A Bit of Difference Read Online Free Page A

on the British.
    She takes a taxi from Victoria Station. Her flat in Willesden Green is walking distance from the tube. The Jubilee line is partly why she bought here. Initially, Willesden Green did not appeal to her, coming from her parents’ flat in Westminster. The pavements were filthy with litter, cigarette butts, spit and dust. But there was a black hair salon and a cosmetics shop that sold products for black hair, containing ingredients like hemp and placenta. There were also a few Halal butchers and a West Indian shop where she could buy yams, plantains and cherry peppers. On Saturdays, she would walk to the library center to study for her exams and take breaks at Café Gigi. Now, the center has Belle Vue Cinema and the pavements are cleaner. Occasionally, she sees other Nigerians at the minicab office and the African textile shops, which can be comforting.
    The woman she bought the flat from had a cat. She didn’t find out until she moved in that there were cat hairs embedded in the carpet. At night, they tickled her nose. She was so besotted with her new property that she got on her knees and scrubbed the hairs away with a brush. She loves her bathroom the most because it is the warmest room. Nothing is more depressing to her than a cold bathroom, especially in the winter. Her bedroom has a draft; so does her kitchen. She will only walk on the linoleum floor in her fluffy slippers, and the sink tap drools. Her yellow Formica countertop is stained. The fanciest feature in the flat is the staircase that descends into the sitting room. She made the mistake of buying IKEA furniture, which is beginning to fall apart, but her mortgage is almost paid and her flat has more than doubled in value.
    Her walls welcome her. She sits on her couch, facing her window. There are no messages on her phone. Later in the afternoon, she warms up her Peugeot 205 and drives to Somerfield to stock up on food. The car park is full. She thought Somerfield was huge until she saw American superstores like Wal-Mart, but the quality is better at Somerfield, she thinks, picking up a packet of
bacon. That unbeatable English quality, even when it comes to the correct proportion of pork meat to streak of fat.
    z
    On Monday morning she wakes up with menstrual cramps. They have worsened since she went off the pill a year ago. Her stomach is bloated and the bacon she eats doesn’t help. She takes a couple of Panadols with her orange juice, knowing that she shouldn’t, and goes to work by tube. Her stop is Wembley Park station. She crosses Bridge Road and begins her long walk past Wembley Stadium and Mama Calabar, a Nigerian restaurant. Sometimes she hops on buses instead of walking and on cold wet days she drives in. The weather is warm for a change. LINK is on the second floor of an office block, which Kate Meade once described as a rabbit warren. This morning Kate is lamenting about dust in the ducts. They worsen her allergies during the summer and she is also trying to cope with nausea.
    â€œEven the smell of my deodorant makes my stomach turn,” she says.
    â€œGosh,” Deola says.
    â€œI blame Pam,” Kate says, with an air of spite. “The last time she was pregnant, I got pregnant. Now, she’s away on maternity leave and I’m pregnant again. Keep away from Pam, I tell you.”
    Deola shakes her head in sympathy. Kate is in that crazy hormonal phase.
    â€œWhat did you think of Atlanta?” she asks, sitting behind her desk.
    Kate’s fringe has grown so long it covers her brows. Her glasses are steel-rimmed and round. Forlorn is the only way to describe her. Behind her is a gray filing cabinet, on top of which are piles of yellow clasp envelopes and a framed close-up photograph of her daughter cuddling the cat that gave her toxoplasmosis.
    â€œIt wasn’t bad,” she says.
    â€œIt’s a funny city, isn’t it?”
    â€œA little.”
    â€œIt’s Southern, yet it’s