a spark, or the jolt of electricity I had been used to when it came to attraction. I just knew that I felt warm, that I liked him, that I felt the ease to be me, without defences, around him. It had been a while since I’d felt that.

I could see his nerve leap into his gaze, present and volatile, before he added, ‘Also I like your fit.’

I looked down–platform brogues, black wide-legged tailored trousers, an oversized blazer and a black bandeau. I was wearing layers of thin gold chains of varying lengths that slung low on my neck. An ‘A’ for Aminah, a ‘K’ for me, a book pendant my baby sister had given me and a gold chilli-pepper pendant, gifted to me because a scotch bonnet wasn’t available, from someone who I still couldn’t think about without becoming both light-headed and heavy. I had no idea how to dress for these things, and I still hadn’t worked my way up to buying my first designer purchase, so I’d thrown my fit together by instinct and prayer, hoping I could hold my own in a party that could have been sponsored by Net-A-Porter.

I smiled. ‘Thanks.’

I was wary about flirting, so I was grateful for his effort, because, though I could vaguely feel the familiar tug of want, it felt fragile and I didn’t want to test it by actively acting on it.

Baby Daddy stepped closer. ‘By “I like your fit”, I mean you’re very beautiful, but I thought just coming out and saying that might be coming on a little too strong. But, yeah. I’ve wanted to talk to you since I saw you walk in and you shook your head at that white guy with the locs that tried to spud you.’ He paused. He cleared his throat. ‘Not to say I don’t also like your fit—’