Queenie(8)

“I know, but it was different back then,” I dared to sigh.

“Yuh tink suffering discriminate against time?” The patois always comes out when she’s feeling self-righteous.



* * *



I fell asleep on the sofa again, this time with a hot water bottle pressed against my stomach. I woke up to the sound of running water. I heaved myself up and stumbled toward the bathroom, flicking lights on as I moved through the dark flat. Tom was sitting on the edge of the bath facing away from me, his hand testing the water. He turned the cold tap off and stood up, his big frame tensing slightly when he saw me.

“I didn’t know you were up,” he said quietly. “Scared me.”

“Sorry.” I shrugged. “I thought you weren’t coming back tonight?”

“I worked too late and missed the last train home,” Tom said, squeezing past me. “It needs another minute or so of hot water.”

“But this is home,” I said to him. He didn’t reply.

I started to step out of my clothes as Tom leaned against the doorframe. My turtleneck got stuck on my head, so he was presented with my once white, now most-discolored bra and wriggling torso. “You sure you want to take a break from all of this?” I forced a laugh, my voice muffled by fabric. I got free in time to see him roll his eyes and turn away.

“So you’re packed, then.” I heard an unmistakable tremor of emotion in Tom’s voice. “When are you leaving?” He cleared his throat.

“Can you give me until next week?” I asked, stepping into the bath and turning off the hot tap. “That way we can have a few more days together?”

Tom shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Queenie.” He put the toilet lid down and took a seat, facing away from me. “I’ll head back to my mum and dad’s tomorrow.”

“And when will we speak?” I asked, my voice so small.

“I don’t know, Queenie,” Tom said, placing his head in his hands.

“God, I don’t know why you’re being like this!” I said, smacking the water.

“Why I’m being like this?” he said, his voice finally cracking. “These last few months have been awful. I’m still trying to forgive you for that shit you pulled at my mum’s birthday, for a start. But, Queenie, this whole relationship, you’ve refused to talk to me.”

My breath caught in my throat. I didn’t know he’d felt like this, and I certainly hadn’t expected him to vocalize it.

“You never tell me what’s wrong,” he continued. “Ever! And you’d close off, you’d cry and lock yourself in the bathroom while I sat on the floor outside telling you I was there if you wanted to talk, but you never did. You’ve pushed me away for so much of this relationship.”

“It’s my stuff!” I defended myself.

“We’ve all got stuff, Queenie,” Tom shouted. “And I’ve tried with yours, I really have.”

“Tom,” I said quietly. “However shit I’ve been, you’ve always forgiven me.”

“Yeah, I have.” He looked at his feet. “But I don’t know if I can do it anymore.”



* * *



That night, we fell asleep in the same bed, me nestled into Tom’s back. When I woke up at dawn, he was gone. There was a mug of cold tea next to me on the bedside table, the Q looking back at me cruelly.





chapter


TWO


INSTEAD OF HELPING with the move, I watched Leigh from work and Eardley, family friend and the world’s smallest mover, carry what looked like hundreds of boxes and IKEA bags full of books, trinkets, and clothes into my new house.

My new lodgings weren’t ideal. At ￡750 a month, it was the cheapest room I could find in Brixton, in a house built in the Victorian era and clearly never taken care of since then. When I’d arrived to see it, it was crumbling from the outside, with weeds and ivy creeping across the door and filling the front garden. I didn’t and still don’t know if some dead thing is dwelling in there, but there was definitely a smell emanating from some unknown and unseen object.

When I’d stepped into the house, there was another smell that hit me—unsurprisingly, not a good one. Although brown, beige, and outdated in design, the kitchen—apart from the damp patches—seemed perfectly fine, though I don’t imagine I’ll cook in it, as did the living room, though I know I can’t see myself sitting on the mustard-yellow velvet sofas.

“Only this to go,” Eardley said in a strong Yorkshire accent that seemed incongruous with his dark-brown skin and gold teeth as he thumped my mum’s old dressing table. The chipped, stained antique was the most awkward piece of furniture I’d ever owned and made moving house a bother, but I still lugged it around with me everywhere I went. I used to watch my mum getting ready in front of it for hours. I’d sit on the bed behind her and stare as she took rollers out of her hair and pinned it up expertly with small, delicate hands, and I’d move even closer to watch as she applied various lotions and potions that I was too young to understand, and still don’t really understand now.

Eardley’s bald head glistened with sweat as he put his hands on his hips and stretched from side to side. He wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his blue overalls.