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prejudice. OK, let me try another tack. Tell me—honestly now—don’t you fancy Denzel Washington?’

      ‘No, I don’t,’ she replied, scowling racistly as she did so.

      ‘OK, what about Kanye West?’

      ‘Nope.’

      ‘Right then. What about Thierry Henry?’ I was feeling confident. Every woman I’ve ever met can’t help drooling over Thierry Henry.

      ‘Nope. Look, I’m sorry, Stan. I just don’t fancy black blokes.’

      I sighed. Could I ever love a racist? Probably. Just not a black one. I’m joking. In reality, I couldn’t bring myself to believe that what Ange was saying was really true. But I felt that to call her a liar as well as a racist might be verging on the offensive.

      ‘OK,’ I said. ‘When you go on holiday, do you like to sunbathe?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and I can see where you’re going with this.’

      ‘Good,’ I said. ‘That’ll give you time to come up with a decent answer. Have you ever been to bed with a white bloke with a deep tan?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said defensively. ‘I really fancy white blokes with tans.’

      ‘Well, what’s the bleeding difference?!’ My exasperation was beginning to flow over.

      ‘OK, OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you what it is.’

      ‘You’re racist?’ I offered.

      ‘No,’ she said. ‘And I really wish you’d stop saying that.’

      I apologised. Sincerely.

      ‘Have you got a type?’ she asked. ‘What’s your type?’

      I started to shrug. ‘I really don’t think I do have a type,’ I replied, avoiding the obvious, because I couldn’t see that it would get me anywhere. ‘I’m incredibly unfussy.’

      ‘You must have a preference,’ she said. ‘In your head. An ideal.’

      I shook my head. ‘Conscious?’ I offered. ‘But really, I’ll take whatever I can get.’

      ‘OK, well you’re probably a special case. Most other people—let’s call them “normal people”—they have a type. My type is tall, muscular white men, with thin noses and large, square chins. What I don’t like, however, are African men. And this is probably going to make me sound more racist than ever, but what I don’t like about them are their physical features. I like blue eyes and hair I can run my fingers through. I don’t like short, wiry black hair. You know? I like pale ginger blokes. And I know a lot of people don’t. Loads of people don’t fancy gingers. Are they racist? I don’t think so. It’s personal preference.’ She paused, then added angrily, ‘For fuck’s sake.’

      I laughed. She had worked herself up into quite a little froth. But I was also scheming, and dreaming. ‘I’m pale,’ I said. ‘And certainly gingerish.’

      ‘Yeah, but you’ve got a face like a bag of elbows,’ she said. ‘And you’re too fat.’

      I smiled and retaliated quickly with ‘Fucking racist,’ but I was hurt.

      I hid it. I think.

      She laughed.

      ‘No, but seriously,’ I said. ‘This personal-preference thing. It’s tantamount to prejudice.’

      ‘Oh, God…’

      ‘OK, OK.’

      We changed the subject. But I maintain that not fancying black people is racist. And maybe the reason it rankles so much is something to do with me, and my popularly perceived level of attractiveness. For if I can label Ange racist for not fancying black fellas, then surely I can label everyone else racist for not fancying me.

      Indeed, if I believe that every woman who’s ever looked at me with even a hint of disgust is prejudiced—prejudiced against ugly people, prejudiced against fat people, prejudiced against me—then that makes me feel better about myself.

      Mulling this over, I felt better about myself.

      ‘What’s wrong?’ said Ange. ‘Are you feeling OK?’

      ‘Hmm? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.’ But I have a face that cannot tell a lie.

      ‘No, come on, what’s up?’

      ‘Oh, God, Jesus, no, nothing.’

      ‘Pfffffft,’ said Ange. ‘Come on! Time is of the essence! We could both be dead tomorrow!’

      ‘All right, all right. Jesus.’ I composed myself. ‘I was just thinking…I keep thinking about that morning at school when you tried to kiss me.’

      ‘Eh?’ cried Ange. ‘Are you sure this wasn’t something you merely imagined?’

      I was sure.

      Ange and I were in the same registration class. Our registration teacher, Miss Stirzaker, had a bit of a soft spot for me, which is to say, she liked me, and probably felt sorry for me. So she told me nice things sometimes. She said I was very bright and funny and that I shouldn’t allow some of the less intellectually well-endowed children to get me down because they didn’t really know any better and probably just called me names in order to take the attention away from their own shortcomings. Also, a couple of times, after assembly, she gave me the keys to our classroom and sent me up ahead of her, so that I could let everyone else into class, and she could stroll up in her own time and not have to rush back.

      The first time I did this, all went well. I bumbled through the milling throng of classmates on the stairs and on the landing and in the classroom doorway, I ignored their mundane, quotidian taunts, I opened the door and everyone piled in.

      The second time I did this, Ange and a bunch of her friends were in the doorway, hanging around, and when I arrived, Ange thought it would be a killer wheeze to pretend that she found me attractive. Space in the doorway was scant and I had to squeeze past the bodies that were already sardined in there, so it was easy for Ange to get between my hand and the lock, thus preventing me from escaping into the classroom. This she did.

      ‘Oh, Stan Cattermole,’ she said. ‘Ooh, you sexy thing, you.’ And while she said this, she ran her hands over my chest, arms, and back. I was hideously embarrassed. Naturally her friends found all of this hilarious, and their giggles and whoops spurred her on. ‘Kiss me,’ she said. ‘I want your tongue in my mouth.’ She put her hands on my cheeks, twisted my head to face her, made me look at her. She licked her lips.

      Then, I guess, she saw the terror in my eyes—the terror and the shame and maybe even something of the love I thought I felt for her, and she relented. She stopped humiliating me. She stopped stamping all over my heart. I scrabbled the key into the lock and pushed open the classroom door. I remember there was bright sun shining into the classroom, in contrast to the darkness of the corridor outside, and I remember feeling an overwhelming urge to vomit.

      Of course, we were only thirteen or fourteen then, and this was nothing but a bit of meaningless, malicious fun, immediately forgotten by everyone except me. At first Ange didn’t remember it at all. I ran through the details and, eventually, the penny dropped.

      ‘Oh, God, yeah,’ she said, followed by a tiny, guilty laugh. ‘It was just a bit of fun though. I mean, you know that, right?’

      ‘I suppose,’ I said. ‘But it stayed with me. It destroyed me,’ I added, perhaps slightly melodramatically. Perhaps not.

      Ange assured me she was sorry she had hurt me. I believed her.

      ‘I had a massive crush on you,’ I confess.

      ‘Ah,’ said Ange.

      ‘Quite,’ I said.

      ‘Sorry,’ said Ange.

      ‘Still

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