Queenie(40)

“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 <[email protected])> wrote at 16:21:

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—”

“Way too long ago now.”

“Um, okay.” I floundered. “How about—”

“How about for the blog you look back at, say, ten of the best black dresses Me Too movement supporters have worn at awards ceremonies?”

“Seriously?” I asked.

“Yes,” Gina said. “It’s Christmas season and people need chic party dresses. Good to attach some moral standing to it.”