Queenie(103)

I looked around to see if a waiter was coming. I’d have to build a chair for her, at this rate.

“Cassandra”—I turned to her—“you haven’t even said sorry.”

“Well, I am sorry, obviously.” She rolled her eyes again and flipped her hair over her shoulder.

“It’s not in any way obvious.” For the first time, I was actually standing up to her and not feeling terrified.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “Okay?”

“Cool.” I put my arm around her stiffly. I was a stronger person now, and one who wasn’t going to be petty even if it killed me. “Let’s put it all behind us, and move on.”

“That’s very adult of you!” she exclaimed. “Did you have a lobotomy?”

“Well, I’m trying to be better at letting things go. What is it you said to me?” I snorted. “?‘Some of us don’t let the past dictate the way we live our adult lives’?” I mimicked her voice so perfectly that she looked shocked.

A waiter finally made himself known, and I asked him to seat Cassandra. It would be one of Maggie’s blessings if I was able to eat anything at this meal. We sat down and tried our best to hold independent conversations despite being distracted by Maggie lecturing our table (and all surrounding tables) on how Brexit would fuck us all over but how, ultimately, faith in Jesus would save us, with my granddad being uncharacteristically vocal in his support.

“This sparkling drink is nice,” my grandmother said to the table. “What do you think, Wilfred?” she asked, trying to get him off Maggie’s line of fire before he had a heart attack.

“Very nice,” my granddad said, finishing what was in his glass and pouring some more. “I’ve had three now.”

“You know that’s alcohol?” I said to my grandmother across the table.

“No it’s not, it’s a sparkling soft drink.” She picked up the bottle and passed it to me. “Look.”

“No, it’s literally alcohol. Look here,” I said, tapping the sticker on the bottle. “It says five-point-five percent.”

“Jesus Christ,” my grandmother said, terror in her voice. “Get that wine away from Granddad,” she told Diana, who immediately started to prise the glass from his hand.

“Maggie, we’ve poisoned ourselves! Get us some water,” my grandmother shrieked. “Sylvie, you call the ambulance.”

“Nobody is calling an ambulance,” I said, standing up.

“You’re right, a cab to the hospital will be quicker,” my grandmother said, snatching the bottle of water from Maggie and pouring a glass for my granddad. “What’s that thing you use? H’uba? The H’uba, call the H’uba!”

“Just drink water, you’ll be fine!” I said. “I’m not getting you an Uber!”

“We’re on so much medication, Queenie, we don’t know how the alcohol will mix with it,” my grandmother barked at me. Panic had taken over. This was obviously where I got it from. “Is anyone in here a doctor?” she shouted across the restaurant.

“Cassandra, your boyfriend’s a doctor, innit, shall we call him?” Kyazike grinned. Cassandra pretended not to hear her.

“I need to go,” I said to Darcy.

“To go where?” she asked. “They’ll honestly be fine if they stop flapp—”

“I’ll be back in a sec.” I walked to the loo and turned back to see if anyone had seen me leave. Kyazike was pouring glasses of water for my grandmother while my granddad drank from his glass with one hand and flapped himself with his flat cap with the other; my grandmother was rooting around in her handbag and handing Cassandra various boxes of pills and asking her to read what happens when each tablet was mixed with alcohol; my mum was trying to explain what was happening to the restaurant manager while Diana filmed it all on her phone and Maggie told her off for not taking it seriously.

I pushed the bathroom door open with my foot and stepped inside, taking deep breaths as I stood in front of the sink and looked in the murky mirror. It was quiet in here. The only noise I could hear was the steady drip of a tap. My grandparents would be fine, that wasn’t the issue. Despite everything, I wanted to call Tom, to tell him that my life was back on track, that I was celebrating being mostly better in more ways than I knew I could be. I took my phone out of my pocket and scrolled through my phone book. I found Tom’s contact page and stared at it. My finger hovered over the call button.

“Are you ill?” Darcy walked into the loo.

“No. Not physically, anyway.” I put my phone into my pocket. “What’s going on out there now?” I asked tentatively.

“They’ve calmed down. Turns out the manager used to be a doctor, and as soon as he told your grandparents the alcohol was too weak to make a difference to their medication, they went back to normal. It was weird. Like someone turned their hysteria switches off.”

“They’re Jamaican, Darcy. Doctors are the only people they trust. If he’d told them the alcohol was going to kill them, they’d have jumped in a cab to the cemetery.”

“What’s wrong?” Darcy said, squeezing next to me and putting an arm around my shoulders. I rested my cheek on her hand.

“When all of that commotion was happening, I saw everyone in the restaurant looking at us, and it made my head feel funny, and when my head felt funny, my stomach dropped, and I felt a bit like I did before. And I know it sounds stupid, but I just wanted Tom to make it right. After everything he—”