were you aiming for?’
Wasn’t it obvious? Straight. Straightness. Flickability.
‘I mean, what was the grand plan? The Negro Meryl Streep?’ Neena folded over like a duvet and laughed herself silly.
‘Niece-of-Shame!’ came Alsana’s voice from the kitchen. ‘Sewing requires concentration. Shut it up, Miss Big-Mouth, please!’
Neena’s ‘nasty friend’, otherwise known as Neena’s girlfriend, a sexy and slender girl called Maxine with a beautiful porcelain face, dark eyes and a lot of curly brown hair, gave a pull to Irie’s peculiar bangs. ‘What have you done? You had
Irie couldn’t say anything for a moment. She had not considered the possibility that she looked anything less than terrific.
‘I just had a haircut. What’s the big deal?’
‘But that’s not
Neena and Maxine had a hysteria relapse.
‘Just get
‘Is that what all this is in aid of?’ asked Neena, astonished. ‘My shit-for-brains cousin- gee?’
‘No. Fuck off.’
‘Well, he’s not here. He’s got some new bird. Eastern-bloc gymnast with a stomach like a washboard. Not unattractive, spectacular tits, but tight-assed as hell. Name… name?’
‘Stasia,’ said Maxine, looking up briefly from
Irie sank deeper into the ruined springs of Samad’s favourite chair.
‘Irie, will you take some advice? Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been following that boy around like a lost dog. And in that time he’s snogged everyone,
‘And me,’ said Maxine, ‘and I’m not that way inclined.’
‘Haven’t you ever wondered why he hasn’t snogged you?’
‘Because I’m ugly. And fat. With an Afro.’
‘No, fuckface, because you’re all he’s
Irie rolled her eyes. Sometimes you want to be different. And sometimes you’d give the hair on your head to be the same as everybody else.
‘Look: you’re a smart cookie, Irie. But you’ve been taught all kinds of shit. You’ve got to re- educate yourself. Realize your value, stop the slavish devotion, and get a life, Irie. Get a girl, get a guy, but get a life.’
‘You’re a very sexy girl, Irie,’ said Maxine sweetly.
‘Yeah. Right.’
‘Trust her, she’s a raving dyke,’ said Neena, ruffling Maxine’s hair affectionately and giving her a kiss. ‘But the truth is the Barbra Streisand cut you’ve got there ain’t doing shit for you. The Afro was cool, man. It was wicked. It was
Suddenly Alsana appeared at the doorway with an enormous plate of biscuits and a look of intense suspicion. Maxine blew her a kiss.
‘Biscuits, Irie? Come and have some biscuits. With me. In the kitchen.’
Neena groaned. ‘Don’t panic, Auntie. We’re not enlisting her into the cult of Sappho.’
‘I don’t
‘We’re watching
It was Madonna on the TV screen, working her hands around two conically shaped breasts.
‘Very nice, I’m sure,’ sniped Alsana, glaring at Maxine. ‘Biscuits, Irie?’
‘
‘I am certain,’ said Alsana slowly and pointedly, translating code, ‘I don’t have the kind
Neena and Maxine fell about all over again.
‘Irie?’ said Alsana, indicating the kitchen with a grimace. Irie followed her out.
‘I’m as liberal as the next person,’ complained Alsana, once they were alone. ‘But why do they always have to be laughing and making a song-and-dance about everything? I cannot believe homosexuality is that much fun. Heterosexuality certainly is not.’
‘I don’t think I want to hear that word in this house again,’ said Samad deadpan, stepping in from the garden and laying his weeding gloves on the table.
‘Which one?’
‘Either. I am trying my level best to run a godly house.’
Samad spotted a figure at his kitchen table, frowned, decided it was indeed Irie Jones and began on the little routine the two of them had going. ‘Hello, Miss Jones. And how is your father?’
Irie shrugged on cue. ‘You see him more than we do. How’s God?’
‘Perfectly fine, thank you. Have you seen my good-for-nothing son recently?’
‘Not recently.’
‘What about my good son?’
‘Not for years.’
‘Will you tell the good-for-nothing he’s a good-for-nothing when you find him?’
‘I’ll do my best, Mr Iqbal.’
‘God bless you.’
‘Gesundheit.’
‘Now, if you will excuse me.’ Samad reached for his prayer mat from the top of the fridge and left the room.
‘What’s the matter with
Alsana sighed. ‘He
Irie remembered her first sweetheart encircled by a fuzzy halo of perfection, an illusion born of the disappointments Millat had afforded her over the years.
‘Why, what’s wrong with Magid?’
Alsana frowned and reached up to the top kitchen shelf, where she collected a thin airmail envelope and passed it to Irie. Irie removed the letter and the photograph inside.
The photo was of Magid, now a tall, distinguished-looking young man. His hair was the deep black of his brother’s but it was not brushed forward on his face. It was parted on the left side, slicked down and