Girl Reading (33 page)

Hazel’s hair is short, adding to her boyish appearance, is talking about her sister again: I always have to phone her. I don’t get angry anymore, I just accept it. And she’s always all, Hey, how are you? What have you been doing? Keen to chat. Sometimes I can hear her almost . . . I don’t know what. She never calls me, never texts. I say, Didn’t you get my message? and she says, No, it’s not working, or, Yes, but she couldn’t get back to me for some reason, or she tried to and I didn’t answer. But I check, and there’s no missed call on my phone or anything. I don’t know. She doesn’t even e-mail anymore.

Did anything happen?

I’ve asked, and she swears it’s nothing. We used to go to the cinema every week, just to watch whatever was on, or go for a bottle of wine at the pub. I think she’s punishing me, only fuck knows what I’ve done.

Jeannine takes a tissue out of her handbag, gives it to Hazel. Have you told her how this is making you feel?

Hazel blows her nose, shakes her head simultaneously. Would you?

Yes,
I would tell my sister to get her act together. Jeannine has a forthright relationship with her older sibling; as children, this manifested as screaming and pushing and occasional hair pulling.

I don’t want to be needy, but it’s as if she doesn’t like me anymore. It’s what you do to someone when you’re trying to get rid of them. I know sometimes sisters and brothers are estranged, but I never thought Lucy and me would . . .

Hazel sips her water again.

The delegates are networking over tea and coffee cups after speeches and questions. Business cards are exchanged. Groupies of both sexes congregate around a frontbencher and a newspaper columnist.
There are tables with displays and literature, freebies. Political conversations are conducted in raised, brassy voices. Someone makes a beeline for the two women, introduces himself.

Hazel has met him before, remembers him from another function, gives him air kisses like they are in show business.

He describes an online project where they need people to make video clips—would Hazel and Jeannine be interested in taking part? They agree, give him their e-mail addresses and extension numbers.

Hazel says, Do you need to go back to the office?

Just to check Jonathan’s messages.

I need to check Maureen’s. Are you free to do something after? Go shopping? A few people are meeting for drinks later. I didn’t fancy it before, but it will be good if you come—unless you have plans with Liam? Is he training tonight? Sorry, you hardly get to see him, do you? Don’t feel like you have to.

Hazel’s pleading is blatant, the offer not to go forced out unwillingly. Jeannine replies, Yes, I’d like to. I’ll phone him, he won’t mind. It’s nice to go out on a school night.

In the high-street bookshop, Jeannine takes a deep breath. The booky smell. New books smell good; secondhand books smell better. She peruses literature and fiction while Hazel looks for power-reading about China, buys
The Poisonwood Bible.

In a department store, Hazel heads for the changing rooms to try on boho dresses and tight-fitting jeans. Jeannine lingers in the shoe section. It would be useful to buy some flats, smart shoes for work and to do her commute in. Some people wear sneakers for the journey, leave office shoes under their desks or carry them in a bag. Jeannine won’t, for several reasons. She picks up a high-heel in red, turns the elegant design over in her hands, eighty pounds. A satin pair in taupe has a bow strap detail, is cheaper at fifty-nine pounds but Jeannine suspects the material will scuff and age quickly. Then a black zipped ankle boot with a wedge.

At the till a customer is returning a purchase, wanting her money refunded. Clothes hangers are pushed back and forth, squeaking like old bikes, a tweed jacket with oversized buttons is pulled out by another shopper: That’s nice, I like that, bet they haven’t got my size. The angular white mannequin posed on a pedestal garishly lit like a science fiction prop; there is a surge in power, a technical fault, which causes Jeannine several seconds of blindness and an illusion of motion.

A floor assistant, a girl wearing a cat design top and a store headset, offers Jeannine help. She declines (spots fading from her vision); she’s just browsing really, keeps looking along the shoe shelves, picks out some styles and then replaces them. Jeannine glances back at her, casually, is her heritage Japanese? Thai, maybe? Indian? Jeannine can’t tell, and for some reason would like to know. She is a teenager with a youthful complexion, anyway—too pretty to be believed—and Jeannine Okoro goes in search of solace among the belts and clutch bags, though she does not need these.

We are for all of Britain: for communities, for families, and for individuals. It is time to celebrate what I have always known in my heart, that we are members of an inclusive party. Our values are Britain’s values—

He paused for applause. Jeannine also applauded.

Common sense and vigilance, a shared sense of responsibility and fairness, these are the qualities that British people possess and are the components that will make our streets safer for all of us—

He praised the residents’ groups, the have-a-go heroes, the parents who set clear boundaries and good examples to follow (what about a cinch belt? Jeannine has confident taste, could she carry it off?), the numerous young people not reported in the news who reject gang and knife culture. Then, there was no doubt about it, the speaker was advocating stop-and-search.

Jeannine catches her image in a store mirror. Then she catches
herself in the driver’s mirror of her dad’s Ford Cortina. Her legs are not even long enough for her feet to touch the floor, and she has her special ice-skating bag on the seat next to her. She waits until he gets back into the car and has revved the engine.

Dad, what did that policeman want?

His grave eyes answer her reflection. Nothing, he was just checking we’re both okay, and I told him we were fine. I told him, thanks for asking.

She pouts and dares not contradict him, won’t say there is a funny feeling in her tummy and she might need to stop for a wee on the way home if she can’t hold it in.

Then Dad turns around and snarls over his shoulder as though she is being argumentative: He’s just doing his job, Jeannine. You have to respect the law, it’s one of the things we do. Understand?

She nods yes. Though she doesn’t.

She takes out her lip gloss, reapplies it. (Would Keith say the same to Yasmin? I wonder.) Better.

And afterward, being approached by the young man with the retreating hairline, his forehead gleaming in earnest, to take part in—what did he call it?—an engagement tool for the YouTube generation. There was a whole roomful of people to ask.

Hazel pulled a face but said she didn’t mind helping out.

Great, I promise you won’t regret it, and he switched his focus to Jeannine because it was Jeannine he most wanted. He was polite and ingratiating, but there was an element of greediness, a twinge of desperation.

I don’t mind either. And she sincerely meant it, but Jeannine is not naive.

She tries calling Liam; it goes to voice mail.

Me again, in case you didn’t get my message. I’m going out with Hazel for a few hours, but I won’t be late and I can’t drink much because of work tomorrow. Anyway, just wanted to check you didn’t
mind, and you’re okay. And to tell you I love you, I really do. Ring me, it will be nice to hear your voice. Bye.

In the shoe section once more, Jeannine finds a design in indigo suede with a stub toe and a metallic pointed heel, 110 pounds. She loves it immediately. When she tries on the pair she feels queenly and they will go with everything—not “with,” not “everything,” but they are exactly her style, would match what they would match, would be striking when they intentionally clash. She puts them on her credit card.

The assistant, the same girl, folds them in tissue paper, fits the lid on the box, puts them in a rigid store bag. There you are, madam.

Madam.
Seething silently, Jeannine slips it over the crook of her arm, but the new purchase high has had the shine taken off it.

Hazel says her friends have called, have named a meeting place.

About time.

As they go, Jeannine turns back. The shop assistant thanks her once again and bids her a guileless good-bye.

It isn’t her fault, Jeannine knows this. And didn’t I have my turn of being skinny and beautiful? Her body heats to recall what she used to get away with. She bites her nail while she listens to Hazel’s next problem (it’s to do with a call center), gnaws on it. Jeannine’s
degree, relationship, job,
have recently begun to feel, what? Not unsatisfactory? Not unexceptional? No, she is pleased with them, pleased she can buy a pair of shoes without asking anyone’s permission. A woman can take pride in what she has achieved so far, and also be aware she has yet to meet her potential. She nips the nail off.

The venue is white cubes and retrovision feature walls, the spirits on glass shelving backlit in purple and pink. Tea lights waver in sculptural holders too big and heavy to snaffle, the music is broken beat,
the staff in studded jeans and faded-print T-shirts of the Ramones and the Boomtown Rats.

It is surprisingly difficult to meet new people at Portcullis, where the offices can feel like cells. Only by being proactive, by joining one of the societies, by receiving and accepting sideways invitations from the socially promiscuous, can you develop new relationships. Jeannine meets six people this evening, all colleagues from the Whitehall bubble. She drinks dark rum while Hazel drinks bottled beer with a wedge of lime in the neck. Hazel has forgotten her distress from earlier, is friendly to the men with her: physical contacts, a peck on the cheek, a ruffle, a flirty shove.

Jeannine finds herself in conversation about postgraduate courses with a civil servant, puts on a skeptical persona, asks, Wouldn’t you have been better off staying in employment for that length of time?

It flew by very quickly, one year, even two years, is actually nothing in the world of work. Maybe if I had been happier in my last job . . . ? When I consider how much I benefited personally—

I thought the point was to study something in a specialized field relevant to your career.

Yes, you certainly can, but mine was more out of academic curiosity. Some people travel. Some people do pottery or play in a band. This was my thing, this was what I wanted. On the whole, employers view it positively, it shows commitment and skills development, and if one person has an MA and the next person doesn’t (takes a drink), it’s something else to throw in the mix. I got to explore a subject I care about.

What about money?

I didn’t have any. Listen—it’s Jeannine, isn’t it—if you’re interested, even if you’re
half
-interested, you should look up some courses, send an e-mail to test the water. It doesn’t cost anything. I mean, you are considering studying again . . . ?

Jeannine shakes her head. I like the job I have.

Well, good for you. Not many people say that about their work.

I like hearing you talk about it, though.

If I’m becoming a bore, tell me to stop.

Back at the flat, a bit tipsy, Jeannine finds it dark. This surprises her, as Liam would normally wait up. She switches on a lamp in the bedroom but he is not there; all is as she left it this morning. She checks her mobile but knows already no messages, no missed calls, has checked it periodically during the evening.

And while she is at it, being irritated by people who don’t stay in touch (Jeannine drops her keys and her bags, looks stubbornly at the lit display of her phone again), when was the last time Tess, Naomie, or even Gina bothered texting or ringing her?

A couple of hours pass and the alcohol wears off. Jeannine is reading in bed when he comes back.

I thought you would be asleep.

I’m not.

Why aren’t you asleep, baby? Liam climbs over the bed to her, embraces her clumsily.

She reciprocates but answers, You didn’t phone me.

I missed you, though. I missed you today. You look gorgeous like this. I love this top, it’s very slinky. Did I buy you this top? He starts to kiss her shoulders and chest.

No, I bought it. Liam, didn’t you get my messages? Liam?

I got them. I was with the boys, we were playing some pool.

Didn’t you take your mobile?

I knew you were with people, I thought you would be having a good time. He persists in his attentions.

Before we do that, can we do this, please?

He ceases, moves away, starts taking off his shoes with his back to her. He has a rumble in his breath as though he is cross with her.

She says, I don’t mind you going out. You work hard, of course you should. I just want to be told about it, that’s all.

You wanted to check up on me.

No, not like that. I wanted to hear from you, and roughly what time I’ll see you so I don’t worry about you.

Liam looks at her askance.

Do you think I’m being unreasonable? Because I don’t think I am. I think it’s completely normal to worry about the other person.

No, baby, you’re not unreasonable. And you work hard too. You’re entitled to go out whenever you like.

Jeannine did not mean for this to be about her. She did her part, and as a matter of fact rarely socializes anymore. She lets it pass in order for the quarrel to be over.

Liam sighs. You’re right. You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry.

She does not reply immediately. They are the correct words, and he whispers them with big, open eyes, but she does not like the way he drops them in; they have the smooth texture of overuse. Even if you can’t phone me, just a text—

Next time, I promise. He kisses her hand like she is a princess. Is it good? He indicates the book she is reading.

She sighs. I just started it, but yeah. And I bought some new shoes today too.

Why don’t I make you one of those disgusting teas you drink, then you can show them to me and tell me about your day?

Well . . . that would be nice of you. She likes that they have this time together, that they share with each other the small and mundane parts of their lives; it is one of the ways she loves him.