“The thing is, Queenie”—Gina closed her laptop—“I know what you’re saying, and I understand that it’s awful. So awful. And if I could let you all write about every terrible thing that happened, I would, but I’m beholden to the powers that be.”
“But surely the ‘powers that be’ can see that this is something that needs to be out there?”
“I just think that these matters are a little too, how should I put it? Radical for the Daily Read. I appreciate your being so proactive about writing, though. How about we get some of that passion into a pitch for the magazine that’s a bit more . . . palatable?” Gina opened her laptop and carried on typing.
“Well, I was thinking I could pitch something about how it would be great to see all the liberal white women who were tweeting fervently from the women’s march at a Black Lives Matter march?” I said.
“I beg your pardon?” Gina asked me.
“Well, all of these white women in the office seem to bleat about going to the women’s march, but I was at a Black Lives Matter march yesterday and I didn’t see anyone I recognized.”
“Bit of a combative attitude, don’t you think?” Gina asked, frowning. “Rework what you’re saying, and come along to the pitch meeting at four.”
* * *
“. . . so I just think that we could use that argument to shine more of a light on Black Lives Matter, and if we do this in the context of the women’s march, we make it more ‘palatable’ for our readers,” I said to the room, hoping that I’d managed to deliver my pitch and mask the fear in my voice with what I hoped was conviction.
“All that Black Lives Matter nonsense,” scoffed an older man I recognized from the review supplement. “All lives matter.”
“What?” I asked, blinking. I took a secret deep breath.
“What about the lives of Latinos, of Asians, the lives of—I’m white, does my life not matter?” he continued.
“I’m not . . . suggesting that the lives of other ethnic groups do not matter,” I explained, gobsmacked that I had to explain. “I don’t think that any part of Black Lives Matter even hints that other lives are disposable?”
“Well, when you put the lives of some and not all on a pedestal, what else are you doing?”
“It’s not putting black lives on a pedestal, I don’t even know what that means,” I said, my heart beating fast. “It’s saying that black lives, at this point, and historically, do not, and have not mattered, and that they should!” I looked first at Gina, then around the room to see if anyone was going to back me up. Instead, I was met with what I’d been trying to pretend hadn’t always been a room full of white not-quite-liberals whose opinions, like their money, had been inherited.
* * *
I left the meeting defeated, and feeling a lot more alone than I had when I’d walked in. “WE ARE ENOUGH,” I tried to remind myself as I walked back to my desk.
chapter
SEVENTEEN
AT THE SEXUAL health clinic, I filled the form in as usual, did a scan of the waiting room to check that nobody I knew was there as usual, went to sit in the corner by the window as usual. After an hour I was called in by a black girl who looked about five years younger than me and I answered the usual questions. This was not the activity in my life that I thought I would become most familiar with.
“So this isn’t your first time here?” she asked, tapping away.
“No, it’s not.”
“Okay. And what has brought you here today?”
“I had unprotected sex two weeks ago with a man who I think was from Japan, before you ask if he’s African. I’m sort of getting better at using condoms but just got, er, carried away,” I answered quietly.
“Okay. Do you have any symptoms? Itching, any unusual discharge?”
“None of the above.”
“Would you like to take a pregnancy test?” the nurse offered.
“No thanks, I have an IUD. I mean, I’ve been pregnant before,” I explained. “But I think that was because I was having regular sex. Just the STI test, please, and I’ll hope for the all-clear text in two weeks.” I laughed nervously. The nurse did not laugh with me.
When she’d finished poking about, she told me to put my clothes back on. Instead of letting me leave, she asked me to wait a second, and left the room. I got dressed and sat in the chair waiting for her to return, when a pair of white-blue eyes framed by a harsh gray bowl cut made their way into the room. Elspeth.
“Queenie, you’re back.” Had that nurse ratted on me?
“Hello, Elspeth,” I said, confused, not knowing why she was here. Elspeth took the traitor’s seat at the desk and started tapping at the computer, as they’re so fond of doing when they could be making eye contact and engaging with me at a human level.
“Now, this is your third visit in quite a short amount of time,” Elspeth informed me as if I didn’t already know. “And while I’m pleased to hear from Caroline that you aren’t battered and bruised, she did say that you seemed very vacant. I know that you might not want to talk to me, but I think that you do need to talk to somebody.”
I stared at her blankly. What was I meant to say, that I wasn’t my sparkiest when I was about to show my vagina to a stranger when I wasn’t going to get anything out of it?
“Between me and you, I have a daughter your age, and in some strange way, you remind me of her.”
“Is she black?” I cut in.
“No,” Elspeth said firmly. “When you left last time, I made some calls, and while I hoped you wouldn’t come back in, I got the number of a therapist for you to call in the event that you did return.”
“Can I go now?” I asked. “I have to go back to work.”
She nodded, and handed me the piece of paper as I left the room. Without looking at what it said, I shoved it to the bottom of my rucksack.
* * *
I slid past Gina talking angrily on her phone in the foyer, something about “custody” and “you can have them, then,” and got back to my desk in time for my meeting with Chuck.
He was already in the breakout area, pen and paper in hand. I put my coat and rucksack on the floor and collapsed into the beanbag opposite Chuck. He looked up as I landed. “Careful. Don’t hurt yourself,” he said cheerfully, his Boston twang grating on me. I definitely found the accent less thrilling since he was the reason I’d been given a warning.
“I’m fine. The whole point of beanbags is for relaxation and comfort,” I said sharply. “Right. Are you ready for the big project? The big project that is going to change your life as you know it?”
“Yes. I think so. But how are you, how are you doing? You seem kinda, I dunno, messed-up recently.” Why did he always want to discuss my bad moods?
“I’m fine. Just some boy dramas and family stuff, and life always has a way of—Sorry, Chuck. Let’s keep this strictly professional, okay?” I hurried along. “So, the last few weeks you’ve shadowed me while I’ve used InDesign to fill in the listings?”
“Sure have. But you know, you can talk to me about anything. I’m kind of a good listener.” Chuck leaned forward eagerly.
I ignored this. “Okay, so, I’m thinking, for your project, you design a whole new layout for the listings. Think about utilizing the space of the six pages, Chuck. That should keep you going for a while.”
“Er, I don’t think that I’m that good yet?”
“Don’t be so negative!” I said briskly. “You’ll be fine. Now, can you look away while I get up from this beanbag? Why did you pick these to sit on? There is nothing less dignified than getting up from one of these things. It’s a system of thrusting.”
Eventually I made it back onto two legs and to my desk.
On Tuesday, 15th January, Jenkins, Queenie <[email protected]> wrote at 15:55: Tea and talking, afternoon edition?