“Do you think Tom has stopped doing the girlfriend drop?” I asked.
“Have you even heard from him?” Kyazike asked.
“Huh?” I lifted the cup to my mouth. “No.” I swallowed down my drink and my sadness. “All fine, though,” I said, “good to maintain the space from each other.”
“He should be begging you to come back by now, fam,” Kyazike said, shaking her head.
I looked up at the sky even though the fireworks hadn’t started, willing the tears that were brimming to go back in my eyes.
“Are you sure you don’t want some, Queenie?” I was suddenly wrenched out of my thoughts, which were switching between wondering what Tom was doing and guilt for going for what ended up being a noncolleague drink with Ted and feeling a bit like I wanted to throw myself at him and let him do whatever he wanted to my body.
“No thanks, Cassandra, I’ve had wine. Plus, I’ve already got heartburn,” I said, refusing the Prosecco. Kyazike took it from Cassandra, wiping the mouth of the bottle with her sleeve before she put it to her lips.
“Is this champers? Don’t taste like it,” she said after taking two big gulps.
“It’s Prosecco, champagne’s Italian cousin!” Darcy said. “Could I have one last sip?”
“Ha. Thanks for the education. You can have more than one sip, there’s loads.” Kyazike handed the bottle over to Darcy.
The fireworks started, and we all watched in silence. I looked at my three friends, the lights exploding in the sky and illuminating their beautiful faces. They all represented a different part of my life, had all come to me at different times; why they’d all stuck with me, I was constantly trying to work out.
“Queenie, I can see you staring at us and smiling. Stop being a creep,” Cassandra whispered.
chapter
SIX
I SCROLLED TUMBLR for articles about the most recent protest in America, reading long-form pieces from eyewitnesses that were broken up by pictures of black men and women being surrounded by police in riot gear or having milk poured on their faces to numb the sting of tear gas. The next article showed a video of a young black man called Rashan Charles being choked in an East London shop by an undercover police officer. I attached the two articles to a pitch I’d painstakingly composed for Gina titled “Racial tension: U.S. or us?” From the corner of my eye I saw someone coming over, so minimized the browser. When I looked up from my screen, Darcy was staring at me with a grin so wide that her face was split in two.
“What? What could possibly be making you smile so much on a Monday morning?” I asked her. My eyes were barely open.
“Wait until you see the new intern,” Darcy whispered. “He’s American.”
“Why is that a plus point? Are you saying that like it’s a good thing? They’re all bonkers. Do we know if he voted for Trump?” I asked as the new intern strode past in a confident American way. He was very tall, and his hair was brown. There wasn’t much to note beyond that.
“You see? Don’t you think he’s classically handsome?” Darcy said, smiling again.
“He’s fine?” I said, turning back to my screen.
“He’s called Chuck, and I picked him because I thought he’d be a good, healthy distraction. He’s almost too young for you to fancy him, but not too young to look at,” Darcy whispered. “And just look at. Remember what I said about Ted, and dipping your nib in the office ink.”
I spun my chair to face her. “Isn’t that illegal?” I asked. Surely that broke some sort of duty-of-care best practice.
“No, and besides, it’s not like we’re hiring him for a proper job. Plus, he’s twenty-two. Legal.” Is this what it has come to?
“Tea?” Darcy held up her empty mug.
“I’ll meet you in the kitchen, I’m just sending Gina an e-mail,” I said.
“Oh, finally back in the swing of work? Good to see,” Darcy said, and turned to walk away. She wasn’t good at disguising her tone of condescension, or she just couldn’t be bothered to.
* * *
“Another black man died in America today,” I said to Darcy as I walked into the kitchen, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the bright light. “Police killed him.”
“Oh no, what was he doing?” she asked absentmindedly.
“What do you mean, ‘What was he doing?’ He wasn’t doing anything, he was driving.” The words burst from me. “And even if he was doing something, doesn’t mean he should be killed for it.”
“All right, calm down.” Darcy held her hands up. “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere. And I’m on your side here, I was just asking!”
“You asked a stupid question,” I snapped. “That sort of attitude is the problem.”
“Whoa, Queenie. It’s me you’re talking to?” Darcy frowned at me. “Remember? Darcy? Best friend? Annoyingly liberal?”
“I’m not calling you racist, I’m saying that if the thinking is that someone should be killed for doing something wrong, that thinking is dangerous,” I said. Why was I taking it out on her? “I’m going for a cigarette.” I left the kitchen before I said something I’d regret. I knew Darcy hadn’t meant it, and she was only guilty of it this one time, but I wished that well-meaning white liberals would think before they said things that they thought were perfectly innocent.
I put a cigarette in my mouth, patting down my pockets for a lighter. I looked across the outdoor smoking area to see who I could bother for one, and locked eyes with Ted. Excitement and guilt crept back in. Must summon nice memories of Tom when tempted by Ted.
He dropped the end of his cigarette to the ground and walked over. “You ran off the other day. Left me all alone. You forgot this too.” He lit another cigarette with a lighter, then, flame still burning, held it out for me.
“I can do it,” I said to him, reminding myself how stupid it would be to get sucked into something while I had a relationship to go back to.
I took the lighter from him, lit my cigarette, and inhaled too quickly and defiantly, so choked as too much smoke hit the back of my throat.
“All right, Ted?” A burly man in clothes that were all too tight nodded a hello at Ted as he walked past.
“All good, thanks, Gordon!” Ted waved, turning to stand next to me. He waited until the man was out of sight, then moved closer so that our arms were touching.
“Sorry, that’s my desk mate,” Ted said, running the hand that wasn’t next to mine through his thick hair. “How were the fireworks?”
“I think I lost my scarf, but otherwise, they were nice, thanks,” I replied, purposely avoiding eye contact. That’s where these men get me.
“The tartan one you have?” he asked.
“Yeah. No sentimental value, so it’s all good.”
“You know, I was going for dinner with my friends that night, but I wish I’d stayed with you,” he said, looking around and moving so that he was in front of me.
“Ah, that’s nice of you. I bet you had a nice time anyway.” I brushed over his comment. He moved closer to me.
“Not as nice a time as we could have had,” he growled quietly.
“Got to go!” I said, breaking away. Do not get sucked in, Queenie.
* * *
I got upstairs to an e-mail from Ted.
On Monday, 5th November, Noman, Ted
That was an abrupt ending. I like that shirt, by the way.
I flushed with what I tried to pretend wasn’t arousal, but my pretense wasn’t clever enough to fool my body because guilt soon followed. I sent a text to Tom.
Queenie
How are you?
On Monday, 5th November, Jenkins, Queenie
I’m probably making a fool of myself by saying this, because you’re probably only being a friendly colleague, but if you aren’t, it’s probably a bad idea to get involved with someone at work, don’t you think? We had a nice drink, and we should probably leave it at that.
I went to make a mint tea to calm myself down and came back to:
On Monday, 5th November, Noman, Ted
But I don’t want to leave it at that. Besides, I’m not one of those guys who wouldn’t respect you enough not to behave properly if things didn’t work out.
I decided to wait and see if Tom replied. If he didn’t reply by this evening, then maybe, just maybe, I could go for another drink with Ted.
On Monday, 5th November, Noman, Ted
I’m here if you want me.
On Monday, 5th November, Noman, Ted
When you want me.
On Monday, 5th November, Jenkins, Queenie
Darcy, I have a new promise to replace promise number four, which was: “Just forget men for a while, and use this break with Tom as a break from men.” The new promise is: “Forget men who you might want to get into something long-term with, but casual encounters are acceptable for as long as Tom isn’t replying.”
On Monday, 5th November, Betts, Darcy
Hi, Dua Lipa, nice to hear from you. Why do you need caveats, why can’t you just stay away from men altogether?
On Monday, 5th November, Jenkins, Queenie
1. Dua Lipa’s song is called “New Rules,” not “New Promises,” Darcy, come on.
2. Until you’ve experienced heartache and uncertainty at this level, you aren’t allowed to judge me.
3. You know that I need attention and some excitement, and while I am waiting for my is-he-is-he-not boyfriend to text me back and tell me that he wants to make things work, this is the least complicated way of getting it.
4. And actually, as per point 2, you haven’t been single since you were about eleven, so less of the “why can’t you just stay away from men altogether?”
5. I am telling you these things so that you can basically tell me when I need to hear it that I am doing the right thing. Maybe you could just create a specific e-mail bounce-back for me that says “What you’re doing is fine”?
On Monday, 5th November, Betts, Darcy
Oh, I beg your pardon. Do you want to write this bounce-back yourself, or would you like me to draft something for your approval?
* * *
I went to my grandparents’ after work because I needed to bathe somewhere that saw regular bleachings and could offer more than five seconds of hot water. I crunched up the gravel driveway and paused outside the gate, taking a few breaths before I faced my grandmother. This was the second house my grandparents had owned; my granddad had put all he had into buying the first house in the sixties, and my grandmother had put all she had into cleaning it until she’d had enough and forced my granddad to downsize when I was a teenager. This house was smaller than the first, but deceptively large. It sat high on a quiet hill where a lot of other old people lived. There were never any fast cars or parties, only elderly women pulling shopping trollies down the road and old men slowly tending to their front gardens.
“How’s your past friend?” my grandmother asked, flipping fish fingers over in the frying pan.
“My past friend?” I asked her, confused. “What does that mean, who is that?”
“You know, the white boy.”
“Do you mean Tom?” I checked. “My boyfriend of three years that you spent quite a lot of time with?”
“Mmm,” she confirmed.
“Can I have a bath?” I changed the subject.
My grandmother tapped her nose and walked over to the boiler, flipping various switches. “A quick one. You know what he’s like—” She gestured to the garden, and I saw my granddad pottering round with his walking stick. “You’ll have to wait for the hot water, it’s like you’ve got to beg the boiler to heat it up these days.”
I laid my head on the kitchen table. “Why does life have to be so hard?” I groaned, changing the subject back to my heartache. My grandmother came over and put a plate of fish fingers, baked beans, and fried plantain in front of me. “I’m not hungry,” I said, and was met with tightened lips and raised eyebrows. I picked up a fork.
“You’ll feel better,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. I ate in silence, absentmindedly reading the American gossip magazines that were on the table in front of me.
“Go upstairs now and run the bath, while he’s in the shed,” my grandmother hissed, taking my plate away.
“I wasn’t finished!” I said, a bit of plantain falling off my fork.
“You said you weren’t hungry. Go!” she said. I ran upstairs and into the bathroom. I turned on the hot tap, and the water tank rumbled a telltale growl.
“The water rates, Queenie.” My granddad appeared behind me.
“Wilfred, leave her alone,” my grandmother shouted from the kitchen, forcing my granddad to shuffle back down the stairs. My grandparents might be getting older, but their hearing only seemed to be improving.
I lay on the floor of the spare room as I waited for water to fill the tub. I heard the familiar voice of John Holt start playing through the floor. He was my grandmother’s favorite reggae singer, and her preferred song of his was all about his broken heart. “If I’ve got to be strong, don’t you know I need your help to fight when you’re gone?” he sang.
“CAN YOU TURN THAT OFF, GRANDMA?” I shouted down. “YOU KNOW I AM STRUGGLING.” There was a long pause.
“Who yuh tink yuh talking to?” my grandmother shouted back. “Yuh tink say you can be DJ inna my house ’cause of a man?”
I undressed and climbed into the tub. I lay back and moved a hand across my stomach the way I’d done when I’d last had a bath. Tom wasn’t here this time, though. I didn’t know where he was. I stared at the ceiling and felt my chest tighten. The bathroom door opened and my grandmother burst in. I covered myself with the washcloth.
“Let me wash your back,” she said, grabbing the cloth and lathering it up with a bar of Imperial Leather that she must have bought reserves of in the sixties.
“No, no, I’m fine, I’m not a baby,” I said, covering myself with my hands.
“I washed your back when you were a baby and I’ll wash it now,” she said, tipping me forward until my forehead rested on my knees. I closed my eyes and let her scrub my skin.
“I’m no stranger to heartache, you know,” she told me. “You need to get over it, Queenie. Life goes on.”
“You’ve been with Granddad since you were fourteen,” I said. “If there’s anyone who has never known heartbreak, it’s you.”
She kissed her teeth. “You must think you know everything. Your granddad got me pregnant when I was fourteen. Not even Diana’s age!” Maggie’s teenage daughter. “Then he disappeared, and I was left in Jamaica with Maggie, living with Gran-Gran.” My grandmother paused. “I fell in love with a man. He was very kind to me. Always met me at the end of the lane and helped me to carry the sugarcane up to the house. Albert, his name was.”
She put the wet washcloth on her lap and watched as the water seeped into her apron. She started to wring her hands, her fingers settling on her wedding ring.
“Albert loved Maggie as much as he loved me. It was a secret, of course. He looked after us, for two years. I couldn’t tell Gran-Gran about him.” My grandmother laughed. “She almost killed me when I got pregnant, and I couldn’t shame her twice by bringing another man into the house. But Albert, he was everything. He was funny, he was generous, used to listen to me.” She paused to sigh heavily. “He gave me this necklace one day. He’d saved up for the gold, and he’d made it himself. A V, for Veronica. He was so proud to give it to me. Every day he waited at the end of the lane for me.”
“Well, what happened to him? And to the necklace? Also, have you seen Titanic? This sounds a lot li—”
“Your granddad cam
e back. Turns out he’d been over here finding work, squatting in a bedsit in Mitcham and saving some money. He came to Gran-Gran’s house one night, told me that he was taking me and Maggie to London, and two days later we were on the plane. A year later I was pregnant with your mother.”
“And what happened to Albert?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t ask anybody about him because nobody knew about us. So, you see. We all know heartbreak. We just have to learn to live with it.”
She lifted the cloth and carried on scrubbing my back, her movements softer than before.
* * *
I woke up in the middle of the night. I was half-asleep and I could see a man standing in the corner. I tried to shout, but nothing would come out. He was moving closer. I tried to shout again. “NO!” I finally screamed, falling out of the bed.
“Queenie?” My grandmother flew into the room, her nightie billowing behind her like a cape. “What is it? Wh’appen?”
“Sorry, it’s nothing. Nothing.” I climbed back into bed and put a hand to my chest. My heart was pounding.
“The nightmares,” she said knowingly. “Tek water.” She gestured to the glass by my bed, and shuffled back into her room. I couldn’t sleep, so checked my phone. Two texts from Darcy.
Darcy
Nosy man on floor hovering around your desk. Quite fit. Big glasses. Tweed jacket.
Darcy
Hold on is he Tweed Glasses??
* * *
I went to work the next day physically cleaner than I’d ever been. Brain still tired from eschewing thoughts of Ted, heart still sore every time I thought about Tom. How much more time did he need? How much time did I need? I was beginning to worry that if things didn’t go back to normal soon, my mind would go to places that I wouldn’t be able to retrieve it from. Anyway. I wouldn’t think about that. Surely, surely everything would be fine.
Queenie Page 9
