Queenie(29)

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.

“The water rates, Queenie.” My granddad appeared behind me.

“Wilfred, leave her alone,” my grandmother shouted from the kitchen, forcing my granddad to shuffle back down the stairs. My grandparents might be getting older, but their hearing only seemed to be improving.

I lay on the floor of the spare room as I waited for water to fill the tub. I heard the familiar voice of John Holt start playing through the floor. He was my grandmother’s favorite reggae singer, and her preferred song of his was all about his broken heart. “If I’ve got to be strong, don’t you know I need your help to fight when you’re gone?” he sang.

“CAN YOU TURN THAT OFF, GRANDMA?” I shouted down. “YOU KNOW I AM STRUGGLING.” There was a long pause.

“Who yuh tink yuh talking to?” my grandmother shouted back. “Yuh tink say you can be DJ inna my house ’cause of a man?”

I undressed and climbed into the tub. I lay back and moved a hand across my stomach the way I’d done when I’d last had a bath. Tom wasn’t here this time, though. I didn’t know where he was. I stared at the ceiling and felt my chest tighten. The bathroom door opened and my grandmother burst in. I covered myself with the washcloth.

“Let me wash your back,” she said, grabbing the cloth and lathering it up with a bar of Imperial Leather that she must have bought reserves of in the sixties.

“No, no, I’m fine, I’m not a baby,” I said, covering myself with my hands.

“I washed your back when you were a baby and I’ll wash it now,” she said, tipping me forward until my forehead rested on my knees. I closed my eyes and let her scrub my skin.