Queenie(46)

I woke up to a digging in my ribs. “You’re talking in your sleep.”

“Huh? What?” I sat up.

Guy was squinting at me with one eye, the other buried in the pillow. “You’re talking in your sleep,” he huffed. “I don’t know who this Tom is, but his ears must be burning.”

“Sorry,” I said, lying back down. “Have you done all of your Christmas shopping?” He didn’t reply. Had he already gone back to sleep? “What time is it?” I asked.

“Too early to be talking,” he said gruffly.

“But it’s a week until Christmas!” I reminded him.

He took my hand and shoved it into his boxers. “All right, I’ve got a present for you.”

? ? ?

“What?”

“I said, I’ve got a present for you. Wake up, Queenie.” I sat up, my eyes still closed. When I blinked them open, Tom was sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed holding a small gift in his hands.

“Oh, Tom, what is it?” I asked.

“Well, you’re meant to open it, aren’t you?” he said, handing it to me and moving up the bed so that he was next to me. I opened it slowly.

“Ha! Where did you get this?” It was a silk headscarf.

“Happy first Christmas! Do you like it?” Tom asked, beaming from ear to ear. “I went to one of those black hair shops in Brixton for it. I chose a green and black one because your other one is gold, and all together those are the Jamaica colors, right?”

“You went all the way to Brixton for a headscarf?”

“Well, I didn’t know how to find it on the Internet and I remembered seeing them when we went to buy your hair that time.”

I put my arm around his shoulders and forced him into a gentle headlock. “You’re very good to me,” I said as he moved his head from my chest to my neck, kissing me behind the ear gently.

“That’s because you’re my Queenie,” he whispered in my ear, taking the headscarf from my hands and slipping his fingers through mine.

? ? ?

“Don’t you like it?” Guy asked, disappointed that I wasn’t pleased by his erection.

“Mmm, I think it’s too early for that sort of present, Guy.” I removed my hand from his boxers.

“Oh, come on, you said it yourself, it’s Christmastime. How about a quick hand job?” he begged. “You took so long in the shower last night that I fell asleep before I could give you a festive fuck. A hand job is the least you can do.”

“Guy. I think we should . . .” I said in a very small voice, “. . . maybe wrap things u—”

“Ha!” Guy cut me off. “Come on, there’s nothing to wrap up, this is never going to be more than sex, you know that! You’re a good girl, but I’m busy, I don’t have time for dating and all that.”

“Guy, you know I’m a person, don’t you?” I started. “With thoughts and feelings and—”

“And a big gob, but most of all, a big arse.” He laughed. “Come oooon, don’t get all serious, we have fun, you and me.” He pulled his boxers down and presented his erection to me again. “Just climb on, Santa wants to give you a ride on his sleigh.”

“I thought you were too practically minded for jokes, being a doctor?” I teased. There was no point being cross. Guy was very persuasive. He was always going to get his way.

“Junior doctor,” he corrected me. “Anyway, we’re going off topic and I’m going to lose my lob-on. Come on, Queenie. Climb on board. Don’t worry, I’ll pull out before I give you a Christmas miracle of your own.”





chapter


TWELVE


IT WAS CHRISTMAS Eve, and I’d been staring at the phone all week, having texted Tom to ask if we could see each other so I could give him his gift, dropped a present off at his office after hearing nothing back, and then sent a follow-up text asking if it would be okay for me to call his mum on Christmas Day. Still no word. I shushed the voices in my mind that were asking what I was fighting for. In the absence of family Christmas with Tom, I’m with my grandmother, who is happy that I’m back with her after three years away. I was, I think by way of punishment, being forced to go to midnight mass.

We got to the church at 11:15 p.m., and Diana, Maggie, my granddad, my grandmother, and I filed onto a bench near the back of the already busy church. How was it so popular? I tried to sit next to Diana, but we’d been separated like naughty schoolchildren. Just before things got started, a small figure appeared next to me at the end of our bench. “Sylvie,” my grandmother whispered to my mum as she stood awkwardly next to me. “You’re late. Sit down.” I huffed and shuffled over to make some room for her.

“Hello, Queenie,” she whispered to me. “I’m surprised to see you here!”

“Hi,” I whispered back, facing forward.

“How did Mum get you here?” my mum whispered again.

“I think it’s about to start,” I said, finally turning to look at her. I don’t look like my mum. She’s light-skinned, some sort of genetic throwback, maybe. Though I’ve heard family whisperings that after she was born, my granddad accused my grandmother of having an affair. My mum’s complexion glows; her hair is long and curly. Not tight, coarse curls like mine, her curls are soft, they move, they bounce, they fall around her face. Her eyes are hazel, and when she’s not looking at the floor, they’re searching for the niceness in people. Unlike me, my mum is tiny. Slim, fragile, the shortest person in our family.