A Bit of Difference Read Online Free PDF Page B

started with their threats. She waited until she was sure they wouldn’t blow up the Channel Tunnel. Now she has no one to travel with. No one who is enough fun. Ndidi lives in Rome and works for a UN agency. She is married to an Italian guy and they have twin girls. Ndidi doesn’t even have time to talk on the phone anymore.
    z
    This week feels especially long and Deola is relieved when the weekend starts. She is lying on her couch in her pajamas on Saturday morning, watching a program on BBC2 with hosts who are as animated as cartoon characters. They talk about the latest hip-hop dance and after a while she changes to Channel 4, which is showing a reality experiment on beauty. Her TV remote is on the carpet by a glass with orange juice sediment and a side plate with the remnants of her bacon sandwich. She is relishing the taste of acid and salt in her mouth when her doorbell rings. The ding is loud, but the dong is broken and drops like a thud.
    There is no intercom system in her block. From her window she can see pollarded trees, green rubbish bins and dwarf gates. A high hedge separates her block from the next, which has a collection of gnomes in its front yard. Across the road is a white Audi A3 parked by a postbox.
    It is Subu, who lives in Maida Vale. She and Subu trained in the same accountancy firm. Subu started off in management consultancy while she was in audit. Now Subu is a vice president of an investment bank and travels to places like Silicon Valley and Shanghai. Subu’s job has something to do with derivatives. Deola, for all her accountancy training and business experience, still doesn’t understand what derivatives are, and she cannot imagine how Subu, who is a born-again Christian, copes as an investment banker. Subu won’t swear or go out for a drink. She believes that angels have wings and Heaven and Hell are physical locations. She tells her colleagues they will end up in Hell if they don’t accept Christ as their lord and savior. Her colleagues seem to accept her as she is, though. They call her “Shoe Boo,” as if she were a puppy or computer game.
    Deola toys with the idea of not answering her door as she goes downstairs. Just before she traveled to Atlanta, she and Subu got into such a heated exchange over the bombing of Baghdad she swore she wouldn’t speak to Subu until Subu was willing to admit the war couldn’t be justified on religious grounds.
    â€œYou’re back?” Subu asks.
    â€œI am,” Deola says.
    â€œSince when?”
    â€œLast Saturday. One minute.”
    Deola checks the mail on the ledge in the hallway. There is no mail for her, mostly junk and bills for her neighbors, a group of young women who live on the ground floor. They might be South African or Australian. She hasn’t been able to identify their accents and has not bothered to ask where they are from. They say hello whenever she sees them in the hallway.
    â€œWhy didn’t you call?” Subu asks.
    Since she gave her life to Christ Subu has had an authoritative air. It is almost as if she became Christ’s wife on that day. She no longer wears makeup because she is born-again, but she won’t be seen without a hair weave.
    â€œI had too much to do,” Deola says.
    She reaches her landing before Subu makes a move, so she waits as Subu lugs her tote bag up the stairs. It is the size of a Ghana Must Go bag. Subu spends thousands of pounds on designer accessories. Her wardrobe is a shrine to Gucci and Prada.
    â€œI hope I’m not disturbing you,” Subu says.
    Subu’s voice is thick and slow. She will not alter the pace of her voice or her accent for anyone, not even at work, which is commendable. She will keep repeating herself until she is understood and businesspeople are quick to catch on whenever big money is
involved. As she once said, “They don’t try their ‘Pardon? Pardon?’ with the Japanese.”
    â€œIt’s