‘But you’ve just seen a woman in this room and nobody had a damn clue what she was saying! How are we expected to work side by side?’
‘The women believe that men will learn to understand them over time, just as women have learned to understand the language of men. All women speak man, they were raised bilingual. No men in this room speak woman. Surveys seem to suggest that women believe it should work both ways.’
The boss sighs. What a pickle indeed. And he’s not sure that he likes that women have all this time had their own secret language.
‘How many of this female electorate voted for me?’
‘Half, boss. The other half didn’t vote at all. So on the bright side, it was you, or no one.’
‘If I bring in a woman, then the women will vote for her instead.’ He tries to keep the whine out of his voice.
‘Or they will vote for you because they see you are making changes and listening to them, that you perhaps even care about them, which could double your support.’
The boss doesn’t feel like adding that he didn’t need their support to get to this position in the first place. He sighs. ‘Do we have a translator for us to at least learn how to speak woman?’
‘This is preposterous!’ the Minister for Justice and Equality says suddenly, standing up, his body trembling with anger. ‘You have my immediate resignation!’ He storms out of the room.
Number One senses the mood and steps in. ‘Boss, we believe that there are some women who can and will fit into the dress and language of men … in order to get their foot in the door, so to speak. They can speak our language. They don’t distract from the issues by the fact they’re women. Their female traits have been minimized and can easily be ignored.’
‘Well, I think we can all agree that this would make a big difference to us all here?’
Nods and mumbles of agreement.
‘The less that we notice they are women, the better and more efficiently we can do our jobs. For the country.’
Murmurs of agreement.
‘If the women were somehow de-womanized, and spoke our male dialect, we could find a way to communicate with them.’
This is a popular decision.
‘Hmm. So let’s find the man-speaking-women who don’t harp on about the women issues.’
‘That may be difficult,’ Number One says, studying his checklist. ‘They want you to allow them to express their women views.’
‘Men have the majority in the government,’ the boss explains. ‘The women members would have to toe the party line.’
‘The party line being the male view.’
‘Indeed.’
‘But what about their female views?’
‘On what?’
‘On female issues?’
‘They will be taken into consideration by the men.’
‘And what about their thoughts on male issues?’
‘What about them?’
‘Will these also be taken into consideration?’
‘No!’ he almost laughs. ‘That’s preposterous. How can a female have a view on a male issue?’
‘Because all men on this cabinet have a view on female issues, they always have. In all thirty-five cabinets, in the entire history of the state.’
Awkward silence.
‘That’s because we’re the majority! Honestly, one would think you’re on the women’s side.’
‘Not at all, sir,’ Number One says, feeling sweat on his upper lip, ‘I just want to treat this survey with the seriousness it deserves. When this percentage of the population is unhappy for so very long it can have the effect of a shaken soda bottle.’
‘I see,’ the boss says, already bored. ‘Let’s begin by allowing these man-speaking-women to join us, to discuss the issues that we set forward, and then we’ll see how we go from there.’
The cabinet members nod in approval. It’s a fair compromise. Progress, but women of their choosing, to use as they wish.
‘Meeting adjourned.’
As everybody trickles out the boss has a thought, he calls back Number One.
‘A quiet word!’
They wait until the door closes behind the last cabinet minister and they are alone.
‘It has occurred to me that women being women often distracts men from what they are actually saying.’
‘Yes, that appears to be the case.’
‘We can use this to our advantage.’
‘We can, boss?’
‘Indeed. Find some of these women-women. You know the ones I mean.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘We can use them to distract people from certain issues. When the words come from their mouths, it will confuse the people, maybe veil what’s actually being said. This can be helpful to us and our party agenda.’
‘Indeed, boss. Just so I am clear, we need man-speaking-women in the government to discuss everyday issues, man-speaking-women to translate the women’s issues, and we need women-women to distract from the more troubling male issues.’
‘Yes,’ the boss says, sitting back in his chair, feeling very satisfied with himself.
‘And how are we to use the men in the government?’
The boss laughs as if this is ridiculous. ‘Well the men are just the men – their role is to be a man, no distractions. When they speak, they speak man, and everyone hears them.’
‘Of course.’ Number One scribbles furiously, then gathers his notes and quickly leaves the meeting room. He places his pages on his desk outside, and goes straight to the bathroom, feeling the sweat trickling down his back. Once inside the cubicle he locks the door, loosens his tie and opens the top buttons of his shirt. He can barely breathe. It took everything in him not to scream during that meeting. Sweat trickles from his brow and he wipes it with his handkerchief. He picks at his forehead with a fingernail, then slowly peels off his bald head.
Her hair falls loosely down on her shoulders. She rubs her head in frustration, allows herself a moment of freedom. How much longer must it go on like this – to be the most respected advisor on the team, and yet have to conceal her true identity?
But still, today was progress. A victory of sorts.
She sits for a while, makes some notes, checks her phone. Then she puts her bald head back on, ensuring that her hair isn’t visible beneath the cap. She buttons up her shirt, tightens the knot in her tie, polishes her brogues, clears her throat to adjust its pitch, and exits the men’s toilet.
She is going to a ladies’ charity lunch, one that she has been nervous about since the invitation arrived in the mail. The gold envelope with familiar handwriting had made her stomach heave. If she was ever to pass the ‘test’ of being a true woman, then today is surely it. She is exfoliated, pruned, facialled, manicured, pedicured, waxed to perfection. She has chosen her outfit carefully, a sophisticated blush shift dress, nothing too brash, nothing too crude, or bright. A cashmere cardigan with pearl detail that drapes over her shoulders. Blush court shoes with a low kitten heel – she’s still getting used to heels and daren’t risk a fall in front of these ladies – and a box clutch to hold in one hand while holding a glass of champagne in the other. That way she will have no free hands, nothing to fidget with or wave around nervously. And of course she’s wearing a set of pearls. They were her mother’s. Her sister had taken all of their mother’s jewellery after her death, not knowing that the woman longed for much of it, but had presented the pearl necklace to her only days ago, knowing how nervous she was about today, knowing how she wanted to be accepted.
The pearl necklace offering had been a gesture to show that her mother would have been proud of her, of her bravery, her courage to become her true self. And though the woman appreciated it, she wasn’t sure she agreed that’s what her mother would have thought at all. Still. It was a nice thought. Pearls are considered by many as the most feminine and magical gems, the only ones created by a living organism, and with jewellery their family trade, her sister would have understood the link.
The charity lunch is being held at Mother of Pearl, a Michelin-starred restaurant in an affluent area, where the old fishing port has been gentrified by the arrival of a series of artisanal cafés, pricey fishmongers, and restaurants with Michelin-star celebrity chefs. The woman’s ex-wife, Charlotte, is on the fundraising committee of the charity. She’s the one who invited her this year, the first contact they’d had in a long time, the first civil contact they’d had in even longer. The woman feels wary of Charlotte’s invitation, suspicious of her generosity.
She follows other women as they wobble in their heels on the cobblestoned fishing pier, holding each other by the elbows, heads down, concentrating. She’s relieved she wore her kitten heels, nothing higher. She recognizes these women from the school, from pick-ups, drop-offs, birthday parties, but mostly she knows them from her own jewellery store in town, the family business that was handed down to her after her father’s death. She hasn’t met them all yet as her true self, she has stayed away from the shop over the past year, was running the business at a remove. Regardless of her ex-wife’s intention, she would not allow herself to feel that this day would be a test of her womanhood. She has come too far for this.
She feels a drop of sweat trickle down her cleavage as she approaches the entrance, where two ladies sitting behind a table are marking off names on the list. She’s convinced that this invitation has been designed to trip her up, to make her feel like the odd one out, as if she didn’t belong. Well, she’s felt like that her entire life.
She lifts her chin and follows the women, clad in their Hervé Léger, Roland Mouret and Chanel, to the door. The women at the desk don’t even need to check their list when she walks in, they recognize her immediately. Bright smiles, huge welcomes. The transgender has arrived. She lifts a glass of champagne from a tray and sips as she moves further into the room. She sips again quickly, then a larger gulp when no one is looking.
‘There you are!’ She hears the loud sing-song cry of her ex-wife, and turns to see her coming towards her, arms out, welcoming, pulling her into a hug.
‘Charlotte, hi,’ she says. ‘Thank you for the invitation.’
‘Well, don’t you look beautiful,’ Charlotte says, looking down at her dress, eyes lingering on her breasts. ‘What a great colour on you.’
They’re both aware of the stares they’re receiving and so perform appropriately, pretending they don’t notice. Charlotte squeezes her arm extra tight, ‘Isn’t this fun?’
Charlotte is wearing the same perfume she has worn for twenty years, the one the woman bought for her every year for her birthday: Chanel No. 5. She remembers holding the sophisticated pots and smelling the luxurious silky body lotion over the years and wanting to use it herself, soured by the stabs of envy. She may have taken those feelings out on Charlotte, using the rage she felt at herself against her. She denied so much for so long; she owes it to her ex-wife not to deny that now.
Charlotte looks beautiful. She’s wearing black as usual. Her toned arms are revealed by her Dolce & Gabbana shift dress. Her feet are in sky-high black pointed heels, which show off her slim, bronzed calves. The woman envies her ability to wear shoes that high and walk so effortlessly in them, not like the others tottering around in the room. She even used to wear towering heels while pushing the kids in their strollers. Her hair, her make-up, everything about Charlotte is beautiful, seemingly effortless, but the woman knows how much time and effort goes into this stylish woman’s seeming simplicity.
She knows Charlotte inside out, can sense her nerves now, not that anybody else would. She knows Charlotte’s tricks. She can see her eyes are just a little too bright, the pitch of her voice is a little too high, the pace just a little too fast.
Knowing this calms the woman somewhat. They are both nervous. She takes her by the hand, she squeezes her tight, as if to say she understands. It’s a familiar act from all those years as a husband, but instead of calming Charlotte, it seems to rattle her. She removes her hand instantly. Perhaps she’s thinking it’s easier to pretend the woman is someone new, a new friend to get to know. The woman feels embarrassed.
Charlotte looks steadily into her eyes. ‘You’re still in there,’ she says gently.
She thinks she sees Charlotte’s eyes moisten slightly, then as suddenly as the tears surface, they disappear, and she’s back in organization mode, accompanying her to her table, introducing her to the other nine champagne-giddy ladies that she will be spending the afternoon with.
To her surprise, her table is not out the door, by a fire exit with the misfits. It is prominent, centrally located, and she is seated with smart, successful, interesting women. Once she’s seated, she starts to enjoy herself; the champagne is taking effect, and she feels warm and buzzy, happy. The starter arrives. Oysters.
The woman smiles. There are several reasons she has an affinity with oysters. The most obvious reason is that they produce her favourite gem, the pearl. It’s that Catch-22, that reminder that in nature and in life you can’t have it all; the edible oysters don’t produce pearls and the pearl oysters aren’t edible – their flesh is fat and rank in flavour.
Natural pearls are extremely rare: only one in ten thousand wild oysters will yield a pearl and, of those, only a small percentage achieve the size, shape and colour of desirable gems. The woman knows this as a matter of business, of course; it’s part of why she loves them.
The second reason is that during their first year oysters spawn as males by releasing sperm in the water. Over the next few years they develop greater energy reserves and they spawn as females by releasing eggs.
But there is a third reason, and it involves Charlotte. She looks over to see if she is remembering the same thing, but Charlotte is deep in conversation, holding court while hosting her own table, her oysters untouched.
The woman lifts her first oyster and moves it around with her fork. She pauses when something catches her eye. Something shiny and iridescent. A small ball. A pearl! But it’s impossible, it’s not a pearl oyster. She moves the flesh aside with her fork and examines the pearl, tuning out of the group conversation. She needs her glasses, but she didn’t bring them because they wouldn’t fit in her box clutch. Better yet she needs her jeweller’s eyeglass so she can examine it properly. She’s trying to figure out where she can put it so she can transport it home to study it when a spoon clinking against a glass directs everybody’s attention to the head of the room, where Charlotte is standing.
Cool, confident Charlotte is a natural public speaker, a strong advocate for women’s rights. She begins by welcoming them all, sharing with them how much money was raised last year and where it went, how much it helped those in need. She spares no details, these women are not just here to have fun, they need to hear the facts, and she doesn’t gloss over them.
‘As you all know, each year has a theme. We’ve been spending time with children and women, trying to find funding to assist, encourage and inspire them to prosper in this world. We want them and us to be in a position to seize the opportunities that life has to offer. This year’s theme is “The World Is Your Oyster”, which is why we chose this wonderful setting today – and thank you so much to Chef Bernard and all the staff for such a wonderful and memorable lunch so far.’
The woman’s heart pounds. Charlotte keeps talking but the woman can’t concentrate; she is emotional, she is perplexed. How does she have a pearl in her oyster? For a moment, she wonders whether Charlotte arranged it deliberately, and if so, why? They have been at war with each other for two years. Even longer, if you include the years they were married.
When Charlotte sits to a roaring round of applause, she looks over at the woman. She offers her a small shrug, almost playful. She summons a waiter and whispers into his ear. He looks up at the woman and walks across the room to her, jug of water in his hand, but it’s not the water he offers, he leans down discreetly and says, ‘She told me to tell you that she’s glad you didn’t choke on it.’
The woman�
��s hand flies to her chest at hearing the phrase. She holds onto the pearls around her neck. She thinks back to twenty years ago when she proposed to Charlotte at a restaurant, watching her nervously as she opened an oyster shell on her plate and stared at the engagement ring inside.
‘I’m glad you didn’t choke on it,’ the woman had said to Charlotte at the time, nervously trying to fill silence as she always did then, though she doesn’t do that any more. She’s learned to be comfortable with silences.
She looks again at the oyster and the pearl.
Today has not been about Charlotte humiliating her, it is quite the opposite. The woman has received Charlotte’s message of acceptance and proposal of friendship loud and clear.
The world is her oyster.
‘I’d like to have a vasectomy,’ the man says, fingers fidgeting, playing with his wedding ring, sliding it up and down his finger.
He is sitting at a boardroom table, feeling revealed and vulnerable opposite three women in pinstriped suits. Despite his experience working in corporate environments, this visit is regarding a personal matter and he feels intimidated by their demeanours. The tense atmosphere is generating an air of an interrogation to their meeting and is not at all what he was expecting. He directs his words to the woman in the centre, because so far she has been the person doing all of the talking. He reaches for the glass of cold water before him and takes a gulp.
The woman on the right bristles at his words, the woman on the left’s posture is ramrod straight; she looks down her long nose at him, but again, it’s the woman in the centre who responds.
‘It’s normal to have mixed feelings about not wanting children, especially when they are unplanned,’ she says.
Don’t tell me what I want, don’t tell me what I feel, he rages to himself.
‘So you should always plan for them,’ the stout one on the right adds.
‘We are here to counsel you,’ the woman in the centre continues, ‘on your decision to have a vasectomy.’
‘I already have two children,’ he says. ‘I understand the responsibilities, I love my children, but we just can’t have any more. We feel that our family is complete, and financially, we couldn’t cope. My wife certainly doesn’t want to have another child.’
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