Queenie(92)

* * *



As the week went on, I grew more exhausted. I was coping, but I had never been so tired in my life. Halfway through the week, I e-mailed Janet to let her know that I was probably on the edge of a relapse, but she replied saying: “. . . the more tired you are, the more likely your defenses are to be down. Doesn’t mean relapse, means you’re adjusting to working again. Rest at the weekend.”

I was determined to fill in my time sheet for the week, so battled through the intrusive thoughts that popped into my head every other second. By Friday, I was hanging on by a thread. My stomach’s movements were incredibly dramatic and my head refused to stop buzzing. I had to work slower than I did when I first started, and when Gina sent me an e-mail asking me to go into her office at four, by three o’clock the contents of my desk were in my rucksack.

“I understand,” I said, walking into her office.

“You understand what?” Gina said, putting a pair of glasses on.

“Didn’t know you wore glasses.” I sat in the chair opposite her.

“They’re new. Contacts getting a bit too fiddly for me. Nice, though, aren’t they?” She looked up at me and smiled.

“Yeah, they’re nice,” I said. “Where are they—”

“We’re not here to talk eyewear,” Gina said. “Well done.”

“Pardon?” I asked.

“For this week, Queenie,” Gina explained. “It must have been hard, but you did it. And you did it well.”

“I was slow, though,” I reminded her.

“Well, it’s not a race. You’ve only just got back, and you’ll get quicker. You were at your desk, doing the work, and that’s what I want from you.” Gina turned back to her computer.

“Okay?” I said, suspicious. “Thanks, Gina.”

“Word of warning,” Gina said, standing up. “Ted is back from holiday on Monday. Avoid.”

“You don’t need to tell me twice.” I nodded.

“I’ve signed off your time sheet for the week and sent it to HR. You can go home now. You look absolutely shattered. See you on Monday.”



* * *



Two weeks of full work passed. Two weeks of completed time sheets, two weeks of to-the-brink-of-death exhaustion, two weeks of deep breathing in the loo, and two weeks of avoiding Ted.

The less I thought of him, the better; but still, I was doing a lot of ducking and diving around the office in an attempt not to bump into him. I could cross that bridge when I came to it, even though I was doing everything in my power to ensure that I was taking every alternative route that I could in order to avoid bridges.

It was a Friday night, and I was bored with my grandmother asking when I was going to get a pay rise as we watched the news.

In an attempt to actively move myself away from married men, and from men who just want to have sex with my body as and when it suits them (admittedly, the two are not mutually exclusive), this time when I go on OkCupid I am going to talk to somebody who is normal and nice-looking, and who talks to me in a normal and nice way.

As I brushed my teeth, I thought about the men I would avoid even messaging, let alone meeting, on OkCupid this time around:

? The ones who mention my “black curves” as though I’ll be flattered by the suggestion that curves are in this case only acceptable because I’m nonwhite.

? The ones who completely bypass any of the varied films, TV, and music I have listed on my profile. Not acknowledging that I might have interests beyond your dick is a real red flag.

? The ones who want to migrate to WhatsApp a little too soon after starting to chat. It’s obviously because you want to send and receive X-rated pictures.

? The ones who I can tell are using pictures from at least three years ago. Unless you can send me a picture of you holding a newspaper from the day we chat, I’m going to assume that the ones you’ve posted are from Fresher’s Week.

? The ones with x’s in their profile. Cutesy doesn’t tend to equal somebody who is going to want to have a discussion about intersectional feminism.

? The couples who want someone for a threesome. Obviously. Though I’m not ruling that out for the future when I’m a bit more stable. Life should be about experiences, after all.

I washed my face, put my headscarf on, the usual ritual, and got into bed. It was 7 p.m.

I reinstalled the app and logged in, lying on my back in the reclining butterfly pose (knees apart, feet together), a yoga move I’d seen on the Internet that guaranteed opening some sort of chakras. I woke up an hour later, phone in hand and hips as stiff as boards. I turned the lamp off and crawled under the duvet. Three hours later, I was still awake.

Courtney86: Hello, how are you? My name is Courtney, nice to meet you. Having a good night?

NJ234: You’ve got a really nice smile. Hope you’re having a good evening.

Maybe God has been listening to me, even though I haven’t attempted prayer since midnight mass? Maybe she sees that I am on the path to recovery and am ready for a nice person who’ll treat me like I’m more than an orifice.

I replied to both, being very well-behaved and not saying anything remotely sexy to either of them. Maybe I was a changed woman? It was hard to be so restrained, yes, but the smut can come later once they’ve proved that they’re able to talk to me for a day without telling me that they’re wanking over the pictures on my profile.