Queenie
Page 13
“Way too long ago now.”
“Um, okay.” I floundered. “How about—”
“How about for the blog you look back at, say, ten of the best black dresses Me Too movement supporters have worn at awards ceremonies?”
“Seriously?” I asked.
“Yes,” Gina said. “It’s Christmas season and people need chic party dresses. Good to attach some moral standing to it.”
“But, I—” I started. What was the point?
“By Friday morning, please.”
* * *
After work I headed to my grandparents’ house to meet my little cousin, Diana, for babysitting duties despite telling Aunt Maggie that Diana was mature enough to look after me.
I only agreed to it because Maggie needed someone to hang out with Diana while she went on her first date since the divorce five hundred years ago, and I felt like I should support that in any way I could, even if it meant spending an entire evening being berated by a teenager I was a bit scared of.
When I got there, the front door was open and Diana was sitting on the stairs while Maggie held a finger a millimeter away from her face and spoke to her through gritted teeth.
“Diana.” My aunt placed emphasis on the first syllable of my cousin’s name as she always did when Diana was in trouble. “You need to pay attention to things, and not just think about how to answer back. I’ve spoken to your teachers about it, and even they tell me that all you do is sit on your phone. You think that’s why I bought it for you, so you can spend all day at school looking at people doing makeup? You have to learn.”
“I am learning!” Diana said. “I watch makeup tutorials, and now I know how to do makeup looks? I did your makeup for your date, Mum.” Diana rolled her eyes.
“That’s not what I mean!” Maggie turned to face me. She looked nice, don’t get me wrong, but she didn’t look like her. That’s what five layers of foundation and two sets of fake eyelashes will do.
“Queenie, Mum has a headache, so you can’t stay here.” Maggie walked to the door and pushed her feet into a pair of leopard-print boots with heels at least six inches high.
“Can you walk in those?” I asked.
“I’m going to have to try.” She winked as she walked through the door. “Behave for your cousin. Don’t spend all your time on your phone, and don’t have chicken and chips from Morley’s for dinner again,” Maggie directed at her daughter. “Bye, both, wish me luck.”
“What would our Lord and Father say about you going on dates, Maggie?” I asked.
“Don’t be so blasphemous!” Maggie said. “Besides, he’s a pastor.”
I turned to look at Diana and shouted into the ether: “Grandma, is it okay if me and Diana stay he—”
“No!” our grandmother shouted back from the kitchen. We left, and as we walked down the road, I asked Diana if she wanted to walk or get the bus. She stopped and looked at me with tightened lips, a face I hadn’t realized every woman in my family could master, and from such a young age. We got the bus.
“And are you hungry?” I asked, taking my duties seriously.
“No, I had Morley’s earlier, some sweets on the way to Grandma’s, and four Crunchies.”
“That’s not dinner, though, is it? You’ll need something more filling than sugar. I don’t have anything at home, so we’ll have to go to the supermarket. I’ll get you an oven pizza or something?” I suggested, not sure how to talk to her.
“I’ll be fine,” Diana replied, unlocking her phone. She sucked in her cheeks and took a selfie.
“I really think we should get you something, You can’t just live off sweets. You’ll turn into one,” I said, realizing how old I sounded.
“. . . what? Why are you talking to me like I’m some baby? Hello? I’m fifteen, Queenie. Anyway, I don’t eat things like pizza. It’s just too much of one thing. Can’t you cook proper food?” she asked, not taking her eyes off her reflection on the phone’s screen.
* * *
The next few hours were filled with Diana picking up and putting down every single thing in my room. Mainly snickering, but also taking pictures of things to show her friends on Snapchat with the caption “LOOOOL.” Diana tried out my small range of makeup and told me that it wasn’t good enough to create a “look.” She went through my wardrobe and informed me that all of my clothes were too “granny” for me. She knocked over my jewelry stand and sent rings, necklaces, and earrings flying everywhere, then knocked my lamp off of my bedside table, smashing the bulb.
“What is this?” Diana said, picking up a film camera of our granddad’s that I’d found in his shed and had used for a bit when I was in my photographer phase. “Because this can’t be a camera, I can’t even see what I’m looking at.”
“That’s because you’re not looking in the viewfinder,” I huffed.
“What’s that, though?”
“The viewfinder,” I said, pointing at it. “Look, here, look in that. Wait, don’t take a pic—” Click. “Don’t worry, I guess I needed to finish that film anyway.” Is this what being a parent is like? I thought briefly, a thought of mine and Tom’s once-upon-a-baby creeping in.
“Where’s the picture?” Diana stared at me.
“I’ll give it to you when I get the film developed,” I reassured her, taking the camera away.
“The what?” I’d never seen her look more confused.
“Look, do you want to watch something on my laptop?” I said, opening it up and putting it in front of her.
She pretended to be watching Fresh Prince, but actually tweeted: “Queenie is SO boring that spending time with her feels like this,” accompanied by a picture of a skeleton, from the official Daily Read Twitter account, which was the final straw. I took the laptop away and password-protected it when she was in the bathroom.
In an attempt to get her to stay still and not touch anything or critique me any further, I cooked her a pizza. As predicted, she finished it all. When it got to nine, I called Maggie, but her phone was off. I tried again at nine-thirty, still nothing. I gave Diana one of my favorite books to read, promising her that she’d love it, then arguing about why Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging was worth reading despite the confusing title. She started reading it while I stared at her, smiling encouragingly; satisfied when she started laughing, I checked my work e-mail.
On Tuesday, 11th December, Noman, Ted
I think you need to let yourself be happy. You’re waiting for some guy who should respect you enough to at least contact you. But look, I’m here telling you how I feel.
On Tuesday, 11th December, Jenkins, Queenie
Ted. I’m not quite sure what your motives are here. I’ve said before, we don’t really know each other. And as for “some guy,” my boyfriend will get in touch soon. Can you not see how this in itself is more drama than either of us needs?
On Tuesday, 11th December, Noman, Ted
I wouldn’t keep you waiting.
I looked over at Diana, and she’d fallen asleep with the book on her face. I should have realized from the silence. I tried Maggie one more time, but when she didn’t answer, I moved Diana so that she was under the quilt. This woke her, because when I turned the light off and got in next to her, she turned to me.
“Queenie. I need a headscarf,” she whispered. “I won’t be able to sleep properly without one.”
“Oh. Sorry for waking you up,” I said, reaching into my bedside table for my spare headscarf. “Here you go.”
I heard her tie it in the dark, then she was silent. I closed my eyes.
“What happened to your boyfriend?” Diana’s words cut through the darkness. I thought that if I stayed quiet, she’d think I’d fallen asleep. “The white boy,” she pressed on. “The one who wasn’t, like, handsome, but kinda cute in, like, a white bae kind of way.”
“Tom?” I yielded.
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“Yeah. Where’s he gone?”
“We’re on a break,” I said firmly.
“So you’ve broken up?”
“Nope. A break, like, some time out,” I corrected her. “It’s what adults do.”
“Well, have some you time, I guess. Anyway, it’s like my mum says. Men will just drain you.” I was worried she’d recite Maggie’s speech from the hospital. “You need to be ready before you let them come into your life. Maybe you weren’t ready.”
Was she old enough to be talking like this?
Queenie
Tom, this is shit. I miss you. It’s been almost three months. Have you had enough time yet?
* * *
He replied the next afternoon.
Tom
I’m sorry
After work, I met Ted in the park.
chapter
TEN
On Thursday, 13th December, Noman, Ted
My mind is racing. x
On Thursday, 13th December, Jenkins, Queenie
Why? Calm down.
On Thursday, 13th December, Noman, Ted
I’m being paranoid about everything. x
On Thursday, 13th December, Jenkins, Queenie
Like what? Nobody saw us.
On Thursday, 13th December, Noman, Ted
What if they saw my hands up your skirt?? What if I’m put on some sort of register?
On Thursday, 13th December, Noman, Ted
Sorry, I’m just being stupid. I just can’t believe it happened, after everything. x
On Thursday, 13th December, Jenkins, Queenie
Don’t worry about it. We couldn’t have been more covert.
He was annoying me now. I had loads of stuff to finish.
On Thursday, 13th December, Noman, Ted
How are you feeling? x
On Thursday, 13th December, Jenkins, Queenie
Busy. Guilty.
Various stranger sex, fine. Catching feelings, not fine.
On the way back from work, I battled my way through Oxford Street and bought a present for Tom. Partly out of guilt, but mainly out of ritual. There were certain things I wouldn’t let slide, break or not. I’m trying to gear myself up to spending the “happy holidays” without him and his family for the first time in three years. At least I don’t have to choose his presents for his parents anymore. Or put up with casual family racism.
• • •
It was my second Christmas with Tom’s family. The novelty of a proper Christmas meal had worn off after last year, but I was still surprised by how many trimmings there were and that pork wasn’t just allowed in the house, but was allowed to be wrapped in another form of pork and eaten in one bite-size go.
“Now, here’s what we should do,” Tom’s aunt said. “We’re going to play a game. Found it in the attic.” She blew dust off of a board game and placed it on the coffee table in the middle of the room.
“Oh, I love a Christmas game!” Tom’s mum said. “Let me go and get some pens and paper. You can take score, can’t you, Stephen?” she said to her brother.
“Yes indeed.” He inched forward in his seat and hitched his trousers up at the knees. “We’ll need to get into teams, though,” he said, looking around the room.
I looked over at Tom to signal that we’d be teammates, but he was deep in conversation with his brother.
“How will we split this? I think . . .” Stephen said slowly, “that we should do dark shirts versus light shirts.” My heartbeat started to quicken. “What does everyone think?”
“Great!” Tom’s dad said, looking down at his white shirt. “That’s easy enough!”
I looked down at my white dress. “I’ll be with you, then,” I said, getting up to sit next to him.
“Mmm, not so fast, Queenie!” Stephen said. I felt my cheeks flush with heat. “Maybe you should keep score.” He smirked.
“I’m wearing a white dress,” I said, my voice very small.
“But technically there’s a bit more dark on you.” He laughed, looking around the room in the hope that everyone would join in.
“She’ll be on my team, Stephen,” Tom’s dad said, flashing me a consolatory smile.
• • •
chapter
ELEVEN
WHAT WAS IT about Christmastime and couples? It was making me completely miserable. Admittedly I was at a Hanukkah party, but the Christmas sentiment still stood. Everyone in this gigantic Islington townhouse was in a pair but me. And Cassandra. Saying that, they were all over fifty, so they’d had a bit of a head start to find someone, and half of them were on their second marriages.
Cassandra’s dad, the only adult man I’d ever trusted and also probably the actual main reason I endured Cassandra, asked me where Tom was every time he flitted past, tray in hand, and he finally stood still long enough for me to say, “We went on a break, Jacob. In October. But he won’t speak to me. He said he needed three months, but I think he needs more time. In your experience, how long are these things meant to last?” When Jacob looked at me in surprise, I removed the toothpick that I’d been chewing on from my mouth and spiked an olive with it angrily.
“Oh, you poor, poor dear. And how are you feeling?” Jacob abandoned his serving duties and sat down next to me, putting a hand on my shoulder. All of the couples in the room turned to look at me.
“I feel lost. And confused,” I said quietly. “I thought that after a week without me, he’d be banging down my door.” I popped the olive into my mouth and turned to Cassandra on the other side of me, waiting for her to weigh in. She may as well not have been in the room because her eyes darted toward the door every three seconds as she waited for this new demigod boyfriend to get here.
“It’ll work itself out if it’s meant to,” Jacob said softly. “Oho! I think something is burning!” He jumped up and left the room, heading toward the kitchen.
“Hello? Cassandra?” I waved my hands in my friend’s face. “Remember me? You invited me here because we’ve been close for many years, and coming to Hanukkah is a tradition? You could actually talk to me!”
“I’m nervous, Queenie,” Cassandra said to me, folding and then unfolding her arms. “This is the first time that I’ve had a boyfriend long enough for him to meet the whole family, and you know what my family are like. All neurotic and flappy.” She stood up and smoothed the back of her dress. “How does it look?”
“Sounds like my family. Your bum?” I asked. “Fine? Nice, even.”
“No, Queenie, my dress. He bought it for me, and I want to check that it’s okay.” I inspected the item in question, a barely describable plain black pinafore.
“Cassandra, are you losing your mind?” I asked, pulling her back down by the arm. “You look great, but it shouldn’t matter anyway. Calm down. He’ll get here and he’ll love what you’re wearing. Even if it is because he bought it. Which I think is weird.” I lowered my voice before I asked my next question. “Have you even had sex yet?” Cassandra jumped up as though I’d thrown a bomb under her bottom. All of the adults stopped talking and turned to look at us.
“We’re just going to get a drink!” she announced to the room, and pulled me into the kitchen. Jacob passed us on the way out, the tray seemingly attached to his hand now filled with steaming mini sausage rolls.
“Pork!” he said, tutting. “We’re terrible Jews, I know.” He groaned.
“Can you not talk about my relationship so crudely, Queenie?” Cassandra whispered, placing her phone face upward on the marble counter. “Things are going so well for me for the first time in ages, and, it’s not about sex, it’s about me get
ting to know someone, the connection.”
“Yes, yes, the connection, I know,” I mimicked her. “So you and this dream boyfriend, you haven’t had sex yet?”
“Can you get your mind out of the gutter?” she said, eyes on her phone.
“No, but sex is important, isn’t it?” I pointed out. “It’s the thing that stops you from just being friends with someone. Else we’d all marry our friends.”
Cassandra’s phone beeped and she lunged for it, almost smashing a group of wineglasses nearby. Her face fell. “He’s not coming.” She slammed the phone back down on the marble counter.
“Don’t break it!” I said. “That’s all right. We’ll have a good time either way!”
Jacob peered into the kitchen. “What’s going on in here, girls? Where is he, then, your lovely guy? We’re all waiting, Cassandra.”
“He’s stuck at work, Dad. He’s been asked to do another shift and he can’t say no.”
“Well, the field he’s in, it’s no wonder at this time of year. We’ll meet him another time, eh.” Jacob went over to Cassandra and put his arm around her. She laid her head on his shoulder.
“I’ll just go back into the living room,” I whispered, walking toward the kitchen door.
“No way, come on, Queenie.” Jacob held his other arm out and pulled me into him and Cassandra.
“Jacob, I don’t really like physical con—”
“Queenie, please, look beyond yourself,” Cassandra snapped, the harshness of her voice muffled by her dad’s sweater.
Jacob let us go after what felt like a lifetime and went back into the living room to continue his flitting.
“I decided that tonight was going to be the night,” Cassandra said, smoothing her dress down again.
“For what?”
“That I was going to sleep with him, Queenie!”
“Well, you still can, just after his shift? I feel like you’re making this bigger than it is?” I suggested, surprised that she was being like this. “It’s not like this is going to be your first time.”