“Don’t touch my hair,” I whispered, priorities always in place. He kissed me softly, running his free hand down to my neck, then my back. As he kissed my neck and moved his hands around mine, a wave of guilt threw me from him.
“Sorry, that’s too intimate,” I said to him.
“What?”
“It doesn’t feel right.” I stepped away. “I think it’s best that you stay away from me. I don’t want to drag you into stuff.”
“You can’t just decide that, Queenie,” Ted scoffed. “See it from my point of view. I meet this beautiful girl who works in my building and within about three seconds realize that she’s brilliant, that she’s someone I want to spend all my time with, and touch, and kiss, and . . .” He leaned down and kissed me again, pulling me into him.
I’m always worrying about my lips compared with the lips of the person I’m going to kiss, because as it stands, mine have always been the bigger lips, and kissing someone with no lips or small lips is just so sad. Even though Ted’s lips weren’t very big, they were very good. But it wasn’t just how his lips felt, it was how he made me feel. I felt how I did when someone actually cared about me, and that really fucking frightened me. I pulled away again and looked at him. “Please listen to what I’ve said! I can’t do this.” I let go of his hand and walked away.
chapter
EIGHT
I WENT BACK to the sexual health clinic after two vaginally restorative weeks of no sex. Darcy refused to come with me this time, something about “needing to work harder,” “job security,” and “deadlines.” She didn’t need to be worrying so close to Christmas; the office was half-empty. I sat in an observation room alone reading a pamphlet on chlamydia until a health advisor came in for a chat.
This last fortnight, pretending that I’m okay has been the performance of a lifetime. I haven’t been fired yet, I’ve only been late when Gina isn’t in, I haven’t made any visible mistakes (mainly because Chuck, the intern, is now begrudgingly covering for me, in place of Leigh), and I’ve been working late most evenings.
One positive to the no sex is that I’ve been taking proper care of my hair. Shea butter, coconut oil, and rosewater blend to condition, and spritzing it every other day to keep it moisturized. I have so much discipline when I’m not worrying about men, I thought as my phone pinged.
Unknown
We had fun the other night, didn’t we?
I always spoke too soon when it came to these things.
Queenie
Could you be a bit more specific?
Unknown
I came to yours and fucked you senseless?
Queenie
Which day?
Unknown
Saturday
Queenie
Which Saturday? Could you remind me of the date?
Unknown
Christ alive, girl, how many boys have you had in your bed? It’s Guy
Queenie
Oh! Guy! Sorry, yes, we did have fun, sure
Guy
I’m hankering after your arse again. There’s a lot I wanted to do to you
Queenie
Oh well, that’s sweet. How’s work and everything?
Guy
If I wanted to talk about work I would have sent a text to my mum. When are you free?
Queenie
For?
Guy
I want to come round, obviously. Give you a second dose
“Hello, Queenie, sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m Elspeth, a health advisor here at the clinic. How are you?” A slim, pale woman with almost-white blue eyes and gray hair chopped into a harsh bowl cut sat opposite me.
I put my phone away as she started tapping into the computer on her desk. I didn’t want this woman to advise me; she looked like she was going to tell me off, like she’d heard it all in the sixties and was tired of it.
“Um. I’m fine?” I seemed to ask her. “They told me to come back?”
Elspeth’s lips tightened. “It doesn’t look like you’re fine.” What was on that computer? “I’m reading over your notes.” She clicked the mouse a few times and leaned toward the screen. “The last time you came in here, you had vaginal bruising, some anal tearing, and bruises on your bottom and thighs, which meant that you weren’t able to have a full examination.”
“Ah, but at least I had my pride,” I said, looking down at my shoes.
“I also see here that you haven’t been using protection, and have been sleeping with multiple partners,” she said, still looking at the screen. “Is there a bit more to the story here?”
“Nope.”
“You know, we don’t offer counseling here, but we can refer you to the right service.” Tapping again. Why wouldn’t she look at me? “If you’re in an abusive relationship, if somebody is forcing you to sell your body for sex, then—”
“Your colleague implied this two weeks ago, and I found it very offensive,” I said, finally finding my voice. “This is ridiculous. I had some sex with a guy who just got a bit carried away, that’s all.”
“Was the sex consensual?”
“Yes, it was! My God, listen to me! If I were in danger I would say!” I squawked angrily, then grumbled, “You’re all so judgmental.”
“Well, I’ve got to do my job, Queenie,” Elspeth clucked at me. “Besides, your ethnic group puts you at a higher risk of being in an abusive relationship. No need to be so shrill. I’ll update the file.” Tap tap tap. “And a word of warning,” Elspeth said. “Being on the IUD actually makes you more likely to contract a sexually transmitted infection. Use protection if you’re going to have such varied and frequent sex.”
“Is any of that science?” I asked her, putting on my coat.
“Yes. Go down the corridor to room three. A nurse is waiting to examine you.”
* * *
The test was okay, but still suitably uncomfortable. I made my way to lunch with Cassandra afterward. I was fine; I didn’t know why all of these nurses were so worried, and so rude. Elspeth could try to be a little more approachable, maybe that way she wouldn’t need to basically waterboard information out of me.
I squeezed my way into the crowded café, pirouetting clumsily between strollers and trying not to sweep babycinos off tables with my coat. I spotted Cassandra in the corner.
“Hello, sorry I’m late!” I said, trying to remove my scarf as it got tangled in my twists. Eventually, having made it worse, I gave up and sat opposite her, half of my face covered by fabric.
“What’s new?” she said, pouring me a glass of water. “Still making your way through all of the men on OkCupid?”
“What?” I spluttered.
“I’m only teasing, don’t take it personally!” Cassandra laughed. “Casual sex is a perfectly normal coping mechanism.”
“. . . Everything is fine,” I said, forcing a smile.
“So. I think I’ve met someone?” she said, smirking as she took a delicate sip of her coffee. It was these almost imperceptible actions of hers—the smirking, the faux coyness—that made me cringe and also question our friendship. But, if I was anything, I was loyal. And she couldn’t help but be low-key the worst, I reminded myself regularly.
“Who?” I said, taking a giant gulp of water. It’s never great, losing a fellow single friend to a relationship; but given that Cassandra spends most of the time we’re together either judging or psychoanalyzing me, her locking herself away with a boyfriend was no bad thing. I fiddled with my scarf as she told me about this amazing new boy she’d met at the Design Museum. “As I was looking at this installation on colored wool, he sidled up next to me. I thought I was in the way so moved aside, but he moved closer and told me that I was more interesting than anything he’d seen that day.” Joy shone out of her, and a pang of jealousy spiked through me. “So we just left the museum, went for a coffee and spoke so much that coffee turned into dinner, then dinner turned into him walking me home.” I was wide-eyed with wonder. I thought that being walked home only
happened in films.
“But we didn’t have sex,” Cassandra continued. “I’ve decided that I’m not having penetrative sex with someone until I’ve decided for sure that I’m into him. He didn’t mind that, though.” She put a hand to her chest. “We spoke about it, and he said that it was admirable, in this age of instant sex. We fell asleep hugging, Queenie. Properly wrapped around each other, with my head on his chest and his hands stroking my hair and face. It was so nice.”
“And have you seen him again?” I asked when given a second to speak.
“We’ve seen each other every day for the last two weeks!” She raised an eyebrow smugly.
“No wonder I haven’t heard from you!” I said, jealousy now flooding every bit of space in my body.
“He comes to meet me after work and we walk back to mine, or dinner, cinema, you know, just nice date things.” Just nice date things. What were those? “I think the sex will happen soon, though,” Cassandra said coyly.
“Well, I’m really happy for you, Cassandra.” I forced a smile. “Let’s see what he looks like?” I pulled out my phone and tapped the Facebook icon.
“He’s like me, he doesn’t have any social media, so no stalking, I’m afraid,” Cassandra said turning my phone over. “But rest assured, he’s very good-looking. Anyway. Should we eat? I’m starving.” She opened her menu.
“I’m not hungry, actually. Lost my appetite,” I said, taking another sip of water. My head felt cloudy and my stomach didn’t feel much better.
“It just goes to show, doesn’t it? All that worry I had about me not connecting with someone, and look!” Cassandra squealed.
“It’s so great, really!” I said quietly. “When are we going to meet him?”
“Soon.” She seemed to hesitate for a second. “I’m going to do things the other way round, get him to meet the family first, I think, then friends. How’s work, by the way?”
“It’s fine.” I shrugged. “It’s frustrating, sometimes. You know, I really care about things, and when I pitch something to her, Gina always tells me it’s not good enough.”
“What things specifically?” Cassandra asked.
“Black Lives Matter things.”
“What is it you said to me when you were going for your interview? ‘Even if they don’t pay me, it doesn’t matter, because my presence in the room will be enough,’ ” she recalled.
I nodded, remembering why I put up with Cassandra’s cons. There were clearly a few pros.
“Well, if you care, you’ve got to keep pushing it. It’s important, and it’s why you took this job in the first place. How are you for money, by the way?”
“Ah,” I said, embarrassed by what I was gearing myself up to ask. “I’m so, so sorry to ask, but could you transfer me just a tiny bit to take me over to payday? I get paid earlier because of Christmas, so I can pay you back soon.” I was ashamed but also relieved that she’d asked before I could beg her.
“Don’t worry about that, just add it to the tab. What would you do without me?” Cassandra smirked, flipping her golden-brown hair almost violently.
* * *
On the way home, I texted Guy. He came round that night, had sex with my body twice, and left. We didn’t use protection again. I needed to take this seriously and not self-sabotage. The last thing I needed adding to my unclear relationship situation was an STI. What was wrong with me? I wished at this point I cared about myself enough to try to answer the question.
* * *
“Bruv, this club is dead,” Kyazike shouted in my ear. “Shit music, the drinks cost nuff, everyone is looking at us like we’re aliens.” She gestured around the venue at the trendy boys and girls who would briefly stop blathering away in their own worlds to glance at us, the only people of color in the club, with suspicion. I looked around the dingy room lit by fuzzy red lighting that bothered my eyes, its close black walls making it feel smaller than it was. It smelled tangy, and Kyazike and I slid across the wet floor whenever we tried to move. I’d only come out because Kyazike had told me that our best years were almost behind us and that I especially needed to have some fun.
“This is what happens when white people come into an area and make it tame,” Kyazike shouted above the music.
“Gentrification.” I nodded sadly.
“What?” Kyazike asked before downing the remaining half a glass of champagne.
I leaned over and repeated what I’d said in her ear, my voice straining over the buzzing EDM. Kyazike gestured that we go outside, so we got up and walked to the smoking area and stood huddled under a heater. She kissed her teeth. “Rah. Gen-tri-fi-ca-tion, yeah?” She sounded the word out. “So gentrification is the reason I’ve wasted my makeup?” She looked at me. “And I wore my best shoes.”
“I didn’t want to come here, you’re the one who chose it!” I protested.
Kyazike gently moved my head away from the heater so that my hair didn’t catch fire. “Yeah, but you’re the one who lives in Brixton, you should have warned me, innit,” she said, pursing her lips.
I laughed. “I can’t keep up with all of Brixton’s changes.”
“Queenie. You’re Caribbean. Brixton is you lot’s domain. You should know what’s going on in your area. The same way that I’m African, and Peckham is my lot’s domain. I know what’s happening in Peckham,” Kyazike informed me.
“So why didn’t you choose somewhere in your domain?” I asked her.
“I need to broaden my horizons, break out of the ends. My search for Mr. Right continues and I ain’t finding him in Peckham,” she said, reading a message on her phone. “But true say this club is too dead for me. My cousins are at a rave on Old Kent Road, you want to come?”
We went to slide our way inside and were stopped by a drunk girl with short pink hair who reached out and ran her hands through my twists as if they weren’t attached to my scalp. “OhmygodIlovethemsomuuuch!” she gasped, mesmerized.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Kyazike said, grabbing the girl by the wrist and pushing her hand away. “You can’t do that!”
“Oh my God,” the girl whimpered, clutching her wrist as if Kyazike had snapped it.
“Don’t fucking touch people like they’re your property!” Kyazike shouted at the girl. “You dickhead.”
The girl’s friends hurried around her and cooed over her drunkenly as Kyazike and I started to walk away, me tucking my hair into my scarf so that we didn’t have a repeat performance.
“What’s going on here?” A bouncer with dyed red hair that matched a tight T-shirt that strained over his muscles appeared suddenly from the darkness and put each of his giant hands on mine and Kyazike’s shoulders.
“Eh, take your hands off me.” Kyazike stepped away from him. “Ask her what’s going on.” She gestured at my handler.
“I was only being nice,” the blond girl said, looking with big blinking eyes at the bouncer.
“Right, you two, you’ll have to leave.” The bouncer put his hand back on Kyazike’s shoulder and pushed us toward the door.
“We’re leaving your shit club anyway,” Kyazike told him. “But if you like your clientele reaching out to touch black people like we’re animals in a petting zoo, then fair play, innit.”
Kyazike went off to Old Kent Road while I sat on the bus home, absolutely astonished and yet still not entirely shocked by what had happened in the club. It was unfair, whichever way you looked at it, and was pretty indisputable evidence that even in Brixton, where we were meant to be the majority, we weren’t. Another reminder that we and our needs didn’t matter. Before I got off the bus, I made an internal list of people who could touch my hair:
1. Me
2. A hairdresser
3. That’s it, that’s the whole list
chapter
NINE
THE DAY WAS dragging. Darcy was on a pre-Christmas break with her family, and I was too exhausted by life to try to talk to anybody else in my office, so my only interaction was
with Chuck the intern. He kept asking me to join him for coffee, and I kept finding more inventive ways of saying no. He, more than anyone, needs to learn that you can’t have everything you want. Why wasn’t I this much of a beacon for men when I was a teenager? It would have undone years of damage caused by being the funny friend in a group of desirable blondes, brunettes, and redheads. I was about to go and make my millionth cup of tea for something to do when I got an e-mail from Ted.
On Tuesday, 11th December, Noman, Ted
Can I talk to you?
I eschewed the pull of him and carried on with a new pitch to Gina since none of the others had been good enough. When I felt ready, I printed my pitch and made my way to Gina’s office. I walked in quietly and closed the door behind me.
“What have you got for me?” Gina asked without looking away from her screen.
I took a deep breath to steel myself before I started. “It’s called ‘Trigger Thumbs.’ ”
“What?” Gina asked, turning to face me.
“It’s a piece about liberals who tweet traumatic content.”
“And what’s the content of the piece, once we get beyond your wordplay?”
“Well, basically, it’s about how people post all of these horrifying stories about rape, sexual abuse, kidnapping, bombings, school shootings, basically everything bad that has happened, without thinking about how it will affect anyone who sees.”
“Who are these people who are posting?” Gina asked, going back to her screen.
“Well, mainly all of these liberal white journalists who can afford to work in journalism because their ric—”
“Careful.”
“Okay, well, how about—” I tried to change tack.
“You need more of a hook, either way.”
“Right. Well, what if the hook is the Me Too movement? Loads of people were posting their stories of sexual assault without thinking about how women who didn’t feel like they could spe—”
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