“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 <[email protected]> wrote at 11:04:
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 <[email protected]> wrote at 11:26:
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 <[email protected]> wrote at 11:30:
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 <[email protected]> wrote at 11:31:
I’m here if you want me.
On Monday, 5th November, Noman, Ted <[email protected]> wrote at 11:35:
When you want me.
On Monday, 5th November, Jenkins, Queenie <[email protected]> wrote at 18:03:
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 <[email protected]> wrote at 18:10:
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 <[email protected]> wrote at 18:15:
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 <[email protected]> wrote at 18:20:
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.